Rise in the spiritual rock, Flow thro' our deeds and make them pure, That we may lift from out of dust A voice as unto him that hears, A cry above the conquer'd years To one that with us works, and trust, With faith that comes of self-control, The truths that never can be proved Until we close with all we loved, And all we flow from, soul in soul. marriage hym O true and tried, so well and long, Nor have I felt so much of bliss Since first he told me that he loved A daughter of our house; nor proved Since that dark day a day like this; Tho' I since then have number'd o'er Some thrice three years: they went and came, Remade the blood and changed the frame, And yet is love not less, but more; No longer caring to embalm In dying songs a dead regret, But like a statue solid-set, And moulded in colossal calm. Regret is dead, but love is more Than in the summers that are flown, For I myself with these have grown To something greater than before; Which makes appear the songs I made As echoes out of weaker times, But where is she, the bridal flower, Of Eden on its bridal bower: On me she bends her blissful eyes And then on thee; they meet thy look And brighten like the star that shook Betwixt the palms of paradise. O when her life was yet in bud, He too foretold the perfect rose. For thee she grew, for thee she grows For ever, and as fair as good. And thou art worthy; full of power; As gentle; liberal-minded, great, Consistent; wearing all that weight Of learning lightly like a flower. But now set out: the noon is near, And I must give away the bride; She fears not, or with thee beside And me behind her will not fear: For I that danced her on my knee, That watch'd her on her nurse's arm, That shielded all her life from harm At last must part with her to thee; Now waiting to be made a wife, Her feet, my darling, on the dead; Their pensive tablets round her head, And the most living words of life Breathed in her ear. The ring is on, The wilt thou' answer'd, and again The 'wilt thou 'ask'd, till out of twain Her sweet I will' has made you one. Now sign your names, which shall be read. Begins the clash and clang that tells The joy to every wandering breeze; The blind wall rocks, and on the trees The dead leaf trembles to the bells. O happy hour, and happier hours Await them. Many a merry face Salutes them - maidens of the place, That pelt us in the porch with flowers. O happy hour, behold the bride With him to whom her hand I gave They leave the porch, they pass the grave That has to-day its sunny side. I HATE the dreadful hollow behind the little wood, II. For there in the ghastly pit long since a body was found, III. Did he fling himself down? who knows? for a vast speculation had fail'd, IV. I remember the time, for the roots of my hair were stirr'd By a shuffled step, by a dead weight trail'd, by a whisper'd fright, V. Villainy somewhere! whose? One says, we are villains all. VI. Why do they prate of the blessings of Peace? we have made them a curse, And lust of gain, in the spirit of Cain, is it better or worse Than the heart of the citizen hissing in war on his own hearthstone? VII. But these are the days of advance, the works of the men of mind, When who but a fool would have faith in a tradesman's ware or his word? Is it peace or war? Civil war, as I think, and that of a kind The viler, as underhand, not openly bearing the sword. VIII. Sooner or later I too may passively take the print Of the golden age - why not? I have neither hope nor trust; Cheat and be cheated, and die: who knows? we are ashes and dust. IX. Peace sitting under her olive, and slurring the days gone by, When the poor are hovell'd and hustled together, each sex, like swine. X. And the vitriol madness flushes up in the ruffian's head, XI. And Sleep must lie down arm'd, for the villainous centre-bits XII. When a Mammonite mother kills her babe for a burial fee, XIII. For I trust if an enemy's fleet came yonder round by the hill, And the rushing battle-boat sang from the three-decker out of the foam, That the smooth-faced snubnosed rogue would leap from his counter and till, And strike, if he could, were it but with his cheating yardwand, home. XIV. What am I raging alone as my father raged in his mood? XV. Would there be sorrow for me? there was love in the passionate shriek, XVI. I am sick of the Hall and the hill, I am sick of the moor and the main. XVII. Workmen up at the Hall!-they are coming back from abroad; XVIII. Maud with her venturous climbings and tumbles and childish escapes, XIX. --- What is she now? My dreams are bad. She may bring me a curse. II. let sight line Long have I sigh'd for a calm: God grant I may find it at last! Dead perfection, no more; nothing more, if it had not been Or the least little delicate aquiline curve in a sensitive nose, III. Cold and clear-cut face, why come you so cruelly meek, |