All grass of silky feather grow

And while he sinks or swells The full south-breeze around thee blow

The sound of minster bells.

The fat earth feed thy branchy root,

That under deeply strikes !
The northern morning o'er thee shoot,

High up, in silver spikes !
Nor ever lightning char thy grain,

But, rolling as in sleep,
Low thunders bring the mellow rain,

That makes thee broad and deep!

And hear me swear a solemn oath,

That only by thy side
Will I to Olive plight my troth,

And gain her for my bride.

Thromadness, hated by the wise, to law, System and empire? Sin itself be found The cloudy porch oft opening on the

Sun? And only he, this wonder, dead, become Mere highway dust? or year by year

alone Sit brooding in the ruins of a life, Nightmare of youth, the spectre of him

self? If this were thus, if this, indeed, were

all, Better the narrow brain, the stony heart, The staring eye glazed o'er with sapless

days, The long mechanic pacings to and fro, The set gray life, and apathetic end. But am I not the nobler thro' thy love? O three times less unworthy! likewise

thou Art more thro’ Love, and greater than

thy years, The Sun will run his orbit, and the Moon Her circle. Wait, and Love himself will

bring The drooping flower of knowledge

changed to fruit Of wisdom. Wait: my faith is large in

Time, And that which shapes it to some perfect

end. Will some one say, Then why not ill

for good? Why took ye not your Pastime? To that

And when my marriage morn may fall,

She, Dryad-like, shall wear Alternate leaf and acorn-ball

In wreath about her hair,

And I will work in prose and rhyme,

And praise thee more in both Than bard has honour'd beech or lime,

Or that Thessalian growth,

In which the swarthy ringdove sat,

And mystic sentence spoke;
And more than England honours that,

Thy famous brother-oak,
Wherein the younger Charles abode

Till all the paths were dim,
And far below the Roundhead rode,

And humm'd a surly hymn.

man

My work shall answer, since I knew the

right And did it; for a man is not as God, But then most Godlike being most a man. So let me think 'tis well for thee and

me Ill-fated that I am, what lot is mine Whose foresight preaches peace, my heart

LOVE AND DUTY.

so slow

Of love that never found his earthly close, What sequel ? Streaming eyes and

breaking hearts ? Or all the same as if he had not been? Not so.

Shall Error in the round of

time Still father Truth? O shall the braggart

shout For some blind glimpse of freedom work

To feel it! For how hard it seem'd to

me, When eyes, love-languid thro' half tears

would dwell One earnest, earnest moment upon mine, Then not to dare to see! when thy low

voice, Faltering, would break its syllables, to

keep

Among her stars to hear us; stars that

hung Love-charm’d to listen: all the wheels of

Time Spun round in station, but the end had

come.

My own full-tuned, - hold passion in a

leash, And not leap forth and fall about thy

neck, And on thy bosom (deep desired relief!) Rain out the heavy mist of tears, that

weigh'd L'pon my brain, my senses and my soul ! For Love himself took part against

himself To warn us off, and Duty loved of Love O this world's curse - beloved but hated

- came

O then like those, who clench their

nerves to rush Upon their dissolution, we two rose, There – closing like an individual life In one blind cry of passion and of pain, Like bitter accusation ev'n to death, Caught up the whole of love and utter'd

it, And bade adieu for ever.

Live - yet live Shall sharpest pathos blight us, knowing

all Life needs for life is possible to will — Live happy; tend thy flowers; be tended

by

Like Death betwixt thy dear embrace and

mine, And crying, 'Who is this? behold thy

bride,' She push'd me from thee.

If the sense is hard To alien ears, I did not speak to these – No, not to thee, but to thyself in me: Hard is my doom and thine: thou

knowest it all. Could Love part thus? was it not well

to speak, To have spoken once? It could not but

be well. The slow sweet hours that bring us all

things good, The slow sad hours that bring us all

things ill, And all good things from evil, brought

the night In which we sat together and alone, And to the want, that hollow'd all the

heart, Gave utterance by the yearning of an eye, That burn'd upon its object thro' such

tears As flow but once a life.

The trance gave way To those caresses, when a hundred times In that last kiss, which never was the last, Farewell, like endless welcome, lived and

died. Then follow'd counsel, comfort, and the

words That make a man feel strong in speaking

truth; Till now the dark was worn, and overhead The lights of sunset and of sunrise mix'd In that brief night; the summer night,

that paused

My blessing! Should my Shadow cross

thy thoughts Too sadly for their peace, remand it thou For calmer hours to Memory's darkest

hold, If not to be forgotten - not at onceNot all forgotten. Should it cross thy

dreams, O might it come like one that looks con

tent, With quiet eyes unfaithful to the truth, And point thee forward to a distant light, Or seem to list a burthen from thy heart And leave thee freër, till thou wake

refresh'd Then when the first low matin-chirp hath

grown Full quire, and morning driv'n her plow

of pearl Far furrowing into light the mounded

rack, Beyond the fair green field and eastern

sea.

THE GOLDEN YEAR. WELL, you shall have that song which

Leonard wrote: It was last summer on a tour in Wales: Old James was with me: we that day And light shall spread, and man be liker

man

Up Snowdon; and I wish'd for Leonard

there, And found him in Llanberis: then we

crost Between the lakes, and clamber'd half

way up The counter side; and that same song of

his He told me; for I banter'd him, and

Swore They said he lived shut up within himself, A tongue-tied Poet in the feverous days, That, setting the how much before the

how, Cry, like the daughters of the horseleech,

"Give, Cram us with all,' but count not me the

herd ! To which «They call me what they

will,' he said : “But I was born too late : the fair new

forms, That float about the threshold of an age, Like truths of Science waiting to be

caught Catch me who can, and make the catcher

crown'd Are taken by the forelock. Let it be. But if you care indeed to listen, hear These measured words, my work of

yestermorn. We sleep and wake and sleep, but all

things move; The Sun flies forward to his brother Sun; The dark Earth follows wheel'd in her

ellipse; And human things returning on them

selves Move onward, leading up the golden year. *Ah, tho' the times, when some new

thought can bud, Are but as poets' seasons when they

flower, Yet oceans daily gaining on the land, Have ebb and flow conditioning their

march, And slow and sure comes up the golden

year. "When wealth no more shall rest in

mounded heaps, But smit with freër light shall slowly

melt In many streams to fatten lower lands,

Thro' all the season of the golden year. "Shall eagles not be eagles? wrens be

wrens? If all the world were falcons, what of

that? The wonder of the eagle were the less, But he not less the eagle. Happy days Roll onward, leading up the golden year. • Fly, happy happy sails, and bear the

Press; Fly happy with the mission of the Cross; Knit land to land, and blowing haven

ward With silks, and fruits, and spices, clea:

toll, Enrich the markets of the golden year. • But we grow old. Ah! when shall

all men's good Be each man's rule, and universal Peace Lie like a shaft of light across the land, And like a lane of beams athwart the

sea, Thro' all the circle of the golden year?' Thus far he flow'd, and ended; where

upon "Ah, folly!' in mimic cadence answer'd

James — • Ah, folly! for it lies so far away, 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 full Of force and choler, and firm upon his

feet, And like an oaken stock in winter woods, O'erflourish'd with the hoary clematis: Then added, all in heat:

• What stuff is this! Old writers push'd the happy season

6

back,

The more fools they,- - we forward:

dreamers both: You most, that in an age, when every