Narrative and Lyric Poems (Second Series) for Use in the Lower School

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Title: Narrative and Lyric Poems (Second Series) for Use in the Lower School
Author: Various
Language: English
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NARRATIVE AND LYRIC

POEMS
(SECOND SERIES)

FOR USE IN THE LOWER SCHOOL

WITH ANNOTATIONS BY

O. J. STEVENSON, M.A., D.PAED.

_Professor of English, Ontario Agricultural College._

TORONTO
THE COPP, CLARK COMPANY, LIMITED

PREFACE.

The Narrative and Lyric Poems contained in this volume are the Second
Series prescribed by the Department of Education for examination for
Junior and Senior Public School Diplomas, and for the Senior High School
Entrance, and Entrance into the Model Schools. (Circular 58.)

The poems are arranged in the order in which they are named in the
prescribed list issued by the Department of Education, and a division is
made between those prescribed for the Junior and those prescribed for
the Senior examination.

In the annotations the chief points of difficulty have been
explained. In the case of certain poems, such as Tennyson’s _Enid_, for
example, some minor changes in words and phrases were made in the later
editions of the poet’s works. In the cases where the later editions are
still in copyright, the earlier readings have in all cases been
followed, and important changes are indicated in the notes.

=CONTENTS.=

_The numbers in parentheses refer to the pages of the Notes._

The poems in the following list are those prescribed by the
Department of Education, in the Province of Ontario, for examination for
the =Junior Public School Diploma=. In addition to these poems Scott’s
_Quentin Durward_ is also prescribed for this examination. See Circular
58.

PAGE
_Tennyson_ Enoch Arden (133) 1

_Tennyson_ Morte D’Arthur (137) 30

_Byron_ The Prisoner of Chillon (140) 38

_Gray_ Elegy, Written in a Country Churchyard (143) 50

_Mrs. Browning_ My Kate (145) 55

_Scott_ Rosabelle (145) 57

_Scott_ Lochinvar (146) 58

_Shelley_ To a Skylark (147) 60

The poems in the following list are those prescribed by the
Department of Education in the Province of Ontario, for examination for
the =Senior Public School Diploma, Senior High School Entrance, and
Entrance into the Model Schools=. In addition to these poems,
Shakespeare’s _The Merchant of Venice_ is also prescribed for this
examination. See Circular 58.

PAGE
_Tennyson_ Enid (148) 64

_Tennyson_ Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington (151 ) 90

_Tennyson_ The Day Dream (153) 99

_Tennyson_ “You Ask Me, Why—” (156) 106

_Goldsmith_ The Traveller (156) 107

_Browning_ Home-Thoughts, from the Sea (164) 120

_Browning_ The Patriot (165) 121

_Browning_ Love Among the Ruins (166) 122

_Byron_ The Isles of Greece (167) 125

_Clough_ “As Ships, Becalm’d—” (169) 129

_Holmes_ The Chambered Nautilus (169) 130

List of Selections for Memorization 132

NARRATIVE AND LYRIC POEMS

_SECOND SERIES_

=ENOCH ARDEN.=

Long lines of cliff breaking have left a chasm;
And in the chasm are foam and yellow sands;
Beyond, red roofs about a narrow wharf
In cluster; then a moulder’d church; and higher
A long street climbs to one tall-tower’d mill; 5
And high in heaven behind it a gray down
With Danish barrows; and a hazelwood,
By autumn nutters haunted, flourishes
Green in a cuplike hollow of the down.

Here on this beach a hundred years ago, 10
Three children of three houses, Annie Lee,
The prettiest little damsel in the port,
And Philip Ray the miller’s only son,
And Enoch Arden, a rough sailor’s lad
Made orphan by a winter shipwreck, play’d 15
Among the waste and lumber of the shore,
Hard coils of cordage, swarthy fishing-nets,
Anchors of rusty fluke, and boats updrawn;
And built their castles of dissolving sand
To watch them overflow’d, or following up 20
And flying the white breaker, daily left
The little footprint daily wash’d away.

A narrow cave ran in beneath the cliff:
In this the children play’d at keeping house.
Enoch was host one day, Philip the next, 25
While Annie still was mistress; but at times
Enoch would hold possession for a week:
‘This is my house and this my little wife.’
‘Mine too,’ said Philip ‘turn and turn about:’
When, if they quarrell’d, Enoch stronger-made 30
Was master: then would Philip, his blue eyes
All flooded with the helpless wrath of tears,
Shriek out ‘I hate you, Enoch,’ and at this
The little wife would weep for company,
And pray them not to quarrel for her sake, 35
And say she would be little wife to both.

But when the dawn of rosy childhood past,
And the new warmth of life’s ascending sun
Was felt by either, either fixt his heart
On that one girl; and Enoch spoke his love, 40
But Philip loved in silence; and the girl
Seem’d kinder unto Philip than to him;
But she loved Enoch; tho’ she knew it not,
And would if asked deny it. Enoch set
A purpose evermore before his eyes, 45
To hoard all savings to the uttermost,
To purchase his own boat, and make a home
For Annie: and so prosper’d that at last
A luckier or a bolder fisherman,
A carefuller in peril, did not breathe 50
For leagues along that breaker-beaten coast
Than Enoch. Likewise had he served a year
On board a merchantman, and made himself
Full sailor; and he thrice had pluck’d a life
From the dread sweep of the downstreaming seas: 55
And all men look’d upon him favourably:
And ere he touch’d his one and-twentieth May
He purchased his own boat, and made a home
For Annie, neat and nest-like, halfway up
The narrow street that clamber’d toward the mill. 60

Then, on a golden autumn eventide,
The younger people making holiday,
With bag and sack and basket, great and small
Went nutting to the hazels. Philip stay’d
(His father lying sick and needing him) 65
An hour behind; but as he climbed the hill,
Just where the prone edge of the wood began
To feather toward the hollow, saw the pair,
Enoch and Annie, sitting hand-in-hand,
His large gray eyes and weather-beaten face 70
All kindled by a still and sacred fire,
That burn’d as on an altar. Philip look’d,
And in their eyes and faces read his doom;
Then, as their faces drew together, groan’d;
And slipt aside, and like a wounded life 75
Crept down into the hollows of the wood;
There, while the rest were loud in merrymaking,
Had his dark hour unseen, and rose and past
Bearing a lifelong hunger in his heart.

So these were wed, and merrily rang the bells, 80
And merrily ran the years, seven happy years,
Seven happy years of health and competence,
And mutual love and honourable toil;
With children; first a daughter. In him woke,
With his first babe’s first cry, the noble wish 85
To save all earnings to the uttermost,
And give his child a better bringing up
Than his had been, or hers; a wish renew’d,
When two years after came a boy to be
The rosy idol of her solitudes, 90
While Enoch was abroad on wrathful seas,
Or often journeying landward; for in truth
Enoch’s white horse, and Enoch’s ocean-spoil
In ocean-smelling osier and his face,
Rough-redden’d with a thousand winter gales, 95
Not only to the market-cross were known,
But in the leafy lanes behind the down,
Far as the portal-warding lion-whelp,
And peacock-yewtree of the lonely Hall,
Whose Friday fare was Enoch’s ministering. 100

Then came a change, as all things human change.
Ten miles to northward of the narrow port
Open’d a larger haven: thither used
Enoch at times to go by land or sea;
And once when there, and clambering on a mast 105
In harbour, by mischance he slipt and fell:
A limb was broken when they lifted him;
And while he lay recovering there, his wife
Bore him another son, a sickly one:
Another hand crept too across his trade 110
Taking her bread and theirs: and on him fell,
Altho’ a grave and staid God-fearing man,
Yet lying thus inactive, doubt and gloom.
He seem’d, as in a nightmare of the night,
To see his children leading evermore 115
Low miserable lives of hand-to-mouth,
And her, he loved, a beggar: then he pray’d
‘Save them from this, whatever comes to me.’
And while he pray’d, the master of that ship
Enoch had served in, hearing his mischance, 120
Came, for he knew the man and valued him,
Reporting of his vessel China-bound,
And wanting yet a boatswain. Would he go?
There yet were many weeks before she sail’d,
Sail’d from this port. Would Enoch have the place? 125
And Enoch all at once assented to it,
Rejoicing at that answer to his prayer.

So now that shadow of mischance appear’d
No graver than as when some little cloud
Cuts off the fiery highway of the sun, 130
And isles a light in the offing: yet the wife—
When he was gone—the children—what to do?
Then Enoch lay long-pondering on his plans;
To sell the boat—and yet he loved her well—
How many a rough sea had he weathered in her! 135
He knew her, as a horseman knows his horse—
And yet to sell her—then with what she brought
Buy goods and stores—set Annie forth in trade
With all that seamen needed or their wives—
So might she keep the house while he was gone. 140
Should he not trade himself out yonder? go
This voyage more than once? yea, twice or thrice—
As oft as needed—last, returning rich,
Become the master of a larger craft,
With fuller profits lead an easier life, 145
Have all his pretty young ones educated,
And pass his days in peace among his own.

Thus Enoch in his heart determined all:
Then moving homeward came on Annie pale,
Nursing the sickly babe, her latest-born. 150
Forward she started with a happy cry,
And laid the feeble infant in his arms;
Whom Enoch took, and handled all his limbs,
Appraised his weight and fondled fatherlike,
But had no heart to break his purposes 155
To Annie, till the morrow, when he spoke.

Then first since Enoch’s golden ring had girt
Her finger, Annie fought against his will:
Yet not with brawling opposition she,
But manifold entreaties, many a tear, 160
Many a sad kiss by day or night renew’d
(Sure that all evil would come out of it)
Besought him, supplicating, if he cared
For her or his dear children, not to go.
He not for his own self caring but her, 165
Her and her children, let her plead in vain;
So grieving held his will, and bore it thro.’

For Enoch parted with his old sea-friend,
Bought Annie goods and stores, and set his hand
To fit their little streetward sitting-room 170
With shelf and corner for the goods and stores.
So all day long till Enoch’s last at home,
Shaking their pretty cabin, hammer and axe,
Auger and saw, while Annie seem’d to hear
Her own death-scaffold raising, shrill’d and rang 175
Till this was ended, and his careful hand,—
The space was narrow,—having order’d all
Almost as neat and close as nature packs
Her blossom or her seedling, paused; and he,
Who needs would work for Annie to the last, 180
Ascending tired, heavily slept till morn.

And Enoch faced this morning of farewell
Brightly and boldly. All his Annie’s fears,
Save as his Annie’s, were a laughter to him.
Yet Enoch as a brave God-fearing man 185
Bow’d himself down, and in that mystery
Where God-in-man is one with man-in-God,
Pray’d for a blessing on his wife and babes
Whatever came to him: and then he said
‘Annie, this voyage by the grace of God 190
Will bring fair weather yet to all of us.
Keep a clean hearth and a clear fire for me,
For I’ll be back, my girl, before you know it.’
Then lightly rocking baby’s cradle ‘and he,
This pretty, puny, weakly little one,— 195
Nay—for I love him all the better for it—
God bless him, he shall sit upon my knees
And I will tell him tales of foreign parts,
And make him merry, when I come home again.
Come Annie, come, cheer up before I go.’ 200

Him running on thus hopefully she heard,
And almost hoped herself; but when he turn’d
The current of his talk to greater things
In sailor fashion roughly sermonizing
On providence and trust in Heaven, she heard, 205
Heard and not heard him; as the village girl,
Who sets her pitcher underneath the spring,
Musing on him that used to fill it for her,
Hears and not hears, and lets it overflow.

At length she spoke ‘O Enoch, you are wise; 210
And yet for all your wisdom well know I
That I shall look upon your face no more.’

‘Well then,’ said Enoch, ‘I shall look on yours.
Annie, the ship I sail in passes here
(He named the day) get you a seaman’s glass, 215
Spy out my face, and laugh at all your fears.’

But when the last of those last moments came,
‘Annie, my girl, cheer up, be comforted,
Look to the babes, and till I come again,
Keep everything shipshape, for I must go. 220
And fear no more for me; or if you fear
Cast all your cares on God; that anchor holds.
Is He not yonder in those uttermost
Parts of the morning? if I flee to these
Can I go from Him? and the sea is His, 225
The sea is His: He made it.’

Enoch rose,
Cast his strong arms about his drooping wife,
And kiss’d his wonder-stricken little ones;
But for the third, the sickly one, who slept 230
After a night of feverous wakefulness,
When Annie would have raised him Enoch said
‘Wake him not; let him sleep; how should the child
Remember this?’ and kiss’d him in his cot.
But Annie from her baby’s forehead clipt 235
A tiny curl, and gave it: this he kept
Thro’ all his future; but now hastily caught
His bundle, waved his hand, and went his way.

She, when the day, that Enoch mention’d, came,
Borrow’d a glass, but all in vain: perhaps 240
She could not fix the glass to suit her eye;
Perhaps her eye was dim, hand tremulous;
She saw him not: and while he stood on deck
Waving, the moment and the vessel past.

Ev’n to the last dip of the vanishing sail 245
She watch’d it, and departed weeping for him;
Then, tho’ she mourned his absence as his grave,
Set her sad will no less to chime with his,
But throve not in her trade, not being bred
To barter, nor compensating the want 250
By shrewdness, neither capable of lies,
Nor asking overmuch and taking less,
And still foreboding ‘what would Enoch say?’
For more than once, in days of difficulty
And pressure, had she sold her wares for less 255
Than what she gave in buying what she sold:
She failed and sadden’d knowing it; and thus,
Expectant of that news which never came,
Gain’d for her own a scanty sustenance,
And lived a life of silent melancholy. 260

Now the third child was sickly-born and grew
Yet sicklier, tho’ the mother cared for it
With all a mother’s care: nevertheless,
Whether her business often called her from it,
Or thro’ the want of what it needed most, 265
Or means to pay the voice who best could tell
What most it needed—howsoe’er it was,
After a lingering,—ere she was aware,—
Like the caged bird escaping suddenly,
The little innocent soul flitted away. 270

In that same week when Annie buried it,
Philip’s true heart, which hunger’d for her peace
(Since Enoch left he had not look’d upon her),
Smote him, as having kept aloof so long.
‘Surely’ said Philip ‘I may see her now, 275
May be some little comfort;’ therefore went,
Past thro’ the solitary room in front,
Paused for a moment at an inner door,
Then struck it thrice, and, no one opening,
Enter’d; but Annie, seated with her grief, 280
Fresh from the burial of her little one,
Cared not to look on any human face,
But turn’d her own toward the wall and wept.
Then Philip standing up said falteringly
‘Annie, I come to ask a favour of you.’ 285

He spoke; the passion in her moan’d reply
‘Favour from one so sad and so forlorn
As I am!’ half abashed him; yet unask’d,
His bashfulness and tenderness at war,
He set himself beside her, saying to her: 290
‘I came to speak to you of what he wished,
Enoch, your husband: I have ever said
You chose the best among us—a strong man:
For where he fixt his heart he set his hand
To do the thing he will’d, and bore it thro’. 295
And wherefore did he go this weary way,
And leave you lonely? not to see the world—
For pleasure?—nay, but for the wherewithal
To give his babes a better bringing-up
Than his had been, or yours: that was his wish. 300
And if he come again, vext will he be
To find the precious morning hours were lost.
And it would vex him even in his grave,
If he could know his babes were running wild
Like colts about the waste. So, Annie, now— 305
Have we not known each other all our lives?
I do beseech you by the love you bear
Him and his children not to say me nay—
For, if you will, when Enoch comes again
Why then he shall repay me—if you will, 310
Annie—for I am rich and well-to-do.
Now let me put the boy and girl to school:
This is the favour that I came to ask.’

Then Annie with her brows against the wall
Answer’d ‘I cannot look you in the face; 315
I seem so foolish and so broken down.
When you came in my sorrow broke me down;
And now I think your kindness breaks me down;
But Enoch lives; that is borne in on me:
He will repay you: money can be repaid; 320
Not kindness such as yours.’

And Philip ask’d
‘Then you will let me, Annie?’

There she turn’d,
She rose, and fixed her swimming eyes upon him, 325
And dwelt a moment on his kindly face,
Then calling down a blessing on his head
Caught at his hand, and wrung it passionately,
And past into the little garth beyond.
So lifted up in spirit he moved away. 330

Then Philip put the boy and girl to school,
And bought them needful books, and everyway,
Like one who does his duty by his own,
Made himself theirs; and tho’ for Annie’s sake,
Fearing the lazy gossip of the port, 335
He oft denied his heart his dearest wish,
And seldom crost her threshold, yet he sent
Gifts by the children, garden-herbs and fruit,
The late and early roses from his wall,
Or conies from the down, and now and then, 340
With some pretext of fineness in the meal
To save the offence of charitable, flour
From his tall mill that whistled on the waste.

But Philip did not fathom Annie’s mind:
Scarce could the woman when he came upon her, 345
Out of full heart and boundless gratitude
Light on a broken word to thank him with.
But Philip was her children’s all-in-all;
From distant corners of the street they ran
To greet his hearty welcome heartily; 350
Lords of his house and of his mill were they;
Worried his passive ear with petty wrongs
Or pleasures, hung upon him, play’d with him
And call’d him Father Philip. Philip gain’d
As Enoch lost; for Enoch seem’d to them 355
Uncertain as a vision or a dream,
Faint as a figure seen in early dawn
Down at the far end of an avenue,
Going we know not where: and so ten years,
Since Enoch left his hearth and native land, 360
Fled forward, and no news of Enoch came.

It chanced one evening Annie’s children long’d
To go with others, nutting to the wood,
And Annie would go with them; then they begg’d
For Father Philip (as they call’d him) too: 365
Him, like the working bee in blossom-dust,
Blanch’d with his mill, they found; and saying to him
‘Come with us father Philip’ he denied;
But when the children pluck’d at him to go,
He laugh’d and yielded readily to their wish, 370
For was not Annie with them? and they went.

But after scaling half the weary down,
Just where the prone edge of the wood began
To feather toward the hollow, all her force
Fail’d her; and sighing ‘Let me rest’ she said; 375
So Philip rested with her well-content;
While all the younger ones with jubilant cries
Broke from their elders, and tumultuously
Down thro’ the whitening hazels made a plunge
To the bottom, and dispersed, and bent or broke 380
The lithe reluctant boughs to tear away
Their tawny clusters, crying to each other
And calling, here and there, about the wood.

But Philip sitting at her side forgot
Her presence, and remember’d one dark hour 385
Here in this wood, when like a wounded life
He crept into the shadow: at last he said
Lifting his honest forehead, ‘Listen, Annie,
How merry they are down yonder in the wood.’
‘Tired, Annie?’ for she did not speak a word. 390
‘Tired?’ but her face had fallen upon her hands;
At which as with a kind of anger in him,
‘The ship was lost,’ he said, ‘the ship was lost!
No more of that! why should you kill yourself
And make them orphans quite?’ And Annie said 395
‘I thought not of it: but—I know not why—
Their voices make me feel so solitary.’

Then Philip coming somewhat closer spoke.
‘Annie, there is a thing upon my mind,
And it has been upon my mind so long, 400
That tho’ I know not when it first came there,
I know that it will out at last. O Annie,
It is beyond all hope, against all chance,
That he who left you ten long years ago
Should still be living; well then—let me speak: 405
I grieve to see you poor and wanting help:
I cannot help you as I wish to do
Unless—they say that women are so quick—
Perhaps you know what I would have you know—
I wish you for my wife. I fain would prove 410
A father to your children: I do think
They love me as a father: I am sure
That I love them as if they were mine own;
And I believe, if you were fast my wife,
That after all these sad uncertain years, 415
We might be still as happy as God grants
To any of His creatures. Think upon it:
For I am well-to-do—no kin, no care,
No burthen, save my care for you and yours:
And we have known each other all our lives, 420
And I have loved you longer than you know.’

Then answer’d Annie; tenderly she spoke:
‘You have been as God’s good angel in our house.
God bless you for it, God reward you for it,
Philip, with something happier than myself. 425
Can one love twice? can you be ever loved
As Enoch was? what is it that you ask?’
‘I am content’ he answer’d ‘to be loved
A little after Enoch.’ ‘O’ she cried
Scared as it were ‘dear Philip, wait a while: 430
If Enoch comes—but Enoch will not come—
Yet wait a year, a year is not so long:
Surely I shall be wiser in a year:
O wait a little!’ Philip sadly said
‘Annie, as I have waited all my life 435
I well may wait a little.’ ‘Nay’ she cried
‘I am bound: you have my promise—in a year:
Will you not bide your year as I bide mine?’
And Philip answer’d ‘I will bide my year.’

Here both were mute, till Philip glancing up 440
Beheld the dead flame of the fallen day
Pass from the Danish barrow overhead;
Then fearing night and chill for Annie, rose
And sent his voice beneath him thro’ the wood.
Up came the children laden with their spoil; 445
Then all descended to the port, and there
At Annie’s door he paused and gave his hand,
Saying gently ‘Annie, when I spoke to you,
That was your hour of weakness. I was wrong.
I am always bound to you, but you are free.’ 450
Then Annie weeping answer’d ‘I am bound.’

She spoke; and in one moment as it were,
While yet she went about her household ways,
Ev’n as she dwelt upon his latest words,
That he had lov’d her longer than she knew, 455
That autumn into autumn flash’d again,
And there he stood once more before her face,
Claiming her promise. ‘Is it a year?’ she ask’d.
‘Yes, if the nuts’ he said ‘be ripe again:
Come out and see.’ But she—she put him off— 460
So much to look to—such a change—a month—
Give her a month—she knew that she was bound—
A month—no more. Then Philip with his eyes
Full of that lifelong hunger, and his voice
Shaking a little like a drunkard’s hand, 465
‘Take your own time, Annie, take your own time.’
And Annie could have wept for pity of him;
And yet she held him on delayingly
With many a scarce-believable excuse,
Trying his truth and his long-sufferance, 470
Till half-another year had slipped away.

By this the lazy gossips of the port,
Abhorrent of a calculation crost
Began to chafe as at a personal wrong.
Some thought that Philip did but trifle with her; 475
Some that she but held off to draw him on;
And others laugh’d at her and Philip too,
As simple folk that knew not their own minds;
And one, in whom all evil fancies clung
Like serpent eggs together, laughingly 480
Would hint at worse in either. Her own son
Was silent, tho’ he often look’d his wish;
But evermore the daughter prest upon her
To wed the man so dear to all of them
And lift the household out of poverty; 485
And Philip’s rosy face contracting grew
Careworn and wan; and all these things fell on her
Sharp as reproach.

At last one night it chanced
That Annie could not sleep, but earnestly 490
Pray’d for a sign ‘my Enoch is he gone?’
Then compass’d round by the blind wall of night
Brook’d not the expectant terror of her heart,
Started from bed, and struck herself a light,
Then desperately seized the holy Book, 495
Suddenly set it wide to find a sign,
Suddenly put her finger on the text,
‘Under a palmtree.’ That was nothing to her:
No meaning there: she closed the Book and slept:
When lo! her Enoch sitting on a height, 500
Under a palmtree, over him the Sun:
‘He is gone,’ she thought, ‘he is happy, he is singing
Hosanna in the highest: yonder shines
The Sun of Righteousness, and these be palms
Whereof the happy people strowing cried 505
“Hosanna in the highest!”’ Here she woke,
Resolved, sent for him and said wildly to him
‘There is no reason why we should not wed.’
‘Then for God’s sake,’ he answer’d, ‘both our sakes,
So you will wed me, let it be at once.’ 510

So these were wed and merrily rang the bells,
Merrily rang the bells and they were wed.
But never merrily beat Annie’s heart.
A footstep seem’d to fall beside her path,
She knew not whence; a whisper on her ear, 515
She knew not what; nor loved she to be left
Alone at home nor ventured out alone.
What ail’d her then, that ere she enter’d, often
Her hand dwelt lingeringly on the latch,
Fearing to enter: Philip thought he knew: 520
Such doubts and fears were common to her state,
Being with child: but when her child was born,
Then her new child was as herself renew’d,
Then the new mother came about her heart,
Then her good Philip was her all-in-all, 525
And that mysterious instinct wholly died.

And where was Enoch? prosperously sail’d
The ship ‘Good Fortune,’ tho’ at setting forth
The Biscay, roughly ridging eastward, shook
And almost overwhelm’d her, yet unvext 530
She slipt across the summer of the world,
Then after a long tumble about the Cape
And frequent interchange of foul and fair,
She passing thro’ the summer world again,
The breath of heaven came continually 535
And sent her sweetly by the golden isles,
Till silent in her oriental haven.

There Enoch traded for himself, and bought
Quaint monsters for the market of those times,
A gilded dragon also for the babes. 540

Less lucky her home-voyage: at first indeed
Thro’ many a fair sea-circle, day by day,
Scarce-rocking, her full-busted figure-head
Stared o’er the ripple feathering from her bows:
Then follow’d calms, and then winds variable, 545
Then baffling, a long course of them; and last
Storm, such as drove her under moonless heavens
Till hard upon the cry of ‘breakers’ came
The crash of ruin, and the loss of all
But Enoch and two others. Half the night, 550
Buoy’d upon floating tackle and broken spars,
These drifted, stranding on an isle at morn
Rich, but the loneliest in a lonely sea.

No want was there of human sustenance,
Soft fruitage, mighty nuts, and nourishing roots; 555
Nor save for pity was it hard to take
The helpless life so wild that it was tame.
There in a seaward-gazing mountain-gorge
They built, and thatch’d with leaves of palm, a hut,
Half hut, half native cavern. So the three, 560
Set in this Eden of all plenteousness,
Dwelt with eternal summer, ill-content.

For one, the youngest, hardly more than boy,
Hurt in that night of sudden ruin and wreck,
Lay lingering out a three years’ death-in-life. 565
They could not leave him. After he was gone,
The two remaining found a fallen stem;
And Enoch’s comrade, careless of himself,
Fire-hollowing this in Indian fashion, fell
Sun-stricken, and that other lived alone. 570
In those two deaths he read God’s warning ‘wait.’

The mountain wooded to the peak, the lawns
And winding glades high up like ways to Heaven,
The slender coco’s drooping crown of plumes,
The lightning flash of insect and of bird, 575
The lustre of the long convolvuluses
That coil’d around the stately stems, and ran
Ev’n to the limit of the land, the glows
And glories of the broad belt of the world,
All these he saw; but what he fain had seen 580
He could not see, the kindly human face,
Nor ever hear a kindly voice, but heard
The myriad shriek of wheeling ocean-fowl,
The league-long roller thundering on the reef,
The moving whisper of huge trees that branch’d 585
And blossom’d in the zenith, or the sweep
Of some precipitous rivulet to the wave,
As down the shore he ranged, or all day long
Sat often in the seaward-gazing gorge,
A shipwreck’d sailor, waiting for a sail: 590
No sail from day to day, but every day
The sunrise broken into scarlet shafts
Among the palms and ferns and precipices;
The blaze upon the waters to the east;
The blaze upon his island overhead; 595
The blaze upon the waters to the west;
Then the great stars that globed themselves in Heaven,
The hollower-bellowing ocean, and again
The scarlet shafts of sunrise—but no sail.

There often as he watch’d or seem’d to watch, 600
So still, the golden lizard on him paused,
A phantom made of many phantoms moved
Before him haunting him, or he himself
Moved haunting people, things and places, known
Far in a darker isle beyond the line; 605
The babes, their babble, Annie, the small house,
The climbing street, the mill, the leafy lanes,
The peacock-yewtree and the lonely Hall,
The horse he drove, the boat he sold, the chill
November dawns and dewy-glooming downs, 610
The gentle shower, the smell of dying leaves,
And the low moan of leaden-colour’d seas.

Once likewise, in the ringing of his ears,
Tho’ faintly, merrily—far and far away—
He heard the pealing of his parish bells; 615
Then, tho’ he knew not wherefore, started up
Shuddering, and when the beauteous hateful isle
Return’d upon him, had not his poor heart
Spoken with That, which being everywhere
Lets none, who speaks with Him, seem all alone, 620
Surely the man had died of solitude.

Thus over Enoch’s early-silvering head
The sunny and rainy seasons came and went
Year after year. His hopes to see his own,
And pace the sacred old familiar fields, 625
Not yet had perished, when his lonely doom
Came suddenly to an end. Another ship
(She wanted water) blown by baffling winds,
Like the Good Fortune, from her destined course,
Stay’d by this isle, not knowing where she lay: 630
For since the mate had seen at early dawn
Across a break on the mist-wreathen isle
The silent water slipping from the hills,
They sent a crew that landing burst away
In search of stream or fount, and fill’d the shores 635
With clamour. Downward from his mountain gorge
Stept the long-hair’d, long-bearded solitary,
Brown, looking hardly human, strangely clad,
Muttering and mumbling, idiotlike it seem’d,
With inarticulate rage, and making signs 640
They knew not what: and yet he led the way
To where the rivulets of sweet water ran;
And ever as he mingled with the crew,
And heard them talking, his long-bounden tongue
Was loosen’d, till he made them understand; 645
Whom, when their casks were fill’d they took aboard:
And there the tale he utter’d brokenly,
Scarce credited at first but more and more,
Amazed and melted all who listen’d to it:
And clothes they gave him and free passage home; 650
But oft he work’d among the rest and shook
His isolation from him. None of these
Came from his county, or could answer him,
If question’d, aught of what he cared to know.
And dull the voyage was with long delays, 655
The vessel scarce sea-worthy; but evermore
His fancy fled before the lazy wind
Returning, till beneath a clouded moon
He like a lover down thro’ all his blood
Drew in the dewy meadowy morning-breath 660
Of England, blown across her ghostly wall:
And that same morning officers and men
Levied a kindly tax upon themselves,
Pitying the lonely man and gave him it:
Then moving up the coast they landed him, 665
Ev’n in that harbour whence he sail’d before.

There Enoch spoke no word to anyone,
But homeward—home—what home? had he a home?
His home, he walk’d. Bright was that afternoon,
Sunny but chill; till drawn thro’ either chasm, 670
Where either haven open’d on the deeps,
Roll’d a sea-haze and whelm’d the world in gray;
Cut off the length of highway on before,
And left but narrow breadth to left and right
Of wither’d holt or tilth or pasturage. 675
On the nigh-naked tree the robin piped
Disconsolate, and thro’ the dripping haze
The dead weight of the dead leaf bore it down:
Thicker the drizzle grew, deeper the gloom;
Last, as it seem’d, a great mist-blotted light 680
Flared on him, and he came upon the place.

Then down the long street having slowly stolen,
His heart foreshadowing all calamity,
His eyes upon the stones, he reach’d the home
Where Annie lived and loved him, and his babes 685
In those far-off seven happy years were born;
But finding neither light nor murmur there
(A bill of sale gleam’d thro’ the drizzle) crept
Still downward thinking ‘dead or dead to me!’

Down to the pool and narrow wharf he went, 690
Seeking a tavern which of old he knew,
A front of timber-crost antiquity,
So propt, worm-eaten, ruinously old,
He thought it must have gone; but he was gone
Who kept it; and his widow, Miriam Lane, 695
With daily-dwindling profits held the house;
A haunt of brawling seamen once, but now
Stiller, with yet a bed for wandering men.
There Enoch rested silent many days.

But Miriam Lane was good and garrulous, 700
Nor let him be, but often breaking in,
Told him with other annals of the port,
Not knowing—Enoch was so brown, so bow’d
So broken—all the story of his house.
His baby’s death, her growing poverty, 705
How Philip put her little ones to school,
And kept them in it, his long wooing her,
Her slow consent, and marriage, and the birth
Of Philip’s child: and o’er his countenance
No shadow past, nor motion: anyone, 710
Regarding, well had deem’d he felt the tale
Less than the teller: only when she closed
‘Enoch, poor man, was cast away and lost’
He, shaking his gray head pathetically,
Repeated muttering ‘cast away and lost;’ 715
Again in deeper inward whispers ‘lost!’

But Enoch yearn’d to see her face again;
‘If I might look on her sweet face again
And know that she is happy.’ So the thought
Haunted and harass’d him, and drove him forth, 720
At evening when the dull November day
Was growing duller twilight, to the hill.
There he sat down gazing on all below;
There did a thousand memories roll upon him,
Unspeakable for sadness. By and by 725
The ruddy square of comfortable light,
Far-blazing from the rear of Philip’s house,
Allured him, as the beacon-blaze allures
The bird of passage, till he madly strikes
Against it, and beats out his weary life. 730

For Philip’s dwelling fronted on the street,
The latest house to landward; but behind,
With one small gate that open’d on the waste,
Flourish’d a little garden square and wall’d:
And in it throve an ancient evergreen, 735
A yewtree, and all around it ran a walk
Of shingle, and a walk divided it:
But Enoch shunn’d the middle walk and stole
Up by the wall, behind the yew; and thence
That which he better might have shunn’d, if griefs 740
Like his have worse or better, Enoch saw.

For cups and silver on the burnish’d board
Sparkled and shone; so genial was the hearth:
And on the right hand of the hearth he saw
Philip, the slighted suitor of old times, 745
Stout, rosy, with his babe across his knees;
And o’er her second father stoopt a girl,
A later but a loftier Annie Lee,
Fair-hair’d and tall, and from her lifted hand
Dangled a length of ribbon and a ring 750
To tempt the babe, who rear’d his creasy arms,
Caught at and ever miss’d it, and they laugh’d:
And on the left hand of the hearth he saw
The mother glancing often toward her babe,
But turning now and then to speak with him, 755
Her son, who stood beside her tall and strong,
And saying that which pleased him, for he smiled.

Now when the dead man come to life beheld
His wife his wife no more, and saw the babe
Hers, yet not his, upon the father’s knee, 760
And all the warmth, the peace, the happiness,
And his own children tall and beautiful,
And him, that other, reigning in his place,
Lord of his rights and of his children’s love,—
Then he, tho’ Miriam Lane had told him all, 765
Because things seen are mightier than things heard,
Stagger’d and shook, holding the branch, and fear’d
To send abroad a shrill and terrible cry,
Which in one moment, like the blast of doom,
Would shatter all the happiness of the hearth. 770

He therefore turning softly like a thief,
Lest the harsh shingle should grate underfoot,
And feeling all along the garden-wall,
Lest he should swoon and tumble and be found,
Crept to the gate, and open’d it, and closed, 775
As lightly as a sick man’s chamber-door,
Behind him, and came out upon the waste.

And there he would have knelt, but that his knees
Were feeble, so that falling prone he dug
His fingers into the wet earth, and pray’d. 780

‘Too hard to bear! why did they take me thence?
O God Almighty, blessed Saviour, Thou
That did’st uphold me on my lonely isle,
Uphold me, Father, in my loneliness
A little longer! aid me, give me strength 785
Not to tell her, never to let her know.
Help me not to break in upon her peace.
My children too! must I not speak to these?
They know me not. I should betray myself.
Never: no father’s kiss for me—the girl 790
So like her mother, and the boy, my son.’

There speech and thought and nature fail’d a little,
And he lay tranced; but when he rose and paced
Back toward his solitary home again,
All down the long and narrow street he went 795
Beating it in upon his weary brain,
As tho’ it were the burthen of a song,
‘Not to tell her, never to let her know.’

He was not all unhappy. His resolve
Upbore him, and firm faith, and evermore 800
Prayer from the living source within the will,
And beating up thro’ all the bitter world,
Like fountains of sweet water in the sea,
Kept him a living soul. ‘This miller’s wife’
He said to Miriam ‘that you told me of, 805
Has she no fear that her first husband lives?’
‘Ay, ay, poor soul’ said Miriam, ‘fear enow!
If you could tell her you had seen him dead,
Why, that would be her comfort;’ and he thought
‘After the Lord has call’d me she shall know, 810
I wait his time’ and Enoch set himself,
Scorning an alms, to work whereby to live.
Almost to all things could he turn his hand.
Cooper he was and carpenter, and wrought
To make the boatmen fishing-nets, or help’d 815
At lading and unlading the tall barks,
That brought the stinted commerce of those days;
Thus earn’d a scanty living for himself:
Yet since he did but labour for himself,
Work without hope, there was not life in it 820
Whereby the man could live; and as the year
Roll’d itself round again to meet the day
When Enoch had return’d, a languor came
Upon him, gentle sickness, gradually
Weakening the man, till he could do no more, 825
But kept the house, his chair, and last his bed.
And Enoch bore his weakness cheerfully.
For sure no gladlier does the stranded wreck
See thro’ the gray skirts of a lifting squall
The boat that bears the hope of life approach 830
To save the life despair’d of, than he saw
Death dawning on him, and the close of all.

For thro’ that dawning gleam’d a kindlier hope
On Enoch thinking ‘after I am gone,
Then may she learn I loved her to the last.’ 835
He call’d aloud for Miriam Lane and said
‘Woman, I have a secret—only swear,
Before I tell you—swear upon the book
Not to reveal it, till you see me dead.’
‘Dead,’ clamour’d the good woman, ‘hear him talk! 840
I warrant, man, that we shall bring you round.’
‘Swear’ added Enoch sternly ‘on the book.’
And on the book, half-frighted, Miriam swore.
Then Enoch rolling his gray eyes upon her,
‘Did you know Enoch Arden of this town?’ 845
‘Know him?’ she said ‘I knew him far away.
Ay, ay, I mind him coming down the street;
Held his head high, and cared for no man, he.’
Slowly and sadly Enoch answer’d her;
‘His head is low, and no man cares for him. 850
I think I have not three days more to live;
I am the man.’ At which the woman gave
A half-incredulous, half-hysterical cry.
‘You Arden, you! nay,—sure he was a foot
Higher than you be.’ Enoch said again 855
‘My God has bow’d me down to what I am;
My grief and solitude have broken me;
Nevertheless, know you that I am he
Who married—but that name has twice been changed—
I married her who married Philip Ray. 860
Sit, listen.’ Then he told her of his voyage,
His wreck, his lonely life, his coming back,
His gazing in on Annie, his resolve,
And how he kept it. As the woman heard,
Fast flow’d the current of her easy tears, 865
While in her heart she yearn’d incessantly
To rush abroad all round the little haven,
Proclaiming Enoch Arden and his woes;
But awed and promise-bounden she forebore,
Saying only ‘See your bairns before you go! 870
Eh, let me fetch ’em, Arden,’ and arose
Eager to bring them down, for Enoch hung
A moment on her words, but then replied:
‘Woman, disturb me not now at the last,
But let me hold my purpose till I die. 875
Sit down again; mark me and understand,
While I have power to speak. I charge you now,
When you shall see her, tell her that I died
Blessing her, praying for her, loving her;
Save for the bar between us, loving her 880
As when she laid her head beside my own.
And tell my daughter Annie, whom I saw
So like her mother, that my latest breath
Was spent in blessing her and praying for her.
And tell my son that I died blessing him. 885
And say to Philip that I blest him too;
He never meant us any thing but good.
But if my children care to see me dead,
Who hardly knew me living, let them come,
I am their father; but she must not come, 890
For my dead face would vex her after-life.
And now there is but one of all my blood,
Who will embrace me in the world-to-be:
This hair is his: she cut it off and gave it,
And I have borne it with me all these years, 895
And thought to bear it with me to my grave;
But now my mind is changed, for I shall see him,
My babe in bliss: wherefore when I am gone,
Take, give her this, for it may comfort her:
It will moreover be a token to her, 900
That I am he.’

He ceased; and Miriam Lane
Made such a voluble answer promising all,
That once again he roll’d his eyes upon her
Repeating all he wish’d, and once again 905
She promised.

Then the third night after this,
While Enoch slumber’d motionless and pale,
And Miriam watch’d and dozed at intervals,
There came so loud a calling of the sea, 910
That all the houses in the haven rang.
He woke, he rose, he spread his arms abroad
Crying with a loud voice ‘a sail! a sail!
I am saved’; and so fell back and spoke no more.

So past the strong heroic soul away. 915
And when they buried him the little port
Had seldom seen a costlier funeral.

* * * * *

=MORTE D’ARTHUR.=

So all day long the noise of battle roll’d
Among the mountains by the winter sea;
Until King Arthur’s table, man by man,
Had fallen in Lyonnesse about their Lord,
King Arthur: then, because his wound was deep, 5
The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him,
Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights,
And bore him to a chapel nigh the field,
A broken chancel with a broken cross,
That stood on a dark strait of barren land. 10
On one side lay the Ocean, and on one
Lay a great water, and the moon was full.
Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:
‘The sequel of to-day unsolders all
The goodliest fellowship of famous knights 15
Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep
They sleep—the men I loved. I think that we
Shall never more, at any future time,
Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds,
Walking about the gardens and the halls 20
Of Camelot, as in the days that were.
I perish by this people which I made,—
Tho’ Merlin sware that I should come again
To rule once more—but let what will be, be,
I am so deeply smitten thro’ the helm 25
That without help I cannot last till morn.
Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur,
Which was my pride: for thou rememberest how
In those old days, one summer noon, an arm
Rose up from out the bosom of the lake, 30
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,
Holding the sword—and how I row’d across
And took it, and have worn it, like a king:
And, wheresoever I am sung or told
In aftertime, this also shall be known: 35
But now delay not: take Excalibur,
And fling him far into the middle mere:
Watch what thou seëst, and lightly bring me word.’
To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere:
‘It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee thus, 40
Aidless, alone, and smitten thro’ the helm.
A little thing may harm a wounded man.
Yet I thy hest will all perform at full,
Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word.’
So saying, from the ruin’d shrine he stept 45
And in the moon athwart the place of tombs,
Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men,
Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang
Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping down
By zig-zag paths, and juts of pointed rock, 50
Came on the shining levels of the lake.
There drew he forth the brand Excalibur,
And o’er him, drawing it, the winter moon,
Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth
And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt; 55
For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks,
Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth-work
Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long
That both his eyes were dazzled, as he stood,
This way and that dividing the swift mind, 60
In act to throw: but at the last it seem’d
Better to leave Excalibur conceal’d
There in the many-knotted waterflags,
That whistled stiff and dry about the marge.
So strode he back slow to the wounded King. 65
Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:
‘Hast thou perform’d my mission which I gave?
What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?’
And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:
‘I heard the ripple washing in the reeds, 70
And the wild water lapping on the crag.’
To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale:
‘Thou hast betray’d thy nature and thy name,
Not rendering true answer, as beseem’d
Thy fëalty, nor like a noble knight: 75
For surer sign had follow’d, either hand,
Or voice, or else a motion of the mere.
This is a shameful thing for men to lie.
Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again
As thou art lief and dear, and do the thing 80
I bad thee, watch, and lightly bring me word.’
Then went Sir Bedivere the second time
Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere,
Counting the dewy pebbles, fix’d in thought;
But when he saw the wonder of the hilt, 85
How curiously and strangely chased, he smote
His palms together, and he cried aloud,
‘And if indeed I cast the brand away,
Surely a precious thing, one worthy note,
Should thus be lost for ever from the earth, 90
Which might have pleased the eyes of many men.
What good should follow this, if this were done?
What harm, undone? deep harm to disobey,
Seeing obedience is the bond of rule.
Were it well to obey then, if a king demand 95
An act unprofitable, against himself?
The King is sick, and knows not what he does.
What record, or what relic of my lord
Should be to aftertime, but empty breath
And rumours of a doubt? but were this kept, 100
Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings,
Some one might show it at a joust of arms,
Saying, “King Arthur’s sword, Excalibur,
Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake
Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps 105
Upon the hidden bases of the hills.”
So might some old man speak in the aftertime
To all the people, winning reverence.
But now much honour and much fame were lost.’
So spake he, clouded with his own conceit, 110
And hid Excalibur the second time,
And so strode back slow to the wounded King.
Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily:
‘What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?’
And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: 115
‘I heard the water lapping on the crag,
And the long ripple washing in the reeds.’
To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath:
‘Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue,
Unknightly, traitor-hearted! Woe is me! 120
Authority forgets a dying king,
Laid widow’d of the power in his eye
That bow’d the will. I see thee what thou art,
For thou, the latest-left of all my knights,
In whom should meet the offices of all, 125
Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt;
Either from lust of gold, or like a girl
Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes.
Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice,
And the third time may prosper, get thee hence: 130
But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur,
I will arise and slay thee with my hands.’
Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran,
And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged
Among the bulrush-beds, and clutch’d the sword, 135
And strongly wheel’d and threw it. The great brand
Made lightnings in the splendour of the moon,
And flashing round and round, and whirl’d in an arch,
Shot like a streamer of the northern morn,
Seen where the moving isles of winter shock 140
By night, with noises of the northern sea.
So flash’d and fell the brand Excalibur:
But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,
And caught him by the hilt, and brandish’d him 145
Three times, and drew him under in the mere.
And lightly went the other to the King.
Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath:
‘Now see I by thine eyes that this is done.
Speak out: what is it thou hast heard, or seen?’ 150
And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:
‘Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gems
Should blind my purpose, for I never saw,
Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die,
Not tho’ I live three lives of mortal men, 155
So great a miracle as yonder hilt.
Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him;
But when I look’d again, behold an arm,
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,
That caught him by the hilt, and brandish’d him 160
Three times, and drew him under in the mere.’
And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard:
‘My end draws nigh; ’tis time that I were gone.
Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight,
And bear me to the margin; yet I fear 165
My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die.’
So saying, from the pavement he half rose,
Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm,
And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes
As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere 170
Remorsefully regarded thro’ his tears,
And would have spoken, but he found not words,
Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee,
O’er both his shoulders drew the languid hands,
And rising bore him thro’ the place of tombs. 175
But, as he walk’d, King Arthur panted hard,
Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed
When all the house is mute. So sigh’d the King,
Muttering and murmuring at his ear, ‘Quick, quick!
I fear it is too late, and I shall die.’ 180
But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge,
Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he walk’d,
Larger than human on the frozen hills.
He heard the deep behind him, and a cry
Before. His own thought drove him, like a goad. 185
Dry clash’d his harness in the icy caves
And barren chasms, and all to left and right
The bare black cliff clang’d round him, as he based
His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang
Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels— 190
And on a sudden, lo! the level lake,
And the long glories of the winter moon.
Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge,
Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern,
Beneath them; and descending they were ware 195
That all the decks were dense with stately forms
Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream—by these
Three Queens with crowns of gold—and from them rose
A cry that shiver’d to the tingling stars,
And, as it were one voice, an agony 200
Of lamentation, like a wind that shrills
All night in a waste land, where no one comes,
Or hath come, since the making of the world.
Then murmur’d Arthur, ‘Place me in the barge,’
And to the barge they came. There those three Queens 205
Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept.
But she, that rose the tallest of them all
And fairest, laid his head upon her lap,
And loosed the shatter’d casque, and chafed his hands,
And call’d him by his name, complaining loud, 210
And dropping bitter tears against his brow
Striped with dark blood: for all his face was white
And colourless, and like the wither’d moon
Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east;
And all his greaves and cuisses dash’d with drops 215
Of onset; and the light and lustrous curls—
That made his forehead like a rising sun
High from the daïs-throne—were parch’d with dust,
Or, clotted into points and hanging loose,
Mix’d with the knightly growth that fringed his lips. 220
So like a shatter’d column lay the King;
Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest,
From spur to plume a star of tournament,
Shot thro’ the lists at Camelot, and charged
Before the eyes of ladies and of kings. 225
Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere,
‘Ah! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go?
Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes?
For now I see the true old times are dead,
When every morning brought a noble chance, 230
And every chance brought out a noble knight.
Such times have been not since the light that led
The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh.
But now the whole ROUND TABLE is dissolved
Which was an image of the mighty world; 235
And I, the last, go forth companionless,
And the days darken round me, and the years,
Among new men, strange faces, other minds.’
And slowly answered Arthur from the barge:
The old order changeth, yielding place to new, 240
And God fulfils Himself in many ways,
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.
Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?
I have lived my life, and that which I have done
May He within Himself make pure! but thou, 245
If thou shouldst never see my face again,
Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice
Rise like a fountain for me night and day.
For what are men better than sheep or goats 250
That nourish a blind life within the brain,
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer
Both for themselves and those who call them friend?
For so the whole round earth is every way
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God. 255
But now farewell. I am going a long way
With these thou seëst—if indeed I go—
(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)
To the island-valley of Avilion;
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow, 260
Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies
Deep-meadow’d, happy, fair with orchard-lawns
And bowery hollows crown’d with summer sea,
Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.’
So said he, and the barge with oar and sail 265
Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan
That, fluting a wild carol ere her death,
Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood
With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere
Revolving many memories, till the hull 270
Look’d one black dot against the verge of dawn,
And on the mere the wailing died away.

* * * * *

=THE PRISONER OF CHILLON.=

My hair is gray, but not with years,
Nor grew it white
In a single night,
As men’s have grown from sudden fears;
My limbs are bow’d, though not with toil, 5
But rusted with a vile repose,
For they have been a dungeon’s spoil,
And mine has been the fate of those
To whom the goodly earth and air
Are bann’d, and barr’d—forbidden fare; 10
But this was for my father’s faith
I suffer’d chains and courted death;
That father perish’d at the stake
For tenets he would not forsake;
And for the same his lineal race 15
In darkness found a dwelling-place;
We were seven—who now are one,
Six in youth, and one in age,
Finish’d as they had begun,
Proud of Persecution’s rage; 20
One in fire, and two in field,
Their belief with blood have seal’d;
Dying as their father died,
For the God their foes denied;
Three were in a dungeon cast, 25
Of whom this wreck is left the last.

II.

There are seven pillars of Gothic mould,
In Chillon’s dungeons deep and old,
There are seven columns, massy and gray,
Dim with a dull imprison’d ray, 30
A sunbeam which hath lost its way,
And through the crevice and the cleft
Of the thick wall is fallen and left;
Creeping o’er the floor so damp,
Like a marsh’s meteor lamp; 35
And in each pillar there is a ring,
And in each ring there is a chain;
That iron is a cankering thing,
For in these limbs its teeth remain,
With marks that will not wear away, 40
Till I have done with this new day,
Which now is painful to these eyes,
Which have not seen the sun so rise
For years—I cannot count them o’er,
I lost their long and heavy score 45
When my last brother droop’d and died
And I lay living by his side.

III.

They chain’d us each to a column stone
And we were three—yet, each alone;
We could not move a single pace, 50
We could not see each other’s face,
But with that pale and livid light
That made us strangers in our sight;
And thus together—yet apart
Fetter’d in hand, but joined in heart; 55
’Twas still some solace in the dearth
Of the pure elements of earth,
To hearken to each other’s speech,
And each turn comforter to each
With some new hope, or legend old, 60
Or song heroically bold;
But even these at length grew cold.
Our voices took a dreary tone,
An echo of the dungeon-stone,
A grating sound—not full and free 65
As they of yore were wont to be;
It might be fancy—but to me
They never sounded like our own.

IV.

I was the eldest of the three,
And to uphold and cheer the rest 70
I ought to do—and did—my best,
And each did well in his degree.
The youngest, whom my father loved
Because our mother’s brow was given
To him—with eyes as blue as heaven— 75
For him my soul was sorely moved;
And truly might it be distrest
To see such bird in such a nest;
For he was beautiful as day—
(When day was beautiful to me 80
As to young eagles, being free)—
A polar day, which will not see
A sunset till its summer’s gone,
Its sleepless summer of long light,
The snow-clad offspring of the sun; 85
And thus he was as pure and bright,
And in his natural spirit gay,
With tears for nought but others’ ills,
And then they flowed like mountain rills,
Unless he could assuage the woe 90
Which he abhorr’d to view below.

The other was as pure of mind,
But form’d to combat with his kind;
Strong in his frame, and of a mood
Which ’gainst the world in war had stood, 95
And perish’d in the foremost rank
With joy:—but not in chains to pine:
His spirit wither’d with their clank,
I saw it silently decline—
And so perchance in sooth did mine; 100
But yet I forced it on to cheer
Those relics of a home so dear.
He was a hunter of the hills,
Had follow’d there the deer and wolf;
To him this dungeon was a gulf, 105
And fetter’d feet the worst of ills.

VI.

Lake Leman lies by Chillon’s walls:
A thousand feet in depth below
Its massy waters meet and flow;
Thus much the fathom-line was sent 110
From Chillon’s snow-white battlement,
Which round about the wave inthrals:
A double dungeon wall and wave
Have made and like a living grave.
Below the surface of the lake 115
The dark vault lies wherein we lay,
We heard it ripple night and day;
Sounding o’er our heads it knock’d;
And I have felt the winter’s spray
Wash through the bars when winds were high, 120
And wanton in the happy sky;
And then the very rock hath rock’d.
And I have felt it shake, unshock’d,
Because I could have smiled to see
The death that would have set me free. 125

VII.

I said my nearer brother pined,
I said his mighty heart declined,
He loathed and put away his food:
It was not that ’twas coarse and rude,
For we were used to hunter’s fare, 130
And for the like had little care:
The milk drawn from the mountain goat
Was changed for water from the moat,
Our bread was such as captives’ tears
Have moisten’d many a thousand years, 135
Since man first pent his fellow-men
Like brutes within an iron den:
But what were these to us or him?
These wasted not his heart or limb;
My brother’s soul was of that mould 140
Which in a palace had grown cold,
Had his free breathing been denied
The range of the steep mountain’s side;
But why delay the truth?—he died.
I saw, and could not hold his head, 145
Nor reach his dying hand—nor dead—
Though hard I strove, but strove in vain,
To rend and gnash my bonds in twain.
He died—and they unlock’d his chain,
And scoop’d for him a shallow grave 150
Even from the cold earth of our cave.
I begg’d them, as a boon, to lay
His corse in dust whereon the day
Might shine—it was a foolish thought,
But then within my brain it wrought, 155
That even in death his free-born breast
In such a dungeon could not rest.
I might have spared my idle prayer—
They coldly laugh’d—and laid him there:
The flat and turfless earth above 160
The being we so much did love;
His empty chain above it leant,
Such murder’s fitting monument!

VIII.

But he, the favourite and the flower,
Most cherish’d since his natal hour, 165
His mother’s image in fair face,
The infant love of all his race,
His martyr’d father’s dearest thought
My latest care, for whom I sought
To hoard my life, that his might be 170
Less wretched now, and one day free;
He, too, who yet had held untired
A spirit natural or inspired—
He, too, was struck, and day by day
Was wither’d on the stalk away. 175
O God! it is a fearful thing
To see the human soul take wing
In any shape, in any mood:—
I’ve seen it rushing forth in blood,
I’ve seen it on the breaking ocean 180
Strive with a swoln convulsive motion,
I’ve seen the sick and ghastly bed
Of Sin delirious with its dread:
But these were horrors—this was woe
Unmixed with such—but sure and slow; 185
He faded, and so calm and meek,
So softly worn, so sweetly weak,
So tearless, yet so tender—kind,
And grieved for those he left behind;
With all the while a cheek whose bloom 190
Was as a mockery of the tomb,
Whose tints as gently sunk away
As a departing rainbow’s ray—
An eye of most transparent light,
That almost made the dungeon bright, 195
And not a word of murmur—not
A groan o’er his untimely lot—
A little talk of better days,
A little hope my own to raise,
For I was sunk in silence—lost 200
In this last loss, of all the most;
And then the sighs he would suppress,
Of fainting nature’s feebleness,
More slowly drawn, grew less and less;
I listen’d, but I could not hear— 205
I call’d, for I was wild with fear;
I knew ’twas hopeless, but my dread
Would not be thus admonished;
I call’d, and thought I heard a sound—
I burst my chain with one strong bound, 210
And rush’d to him:—I found him not,
_I_ only stirr’d in this black spot,
_I_ only lived—_I_ only drew
The accursed breath of dungeon-dew;
The last—the sole—the dearest link 215
Between me and the eternal brink,
Which bound me to my failing race,
Was broken in this fatal place.
One on the earth, and one beneath—
My brothers—both had ceased to breathe. 220
I took that hand which lay so still,
Alas! my own was full as chill;
I had not strength to stir, or strive,
But felt that I was still alive—
A frantic feeling, when we know 225
That what we love shall ne’er be so.
I know not why
I could not die,
I had no earthly hope—but faith,
And that forbade a selfish death. 230

IX.

What next befell me then and there
I know not well—I never knew—
First came the loss of light, and air,
And then of darkness too:
I had no thought, no feeling—none— 235
Among the stones I stood a stone,
And was, scarce conscious what I wist,
As shrubless crags within the mist;
For all was blank, and bleak, and gray,
It was not night—it was not day, 240
It was not even the dungeon-light,
So hateful to my heavy sight,
But vacancy absorbing space,
And fixedness—without a place;
There were no stars—no earth—no time— 245
No check—no change—no good—no crime
But silence, and a stirless breath
Which neither was of life nor death;
A sea of stagnant idleness,
Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless! 250

A light broke in upon my brain—
It was the carol of a bird;
It ceased, and then it came again,
The sweetest song ear ever heard,
And mine was thankful till my eyes 255
Ran over with the glad surprise,
And they that moment could not see
I was the mate of misery;
But then by dull degrees came back
My senses to their wonted track, 260
I saw the dungeon walls and floor
Close slowly round me as before,
I saw the glimmer of the sun
Creeping as it before had done,
But through the crevice where it came 265
That bird was perch’d, as fond and tame,
And tamer than upon the tree;
A lovely bird, with azure wings,
And song that said a thousand things,
And seem’d to say them all for me! 270
I never saw its like before,
I ne’er shall see its likeness more:
It seem’d, like me, to want a mate,
But was not half so desolate,
And it was come to love me when 275
None lived to love me so again,
And cheering from my dungeon’s brink,
Had brought me back to feel and think.
I know not if it late were free,
Or broke its cage to perch on mine, 280
But knowing well captivity,
Sweet bird! I could not wish for thine!
Or if it were, in winged guise,
A visitant from Paradise;
For—Heaven forgive that thought! the while 285
Which made me both to weep and smile—
I sometimes deem’d that it might be
My brother’s soul come down to me;
But then at last away it flew,
And then ’twas mortal—well I knew, 290
For he would never thus have flown,
And left me twice so doubly lone—
Lone—as the corse within its shroud,
Lone—as a solitary cloud,
A single cloud on a sunny day, 295
While all the rest of heaven is clear,
A frown upon the atmosphere,
That hath no business to appear
When skies are blue, and earth is gay.

XI.

A kind of change came in my fate, 300
My keepers grew compassionate,
I know not what had made them so,
They were inured to sights of woe,
But so it was:—my broken chain
With links unfasten’d did remain, 305
And it was liberty to stride
Along my cell from side to side,
And up and down, and then athwart,
And tread it over every part;
And round the pillars one by one, 310
Returning where my walk begun,
Avoiding only, as I trod,
My brothers’ graves without a sod;
For if I thought with heedless tread
My step profaned their lowly bed, 315
My breath came gaspingly and thick,
And my crush’d heart fell blind and sick.

XII.

I made a footing in the wall,
It was not therefrom to escape,
For I had buried one and all, 320
Who loved me in a human shape;
And the whole earth would henceforth be
A wider prison unto me:
No child—no sire—no kin had I,
No partner in my misery; 325
I thought of this, and I was glad,
For thought of them had made me mad;
But I was curious to ascend
To my barr’d windows, and to bend
Once more, upon the mountains high, 330
The quiet of a loving eye.

XIII.

I saw them—and they were the same,
They were not changed like me in frame;
I saw their thousand years of snow
On high—their wide long lake below, 335
And the blue Rhone in fullest flow;
I heard the torrents leap and gush
O’er channell’d rock and broken bush;
I saw the white-wall’d distant town,
And whiter sails go skimming down; 340
And then there was a little isle,
Which in my very face did smile,
The only one in view;
A small green isle, it seem’d no more,
Scarce broader than my dungeon floor; 345
But in it there were three tall trees,
And o’er it blew the mountain breeze,
And by it there were waters flowing,
And on it there were young flowers growing,
Of gentle breath and hue. 350
The fish swam by the castle wall,
And they seem’d joyous each and all;
The eagle rode the rising blast,
Methought he never flew so fast
As then to me he seem’d to fly, 355
And then new tears came in my eye,
And I felt troubled—and would fain
I had not left my recent chain;
And when I did descend again,
The darkness of my dim abode 360
Fell on me as a heavy load;
It was as is a new-dug grave,
Closing o’er one we sought to save,
And yet my glance, too much opprest,
Had almost need of such a rest. 365

XIV.

It might be months, or years, or days,
I kept no count—I took no note,
I had no hope my eyes to raise,
And clear them of their dreary mote;
At last men came to set me free, 370
I ask’d not why, and reck’d not where.
It was at length the same to me,
Fetter’d or fetterless to be,
I learn’d to love despair.
And thus when they appear’d at last, 375
And all my bonds aside were cast,
These heavy walls to me had grown
A hermitage—and all my own!
And half I felt as they were come
To tear me from a second home: 380
With spiders I had friendship made,
And watch’d them in their sullen trade,
Had seen the mice by moonlight play,
And why should I feel less than they?
We were all inmates of one place, 385
And I, the monarch of each race,
Had power to kill—yet, strange to tell!
In quiet we had learn’d to dwell—
My very chains and I grew friends,
So much a long communion tends 390
To make us what we are:—Even I
Regain’d my freedom with a sigh.

* * * * *

=ELEGY, WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD.=

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd wind slowly o’er the lea,
The plowman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 5
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow’r,
The moping owl does to the moon complain 10
Of such as, wand’ring near her secret bow’r,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree’s shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mould’ring heap,
Each in his narrow cell forever laid, 15
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn,
The swallow twitt’ring from the straw-built shed,
The cock’s shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 20

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care;
No children run to lisp their sire’s return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 25
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;
How jocund did they drive their team afield!
How bow’d the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; 30
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow’r,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave,
Await alike th’inevitable hour, 35
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
If Mem’ry o’er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where thro’ the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 40

Can storied urn, or animated bust,
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honour’s voice provoke the silent dust,
Or Flatt’ry sooth the dull cold ear of death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 45
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire,
Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway’d,
Or wak’d to ecstasy the living lyre.

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page
Rich with the spoils of time did ne’er unroll; 50
Chill Penury repress’d their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene
The dark unfathom’d caves of ocean bear;
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 55
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast
The little Tyrant of his fields withstood,
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
Some Cromwell guiltless of his country’s blood. 60

Th’ applause of list’ning senates to command
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o’er a smiling land,
And read their hist’ry in a nation’s eyes.

Their lot forbade: nor circumscrib’d alone 65
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin’d;
Forbade to wade thro’ slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind;

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, 70
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride
With incense kindled at the Muse’s flame.

Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learn’d to stray;
Along the cool sequester’d vale of life 75
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Yet ev’n these bones from insult to protect
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck’d
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 80

Their name, their years, spelt by th’ unletter’d Muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply;
And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, 85
This pleasing anxious being e’er resign’d,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing, ling’ring look behind?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires; 90
Ev’n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
Ev’n in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who, mindful of th’ unhonour’d dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
If chance, by lonely Contemplation led, 95
Some kindred spirit shall enquire thy fate,—

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
“Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away,
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn: 100

“There at the foot of yonder nodding beech,
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

“Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 105
Mutt’ring his wayward fancies he would rove;
Now drooping woeful-wan, like one forlorn,
Or craz’d with care, or cross’d in hopeless love.

“One morn I miss’d him on the custom’d hill,
Along the heath, and near his fav’rite tree; 110
Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;

“The next, with dirges due in sad array,
Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne:—
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay 115
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.”

THE EPITAPH.

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth,
A youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown:
Fair Science frown’d not on his humble birth,
And Melancholy mark’d him for her own. 120

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
Heav’n did a recompense as largely send;
He gave to Mis’ry all he had, a tear,
He gain’d from Heav’n (’twas all he wish’d) a friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose, 125
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,
(There they alike in trembling hope repose,)
The bosom of his Father and his God.

* * * * *

=MY KATE.=

She was not as pretty as women I know,
And yet all your best made of sunshine and snow
Drop to shade, melt to nought in the long-trodden ways,
While she’s still remembered on warm and cold days—
My Kate. 5

II.

Her air had a meaning, her movements a grace;
You turned from the fairest to gaze on her face:
And when you had once seen her forehead and mouth,
You saw as distinctly her soul and her truth—
My Kate. 10

III.

Such a blue inner light from her eyelids outbroke,
You looked at her silence and fancied she spoke:
When she did, so peculiar yet soft was the tone,
Though the loudest spoke also, you heard her alone—
My Kate. 15

IV.

I doubt if she said to you much that could act
As a thought or suggestion; she did not attract
In the sense of the brilliant or wise: I infer
’Twas her thinking of others made you think of her—
My Kate. 20

She never found fault with you, never implied
Your wrong by her right; and yet men at her side
Grew nobler, girls purer, as through the whole town
The children were gladder that pulled at her gown—
My Kate. 25

VI.

None knelt at her feet confessed lovers in thrall;
They knelt more to God than they used,—that was all;
If you praised her as charming, some asked what you meant,
But the charm of her presence was felt when she went—
My Kate. 30

VII.

The weak and the gentle, the ribald and rude,
She took as she found them, and did them all good;
It always was so with her—see what you have!
She has made the grass greener even here with her grave—
My Kate. 35

VIII.

My dear one!—when thou wast alive with the rest,
I held thee the sweetest and loved thee the best;
And now thou art dead, shall I not take thy part
As thy smiles used to do for thyself, my sweet Heart
My Kate. 40

* * * * *

=ROSABELLE.=

Oh listen, listen, ladies gay!
No haughty feat of arms I tell;
Soft is the note and sad the lay
That mourns the lovely Rosabelle.

“Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew! 5
And, gentle ladye, deign to stay!
Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch,
Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day.

“The blackening wave is edged with white;
To inch and rock the sea-mews fly; 10
The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite,
Whose screams forbode that wreck is nigh.

“Last night the gifted Seer did view
A wet shroud swathed round ladye gay;
Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch; 15
Why cross the gloomy firth to-day?”—

“’Tis not because Lord Lindesay’s heir
To-night at Roslin leads the ball,
But that my ladye-mother there
Sits lonely in her castle-hall. 20

“’Tis not because the ring they ride,
And Lindesay at the ring rides well,
But that my sire the wine will chide
If ’tis not fill’d by Rosabelle.”—

O’er Roslin all that dreary night 25
A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam;
’Twas broader than the watch-fire’s light,
And redder than the bright moonbeam.

It glared on Roslin’s castled rock,
It ruddied all the copse-wood glen; 30
’Twas seen from Dryden’s groves of oak,
And seen from cavern’d Hawthornden.

Seem’d all on fire that chapel proud,
Where Roslin’s chiefs uncoffin’d lie,
Each Baron, for a sable shroud, 35
Sheathed in his iron panoply.

Seem’d all on fire, within, around,
Deep sacristy and altar’s pale;
Shone every pillar foliage-bound,
And glimmer’d all the dead men’s mail. 40

Blazed battlement and pinnet high,
Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair—
So still they blaze, when fate is nigh
The lordly line of high Saint Clair.

There are twenty of Roslin’s barons bold 45
Lie buried within that proud chapelle;
Each one the holy vault doth hold—
But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle!

And each Saint Clair was buried there
With candle, with book, and with knell; 50
But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung
The dirge of lovely Rosabelle!

* * * * *

=LOCHINVAR.=

O, young Lochinvar is come out of the west,
Through all the wild border his steed was the best;
And, save his good broadsword, he weapons had none,
He rode all unarm’d, and he rode all alone.
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, 5
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

He staid not for brake, and he stopp’d not for stone,
He swam the Esk river where ford there was none;
But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,
The bride had consented, the gallant came late; 10
For a laggard in love and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

So boldly he enter’d the Netherby Hall,
Among bride’s-men, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all:
Then spoke the bride’s father, his hand on his sword, 15
(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,)
“O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?”—

“I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied;—
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide— 20
And now am I come, with this lost love of mine
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar.”

The bride kiss’d the goblet: the knight took it up, 25
He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup.
She look’d down to blush, and she look’d up to sigh,
With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye,
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,—
“Now tread we a measure!” said young Lochinvar. 30

So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
There never a hall such a galliard did grace;
While her mother did fret and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;
And the bride-maidens whispered, “’Twere better by far 35
To have match’d our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.”

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,
When they reach’d the hall-door, and the charger stood near;
So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung! 40
“She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur;
They’ll have fleet steeds that follow,” quoth young Lochinvar.

There was mounting ’mong Græmes of the Netherby clan;
Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran;
There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee, 45
But the lost bride of Netherby ne’er did they see.
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,
Have ye e’er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

* * * * *

=TO A SKYLARK.=

Hail to thee, blithe spirit!
Bird thou never wert,
That from heaven or near it
Pourest thy full heart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. 5

Higher still and higher
From the earth thou springest
Like a cloud of fire;
The deep blue thou wingest,
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. 10

In the golden lightning
Of the sunken sun
O’er which clouds are brightening,
Thou dost float and run,
Like an unbodied joy whose race has just begun. 15

The pale purple even
Melts around thy flight;
Like a star of heaven
In the broad daylight
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight; 20

Keen as are the arrows
Of that silver sphere,
Whose intense lamp narrows
In the white dawn clear
Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. 25

All the earth and air
With thy voice is loud,
As, when night is bare,
From one lonely cloud
The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow’d. 30

What thou art we know not;
What is most like thee?
From rainbow clouds there flow not
Drops so bright to see
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. 35

Like a poet hidden
In the light of thought,
Singing hymns unbidden,
Till the world is wrought
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not: 40

Like a high-born maiden
In a palace tower,
Soothing her love-laden
Soul in secret hour
With music sweet as love which overflows her bower: 45

Like a glow-worm golden
In a dell of dew,
Scattering unbeholden
Its aerial hue
Among the flowers and grass which screen it from the view: 50

Like a rose embowered
In its own green leaves,
By warm winds deflowered,
Till the scent it gives
Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-wingéd thieves. 55

Sound of vernal showers
On the twinkling grass,
Rain awaken’d flowers,
All that ever was
Joyous and clear and fresh thy music doth surpass. 60

Teach us, sprite or bird,
What sweet thoughts are thine;
I have never heard
Praise of love or wine
That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine: 65

Chorus hymeneal
Or triumphant chaunt
Match’d with thine, would be all
But an empty vaunt,
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. 70

What objects are the fountains
Of thy happy strain?
What fields or waves or mountains?
What shapes of sky or plain?
What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? 75

With thy clear keen joyance
Languor cannot be:
Shadow of annoyance
Never came near thee:
Thou lovest; but ne’er knew love’s sad satiety. 80

Waking or asleep
Thou of death must deem
Things more true and deep
Than we mortals dream,
Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream? 85

We look before and after,
And pine for what is not.
Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught;
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. 90

Yet if we could scorn
Hate and pride and fear;
If we were things born
Not to shed a tear,
I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. 95

Better than all measures
Of delightful sound,
Better than all treasures
That in books are found,
Thy skill to poets were, thou scorner of the ground! 100

Teach me half the gladness
That thy brain must know,
Such harmonious madness
From my lips would flow,
The world should listen then, as I am listening now! 105