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Not in our time, nor in our children's time,
'Tis like the second world to us that live,
'Twere all as one to fix our hopes on Heaven
As on this vision of the golden year.”

With that he struck his staff against the rocks And broke it, -James, you know him,-old, but

Of force and choler, and firm upon his feet,
And like an oaken stock in winter woods,
O’erflourished with the hoary clematis:
Then added, all in heat :

" What stuff is this?
Old writers pushed the happy season back,
The more fools they,—we forward : dreamers both:
You most, that in an age, when every hour
Must sweat her sixty minutes to the death,
Live on, God love us, as if the seedsman, rapt
Upon the teeming harvest, should not dip
Ilis hand into the bag : but well I know
That unto him who works, and feels he works,
This same grand year is ever at the doors.”

He spoke ; and, high above, I heard them blast The steep slate-quarry, and the great echo flap And buffet round the hills from bluff to bluff.


Ir little profits that an idle king, By this still hearth, among these barren crags, Matched with an aged wife, I mete and dole Uncqual laws unto a savage race, That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me. I cannot rest from travel: I will drink Life to the lees: all times I have enjoyed Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades

Vext the dim sea : I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known ; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honored of them all ;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of' windy Troy.
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough.
Gleams that untravelled world, whose margin fades
Forever and forever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!
As though to breathe were life. Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge, like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the sceptre anıl the isle-
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil
This labor, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and through soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centred in the

Of common duties, docent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.

There lies the port: the vessel puffs her sail : There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners, Souls that have toiled, and wrought, and thought

with meThat ever with a frolic welcome took The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed

Free hearts, free foreheads you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honor and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the

Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world,
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down :
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we

One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

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COMRADES, leave me here a little, while as yet ’tis

early morn: Leave me here, and when you want me, sound

upon the bugle-horn. 'Tis the place, and all around it, as of old, the cur

lews call. Dreary gleams about the moorland flying over

Locksley Hall;

Locksley Hall, that in the distance overlooks the

sandy tracts, And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into cataracts. Many a night from yonder ivied casement, ere I

went to rest, Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly to the


Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising through the

mellow shade, Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver


Here about the beach I wandered, nourishing a

youth sublime With the fairy tales of science, and the long result

of Time;

When the centuries behind me like a fruitful land

reposed; When I clung to all the present for the promise

that it closed :

When I dipt into the future far as human eye

could see; Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder

that would be.

In. the Spring a fuller crimson comes upon the

Robin's breast; In the Spring the wanton lapwing gets himself

another crest;

In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the bur

nished dove; In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to

thoughts of love.

Then her cheek was pale and thinner than should

be for one so young, And her eyes on all my motions with a mute obe

servance hung. And I said, “My cousin Amy, speak, and speak the

truth to me, Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being sets

to thee."

On her pallid cheek and forehead came a color and

a light, As I have seen the rosy red flushing in the northern

night. And she turned her bosom shaken with a sudden i

storm of sighs— All the spirit deeply dawning in the dark of hazel

eyesSaying, “I have hid my feelings, fearing they should

do me wrong; Saying, “ Dost thou love me, cousin ? " weeping, “ I

have loved thee long.” Love took up the glass of Time, and turned it in

his glowing hands; Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden


Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the

chords with might; Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, passed in

music out of sight. Many a morning on the moorland did we hear the

copses ring, And her whisper thronged my pulses with the ful

ness of the Spring

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