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Thread: A poem a day

  1. #511
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    The House Of Dust: Part 01: 05: The snow floats down upon us, mingled with rain

    ----------------- by Conrad Aiken
    The snow floats down upon us, mingled with rain . . .
    It eddies around pale lilac lamps, and falls
    Down golden-windowed walls.
    We were all born of flesh, in a flare of pain,
    We do not remember the red roots whence we rose,
    But we know that we rose and walked, that after a while
    We shall lie down again.

    The snow floats down upon us, we turn, we turn,
    Through gorges filled with light we sound and flow . . .
    One is struck down and hurt, we crowd about him,
    We bear him away, gaze after his listless body;
    But whether he lives or dies we do not know.

    One of us sings in the street, and we listen to him;
    The words ring over us like vague bells of sorrow.
    He sings of a house he lived in long ago.
    It is strange; this house of dust was the house I lived in;
    The house you lived in, the house that all of us know.
    And coiling slowly about him, and laughing at him,
    And throwing him pennies, we bear away
    A mournful echo of other times and places,
    And follow a dream . . . a dream that will not stay.

    Down long broad flights of lamplit stairs we flow;
    Noisy, in scattered waves, crowding and shouting;
    In broken slow cascades.
    The gardens extend before us . . . We spread out swiftly;
    Trees are above us, and darkness. The canyon fades . . .

    And we recall, with a gleaming stab of sadness,
    Vaguely and incoherently, some dream
    Of a world we came from, a world of sun-blue hills . . .
    A black wood whispers around us, green eyes gleam;
    Someone cries in the forest, and someone kills.

    We flow to the east, to the white-lined shivering sea;
    We reach to the west, where the whirling sun went down;
    We close our eyes to music in bright cafees.
    We diverge from clamorous streets to streets that are silent.
    We loaf where the wind-spilled fountain plays.

    And, growing tired, we turn aside at last,
    Remember our secret selves, seek out our towers,
    Lay weary hands on the banisters, and climb;
    Climbing, each, to his little four-square dream
    Of love or lust or beauty or death or crime.
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

  2. #512
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    To One Hated
    -----------by Lucy Maud Montgomery

    Had it been when I came to the valley where the paths parted asunder,
    Chance had led my feet to the way of love, not hate,
    I might have cherished you well, have been to you fond and faithful,
    Great as my hatred is, so might my love have been great.

    Each cold word of mine might have been a kiss impassioned,
    Warm with the throb of my heart, thrilled with my pulse's leap,
    And every glance of scorn, lashing, pursuing, and stinging,
    As a look of tenderness would have been wondrous and deep.

    Bitter our hatred is, old and strong and unchanging,
    Twined with the fibres of life, blend with body and soul,
    But as its bitterness, so might have been our love's sweetness
    Had it not missed the way* strange missing and sad!* to its goal.
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

  3. #513
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    Bound for your distant home
    --------- by Alexander Pushkin
    Bound for your distant home
    you were leaving alien lands.
    In an hour as sad as I’ve known
    I wept over your hands.
    My hands were numb and cold,
    still trying to restrain
    you, whom my hurt told
    never to end this pain.

    But you snatched your lips away
    from our bitterest kiss.
    You invoked another place
    than the dismal exile of this.
    You said, ‘When we meet again,
    in the shadow of olive-trees,
    we shall kiss, in a love without pain,
    under cloudless infinities.’

    But there, alas, where the sky
    shines with blue radiance,
    where olive-tree shadows lie
    on the waters glittering dance,
    your beauty, your suffering,
    are lost in eternity.
    But the sweet kiss of our meeting ...
    I wait for it: you owe it me ...

    ------------------------------------------------
    ------------------------------------------------

    It's Settled

    ---- by Sergei Yesenin

    Yes! It's settled! Now and for ever
    I have left my dear old plain.
    And the winged leaves of poplars will never
    ring and rustle above me again.

    Our house will sag in my absence,
    and my dog died a long time ago.
    Me, I'm fated to die with compassions
    in the crooked streets of Moscow, I know.

    I admire this city of elm-trees
    with decrepit buildings and homes.
    Golden somnolent Asian entities
    are reposing on temple domes.

    When the moonlight at night, dissipated,
    shines... Like hell in the dark sky of blue!
    I walk down the alley, dejected,
    to the pub for a drink, maybe, two.

    It's a sinister den, harsh and roaring,
    but in spite of it, all through the night
    I read poems for girls that go whoring
    and carouse with thieves with delight.

    Now I speak but my words are quite pointless,
    and the beat of my heart is fast:
    'Just like you, I am totally worthless,
    and I cannot re-enter the past'.

    Our house will sag in my absence.
    And my dog died a long time ago.
    Me, I'm fated to die with compassions
    in the crooked streets of Moscow, I know.
    Last edited by Tyr-Ziu Saxnot; 12-16-2016 at 07:35 AM.
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

  4. #514
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    A Prayer in the Prospect of Death
    --------------by Robert Burns
    O THOU unknown, Almighty Cause
    Of all my hope and fear!
    In whose dread presence, ere an hour,
    Perhaps I must appear!


    If I have wander’d in those paths
    Of life I ought to shun,
    As something, loudly, in my breast,
    Remonstrates I have done;


    Thou know’st that Thou hast formed me
    With passions wild and strong;
    And list’ning to their witching voice
    Has often led me wrong.


    Where human weakness has come short,
    Or frailty stept aside,
    Do Thou, All-Good-for such Thou art—
    In shades of darkness hide.


    Where with intention I have err’d,
    No other plea I have,
    But, Thou art good; and Goodness still
    Delighteth to forgive.
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

  5. #515
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    Blue Bridge
    -------by Geraldine Connolly
    Praise the good-tempered summer
    and the red cardinal
    that jumps
    like a hot coal off the track.
    Praise the heavy leaves,
    heroines of green, frosted
    with silver. Praise the litter
    of torn paper, mulch
    and sticks, the spiny holly,
    its scarlet land mines.

    Praise the black snake that whips
    and shudders its way across my path
    and the lane where grandmother
    and grandfather walked, arms
    around each other's waists
    next to such a river, below
    a blue bridge about to be
    crossed by a train.

    In the last gasp
    of August, they erase the time
    it might be now, whispering
    into the darkness that passed,
    blue plumes of smoke and cicada,
    eager and doomed.
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

  6. #516
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    My Holiday
    -------------------by Robert William Service
    I love the cheery bustle
    Of children round the house,
    The tidy maids a-hustle,
    The chatter of my spouse;
    The laughter and the singing,
    The joy on every face:
    With frequent laughter ringing,
    O, Home's a happy place!

    Aye, Home's a bit of heaven;
    I love it every day;
    My line-up of eleven
    Combine to make it gay;
    Yet when in June they're leaving
    For Sandport by the sea,
    By rights I should be grieving,
    But gosh! I just fell free.

    I'm left with parting kisses,
    The guardian of the house;
    The romp, it's true, one misses,
    I'm quiet as a mouse.
    In carpet slippers stealing
    From room to room alone
    I get the strangest feeling
    The place is all my own.

    It seems to nestle near me,
    It whispers in my ear;
    My books and pictures cheer me,
    Hearth never was so dear.
    In peace profound I lap me,
    I take no stock of time,
    And from the dreams that hap me,
    I make (like this) a rhyme.

    Oh, I'm ashamed of saying
    (And think it's mean of me),
    That when the kids are staying
    At Sandspot on the sea,
    And I evoke them clearly
    Disporting in the spray,
    I love them still more dearly
    Because . . . they're far away.
    ---------------------------------------------
    ---------------------------------------------
    I have always liked this wonderful poem!-Tyr
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

  7. #517
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    Holidays
    ---- by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
    The holiest of all holidays are those
    Kept by ourselves in silence and apart;
    The secret anniversaries of the heart,
    When the full river of feeling overflows;--
    The happy days unclouded to their close;
    The sudden joys that out of darkness start
    As flames from ashes; swift desires that dart
    Like swallows singing down each wind that blows!
    White as the gleam of a receding sail,
    White as a cloud that floats and fades in air,
    White as the whitest lily on a stream,
    These tender memories are;--a fairy tale
    Of some enchanted land we know not where,
    But lovely as a landscape in a dream.
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

  8. #518
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    The Growth of Love
    ---------- by Robert Seymour Bridges

    1
    They that in play can do the thing they would,
    Having an instinct throned in reason's place,
    --And every perfect action hath the grace
    Of indolence or thoughtless hardihood--
    These are the best: yet be there workmen good
    Who lose in earnestness control of face,
    Or reckon means, and rapt in effort base
    Reach to their end by steps well understood.
    Me whom thou sawest of late strive with the pains
    Of one who spends his strength to rule his nerve,
    --Even as a painter breathlessly who stains
    His scarcely moving hand lest it should swerve--
    Behold me, now that I have cast my chains,
    Master of the art which for thy sake I serve.


    2
    For thou art mine: and now I am ashamed
    To have uséd means to win so pure acquist,
    And of my trembling fear that might have misst
    Thro' very care the gold at which I aim'd;
    And am as happy but to hear thee named,
    As are those gentle souls by angels kisst
    In pictures seen leaving their marble cist
    To go before the throne of grace unblamed.
    Nor surer am I water hath the skill
    To quench my thirst, or that my strength is freed
    In delicate ordination as I will,
    Than that to be myself is all I need
    For thee to be most mine: so I stand still,
    And save to taste my joy no more take heed.

    3
    The whole world now is but the minister
    Of thee to me: I see no other scheme
    But universal love, from timeless dream
    Waking to thee his joy's interpreter.
    I walk around and in the fields confer
    Of love at large with tree and flower and stream,
    And list the lark descant upon my theme,
    Heaven's musical accepted worshipper.
    Thy smile outfaceth ill: and that old feud
    'Twixt things and me is quash'd in our new truce;
    And nature now dearly with thee endued
    No more in shame ponders her old excuse,
    But quite forgets her frowns and antics rude,
    So kindly hath she grown to her new use.

    4
    The very names of things belov'd are dear,
    And sounds will gather beauty from their sense,
    As many a face thro' love's long residence
    Groweth to fair instead of plain and sere:
    But when I say thy name it hath no peer,
    And I suppose fortune determined thence
    Her dower, that such beauty's excellence
    Should have a perfect title for the ear.
    Thus may I think the adopting Muses chose
    Their sons by name, knowing none would be heard
    Or writ so oft in all the world as those,--
    Dan Chaucer, mighty Shakespeare, then for third
    The classic Milton, and to us arose
    Shelley with liquid music in the world.

    5
    The poets were good teachers, for they taught
    Earth had this joy; but that 'twould ever be
    That fortune should be perfected in me,
    My heart of hope dared not engage the thought.
    So I stood low, and now but to be caught
    By any self-styled lords of the age with thee
    Vexes my modesty, lest they should see
    I hold them owls and peacocks, things of nought.
    And when we sit alone, and as I please
    I taste thy love's full smile, and can enstate
    The pleasure of my kingly heart at ease,
    My thought swims like a ship, that with the weight
    Of her rich burden sleeps on the infinite seas
    Becalm'd, and cannot stir her golden freight.

    6
    While yet we wait for spring, and from the dry
    And blackening east that so embitters March,
    Well-housed must watch grey fields and meadows parch,
    And driven dust and withering snowflake fly;
    Already in glimpses of the tarnish'd sky
    The sun is warm and beckons to the larch,
    And where the covert hazels interarch
    Their tassell'd twigs, fair beds of primrose lie.
    Beneath the crisp and wintry carpet hid
    A million buds but stay their blossoming;
    And trustful birds have built their nests amid
    The shuddering boughs, and only wait to sing
    Till one soft shower from the south shall bid,
    And hither tempt the pilgrim steps of spring.

    7
    In thee my spring of life hath bid the while
    A rose unfold beyond the summer's best,
    The mystery of joy made manifest
    In love's self-answering and awakening smile;
    Whereby the lips in wonder reconcile
    Passion with peace, and show desire at rest,--
    A grace of silence by the Greek unguesst,
    That bloom'd to immortalize the Tuscan style
    When first the angel-song that faith hath ken'd
    Fancy pourtray'd, above recorded oath
    Of Israel's God, or light of poem pen'd;
    The very countenance of plighted troth
    'Twixt heaven and earth, where in one moment blend
    The hope of one and happiness of both.

    8
    For beauty being the best of all we know
    Sums up the unsearchable and secret aims
    Of nature, and on joys whose earthly names
    Were never told can form and sense bestow;
    And man hath sped his instinct to outgo
    The step of science; and against her shames
    Imagination stakes out heavenly claims,
    Building a tower above the head of woe.
    Nor is there fairer work for beauty found
    Than that she win in nature her release
    From all the woes that in the world abound:
    Nay with his sorrow may his love increase,
    If from man's greater need beauty redound,
    And claim his tears for homage of his peace.

    9
    Thus to thy beauty doth my fond heart look,
    That late dismay'd her faithless faith forbore;
    And wins again her love lost in the lore
    Of schools and script of many a learned book:
    For thou what ruthless death untimely took
    Shalt now in better brotherhood restore,
    And save my batter'd ship that far from shore
    High on the dismal deep in tempest shook.

    So in despite of sorrow lately learn'd
    I still hold true to truth since thou art true,
    Nor wail the woe which thou to joy hast turn'd
    Nor come the heavenly sun and bathing blue
    To my life's need more splendid and unearn'd
    Than hath thy gift outmatch'd desire and due.

    10
    Winter was not unkind because uncouth;
    His prison'd time made me a closer guest,
    And gave thy graciousness a warmer zest,
    Biting all else with keen and angry tooth
    And bravelier the triumphant blood of youth
    Mantling thy cheek its happy home possest,
    And sterner sport by day put strength to test,
    And custom's feast at night gave tongue to truth
    Or say hath flaunting summer a device
    To match our midnight revelry, that rang
    With steel and flame along the snow-girt ice?
    Or when we hark't to nightingales that sang
    On dewy eves in spring, did they entice
    To gentler love than winter's icy fang?

    11
    There's many a would-be poet at this hour,
    Rhymes of a love that he hath never woo'd,
    And o'er his lamplit desk in solitude
    Deems that he sitteth in the Muses' bower:
    And some the flames of earthly love devour,
    Who have taken no kiss of Nature, nor renew'd
    In the world's wilderness with heavenly food
    The sickly body of their perishing power.

    So none of all our company, I boast,
    But now would mock my penning, could they see
    How down the right it maps a jagged coast;
    Seeing they hold the manlier praise to be
    Strong hand and will, and the heart best when most
    'Tis sober, simple, true, and fancy-free.

    12
    How could I quarrel or blame you, most dear,
    Who all thy virtues gavest and kept back none;
    Kindness and gentleness, truth without peer,
    And beauty that my fancy fed upon?
    Now not my life's contrition for my fault
    Can blot that day, nor work me recompence,
    Tho' I might worthily thy worth exalt,
    Making thee long amends for short offence.
    For surely nowhere, love, if not in thee
    Are grace and truth and beauty to be found;
    And all my praise of these can only be
    A praise of thee, howe'er by thee disown'd:
    While still thou must be mine tho' far removed,
    And I for one offence no more beloved.

    13
    Now since to me altho' by thee refused
    The world is left, I shall find pleasure still;
    The art that most I have loved but little used
    Will yield a world of fancies at my will:
    And tho' where'er thou goest it is from me,
    I where I go thee in my heart must bear;
    And what thou wert that wilt thou ever be,
    My choice, my best, my loved, and only fair.
    Farewell, yet think not such farewell a change
    From tenderness, tho' once to meet or part
    But on short absence so could sense derange
    That tears have graced the greeting of my heart;
    They were proud drops and had my leave to fall,
    Not on thy pity for my pain to call.

    14
    When sometimes in an ancient house where state
    From noble ancestry is handed on,
    We see but desolation thro' the gate,
    And richest heirlooms all to ruin gone;
    Because maybe some fancied shame or fear,
    Bred of disease or melancholy fate,
    Hath driven the owner from his rightful sphere
    To wander nameless save to pity or hate:
    What is the wreck of all he hath in fief
    When he that hath is wrecking? nought is fine
    Unto the sick, nor doth it burden grief
    That the house perish when the soul doth pine.
    Thus I my state despise, slain by a sting
    So slight 'twould not have hurt a meaner thing.

    15
    Who builds a ship must first lay down the keel
    Of health, whereto the ribs of mirth are wed:
    And knit, with beams and knees of strength, a bed
    For decks of purity, her floor and ceil.
    Upon her masts, Adventure, Pride, and Zeal,
    To fortune's wind the sails of purpose spread:
    And at the prow make figured maidenhead
    O'erride the seas and answer to the wheel.
    And let him deep in memory's hold have stor'd
    Water of Helicon: and let him fit
    The needle that doth true with heaven accord:
    Then bid her crew, love, diligence and wit
    With justice, courage, temperance come aboard,
    And at her helm the master reason sit.

    16
    This world is unto God a work of art,
    Of which the unaccomplish'd heavenly plan
    Is hid in life within the creature's heart,
    And for perfection looketh unto man.
    Ah me! those thousand ages: with what slow
    Pains and persistence were his idols made,
    Destroy'd and made, ere ever he could know
    The mighty mother must be so obey'd.
    For lack of knowledge and thro' little skill
    His childish mimicry outwent his aim;
    His effort shaped the genius of his will;
    Till thro' distinction and revolt he came,
    True to his simple terms of good and ill,
    Seeking the face of Beauty without blame.

    17
    Say who be these light-bearded, sunburnt faces
    In negligent and travel-stain'd array,
    That in the city of Dante come to-day,
    Haughtily visiting her holy places?
    O these be noble men that hide their graces,
    True England's blood, her ancient glory's stay,
    By tales of fame diverted on their way
    Home from the rule of oriental races.
    Life-trifling lions these, of gentle eyes
    And motion delicate, but swift to fire
    For honour, passionate where duty lies,
    Most loved and loving: and they quickly tire
    Of Florence, that she one day more denies
    The embrace of wife and son, of sister or sire.

    18
    Where San Miniato's convent from the sun
    At forenoon overlooks the city of flowers
    I sat, and gazing on her domes and towers
    Call'd up her famous children one by one:
    And three who all the rest had far outdone,
    Mild Giotto first, who stole the morning hours,
    I saw, and god-like Buonarroti's powers,
    And Dante, gravest poet, her much-wrong'd son.

    Is all this glory, I said, another's praise?
    Are these heroic triumphs things of old,
    And do I dead upon the living gaze?
    Or rather doth the mind, that can behold
    The wondrous beauty of the works and days,
    Create the image that her thoughts enfold?

    19
    Rejoice, ye dead, where'er your spirits dwell,
    Rejoice that yet on earth your fame is bright;
    And that your names, remember'd day and night,
    Live on the lips of those that love you well.
    'Tis ye that conquer'd have the powers of hell,
    Each with the special grace of your delight:
    Ye are the world's creators, and thro' might
    Of everlasting love ye did excel.
    Now ye are starry names, above the storm
    And war of Time and nature's endless wrong
    Ye flit, in pictured truth and peaceful form,
    Wing'd with bright music and melodious song,--
    The flaming flowers of heaven, making May-dance
    In dear Imagination's rich pleasance.

    20
    The world still goeth about to shew and hide,
    Befool'd of all opinion, fond of fame:
    But he that can do well taketh no pride,
    And see'th his error, undisturb'd by shame:
    So poor's the best that longest life can do,
    The most so little, diligently done;
    So mighty is the beauty that doth woo,
    So vast the joy that love from love hath won.
    God's love to win is easy, for He loveth
    Desire's fair attitude, nor strictly weighs
    The broken thing, but all alike approveth
    Which love hath aim'd at Him: that is heaven's praise:
    And if we look for any praise on earth,
    'Tis in man's love: all else is nothing worth.

    21
    O flesh and blood, comrade to tragic pain
    And clownish merriment whose sense could wake
    Sermons in stones, and count death but an ache,
    All things as vanity, yet nothing vain:
    The world, set in thy heart, thy passionate strain
    Reveal'd anew; but thou for man didst make
    Nature twice natural, only to shake
    Her kingdom with the creatures of thy brain.
    Lo, Shakespeare, since thy time nature is loth
    To yield to art her fair supremacy;
    In conquering one thou hast so enrichèd both.
    What shall I say? for God--whose wise decree
    Confirmeth all He did by all He doth--
    Doubled His whole creation making thee.

    22
    I would be a bird, and straight on wings I arise,
    And carry purpose up to the ends of the air
    In calm and storm my sails I feather, and where
    By freezing cliffs the unransom'd wreckage lies:
    Or, strutting on hot meridian banks, surprise
    The silence: over plains in the moonlight bare
    I chase my shadow, and perch where no bird dare
    In treetops torn by fiercest winds of the skies.
    Poor simple birds, foolish birds! then I cry,
    Ye pretty pictures of delight, unstir'd
    By the only joy of knowing that ye fly;
    Ye are not what ye are, but rather, sum'd in a word,
    The alphabet of a god's idea, and I
    Who master it, I am the only bird.

    23
    O weary pilgrims, chanting of your woe,
    That turn your eyes to all the peaks that shine,
    Hailing in each the citadel divine
    The which ye thought to have enter'd long ago;
    Until at length your feeble steps and slow
    Falter upon the threshold of the shrine,
    And your hearts overhurden'd doubt in fine
    Whether it be Jerusalem or no:
    Dishearten'd pilgrims, I am one of you;
    For, having worshipp'd many a barren face,
    I scarce now greet the goal I journey'd to:
    I stand a pagan in the holy place;
    Beneath the lamp of truth I am found untrue,
    And question with the God that I embrace.

    24
    Spring hath her own bright days of calm and peace;
    Her melting air, at every breath we draw,
    Floods heart with love to praise God's gracious law:
    But suddenly--so short is pleasure's lease--
    The cold returns, the buds from growing cease,
    And nature's conquer'd face is full of awe;
    As now the trait'rous north with icy flaw
    Freezes the dew upon the sick lamb's fleece,
    And 'neath the mock sun searching everywhere
    Rattles the crispèd leaves with shivering din:
    So that the birds are silent with despair
    Within the thickets; nor their armour thin
    Will gaudy flies adventure in the air,
    Nor any lizard sun his spotted skin.

    25
    Nothing is joy without thee: I can find
    No rapture in the first relays of spring,
    In songs of birds, in young buds opening,
    Nothing inspiriting and nothing kind;
    For lack of thee, who once wert throned behind
    All beauty, like a strength where graces cling,--
    The jewel and heart of light, which everything
    Wrestled in rivalry to hold enshrined.
    Ah! since thou'rt fled, and I in each fair sight
    The sweet occasion of my joy deplore,
    Where shall I seek thee best, or whom invite
    Within thy sacred temples and adore?
    Who shall fill thought and truth with old delight,
    And lead my soul in life as heretofore?

    26
    The work is done, and from the fingers fall
    The bloodwarm tools that brought the labour thro':
    The tasking eye that overrunneth all
    Rests, and affirms there is no more to do.
    Now the third joy of making, the sweet flower
    Of blessed work, bloometh in godlike spirit;
    Which whoso plucketh holdeth for an hour
    The shrivelling vanity of mortal merit.
    And thou, my perfect work, thou'rt of to-day;
    To-morrow a poor and alien thing wilt be,
    True only should the swift life stand at stay:
    Therefore farewell, nor look to bide with me.
    Go find thy friends, if there be one to love thee:
    Casting thee forth, my child, I rise above thee.

    27
    The fabled sea-snake, old Leviathan,
    Or else what grisly beast of scaly chine
    That champ'd the ocean-wrack and swash'd the brine,
    Before the new and milder days of man,
    Had never rib nor bray nor swindging fan
    Like his iron swimmer of the Clyde or Tyne,
    Late-born of golden seed to breed a line
    Of offspring swifter and more huge of plan.
    Straight is her going, for upon the sun
    When once she hath look'd, her path and place are plain;
    With tireless speed she smiteth one by one
    The shuddering seas and foams along the main;
    And her eased breath, when her wild race is run,
    Roars thro' her nostrils like a hurricane.

    28
    A thousand times hath in my heart's behoof
    My tongue been set his passion to impart;
    A thousand times hath my too coward heart
    My mouth reclosed and fix'd it to the roof;
    Then with such cunning hath it held aloof,
    A thousand times kept silence with such art
    That words could do no more: yet on thy part
    Hath silence given a thousand times reproof.
    I should be bolder, seeing I commend
    Love, that my dilatory purpose primes,
    But fear lest with my fears my hope should end:
    Nay, I would truth deny and burn my rhymes,
    Renew my sorrows rather than offend,
    A thousand times, and yet a thousand times.

    29
    I travel to thee with the sun's first rays,
    That lift the dark west and unwrap the night;
    I dwell beside thee when he walks the height,
    And fondly toward thee at his setting gaze.
    I wait upon thy coming, but always--
    Dancing to meet my thoughts if they invite--
    Thou hast outrun their longing with delight,
    And in my solitude dost mock my praise.
    Now doth my drop of time transcend the whole:
    I see no fame in Khufu's pyramid,
    No history where loveless Nile doth roll.
    --This is eternal life, which doth forbid
    Mortal detraction to the exalted soul,
    And from her inward eye all fate hath hid.

    30
    My lady pleases me and I please her;
    This know we both, and I besides know well
    Wherefore I love her, and I love to tell
    My love, as all my loving songs aver.
    But what on her part could the passion stir,
    Tho' 'tis more difficult for love to spell,
    Yet can I dare divine how this befel,
    Nor will her lips deny it if I err.
    She loves me first because I love her, then
    Loves me for knowing why she should be loved,
    And that I love to praise her, loves again.
    So from her beauty both our loves are moved,
    And by her beauty are sustain'd; nor when
    The earth falls from the sun is this disproved.

    31
    In all things beautiful, I cannot see
    Her sit or stand, but love is stir'd anew:
    'Tis joy to watch the folds fall as they do,
    And all that comes is past expectancy.
    If she be silent, silence let it be;
    He who would bid her speak might sit and sue
    The deep-brow'd Phidian Jove to be untrue
    To his two thousand years' solemnity.
    Ah, but her launchèd passion, when she sings,
    Wins on the hearing like a shapen prow
    Borne by the mastery of its urgent wings:
    Or if she deign her wisdom, she doth show
    She hath the intelligence of heavenly things,
    Unsullied by man's mortal overthrow.

    32
    Thus to be humbled: 'tis that ranging pride
    No refuge hath; that in his castle strong
    Brave reason sits beleaguer'd, who so long
    Kept field, but now must starve where he doth hide;
    That industry, who once the foe defied,
    Lies slaughter'd in the trenches; that the throng
    Of idle fancies pipe their foolish song,
    Where late the puissant captains fought and died.
    Thus to be humbled: 'tis to be undone;
    A forest fell'd; a city razed to ground;
    A cloak unsewn, unwoven and unspun
    Till not a thread remains that can be wound.
    And yet, O lover, thee, the ruin'd one,
    Love who hath humbled thus hath also crown'd.

    33
    I care not if I live, tho' life and breath
    Have never been to me so dear and sweet.
    I care not if I die, for I could meet--
    Being so happy--happily my death.
    I care not if I love; to-day she saith
    She loveth, and love's history is complete.
    Nor care I if she love me; at her feet
    My spirit bows entranced and worshippeth.
    I have no care for what was most my care,
    But all around me see fresh beauty born,
    And common sights grown lovelier than they were:
    I dream of love, and in the light of morn
    Tremble, beholding all things very fair
    And strong with strength that puts my strength to scorn.

    34
    O my goddess divine sometimes I say
    Now let this word for ever and all suffice;
    Thou art insatiable, and yet not twice
    Can even thy lover give his soul away:
    And for my acts, that at thy feet I lay;
    For never any other, by device
    Of wisdom, love or beauty, could entice
    My homage to the measure of this day.
    I have no more to give thee: lo, I have sold
    My life, have emptied out my heart, and spent
    Whate'er I had; till like a beggar, bold
    With nought to lose, I laugh and am content.
    A beggar kisses thee; nay, love, behold,
    I fear not: thou too art in beggarment.

    35
    All earthly beauty hath one cause and proof,
    To lead the pilgrim soul to beauty above:
    Yet lieth the greater bliss so far aloof,
    That few there be are wean'd from earthly love.
    Joy's ladder it is, reaching from home to home,
    The best of all the work that all was good;
    Whereof 'twas writ the angels aye upclomb,
    Down sped, and at the top the Lord God stood.
    But I my time abuse, my eyes by day
    Center'd on thee, by night my heart on fire--
    Letting my number'd moments run away--
    Nor e'en 'twixt night and day to heaven aspire:
    So true it is that what the eye seeth not
    But slow is loved, and loved is soon forgot.

    36
    O my life's mischief, once my love's delight,
    That drew'st a mortgage on my heart's estate,
    Whose baneful clause is never out of date,
    Nor can avenging time restore my right:
    Whom first to lose sounded that note of spite,
    Whereto my doleful days were tuned by fate:
    That art the well-loved cause of all my hate,
    The sun whose wandering makes my hopeless night:
    Thou being in all my lacking all I lack,
    It is thy goodness turns my grace to crime,
    Thy fleetness from my goal which holds me back;
    Wherefore my feet go out of step with time,
    My very grasp of life is old and slack,
    And even my passion falters in my rhyme.

    37
    At times with hurried hoofs and scattering dust
    I race by field or highway, and my horse
    Spare not, but urge direct in headlong course
    Unto some fair far hill that gain I must:
    But near arrived the vision soon mistrust,
    Rein in, and stand as one who sees the source
    Of strong illusion, shaming thought to force
    From off his mind the soil of passion's gust.

    My brow I bare then, and with slacken'd speed
    Can view the country pleasant on all sides,
    And to kind salutation give good heed:
    I ride as one who for his pleasure rides,
    And stroke the neck of my delighted steed,
    And seek what cheer the village inn provides.

    38
    An idle June day on the sunny Thames,
    Floating or rowing as our fancy led,
    Now in the high beams basking as we sped,
    Now in green shade gliding by mirror'd stems;
    By lock and weir and isle, and many a spot
    Of memoried pleasure, glad with strength and skill,
    Friendship, good wine, and mirth, that serve not ill
    The heavenly Muse, tho' she requite them not:
    I would have life--thou saidst--all as this day,
    Simple enjoyment calm in its excess,
    With not a grief to cloud, and not a ray
    Of passion overhot my peace to oppress;
    With no ambition to reproach delay,
    Nor rapture to disturb its happiness.

    39
    A man that sees by chance his picture, made
    As once a child he was, handling some toy,
    Will gaze to find his spirit within the boy,
    Yet hath no secret with the soul pourtray'd:
    He cannot think the simple thought which play'd
    Upon those features then so frank and coy;
    'Tis his, yet oh! not his: and o'er the joy
    His fatherly pity bends in tears dismay'd.
    Proud of his prime maybe he stand at best,
    And lightly wear his strength, or aim it high,
    In knowledge, skill and courage self-possest:--
    Yet in the pictured face a charm doth lie,
    The one thing lost more worth than all the rest,
    Which seeing, he fears to say This child was I.

    40
    Tears of love, tears of joy and tears of care,
    Comforting tears that fell uncomforted,
    Tears o'er the new-born, tears beside the dead,
    Tears of hope, pride and pity, trust and prayer,
    Tears of contrition; all tears whatsoe'er
    Of tenderness or kindness had she shed
    Who here is pictured, ere upon her head
    The fine gold might be turn'd to silver there.
    The smile that charm'd the father hath given place
    Unto the furrow'd care wrought by the son;
    But virtue hath transform'd all change to grace:
    So that I praise the artist, who hath done
    A portrait, for my worship, of the face
    Won by the heart my father's heart that won.

    41
    If I could but forget and not recall
    So well my time of pleasure and of play,
    When ancient nature was all new and gay,
    Light as the fashion that doth last enthrall,--
    Ah mighty nature, when my heart was small,
    Nor dream'd what fearful searchings underlay
    The flowers and leafy ecstasy of May,
    The breathing summer sloth, the scented fall:
    Could I forget, then were the fight not hard,
    Press'd in the mêlée of accursed things,
    Having such help in love and such reward:
    But that 'tis I who once--'tis this that stings--
    Once dwelt within the gate that angels guard,
    Where yet I'd be had I but heavenly wings.

    42
    When I see childhood on the threshold seize
    The prize of life from age and likelihood,
    I mourn time's change that will not be withstood,
    Thinking how Christ said Be like one of these.
    For in the forest among many trees
    Scarce one in all is found that hath made good
    The virgin pattern of its slender wood,
    That courtesied in joy to every breeze;
    But scath'd, but knotted trunks that raise on high
    Their arms in stiff contortion, strain'd and bare
    Whose patriarchal crowns in sorrow sigh.
    So, little children, ye--nay nay, ye ne'er
    From me shall learn how sure the change and nigh,
    When ye shall share our strength and mourn to share.

    43
    When parch'd with thirst, astray on sultry sand
    The traveller faints, upon his closing ear
    Steals a fantastic music: he may hear
    The babbling fountain of his native land.
    Before his eyes the vision seems to stand,
    Where at its terraced brink the maids appear,
    Who fill their deep urns at its waters clear,
    And not refuse the help of lover's hand.
    O cruel jest--he cries, as some one flings
    The sparkling drops in sport or shew of ire--
    O shameless, O contempt of holy things.
    But never of their wanton play they tire,
    As not athirst they sit beside the springs,
    While he must quench in death his lost desire.

    44
    The image of thy love, rising on dark
    And desperate days over my sullen sea,
    Wakens again fresh hope and peace in me,
    Gleaming above upon my groaning bark.
    Whate'er my sorrow be, I then may hark
    A loving voice: whate'er my terror be,
    This heavenly comfort still I win from thee,
    To shine my lodestar that wert once my mark.
    Prodigal nature makes us but to taste
    One perfect joy, which given she niggard grows;
    And lest her precious gift should run to waste,
    Adds to its loss a thousand lesser woes:
    So to the memory of the gift that graced
    Her hand, her graceless hand more grace bestows.

    45
    In this neglected, ruin'd edifice
    Of works unperfected and broken schemes,
    Where is the promise of my early dreams,
    The smile of beauty and the pearl of price?
    No charm is left now that could once entice
    Wind-wavering fortune from her golden streams,
    And full in flight decrepit purpose seems,
    Trailing the banner of his old device.
    Within the house a frore and numbing air
    Has chill'd endeavour: sickly memories reign
    In every room, and ghosts are on the stair:
    And hope behind the dusty window-pane
    Watches the days go by, and bow'd with care
    Forecasts her last reproach and mortal stain.

    46
    Once I would say, before thy vision came,
    My joy, my life, my love, and with some kind
    Of knowledge speak, and think I knew my mind
    Of heaven and hope, and each word hit its aim.
    Whate'er their sounds be, now all mean the same,
    Denoting each the fair that none can find;
    Or if I say them, 'tis as one long blind
    Forgets the sights that he was used to name.
    Now if men speak of love, 'tis not my love;
    Nor are their hopes nor joys mine, nor their life
    Of praise the life that I think honour of:
    Nay tho' they turn from house and child and wife
    And self, and in the thought of heaven above
    Hold, as do I, all mortal things at strife.

    47
    Since then 'tis only pity looking back,
    Fear looking forward, and the busy mind
    Will in one woeful moment more upwind
    Than lifelong years unroll of bitter or black;
    What is man's privilege, his hoarding knack
    Of memory with foreboding so combined,
    Whereby he comes to dream he hath of kind
    The perpetuity which all things lack?

    Which but to hope is doubtful joy, to have
    Being a continuance of what, alas,
    We mourn, and scarcely hear with to the grave;
    Or something so unknown that it o'erpass
    The thought of comfort, and the sense that gave
    Cannot consider it thro' any glass.

    48
    Come gentle sleep, I woo thee: come and take
    Not now the child into thine arms, from fright
    Composed by drowsy tune and shaded light,
    Whom ignorant of thee thou didst nurse and make;
    Nor now the boy, who scorn'd thee for the sake
    Of growing knowledge or mysterious night,
    Tho' with fatigue thou didst his limbs invite,
    And heavily weigh the eyes that would not wake;
    No, nor the man severe, who from his best
    Failing, alert fled to thee, that his breath,
    Blood, force and fire should come at morn redrest;
    But me; from whom thy comfort tarrieth,
    For all my wakeful prayer sent without rest
    To thee, O shew and shadow of my death.

    49
    The spirit's eager sense for sad or gay
    Filleth with what he will our vessel full:
    Be joy his bent, he waiteth not joy's day
    But like a child at any toy will pull:
    If sorrow, he will weep for fancy's sake,
    And spoil heaven's plenty with forbidden care.
    What fortune most denies we slave to take;
    Nor can fate load us more than we can bear.
    Since pleasure with the having disappeareth,
    He who hath least in hand hath most at heart,
    While he keep hope: as he who alway feareth
    A grief that never comes hath yet the smart;
    And heavier far is our self-wrought distress,
    For when God sendeth sorrow, it doth bless.

    50
    The world comes not to an end: her city-hives
    Swarm with the tokens of a changeless trade,
    With rolling wheel, driver and flagging jade,
    Rich men and beggars, children, priests and wives.
    New homes on old are set, as lives on lives;
    Invention with invention overlaid:
    But still or tool or toy or book or blade
    Shaped for the hand, that holds and toils and strives.
    The men to-day toil as their fathers taught,
    With little better'd means; for works depend
    On works and overlap, and thought on thought:
    And thro' all change the smiles of hope amend
    The weariest face, the same love changed in nought:
    In this thing too the world comes not to an end.

    51
    O my uncared-for songs, what are ye worth,
    That in my secret book with so much care
    I write you, this one here and that one there,
    Marking the time and order of your birth?
    How, with a fancy so unkind to mirth,
    A sense so hard, a style so worn and bare,
    Look ye for any welcome anywhere
    From any shelf or heart-home on the earth?
    Should others ask you this, say then I yearn'd
    To write you such as once, when I was young,
    Finding I should have loved and thereto turn'd.
    'Twere something yet to live again among
    The gentle youth beloved, and where I learn'd
    My art, be there remember'd for my song.

    52
    Who takes the census of the living dead,
    Ere the day come when memory shall o'ercrowd
    The kingdom of their fame, and for that proud
    And airy people find no room nor stead?
    Ere hoarding Time, that ever thrusteth back
    The fairest treasures of his ancient store,
    Better with best confound, so he may pack
    His greedy gatherings closer, more and more?
    Let the true Muse rewrite her sullied page,
    And purge her story of the men of hate,
    That they go dirgeless down to Satan's rage
    With all else foul, deform'd and miscreate:
    She hath full toil to keep the names of love
    Honour'd on earth, as they are bright above.

    53
    I heard great Hector sounding war's alarms,
    Where thro' the listless ghosts chiding he strode,
    As tho' the Greeks besieged his last abode,
    And he his Troy's hope still, her king-at-arms.
    But on those gentle meads, which Lethe charms
    With weary oblivion, his passion glow'd
    Like the cold night-worm's candle, and only show'd
    Such mimic flame as neither heats nor harms.
    'Twas plain to read, even by those shadows quaint,
    How rude catastrophe had dim'd his day,
    And blighted all his cheer with stern complaint:
    To arms! to arms! what more the voice would say
    Was swallow'd in the valleys, and grew faint
    Upon the thin air, as he pass'd away.

    54
    Since not the enamour'd sun with glance more fond
    Kisses the foliage of his sacred tree,
    Than doth my waking thought arise on thee,
    Loving none near thee, like thee nor beyond;
    Nay, since I am sworn thy slave, and in the bond
    Is writ my promise of eternity
    Since to such high hope thou'st encouraged me,
    That if thou look but from me I despond;
    Since thou'rt my all in all, O think of this:
    Think of the dedication of my youth:
    Think of my loyalty, my joy, my bliss:
    Think of my sorrow, my despair and ruth,
    My sheer annihilation if I miss:
    Think--if thou shouldst be false--think of thy truth.

    55
    These meagre rhymes, which a returning mood
    Sometimes o'errateth, I as oft despise;
    And knowing them illnatured, stiff and rude,
    See them as others with contemptuous eyes.
    Nay, and I wonder less at God's respect
    For man, a minim jot in time and space,
    Than at the soaring faith of His elect,
    That gift of gifts, the comfort of His grace.
    O truth unsearchable, O heavenly love,
    Most infinitely tender, so to touch
    The work that we can meanly reckon of:
    Surely--I say--we are favour'd overmuch.
    But of this wonder, what doth most amaze
    Is that we know our love is held for praise.

    56
    Beauty sat with me all the summer day,
    Awaiting the sure triumph of her eye;
    Nor mark'd I till we parted, how, hard by,
    Love in her train stood ready for his prey.
    She, as too proud to join herself the fray,
    Trusting too much to her divine ally,
    When she saw victory tarry, chid him--"Why
    Dost thou not at one stroke this rebel slay?"
    Then generous Love, who holds my heart in fee,
    Told of our ancient truce: so from the fight
    We straight withdrew our forces, all the three.
    Baffled but not dishearten'd she took flight
    Scheming new tactics: Love came home with me,
    And prompts my measured verses as I write.

    57
    In autumn moonlight, when the white air wan
    Is fragrant in the wake of summer hence,
    'Tis sweet to sit entranced, and muse thereon
    In melancholy and godlike indolence:
    When the proud spirit, lull'd by mortal prime
    To fond pretence of immortality,
    Vieweth all moments from the birth of time,
    All things whate'er have been or yet shall be.
    And like the garden, where the year is spent,
    The ruin of old life is full of yearning,
    Mingling poetic rapture of lament
    With flowers and sunshine of spring's sure returning;
    Only in visions of the white air wan
    By godlike fancy seized and dwelt upon.

    58
    When first I saw thee, dearest, if I say
    The spells that conjure back the hour and place,
    And evermore I look upon thy face,
    As in the spring of years long pass'd away;
    No fading of thy beauty's rich array,
    No detriment of age on thee I trace,
    But time's defeat written in spoils of grace,
    From rivals robb'd, whom thou didst pity and slay.
    So hath thy growth been, thus thy faith is true,
    Unchanged in change, still to my growing sense,
    To life's desire the same, and nothing new:
    But as thou wert in dream and prescience
    At love's arising, now thou stand'st to view
    In the broad noon of his magnificence.

    59
    'Twas on the very day winter took leave
    Of those fair fields I love, when to the skies
    The fragrant Earth was smiling in surprise
    At that her heaven-descended, quick reprieve,
    I wander'd forth my sorrow to relieve
    Yet walk'd amid sweet pleasure in such wise
    As Adam went alone in Paradise,
    Before God of His pity fashion'd Eve.
    And out of tune with all the joy around
    I laid me down beneath a flowering tree,
    And o'er my senses crept a sleep profound;
    In which it seem'd that thou wert given to me,
    Rending my body, where with hurried sound
    I feel my heart beat, when I think of thee.

    60
    Love that I know, love I am wise in, love,
    My strength, my pride, my grace, my skill untaught,
    My faith here upon earth, my hope above,
    My contemplation and perpetual thought:
    The pleasure of my fancy, my heart's fire,
    My joy, my peace, my praise, my happy theme,
    The aim of all my doing, my desire
    Of being, my life by day, by night my dream:
    Love, my sweet melancholy, my distress,
    My pain, my doubt, my trouble, my despair,
    My only folly and unhappiness,
    And in my careless moments still my care:
    O love, sweet love, earthly love, love difvine,
    Say'st thou to-day, O love, that thou art mine?

    61
    The dark and serious angel, who so long
    Vex'd his immortal strength in charge of me,
    Hath smiled for joy and fled in liberty
    To take his pastime with the peerless throng.
    Oft had I done his noble keeping wrong,
    Wounding his heart to wonder what might be
    God's purpose in a soul of such degree;
    And there he had left me but for mandate strong.
    But seeing thee with me now, his task at close
    He knoweth, and wherefore he was bid to stay,
    And work confusion of so many foes:
    The thanks that he doth look for, here I pay,
    Yet fear some heavenly envy, as he goes
    Unto what great reward I cannot say.

    62
    I will be what God made me, nor protest
    Against the bent of genius in my time,
    That science of my friends robs all the best,
    While I love beauty, and was born to rhyme.
    Be they our mighty men, and let me dwell
    In shadow among the mighty shades of old,
    With love's forsaken palace for my cell;
    Whence I look forth and all the world behold,
    And say, These better days, in best things worse,
    This bastardy of time's magnificence,
    Will mend in fashion and throw off the curse,
    To crown new love with higher excellence.
    Curs'd tho' I be to live my life alone,
    My toil is for man's joy, his joy my own.

    63
    I live on hope and that I think do all
    Who come into this world, and since I see
    Myself in swim with such good company,
    I take my comfort whatsoe'er befall.
    I abide and abide, as if more stout and tall
    My spirit would grow by waiting like a tree
    And, clear of others' toil, it pleaseth me
    In dreams their quick ambition to forestall
    And if thro' careless eagerness I slide
    To some accomplishment, I give my voice
    Still to desire, and in desire abide.
    I have no stake abroad; if I rejoice
    In what is done or doing, I confide
    Neither to friend nor foe my secret choice.

    64
    Ye blessed saints, that now in heaven enjoy
    The purchase of those tears, the world's disdain,
    Doth Love still with his war your peace annoy,
    Or hath Death freed you from his ancient pain?
    Have ye no springtide, and no burst of May
    In flowers and leafy trees, when solemn night
    Pants with love-music, and the holy day
    Breaks on the ear with songs of heavenly light?
    What make ye and what strive for? keep ye thought
    Of us, or in new excellence divine
    Is old forgot? or do ye count for nought
    What the Greek did and what the Florentine?
    We keep your memories well : O in your store
    Live not our best joys treasured evermore?

    65
    Ah heavenly joy But who hath ever heard,
    Who hath seen joy, or who shall ever find
    Joy's language? There is neither speech nor word
    Nought but itself to teach it to mankind.
    Scarce in our twenty thousand painful days
    We may touch something: but there lives--beyond
    The best of art, or nature's kindest phase--
    The hope whereof our spirit is fain and fond:
    The cause of beauty given to man's desires
    Writ in the expectancy of starry skies,
    The faith which gloweth in our fleeting fires,
    The aim of all the good that here we prize;
    Which but to love, pursue and pray for well
    Maketh earth heaven, and to forget it, hell.

    66
    My wearied heart, whenever, after all,
    Its loves and yearnings shall be told complete,
    When gentle death shall bid it cease to beat,
    And from all dear illusions disenthrall:
    However then thou shalt appear to call
    My fearful heart, since down at others' feet
    It bade me kneel so oft, I'll not retreat
    From thee, nor fear before thy feet to fall.
    And I shall say, "Receive this loving heart
    Which err'd in sorrow only; and in sin
    Took no delight; but being forced apart
    From thee, without thee hoping thee to win,
    Most prized what most thou madest as thou art
    On earth, till heaven were open to enter in."

    67
    Dreary was winter, wet with changeful sting
    Of clinging snowfall and fast-flying frost;
    And bitterer northwinds then withheld the spring,
    That dallied with her promise till 'twas lost.
    A sunless and half-hearted summer drown'd
    The flowers in needful and unwelcom'd rain;
    And Autumn with a sad smile fled uncrown'd
    From fruitless orchards and unripen'd grain.
    But could the skies of this most desolate year
    In its last month learn with our love to glow,
    Men yet should rank its cloudless atmosphere
    Above the sunsets of five years ago:
    Of my great praise too part should be its own,
    Now reckon'd peerless for thy love alone

    68
    Away now, lovely Muse, roam and be free:
    Our commerce ends for aye, thy task is done:
    Tho' to win thee I left all else unwon,
    Thou, whom I most have won, art not for me.
    My first desire, thou too forgone must be,
    Thou too, O much lamented now, tho' none
    Will turn to pity thy forsaken son,
    Nor thy divine sisters will weep for thee.
    None will weep for thee : thou return, O Muse,
    To thy Sicilian fields I once have been
    On thy loved hills, and where thou first didst use
    Thy sweetly balanced rhyme, O thankless queen,
    Have pluck'd and wreath'd thy flowers; but do thou choose
    Some happier brow to wear thy garlands green.

    69
    Eternal Father, who didst all create,
    In whom we live, and to whose bosom move,
    To all men be Thy name known, which is Love,
    Till its loud praises sound at heaven's high gate.
    Perfect Thy kingdom in our passing state,
    That here on earth Thou may'st as well approve
    Our service, as Thou ownest theirs above,
    Whose joy we echo and in pain await.

    Grant body and soul each day their daily bread
    And should in spite of grace fresh woe begin,
    Even as our anger soon is past and dead
    Be Thy remembrance mortal of our sin:
    By Thee in paths of peace Thy sheep be led,
    And in the vale of terror comforted.
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

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    Time of Roses
    by Thomas Hood
    It was not in the Winter
    Our loving lot was cast;
    It was the time of roses—
    We pluck'd them as we pass'd!

    That churlish season never frown'd
    On early lovers yet:
    O no—the world was newly crown'd
    With flowers when first we met!

    'Twas twilight, and I bade you go,
    But still you held me fast;
    It was the time of roses—
    We pluck'd them as we pass'd!

    --------------------------------------

    The Reply to Time

    by Mary Darby Robinson
    O TIME, forgive the mournful song
    That on thy pinions stole along,
    When the rude hand of pain severe
    Chas'd down my cheek the burning tear;
    When sorrow chill'd each warm desire
    That kindles FANCY'S lambent fire;
    When HOPE, by fost'ring FRIENDSHIP rear'd,
    A phantom of the brain appear'd;
    Forgive the song, devoid of art,
    That stole spontaneous from my heart;
    For when that heart shall throb no more,
    And all its keen regrets be o'er;
    Should kind remembrance shed one tear
    To sacred FRIENDSHIP o'er my bier;
    When the dark precincts of the tomb,
    Shall hide me in its deepest gloom;
    O! should'st thou on thy wafting wing
    The sigh of gentle sorrow bring;
    Or fondly deign to bear the name
    Of one, alas! unknown to fame;
    Then, shall my weak untutor'd rhyme,
    Exulting boast the gifts of TIME.

    But while I feel youth's vivid fire
    Fann'd by the breath of care expire;
    While no blest ray of HOPE divine,
    O'er my chill'd bosom deigns to shine:
    While doom'd to mark the vapid day
    In tasteless languor waste away:
    Still, still, my sad and plaintive rhyme
    Must blame the ruthless pow'r of TIME.

    Each infant flow'r of rainbow hue,
    That bathes its head in morning dew,
    At twilight droops; the mountain PINE,
    Whose high and waving brows incline
    O'er the white cataract's foamy way,
    Shall at THY withering touch decay!
    The craggy cliffs that proudly rise
    In awful splendour 'midst the skies,
    Shall to the vale in fragments roll,
    Obedient to thy fell controul!
    The loftiest fabric rear'd to fame;
    The sculptur'd BUST, the POET'S name;
    The softest tint of TITIAN die;
    The boast of magic MINSTRELSY;
    The vows to holy FRIENDSHIP dear;
    The sainted smile of LOVE sincere,
    The flame that warms th' empassion'd heart;
    All that fine feeling can impart;
    The wonders of exterior grace;
    The spells that bind the fairest face;
    Fade in oblivion's torpid hour
    The victims of thy TYRANT POW'R!
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

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    Bound for your distant home
    ------------by Alexander Pushkin
    Bound for your distant home
    you were leaving alien lands.
    In an hour as sad as I’ve known
    I wept over your hands.
    My hands were numb and cold,
    still trying to restrain
    you, whom my hurt told
    never to end this pain.

    But you snatched your lips away
    from our bitterest kiss.
    You invoked another place
    than the dismal exile of this.
    You said, ‘When we meet again,
    in the shadow of olive-trees,
    we shall kiss, in a love without pain,
    under cloudless infinities.’

    But there, alas, where the sky
    shines with blue radiance,
    where olive-tree shadows lie
    on the waters glittering dance,
    your beauty, your suffering,
    are lost in eternity.
    But the sweet kiss of our meeting ...
    I wait for it: you owe it me ...
    ----------------------------------------

    Morpheus
    -----------by Alexander Pushkin
    Oh, Morpheus, give me joy till morning
    For my forever painful love:
    Just blow out candles' burning
    And let my dreams in blessing move.
    Let from my soul disappear
    The separation's sharp rebuke!
    And let me see that dear look,
    And let me hear voice that dear.
    And when will vanish dark of night
    And you will free my eyes at leaving,
    Oh, if my heart would have a right
    To lose its love till dark of evening!
    ----------------------------------

    The Water-Nymph

    ----------by Alexander Pushkin
    In lakeside leafy groves, a friar
    Escaped all worries; there he passed
    His summer days in constant prayer,
    Deep studies and eternal fast.
    Already with a humble shovel
    The elder dug himself a grave -
    As, calling saints to bless his hovel,
    Death - nothing other - did he crave.

    So once, upon a falling night, he
    Was bowing by his wilted shack
    With meekest prayer to the Almighty.
    The grove was turning slowly black;
    Above the lake a mist was lifting;
    Through milky clouds across the sky
    The ruddy moon was softly drifting,
    When water drew the friar's eye...

    He's looking puzzled, full of trouble,
    Of fear he cannot quite explain,
    He sees the waves begin to bubble
    And suddenly grow calm again.
    Then -- white as first snow in the highlands,
    Light-footed as nocturnal shade,
    There comes ashore, and sits in silence
    Upon the bank, a naked maid.

    She eyes the monk and brushes gently
    Her hair, and water off her arms.
    He shakes with fear and looks intently
    At her, and at her lovely charms.
    With eager hand she waves and beckons,
    Nods quickly, smiles as from afar
    And shoots, within two flashing seconds,
    Into still water like a star.

    The glum old man slept not an instant;
    All day, not even once he prayed:
    Before his eyes still hung and glistened
    The wondrous, the relentless shade...
    The grove puts on its gown of nightfall;
    The moon walks on the cloudy floor;
    And there's the maiden - pale, delightful,
    Reclining on the spellbound shore.

    She looks at him, her hair she brushes,
    Blows airy kisses, gestures wild,
    Plays with the waves - caresses, splashes -
    Now laughs, now whimpers like a child,
    Moans tenderly, calls louder, louder...
    "Come, monk, come, monk! To me, to me!.."
    Then - disappears in limpid water,
    And all is silent instantly...

    On the third day the zealous hermit
    Was sitting by the shore, in love,
    Awaiting the delightful mermaid,
    As shade was covering the grove...
    Dark ceded to the sun's emergence;
    Our monk had wholly disappeared -
    Before a crowd of local urchins,
    While fishing, found his hoary beard.

    Translated by: Genia Gurarie, summer of 1995
    Copyright retained by Genia Gurarie.
    email: egurarie@princeton.edu
    http://www.princeton.edu/~egurarie/
    For permission to reproduce, write personally to the translator.

    ************************************************** *********
    Alexander Pushkin Biography

    Alexander Pushkin

    Aleksandr Sergeevich Pushkin was born in Moscow on May 26, 1799 (Old Style). In 1811 he was selected to be among the thirty students in the first class at the Lyceum in Tsarskoe Selo . He attended the Lyceum from 1811 to 1817 and received the best education available in Russia at the time. He soon not only became the unofficial laureate of the Lyceum, but found a wider audience and recognition. He was first published in the journal The Messenger of Europe in 1814. In 1815 his poem "Recollections in Tsarskoe Selo" met the approval of Derzhavin, a great eighteenth-century poet, at a public examination in the Lyceum.

    After graduating from the Lyceum, he was given a sinecure in the Collegium of Foreign Affairs in Petersburg. The next three years he spent mainly in carefree, light-hearted pursiut of pleasure. He was warmly received in literary circles; in circles of Guard-style lovers of wine, women, and song; and in groups where political liberals debated reforms and constitutions. Between 1817 and 1820 he reflected liberal views in "revolutionary" poems, his ode "Freedom," "The Village," and a number of poems on Aleksandr I and his minister Arakcheev. At the same time he was working on his first large-scale work, Ruslan and Liudmila.

    In April 1820, his political poems led to an interrogation by the Petersburg governor-general and then to exile to South Russia, under the guise of an administrative transfer in the service. Pushkin left Petersburg for Ekaterinoslave on May 6, 1820. Soon after his arrival there he traveled around the Caucasus and the Crimea with the family of General Raevsky. During almost three years in Kishinev, Pushkin wrote his first Byronic verse tales, "The Prisoner of the Caucasus" (1820-1821), "The Bandit Brothers (1821-1822), and "The Fountain of Bakhchisaray" (1821-1823). He also wrote "Gavriiliada" (1821), a light approach to the Annunciation, and he started his novel in verse, Eugene Onegin (1823-1831).

    With the aid of influential friends, he was transferred in July 1823 to Odessa, where he engaged in theatre going, social outings, and love affairs with two married women. His literary creativeness also continued, as he completed "The Fountain of Bakhchisaray" and the first chapter of Eugene Onegin, and began "The Gypsies." After postal officials intercepted a letter in which he wrote a thinly-veiled support of atheism, Pushkin was exiled to his mother's estate of Mikhaylovskoe in north Russia.

    The next two years, from August 1824 to August 1826 he spent at Mikhaylovskoe in exile and under surveillance. However unpleasant Pushkin my have found his virtual imprisonment in the village, he continued his literary productiveness there. During 1824 and 1825 at Mikhaylovskoe he finished "The Gypsies," wrote Boris Godunov , "Graf Nulin" and the second chapter of Eugene Onegin.

    When the Decembrist Uprising took place in Petersburg on December 14, 1825, Pushkin, still in Makhaylovskoe, was not a participant. But he soon learned that he was implicated, for all the Decembrists had copies of his early political poems. He destroyed his papers that might be dangerous for himself or others. In late spring of 1826, he sent the Tsar a petition that he be released from exile. After an investigation that showed Pushkin had been behaving himself, he was summoned to leave immediately for an audience with Nicholas I. On September 8, still grimy from the road, he was taken in to see Nicholas. At the end of the interview, Pushkin was jubliant that he was now released from exile and that Nicholas I had undertaken to be the personal censor of his works.

    Pushkin thought that he would be free to travel as he wished, that he could freely participate in the publication of journals, and that he would be totally free of censorship, except in cases which he himself might consider questionable and wish to refer to his royal censor. He soon found out otherwise. Count Benkendorf, Chief of Gendarmes, let Pushkin know that without advance permission he was not to make any trip, participate in any journal, or publish -- or even read in literary circles -- any work. He gradually discovered that he had to account for every word and action, like a naughty child or a parolee. Several times he was questioned by the police about poems he had written.

    The youthful Pushkin had been a light-hearted scoffer at the state of matrimony, but freed from exile, he spent the years from 1826 to his marriage in 1831 largely in search of a wife and in preparing to settle down. He sought no less than the most beautiful woman in Russia for his bride. In 1829 he found her in Natalia Goncharova, and presented a formal proposal in April of that year. She finally agreed to marry him on the condition that his ambiguous situation with the government be clarified, which it was. As a kind of wedding present, Pushkin was given permission to publish Boris Godunov -- after four years of waiting for authorization -- under his "own responsibility." He was formally betrothed on May 6, 1830.

    Financial arrangements in connection with his father's wedding gift to him of half the estate of Kistenevo necessitated a visit to the neightboring estate of Boldino, in east-central Russia. When Pushkin arrived there in September 1830, he expected to remain only a few days; however, for three whole months he was held in quarantine by an epidemic of Asiatic cholera. These three months in Boldino turned out to be literarily the most productive of his life. During the last months of his exile at Mikhaylovskoe, he had completed Chapters V and VI of Eugene Onegin, but in the four subsequent years he had written, of major works, only "Poltava"(1828), his unfinished novel The Blackamoor of Peter the Great (1827) and Chapter VII of Eugene Onegin (1827-1828). During the autumn at Boldino, Pushkin wrote the five short stories of The Tales of Belkin; the verse tale "The Little House in Kolomna;" his little tragedies, "The Avaricious Knight," "Mozart and Salieri;" "The Stone Guest;" and "Feast in the Time of the Plague;" "The Tale of the Priest and His Workman Balda," the first of his fairy tales in verse; the last chapter of Eugene Onegin; and "The Devils," among other lyrics.

    Pushkin was married to Natalia Goncharova on February 18, 1831, in Moscow. In May, after a honeymoon made disagreeable by "Moscow aunties" and in-laws, the Pushkins moved to Tsarskoe Selo, in order to live near the capital, but inexpensively and in "inspirational solitude and in the circle of sweet recollections." These expectations were defeated when the cholera epidemic in Petersburg caused the Tsar and the court to take refuge in July in Tsarskoe Selo. In October 1831 the Pushkins moved to an apartment in Petersburg, where they lived for the remainder of his life. He and his wife became henceforth inextricably involved with favors from the Tsar and with court society. Mme. Pushkina's beauty immediately made a sensation in society, and her admirers included the Tsar himself. On December 30, 1833, Nicholas I made Pushkin a Kammerjunker, an intermediate court rank usually granted at the time to youths of high aristocratic families. Pushkin was deeply offended, all the more because he was convinced that it was conferred, not for any quality of his own, but only to make it proper for the beautiful Mme. Pushkina to attend court balls. Dancing at one of these balls was followed in March 1834 by her having a miscarriage. While she was convalescing in the provinces, Pushkin spoke openly in letters to her of his indignation and humiliation. The letters were intercepted and sent to the police and to the Tsar. When Pushkin discovered this, in fury he submitted his resignation from the service on June 25, 1834. However, he had reason to fear the worst from the Tsar's displeasure at this action, and he felt obliged to retract his resignation.

    Pushkin could ill afford the expense of gowns for Mme. Pushkina for court balls or the time required for performing court duties. His woes further increased when her two unmarried sisters came in autumn 1834 to live henceforth with them. In addition, in the spring of 1834 he had taken over the management of his improvident father's estate and had undertaken to settle the debts of his heedless brother. The result was endless cares, annoyances, and even outlays from his own pocket. He came to be in such financial straits that he applied for a leave of absence to retire to the country for three or four years, or if that were refused, for a substatial sum as loan to cover his most pressing debts and for the permission to publish a journal. The leave of absence was brusquely refused, but a loan of thirty thousand rubles was, after some trouble, negotiated; permission to publish, beginning in 1836, a quarterly literary journal, The Contemporary, was finally granted as well. The journal was not a financial success, and it involved him in endless editoral and financial cares and in difficulties with the censors, for it gave importantly placed enemies among them the opportunity to pay him off. Short visits to the country in 1834 and 1835 resulted in the completion of only one major work, "The Tale of the Golden Cockerel"(1834), and during 1836 he only completed his novel on Pugachev, The Captain's Daughter, and a number of his finest lyrics.

    Meanwhile, Mme. Pushkina loved the attention which her beauty attracted in the highest society; she was fond of "coquetting" and of being surrounded by admirers, who included the Tsar himself. In 1834 Mme. Pushkina met a young man who was not content with coquetry, a handsome French royalist emigre in Russian service, who was adopted by the Dutch ambassador, Heeckeren. Young d'Anthes-Heeckeren pursued Mme. Pushkina for two years, and finally so openly and unabashedly that by autumn 1836, it was becoming a scandal. On November 4, 1836 Pushkin received several copies of a "certificate" nominating him "Coadjutor of the International Order of Cuckolds." Pushkin immediately challenged d'Anthes; at the same time, he made desperate efforts to settle his indebtedness to the Treasury. Pushkin twice allowed postponements of the duel, and then retracted the challenge when he learned "from public rumour" that d'Anthes was "really" in love with Mme. Pushkina's sister, Ekaterina Goncharova. On January 10, 1837, the marriage took place, contrary to Pushkin's expectations. Pushkin refused to attend the wedding or to receive the couple in his home, but in society d'Anthes pursued Mme. Pushkina even more openly. Then d'Anthes arranged a meeting with her, by persuading her friend Idalia Poletika to invite Mme. Pushkina for a visit; Mme. Poletika left the two alone, but one of her children came in, and Mme. Pushkina managed to get away. Upon hearing of this meeting, Pushkin sent an insulting letter to old Heeckeren, accusing him of being the author of the "certificate" of November 4 and the "pander" of his "bastard." A duel with d'Anthes took place on January 27, 1837. D'Anthes fired first, and Pushkin was mortally wounded; after he fell, he summoned the strength to fire his shot and to wound, slightly, his adversary. Pushkin died two days later, on January 29.

    As Pushkin lay dying, and after his death, except for a few friends, court society sympathized with d'Anthes, but thousands of people of all other social levels came to Pushkin's apartment to express sympathy and to mourn. The government obviously feared a political demonstration. To prevent public display, the funeral was shifted from St. Isaac's Cathedral to the small Royal Stables Church, with admission by ticket only to members of the court and diplomatic society. And then his body was sent away, in secret and at midnight. He was buried beside his mother at dawn on February 6, 1837 at Svyatye Gory Monastery, near Mikhaylovskoe.
    I have long been a huge fan of Alexander Pushkin's poetry.
    He is, in my estimation, one of the top one hundred best best poets in history..--Tyr
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

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    As a Beam O'er the Face of the Waters May Glow
    by Thomas Moore
    As a beam o'er the face of the waters may glow
    While the tide runs in darkness and coldness below,
    So the cheek may be tinged with a warm sunny smile,
    Though the cold heart to ruin runs darkly the while.

    One fatal remembrance, one sorrow that throws
    Its bleak shade alike o'er our joys and our woes,
    To which life nothing darker or brighter can bring,
    For which joy has no balm and affliction no sting --

    Oh! this thought in the midst of enjoyment will stay,
    Like a dead, leafless branch in the summer's bright ray;
    The beams of the warm sun play round it in vain;
    It may smile in his light, but it blooms not again.
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

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    Christabel
    -----------by Samuel Coleridge
    PART I
    'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock
    And the owls have awakened the crowing cock;
    Tu-whit!- Tu-whoo!
    And hark, again! the crowing cock,
    How drowsily it crew.
    Sir Leoline, the Baron rich,
    Hath a toothless mastiff, which
    From her kennel beneath the rock
    Maketh answer to the clock,
    Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour;
    Ever and aye, by shine and shower,
    Sixteen short howls, not over loud;
    Some say, she sees my lady's shroud.
    Is the night chilly and dark?
    The night is chilly, but not dark.
    The thin gray cloud is spread on high,
    It covers but not hides the sky.
    The moon is behind, and at the full;
    And yet she looks both small and dull.
    The night is chill, the cloud is gray:
    'T is a month before the month of May,
    And the Spring comes slowly up this way.
    The lovely lady, Christabel,
    Whom her father loves so well,
    What makes her in the wood so late,
    A furlong from the castle gate?
    She had dreams all yesternight
    Of her own betrothed knight;
    And she in the midnight wood will pray
    For the weal of her lover that's far away.
    She stole along, she nothing spoke,
    The sighs she heaved were soft and low,
    And naught was green upon the oak,
    But moss and rarest mistletoe:
    She kneels beneath the huge oak tree,
    And in silence prayeth she.
    The lady sprang up suddenly,
    The lovely lady, Christabel!
    It moaned as near, as near can be,
    But what it is she cannot tell.-
    On the other side it seems to be,
    Of the huge, broad-breasted, old oak tree.
    The night is chill; the forest bare;
    Is it the wind that moaneth bleak?
    There is not wind enough in the air
    To move away the ringlet curl
    From the lovely lady's cheek-
    There is not wind enough to twirl
    The one red leaf, the last of its clan,
    That dances as often as dance it can,
    Hanging so light, and hanging so high,
    On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky.
    Hush, beating heart of Christabel!
    Jesu, Maria, shield her well!
    She folded her arms beneath her cloak,
    And stole to the other side of the oak.
    What sees she there?
    There she sees a damsel bright,
    Dressed in a silken robe of white,
    That shadowy in the moonlight shone:
    The neck that made that white robe wan,
    Her stately neck, and arms were bare;
    Her blue-veined feet unsandaled were;
    And wildly glittered here and there
    The gems entangled in her hair.
    I guess, 't was frightful there to see
    A lady so richly clad as she-
    Beautiful exceedingly!
    'Mary mother, save me now!'
    Said Christabel, 'and who art thou?'
    The lady strange made answer meet,
    And her voice was faint and sweet:-
    'Have pity on my sore distress,
    I scarce can speak for weariness:
    Stretch forth thy hand, and have no fear!'
    Said Christabel, 'How camest thou here?'
    And the lady, whose voice was faint and sweet,
    Did thus pursue her answer meet:-
    'My sire is of a noble line,
    And my name is Geraldine:
    Five warriors seized me yestermorn,
    Me, even me, a maid forlorn:
    They choked my cries with force and fright,
    And tied me on a palfrey white.
    The palfrey was as fleet as wind,
    And they rode furiously behind.
    They spurred amain, their steeds were white:
    And once we crossed the shade of night.
    As sure as Heaven shall rescue me,
    I have no thought what men they be;
    Nor do I know how long it is
    (For I have lain entranced, I wis)
    Since one, the tallest of the five,
    Took me from the palfrey's back,
    A weary woman, scarce alive.
    Some muttered words his comrades spoke:
    He placed me underneath this oak;
    He swore they would return with haste;
    Whither they went I cannot tell-
    I thought I heard, some minutes past,
    Sounds as of a castle bell.
    Stretch forth thy hand,' thus ended she,
    'And help a wretched maid to flee.'
    Then Christabel stretched forth her hand,
    And comforted fair Geraldine:
    'O well, bright dame, may you command
    The service of Sir Leoline;
    And gladly our stout chivalry
    Will he send forth, and friends withal,
    To guide and guard you safe and free
    Home to your noble father's hall.'
    She rose: and forth with steps they passed
    That strove to be, and were not, fast.
    Her gracious stars the lady blest,
    And thus spake on sweet Christabel:
    'All our household are at rest,
    The hall is silent as the cell;
    Sir Leoline is weak in health,
    And may not well awakened be,
    But we will move as if in stealth;
    And I beseech your courtesy,
    This night, to share your couch with me.'
    They crossed the moat, and Christabel
    Took the key that fitted well;
    A little door she opened straight,
    All in the middle of the gate;
    The gate that was ironed within and without,
    Where an army in battle array had marched out.
    The lady sank, belike through pain,
    And Christabel with might and main
    Lifted her up, a weary weight,
    Over the threshold of the gate:
    Then the lady rose again,
    And moved, as she were not in pain.
    So, free from danger, free from fear,
    They crossed the court: right glad they were.
    And Christabel devoutly cried
    To the Lady by her side;
    'Praise we the Virgin all divine,
    Who hath rescued thee from thy distress!'
    'Alas, alas!' said Geraldine,
    'I cannot speak for weariness.'
    So, free from danger, free from fear,
    They crossed the court: right glad they were.
    Outside her kennel the mastiff old
    Lay fast asleep, in moonshine cold.
    The mastiff old did not awake,
    Yet she an angry moan did make.
    And what can ail the mastiff bitch?
    Never till now she uttered yell
    Beneath the eye of Christabel.
    Perhaps it is the owlet's scritch:
    For what can aid the mastiff bitch?
    They passed the hall, that echoes still,
    Pass as lightly as you will.
    The brands were flat, the brands were dying,
    Amid their own white ashes lying;
    But when the lady passed, there came
    A tongue of light, a fit of flame;
    And Christabel saw the lady's eye,
    And nothing else saw she thereby,
    Save the boss of the shield of Sir Leoline tall,
    Which hung in a murky old niche in the wall.
    'O softly tread,' said Christabel,
    'My father seldom sleepeth well.'
    Sweet Christabel her feet doth bare,
    And, jealous of the listening air,
    They steal their way from stair to stair,
    Now in glimmer, and now in gloom,
    And now they pass the Baron's room,
    As still as death, with stifled breath!
    And now have reached her chamber door;
    And now doth Geraldine press down
    The rushes of the chamber floor.
    The moon shines dim in the open air,
    And not a moonbeam enters here.
    But they without its light can see
    The chamber carved so curiously,
    Carved with figures strange and sweet,
    All made out of the carver's brain,
    For a lady's chamber meet:
    The lamp with twofold silver chain
    Is fastened to an angel's feet.
    The silver lamp burns dead and dim;
    But Christabel the lamp will trim.
    She trimmed the lamp, and made it bright,
    And left it swinging to and fro,
    While Geraldine, in wretched plight,
    Sank down upon the floor below.
    'O weary lady, Geraldine,
    I pray you, drink this cordial wine!
    It is a wine of virtuous powers;
    My mother made it of wild flowers.'
    'And will your mother pity me,
    Who am a maiden most forlorn?'
    Christabel answered- 'Woe is me!
    She died the hour that I was born.
    I have heard the gray-haired friar tell,
    How on her death-bed she did say,
    That she should hear the castle-bell
    Strike twelve upon my wedding-day.
    O mother dear! that thou wert here!'
    'I would,' said Geraldine, 'she were!'
    But soon, with altered voice, said she-
    'Off, wandering mother! Peak and pine!
    I have power to bid thee flee.'
    Alas! what ails poor Geraldine?
    Why stares she with unsettled eye?
    Can she the bodiless dead espy?
    And why with hollow voice cries she,
    'Off, woman, off! this hour is mine-
    Though thou her guardian spirit be,
    Off, woman. off! 't is given to me.'
    Then Christabel knelt by the lady's side,
    And raised to heaven her eyes so blue-
    'Alas!' said she, 'this ghastly ride-
    Dear lady! it hath wildered you!'
    The lady wiped her moist cold brow,
    And faintly said, ''T is over now!'
    Again the wild-flower wine she drank:
    Her fair large eyes 'gan glitter bright,
    And from the floor, whereon she sank,
    The lofty lady stood upright:
    She was most beautiful to see,
    Like a lady of a far countree.
    And thus the lofty lady spake-
    'All they, who live in the upper sky,
    Do love you, holy Christabel!
    And you love them, and for their sake,
    And for the good which me befell,
    Even I in my degree will try,
    Fair maiden, to requite you well.
    But now unrobe yourself; for I
    Must pray, ere yet in bed I lie.'
    Quoth Christabel, 'So let it be!'
    And as the lady bade, did she.
    Her gentle limbs did she undress
    And lay down in her loveliness.
    But through her brain, of weal and woe,
    So many thoughts moved to and fro,
    That vain it were her lids to close;
    So half-way from the bed she rose,
    And on her elbow did recline.
    To look at the lady Geraldine.
    Beneath the lamp the lady bowed,
    And slowly rolled her eyes around;
    Then drawing in her breath aloud,
    Like one that shuddered, she unbound
    The cincture from beneath her breast:
    Her silken robe, and inner vest,
    Dropped to her feet, and full in view,
    Behold! her bosom and half her side-
    A sight to dream of, not to tell!
    O shield her! shield sweet Christabel!
    Yet Geraldine nor speaks nor stirs:
    Ah! what a stricken look was hers!
    Deep from within she seems half-way
    To lift some weight with sick assay,
    And eyes the maid and seeks delay;
    Then suddenly, as one defied,
    Collects herself in scorn and pride,
    And lay down by the maiden's side!-
    And in her arms the maid she took,
    Ah, well-a-day!
    And with low voice and doleful look
    These words did say:
    'In the touch of this bosom there worketh a spell,
    Which is lord of thy utterance, Christabel!
    Thou knowest to-night, and wilt know to-morrow,
    This mark of my shame, this seal of my sorrow;
    But vainly thou warrest,
    For this is alone in
    Thy power to declare,
    That in the dim forest
    Thou heard'st a low moaning,
    And found'st a bright lady, surpassingly fair:
    And didst bring her home with thee, in love and in charity,
    To shield her and shelter her from the damp air.'
    It was a lovely sight to see
    The lady Christabel, when she
    Was praying at the old oak tree.
    Amid the jagged shadows
    Of mossy leafless boughs,
    Kneeling in the moonlight,
    To make her gentle vows;
    Her slender palms together prest,
    Heaving sometimes on her breast;
    Her face resigned to bliss or bale-
    Her face, oh, call it fair not pale,
    And both blue eyes more bright than clear.
    Each about to have a tear.
    With open eyes (ah, woe is me!)
    Asleep, and dreaming fearfully,
    Fearfully dreaming, yet, I wis,
    Dreaming that alone, which is-
    O sorrow and shame! Can this be she,
    The lady, who knelt at the old oak tree?
    And lo! the worker of these harms,
    That holds the maiden in her arms,
    Seems to slumber still and mild,
    As a mother with her child.
    A star hath set, a star hath risen,
    O Geraldine! since arms of thine
    Have been the lovely lady's prison.
    O Geraldine! one hour was thine-
    Thou'st had thy will! By tarn and rill,
    The night-birds all that hour were still.
    But now they are jubilant anew,
    From cliff and tower, tu-whoo! tu-whoo!
    Tu-whoo! tu-whoo! from wood and fell!
    And see! the lady Christabel
    Gathers herself from out her trance;
    Her limbs relax, her countenance
    Grows sad and soft; the smooth thin lids
    Close o'er her eyes; and tears she sheds-
    Large tears that leave the lashes bright!
    And oft the while she seems to smile
    As infants at a sudden light!
    Yea, she doth smile, and she doth weep,
    Like a youthful hermitess,
    Beauteous in a wilderness,
    Who, praying always, prays in sleep.
    And, if she move unquietly,
    Perchance, 't is but the blood so free
    Comes back and tingles in her feet.
    No doubt, she hath a vision sweet.
    What if her guardian spirit 't were,
    What if she knew her mother near?
    But this she knows, in joys and woes,
    That saints will aid if men will call:
    For the blue sky bends over all.
    PART II
    Each matin bell, the Baron saith,
    Knells us back to a world of death.
    These words Sir Leoline first said,
    When he rose and found his lady dead:
    These words Sir Leoline will say
    Many a morn to his dying day!
    And hence the custom and law began
    That still at dawn the sacristan,
    Who duly pulls the heavy bell,
    Five and forty beads must tell
    Between each stroke- a warning knell,
    Which not a soul can choose but hear
    From Bratha Head to Wyndermere.
    Saith Bracy the bard, 'So let it knell!
    And let the drowsy sacristan
    Still count as slowly as he can!'
    There is no lack of such, I ween,
    As well fill up the space between.
    In Langdale Pike and Witch's Lair,
    And Dungeon-ghyll so foully rent,
    With ropes of rock and bells of air
    Three sinful sextons' ghosts are pent,
    Who all give back, one after t' other,
    The death-note to their living brother;
    And oft too, by the knell offended,
    Just as their one! two! three! is ended,
    The devil mocks the doleful tale
    With a merry peal from Borrowdale.
    The air is still! through mist and cloud
    That merry peal comes ringing loud;
    And Geraldine shakes off her dread,
    And rises lightly from the bed;
    Puts on her silken vestments white,
    And tricks her hair in lovely plight,
    And nothing doubting of her spell
    Awakens the lady Christabel.
    'Sleep you, sweet lady Christabel?
    I trust that you have rested well.'
    And Christabel awoke and spied
    The same who lay down by her side-
    O rather say, the same whom she
    Raised up beneath the old oak tree!
    Nay, fairer yet! and yet more fair!
    For she belike hath drunken deep
    Of all the blessedness of sleep!
    And while she spake, her looks, her air,
    Such gentle thankfulness declare,
    That (so it seemed) her girded vests
    Grew tight beneath her heaving breasts.
    'Sure I have sinned!' said Christabel,
    'Now heaven be praised if all be well!'
    And in low faltering tones, yet sweet,
    Did she the lofty lady greet
    With such perplexity of mind
    As dreams too lively leave behind.
    So quickly she rose, and quickly arrayed
    Her maiden limbs, and having prayed
    That He, who on the cross did groan,
    Might wash away her sins unknown,
    She forthwith led fair Geraldine
    To meet her sire, Sir Leoline.
    The lovely maid and the lady tall
    Are pacing both into the hall,
    And pacing on through page and groom,
    Enter the Baron's presence-room.
    The Baron rose, and while he prest
    His gentle daughter to his breast,
    With cheerful wonder in his eyes
    The lady Geraldine espies,
    And gave such welcome to the same,
    As might beseem so bright a dame!
    But when he heard the lady's tale,
    And when she told her father's name,
    Why waxed Sir Leoline so pale,
    Murmuring o'er the name again,
    Lord Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine?
    Alas! they had been friends in youth;
    But whispering tongues can poison truth;
    And constancy lives in realms above;
    And life is thorny; and youth is vain;
    And to be wroth with one we love
    Doth work like madness in the brain.
    And thus it chanced, as I divine,
    With Roland and Sir Leoline.
    Each spake words of high disdain
    And insult to his heart's best brother:
    They parted- ne'er to meet again!
    But never either found another
    To free the hollow heart from paining-
    They stood aloof, the scars remaining,
    Like cliffs which had been rent asunder;
    A dreary sea now flows between.
    But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder,
    Shall wholly do away, I ween,
    The marks of that which once hath been.
    Sir Leoline, a moment's space,
    Stood gazing on the damsel's face:
    And the youthful Lord of Tryermaine
    Came back upon his heart again.
    O then the Baron forgot his age,
    His noble heart swelled high with rage;
    He swore by the wounds in Jesu's side
    He would proclaim it far and wide,
    With trump and solemn heraldry,
    That they, who thus had wronged the dame
    Were base as spotted infamy!
    'And if they dare deny the same,
    My herald shall appoint a week,
    And let the recreant traitors seek
    My tourney court- that there and then
    I may dislodge their reptile souls
    From the bodies and forms of men!'
    He spake: his eye in lightning rolls!
    For the lady was ruthlessly seized; and he kenned
    In the beautiful lady the child of his friend!
    And now the tears were on his face,
    And fondly in his arms he took
    Fair Geraldine who met the embrace,
    Prolonging it with joyous look.
    Which when she viewed, a vision fell
    Upon the soul of Christabel,
    The vision of fear, the touch and pain!
    She shrunk and shuddered, and saw again-
    (Ah, woe is me! Was it for thee,
    Thou gentle maid! such sights to see?)
    Again she saw that bosom old,
    Again she felt that bosom cold,
    And drew in her breath with a hissing sound:
    Whereat the Knight turned wildly round,
    And nothing saw, but his own sweet maid
    With eyes upraised, as one that prayed.
    The touch, the sight, had passed away,
    And in its stead that vision blest,
    Which comforted her after-rest,
    While in the lady's arms she lay,
    Had put a rapture in her breast,
    And on her lips and o'er her eyes
    Spread smiles like light!
    With new surprise,
    'What ails then my beloved child?'
    The Baron said- His daughter mild
    Made answer, 'All will yet be well!'
    I ween, she had no power to tell
    Aught else: so mighty was the spell.
    Yet he who saw this Geraldine,
    Had deemed her sure a thing divine.
    Such sorrow with such grace she blended,
    As if she feared she had offended
    Sweet Christabel, that gentle maid!
    And with such lowly tones she prayed
    She might be sent without delay
    Home to her father's mansion.
    'Nay!
    Nay, by my soul!' said Leoline.
    'Ho! Bracy the bard, the charge be thine!
    Go thou, with music sweet and loud,
    And take two steeds with trappings proud,
    And take the youth whom thou lov'st best
    To bear thy harp, and learn thy song,
    And clothe you both in solemn vest,
    And over the mountains haste along,
    Lest wandering folk, that are abroad,
    Detain you on the valley road.
    'And when he has crossed the Irthing flood,
    My merry bard! he hastes, he hastes
    Up Knorren Moor, through Halegarth Wood,
    And reaches soon that castle good
    Which stands and threatens Scotland's wastes.
    'Bard Bracy! bard Bracy! your horses are fleet,
    Ye must ride up the hall, your music so sweet,
    More loud than your horses' echoing feet!
    And loud and loud to Lord Roland call,
    Thy daughter is safe in Langdale hall!
    Thy beautiful daughter is safe and free-
    Sir Leoline greets thee thus through me.
    He bids thee come without delay
    With all thy numerous array;
    And take thy lovely daughter home:
    And he will meet thee on the way
    With all his numerous array
    White with their panting palfreys' foam:
    And, by mine honor! I will say,
    That I repent me of the day
    When I spake words of fierce disdain
    To Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine!-
    - For since that evil hour hath flown,
    Many a summer's sun hath shone;
    Yet ne'er found I a friend again
    Like Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine.'
    The lady fell, and clasped his knees,
    Her face upraised, her eyes o'erflowing;
    And Bracy replied, with faltering voice,
    His gracious hail on all bestowing;
    'Thy words, thou sire of Christabel,
    Are sweeter than my harp can tell;
    Yet might I gain a boon of thee,
    This day my journey should not be,
    So strange a dream hath come to me;
    That I had vowed with music loud
    To clear yon wood from thing unblest,
    Warned by a vision in my rest!
    For in my sleep I saw that dove,
    That gentle bird, whom thou dost love,
    And call'st by thy own daughter's name-
    Sir Leoline! I saw the same,
    Fluttering, and uttering fearful moan,
    Among the green herbs in the forest alone.
    Which when I saw and when I heard,
    I wondered what might ail the bird;
    For nothing near it could I see,
    Save the grass and herbs underneath the old tree.
    And in my dream methought I went
    To search out what might there be found;
    And what the sweet bird's trouble meant,
    That thus lay fluttering on the ground.
    I went and peered, and could descry
    No cause for her distressful cry;
    But yet for her dear lady's sake
    I stooped, methought, the dove to take,
    When lo! I saw a bright green snake
    Coiled around its wings and neck.
    Green as the herbs on which it couched,
    Close by the dove's its head it crouched;
    And with the dove it heaves and stirs,
    Swelling its neck as she swelled hers!
    I woke; it was the midnight hour,
    The clock was echoing in the tower;
    But though my slumber was gone by,
    This dream it would not pass away-
    It seems to live upon my eye!
    And thence I vowed this self-same day
    With music strong and saintly song
    To wander through the forest bare,
    Lest aught unholy loiter there.'
    Thus Bracy said: the Baron, the while,
    Half-listening heard him with a smile;
    Then turned to Lady Geraldine,
    His eyes made up of wonder and love;
    And said in courtly accents fine,
    'Sweet maid, Lord Roland's beauteous dove,
    With arms more strong than harp or song,
    Thy sire and I will crush the snake!'
    He kissed her forehead as he spake,
    And Geraldine in maiden wise
    Casting down her large bright eyes,
    With blushing cheek and courtesy fine
    She turned her from Sir Leoline;
    Softly gathering up her train,
    That o'er her right arm fell again;
    And folded her arms across her chest,
    And couched her head upon her breast,
    And looked askance at Christabel-
    Jesu, Maria, shield her well!
    A snake's small eye blinks dull and shy,
    And the lady's eyes they shrunk in her head,
    Each shrunk up to a serpent's eye,
    And with somewhat of malice, and more of dread,
    At Christabel she looked askance!-
    One moment- and the sight was fled!
    But Christabel in dizzy trance
    Stumbling on the unsteady ground
    Shuddered aloud, with a hissing sound;
    And Geraldine again turned round,
    And like a thing that sought relief,
    Full of wonder and full of grief,
    She rolled her large bright eyes divine
    Wildly on Sir Leoline.
    The maid, alas! her thoughts are gone,
    She nothing sees- no sight but one!
    The maid, devoid of guile and sin,
    I know not how, in fearful wise,
    So deeply had she drunken in
    That look, those shrunken serpent eyes,
    That all her features were resigned
    To this sole image in her mind:
    And passively did imitate
    That look of dull and treacherous hate!
    And thus she stood, in dizzy trance,
    Still picturing that look askance
    With forced unconscious sympathy
    Full before her father's view-
    As far as such a look could be
    In eyes so innocent and blue!
    And when the trance was o'er, the maid
    Paused awhile, and inly prayed:
    Then falling at the Baron's feet,
    'By my mother's soul do I entreat
    That thou this woman send away!'
    She said: and more she could not say;
    For what she knew she could not tell,
    O'er-mastered by the mighty spell.
    Why is thy cheek so wan and wild,
    Sir Leoline? Thy only child
    Lies at thy feet, thy joy, thy pride.
    So fair, so innocent, so mild;
    The same, for whom thy lady died!
    O by the pangs of her dear mother
    Think thou no evil of thy child!
    For her, and thee, and for no other,
    She prayed the moment ere she died:
    Prayed that the babe for whom she died,
    Might prove her dear lord's joy and pride!
    That prayer her deadly pangs beguiled,
    Sir Leoline!
    And wouldst thou wrong thy only child,
    Her child and thine?
    Within the Baron's heart and brain
    If thoughts, like these, had any share,
    They only swelled his rage and pain,
    And did but work confusion there.
    His heart was cleft with pain and rage,
    His cheeks they quivered, his eyes were wild,
    Dishonored thus in his old age;
    Dishonored by his only child,
    And all his hospitality
    To the insulted daughter of his friend
    By more than woman's jealousy
    Brought thus to a disgraceful end-
    He rolled his eye with stern regard
    Upon the gentle ministrel bard,
    And said in tones abrupt, austere-
    'Why, Bracy! dost thou loiter here?
    I bade thee hence!' The bard obeyed;
    And turning from his own sweet maid,
    The aged knight, Sir Leoline,
    Led forth the lady Geraldine!
    (Coleridge never finished the poem;
    this conclusion is by James Gillman,
    who cared for Coleridge during the
    latter years. He wrote the following
    based on what the poet would outline
    for his friends.)
    THE CONCLUSION TO PART II
    A little child, a limber elf,
    Singing, dancing to itself,
    A fairy thing with red round cheeks,
    That always finds, and never seeks,
    Makes such a vision to the sight
    As fills a father's eyes with light;
    And pleasures flow in so thick and fast
    Upon his heart, that he at last
    Must needs express his love's excess
    With words of unmeant bitterness.
    Perhaps 'tis pretty to force together
    Thoughts so all unlike each other;
    To mutter and mock a broken charm,
    To dally with wrong that does no harm.
    Perhaps 'tis tender too and pretty
    At each wild word to feel within
    A sweet recoil of love and pity.
    And what, if in a world of sin
    (O sorrow and shame should this be true!)
    Such giddiness of heart and brain
    Comes seldom save from rage and pain,
    So talks as it's most used to do.
    THE END
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

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    Resolution And Independence
    ------------------- by William Wordsworth


    I

    There was a roaring in the wind all night;
    The rain came heavily and fell in floods;
    But now the sun is rising calm and bright;
    The birds are singing in the distant woods;
    Over his own sweet voice the Stock-dove broods;
    The Jay makes answer as the Magpie chatters;
    And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters.

    II

    All things that love the sun are out of doors;
    The sky rejoices in the morning's birth;
    The grass is bright with rain-drops;--on the moors
    The hare is running races in her mirth;
    And with her feet she from the plashy earth
    Raises a mist, that, glittering in the sun,
    Runs with her all the way, wherever she doth run.

    III

    I was a Traveller then upon the moor,
    I saw the hare that raced about with joy;
    I heard the woods and distant waters roar;
    Or heard them not, as happy as a boy:
    The pleasant season did my heart employ:
    My old remembrances went from me wholly;
    And all the ways of men, so vain and melancholy.

    IV

    But, as it sometimes chanceth, from the might
    Of joy in minds that can no further go,
    As high as we have mounted in delight
    In our dejection do we sink as low;
    To me that morning did it happen so;
    And fears and fancies thick upon me came;
    Dim sadness--and blind thoughts, I knew not, nor could name.

    V

    I heard the sky-lark warbling in the sky;
    And I bethought me of the playful hare:
    Even such a happy Child of earth am I;
    Even as these blissful creatures do I fare;
    Far from the world I walk, and from all care;
    But there may come another day to me--
    Solitude, pain of heart, distress, and poverty.

    VI

    My whole life I have lived in pleasant thought,
    As if life's business were a summer mood;
    As if all needful things would come unsought
    To genial faith, still rich in genial good;
    But how can He expect that others should
    Build for him, sow for him, and at his call
    Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all?

    VII

    I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous Boy,
    The sleepless Soul that perished in his pride;
    Of Him who walked in glory and in joy
    Following his plough, along the mountain-side:
    By our own spirits are we deified:
    We Poets in our youth begin in gladness;
    But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.

    VIII

    Now, whether it were by peculiar grace,
    A leading from above, a something given,
    Yet it befell, that, in this lonely place,
    When I with these untoward thoughts had striven,
    Beside a pool bare to the eye of heaven
    I saw a Man before me unawares:
    The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs.

    IX

    As a huge stone is sometimes seen to lie
    Couched on the bald top of an eminence;
    Wonder to all who do the same espy,
    By what means it could thither come, and whence;
    So that it seems a thing endued with sense:
    Like a sea-beast crawled forth, that on a shelf
    Of rock or sand reposeth, there to sun itself;

    X

    Such seemed this Man, not all alive nor dead,
    Nor all asleep--in his extreme old age:
    His body was bent double, feet and head
    Coming together in life's pilgrimage;
    As if some dire constraint of pain, or rage
    Of sickness felt by him in times long past,
    A more than human weight upon his frame had cast.

    XI

    Himself he propped, limbs, body, and pale face,
    Upon a long grey staff of shaven wood:
    And, still as I drew near with gentle pace,
    Upon the margin of that moorish flood
    Motionless as a cloud the old Man stood,
    That heareth not the loud winds when they call
    And moveth all together, if it move at all.

    XII

    At length, himself unsettling, he the pond
    Stirred with his staff, and fixedly did look
    Upon the muddy water, which he conned,
    As if he had been reading in a book:
    And now a stranger's privilege I took;
    And, drawing to his side, to him did say,
    "This morning gives us promise of a glorious day."

    XIII

    A gentle answer did the old Man make,
    In courteous speech which forth he slowly drew:
    And him with further words I thus bespake,
    "What occupation do you there pursue?
    This is a lonesome place for one like you."
    Ere he replied, a flash of mild surprise
    Broke from the sable orbs of his yet-vivid eyes,

    XIV

    His words came feebly, from a feeble chest,
    But each in solemn order followed each,
    With something of a lofty utterance drest--
    Choice word and measured phrase, above the reach
    Of ordinary men; a stately speech;
    Such as grave Livers do in Scotland use,
    Religious men, who give to God and man their dues.

    XV

    He told, that to these waters he had come
    To gather leeches, being old and poor:
    Employment hazardous and wearisome!
    And he had many hardships to endure:
    From pond to pond he roamed, from moor to moor;
    Housing, with God's good help, by choice or chance,
    And in this way he gained an honest maintenance.

    XVI

    The old Man still stood talking by my side;
    But now his voice to me was like a stream
    Scarce heard; nor word from word could I divide;
    And the whole body of the Man did seem
    Like one whom I had met with in a dream;
    Or like a man from some far region sent,
    To give me human strength, by apt admonishment.

    XVII

    My former thoughts returned: the fear that kills;
    And hope that is unwilling to be fed;
    Cold, pain, and labour, and all fleshly ills;
    And mighty Poets in their misery dead.
    --Perplexed, and longing to be comforted,
    My question eagerly did I renew,
    "How is it that you live, and what is it you do?"

    XVIII

    He with a smile did then his words repeat;
    And said, that, gathering leeches, far and wide
    He travelled; stirring thus about his feet
    The waters of the pools where they abide.
    "Once I could meet with them on every side;
    But they have dwindled long by slow decay;
    Yet still I persevere, and find them where I may."

    XIX

    While he was talking thus, the lonely place,
    The old Man's shape, and speech--all troubled me:
    In my mind's eye I seemed to see him pace
    About the weary moors continually,
    Wandering about alone and silently.
    While I these thoughts within myself pursued,
    He, having made a pause, the same discourse renewed.

    XX

    And soon with this he other matter blended,
    Cheerfully uttered, with demeanour kind,
    But stately in the main; and when he ended,
    I could have laughed myself to scorn to find
    In that decrepit Man so firm a mind.
    "God," said I, "be my help and stay secure;
    I'll think of the Leech-gatherer on the lonely moor!"
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

  15. #524
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    An Elegy on the Death of Montgomery Tappen
    ------------- by Major Henry Livingston, Jr.
    An elegy on the death of MONTGOMERY TAPPEN who dies at Poughkeepsie on the 20th of Nov. 1784 in the ninth year of his age.


    The sweetest, gentlest, of the youthful train,
    Here lies his clay cold upon the sable bier!
    He scarce had started on life's varied plain,
    For dreary death arrested his career.

    His cheek might vie with the expanded rose,
    And Genius sparkled in his azure eyes!
    A victim so unblemish'd Heaven chose,
    And bore the beauteous lambkin to the skies.

    Adieu thou loveliest child! Adieu adieu!
    Our wishes fain would follow thee on high.
    What more can friendship - what more fondness do,
    But drop the unbidden tear & heave the sigh?

    Ye youths whose ardent bosoms virtue fires,
    Who eager wish applause and pant for fame,
    Press round MONTGOMERY'S hearse, the NAME inspires
    And lights in kindred souls its native flame.

    COLUMBIA grateful hails the tender sound
    And when MONTGOMERY'S nam'd still drops a tear,
    From shore to shore to earth's remotest bound
    Where LIBERTY is known that NAME is dear.
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

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    Light Shining out of Darkness
    --------------- by William Cowper
    God moves in a mysterious way
    His wonders to perform;
    He plants His footsteps in the sea,
    And rides upon the storm.

    Deep in unfathomable mines
    Of never-failing skill,
    He treasures up His bright designs,
    And works His sovereign will.

    Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take,
    The clouds ye so much dread
    Are big with mercy, and shall break
    In blessings on your head.

    Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
    But trust Him for His grace;
    Behind a frowning providence
    He hides a smiling face.

    His purposes will ripen fast,
    Unfolding every hour;
    The bud may have a bitter taste,
    But sweet will be the flower.

    Blind unbelief is sure to err,
    And scan His work in vain:
    God is His own interpreter,
    And he will make it plain.
    ------------------------------------------------------

    BEAUTIFUL TRUTH, SO VERY WELL COMPOSED!!!--Tyr
    Last edited by Tyr-Ziu Saxnot; 01-05-2017 at 08:21 AM.
    18 U.S. Code § 2381-Treason Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned not less than five years and fined under this title but not less than $10,000; and shall be incapable of holding any office under the United States.

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