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Divides threefold to show the fruit within: | Full cold my greeting was and dry; Then, wondering, ask'd her “ Are you ! She faintly smiled, she hardly moved ; from the farm ?”
| I saw with half-unconscious eye “Yes” answer'd she. “Pray stay a She wore the colors I approved.
little : pardon me; What do they call you ?” “Katie.” “ That were strange.
She took the little ivory chest, What surname?” “Willows.” “No!” With half a sigh she turn'd the key, “That is my name.”
Then raised her head with lips comprest, “Indeed !” and here he look'd so self
And gave my letters back to me. perplext,
| And gave the trinkets and the rings, That Katie laugh’d, and laughing blush'd,
My gifts, when gifts of mine could till he
please ; Laugh'd also, but as one before he wakes, | As looks a father on the things Who feels a glimmering strangeness in Of his dead son, I look'd on these.
his dream. Then looking at her ; “Too happy, fresh
iv. and fair, Too fresh and fair in our sad world's best
of She told me all her friends had said ;
I raged against the public liar ; To be the ghost of one who bore your
She talk'd as if her love were dead,
But in my words were seeds of fire, name About these meadows, twenty years ago.”
“No more of love; your sex is known.
I never will be twice deceived. “Have you not heard ?” said Katie,
Kati Henceforth I trust the man alone, “we came back.
| The woman cannot be believed. We bought the farm we tenanted before. Am I so like her? so they said on board. Sir, if you knew her in her English days, “Thro' slander, meanest spawn of Hell My mother, as it seems you did, the (And women's slander is the worst), days
And you, whom once I loved so well, That most she loves to talk of, come with Thro' you, my life will be accurst." me.
I spoke with heart, and heat and force, My brother James is in the harvest-field : I shook her breast with vague alarms — But she -- you will be welcome - 0, Like torrents from a mountain source come in !”
We rush'd into each other's arms.
We parted : sweetly gleam'd the stars,
And sweet the vapor-braided blue, Low breezes fann'd the belfry bars,
As homeward by the church I drew. STILL on the tower stood the vane,
The very graves appear'd to smile, A black yew gloom'd the stagnant air,
So fresh they rose in shadow'd swells ; I peer'd athwart the chancel pane
“Dark porch,” I said, “and silent aisle, And saw the altar cold and bare.
There comes a sound of marriage bells.“ A clog of lead was round my feet,
A band of pain across my brow; “ Cold altar, Heaven and earth shall meet LoDE ON THE DEATH OF THE Before you hear my marriage vow.”
DUKE OF WELLINGTON.
Let us bury the Great Duke
Mourning when their leaders fall, | Render thanks to the Giver,
That shines over city and river,
| There he shall rest for ever Where shall we lay the man whom we Among the wise and the bold. deplore ?
Let the bell be tollid:
Bright let it be with its blazon'd deeds, Echo round his bones for everinore.
Dark in its funeral fold.
And a deeperknell in the heart be knollid; Lead out the pageant: sad and slow,
And the sound of the sorrowing anthem As fits an universal woe, Let the long long procession go,
Thro' the dome of the golden cross ; And let the sorrowing crowd about it grow, |
w And the volleying cannon thunder his And let the mournful martial music blow;
He knew their voices of old. The last great Englishman is low.
For many a time in many a clime
His captain's-ear has heard them boom IV.
Bellowing victory, bellowing doom: Mourn, for to us he seems the last,
When he with those deep voices wrought, Remembering all his greatness in the Past. lCuarding realms and kinors from shame No more in soldier fashion will he greet | With those deep voices our dead cap. With lifted hand the gazer in the street.
tain taught O friends, our chief state-oracle is mute : The tyrant, and asserts his claim Mourn for the man of long-enduring. In thât dread sound to the great name, blood,
Which he has worn so pure of blame, The statesman-warrior, moderate, reso
| In praise and in dispraise the same, lute,
| A man of well-attemper'd frame. Whole in himself, a common good.
| 0 civic muse, to such a name, Mourn for the man of amplest influence, Tos
To such a name for ages long, Yet clearest of ambitious crime,
To such a name, Our greatest yet with least pretence,
Preserve a broad approach of fame,
And ever-echoing avenues of song.
Who is he that cometh, like an honor'd In his simplicity sublime.
guest, O good gray head which all men knew, With banner and with music, with solO voice from which their omens all men
dier and with priest, drew,
With a nation weeping, and breaking O iron nerve to true occasion true, O fall’n at length that tower of strength Mighty Seaman, this is he
on my rest? Which stood four-square to all the winds
Was great by land as thou by sea. that blew !
Thine island loves thee well, thou fa. Such was he whom we deplore.
mous man, The long self-sacrifice of life is o'er.
The greatest sailor since our world began. The great World-victor's victor will be
Now, to the roll of muffled drums, seen no more.
To thee the greatest soldier comes ;
For this is he
Was great by land as thou by sea ;
His foes were thine ; he kept us free; Render thanks to the Giver,
O give him welcome, this is he England, for thy son.
Worthy of our gorgeous rites, Let the bell be toll’d.
| And worthy to be laid by thee;
For this is England's greatest son, | At civic revel and pomp and game, He that gain'd a hundred fights, Attest their great commander's claim Nor ever lost an English gun;
With honor, honor, honor, honor to him, This is he that far away
Eternal honor to his name.
A people's voice! we are a people yet. Warring on a later day,
Tho' all men else their nobler dreams Round affrighted Lisbon drew
forget, The treble works, the vast designs Confused by brainless mobs and lawless Of his labor'd rampart-lines,
Powers; Where he greatly stood at bay,
Thank Him who isled us here, and Whence he issued forth anew,
roughly set And ever great and greater grew, His Briton in blown seas and storming Beating from the wasted vines
showers, Back to France her banded swarms, | We have a voice, with which to pay the Back to France with countless blows,
debt Till o'er the hills her eagles flew
Of boundless love and reverence and regret Beyond the Pyrenean pines,
To those great men who fought, and kept Follow'd up in valley and glen
it ours, With blare of bugle, clamor of men, And keep it ours, O God, from brute conRoll of cannon and clash of arms,
trol; And England pouring on her foes. O Statesmen, guard us, guard the eye, Such a war had such a close.
the soul Again their ravening eagle rose
Of Europe, keep our noble England whole, In anger, wheel'd on Europe-shadowing And save the one true seed of freedom
sown And barking for the thrones of kings; Betwixt a people and their ancient throne, Tillone that sought but Duty'siron crown That sober freedom out of which there On that loud sabbath shook the spoiler springs down;
Our loyal passion for ourtemperate kings ; A day of onsets of despair !
For, saving that, ye help to save mankind Dash'd on every rocky square
Till public wrong be crumbled into dust, Their surging charges foam'd themselves And drill the raw world for the march away;
of mind, Last, the Prussian trumpet blew; Till crowds at length be cane and crowns Thro' the long-tormented air
be just. Heaven flash'd a sudden jubilant ray, But wink no more in slothful overtrust. And down we swept and charged and Remember him who led your hosts; overthrew.
He bade you guard the sacred coasts. So great a soldier taught us there, Your cannons moulder on the seaward What long-enduring hearts could do
wall ; In that world's-earthquake, Waterloo ! His voice is silent in your council-hall Mighty Seaman, tender and true, For ever; and whatever tempests lower And pure as he from taint of craven guile, For ever silent; even if they broke O saviour of the silver-coasted isle, In thunder, silent; yet remember all O shaker of the Baltic and the Nile, | He spoke among you, and the Man who If aught of things that here befall
spoke; Touch a spirit among things divine, | Who neversold the truth to serve the hour, If love of country move thee there at all, Nor palter'd with Eternal God for power; Be glad, because his bones are laid by Who let the turbid streams of rumor
thine ! And thro'the centuries let a people's voice Thro' either babbling world of high and In full acclaim,
low; A people's voice,
| Whose life was work, whose language rife The proof and echo of all human fame, With rugged maxims hewn from life ; A people's voice, when they rejoice Who never spoke against a foe;
Whose eighty winters freeze with one re
Peace, his triumph will be sung All great self-seekers trampling on the By some yet unmoulded tongue
Far on in summers that we shall not see : Truth-teller was our England's Alfred Peace, it is a day of pain . named;
For one about whose patriarchal knee Truth-lover was our English Duke ;
| Late the little children clung : Whatever record leap to light
| 0 peace, it is a day of pain He never shall be shamed.
For one, upon whose hand and heart and
Once the weight and fate of Europe hung. Lo, the leader in these glorious wars | Ours the pain, be his the gain ! Now to glorious burial slowly borne, More than is of man's degree Follow'd by the brave of other lands, Must be with us, watching here He, on whom from both her open hands At this, our great solemnity. Lavish Honor shower'd all her stars, Whom we see not we revere, And affluent Fortuneemptied all her horn. We revere, and we refrain Yea, let all good things await
From talk of battles loud and vain,
And brawling memories all too freo
| We revere, and while we hear The path of duty was the way to glory : The tides of Music's golden sea He that walks it, only thirsting
Setting toward eternity, For the right, and learns to deaden | Uplifted high in heart and hope are we, Love of self, before his journey closes, Until we doubt not that for one so true He shall find the stubborn thistle bursting There must be other nobler work to do Into glossy purples, which outredden Than when he fought at Waterloo, All voluptuous garden-roses.
And Victor he must ever be. Not once or twice in our fair island-story, For tho' the Giant Ages heave the hill The path of duty was the way to glory : And break the shore, and evermore He, that ever following her commands, Make and break, and work their will ; On with toilof heart and knees and hands, Tho'world on world in myriad myriads roll Thro' the long gorge to the far light has Round us, each with different powers, won
And other forms of life than ours, His path upward, and prevail'd,
What know we greater than the soul ? Shall find the toppling crags of Duty On God and Godlike men we build our scaled
trust. Are close upon the shining table-lands Hush, the Dead March wails in the peoTo which our God Himself is moon and
ple's ears : sun.
The dark crowd moves, and there are Such was he : his work is done,
sobs and tears : Bnt while the races of mankind endure, The black earth yawns : the mortal disLet his great example stand
appears ; Colossal, seen of every land,
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust ; And keep the soldier firm, the statesman He is gone who seem'd so great. — pure:
Gone ; but nothing can bereave him Till in all lands and thro' all human story Of the force he made his own The path of duty be the way to glory : Being here, and we believe him And let the land whose hearths he saved Something far advanced in State, from shame
And that he wears a truer crown For many and many an age proclaim Than any wreath that man can weave him. At civic revel and pomp and game, Speak no more of his renown, And when the long-illumined cities flame, Lay your earthly fancies down, Their ever-loyal iron leader's fame, And in the vast cathedral leave him. With honor, honor, honor, honor to him, God accept him, Christ receive him. Eternal honor to his name.
| In bright vignettes, and each complete,
Of tower or duomo, sunny-sweet,
Or palace, how the city glitter'd,
Thro' cypress avenues, at our feet. In lands of palm and southern pine ;
But when we crost the Lombard plain In lands of palm, of orange-blossom,
| Remember what a plague of rain ; Of olive, aloe, and maize and vine.
Of rain at Reggio, rain at Parma; What Roman strength Turbia show'd
| At Lodi, rain, Piacenza, rain. In ruin, by the mountain road ;
And stern and sad (so rare the smiles How like a gem, beneath, the city
Of sunlight) look'd the Lombard piles ; Of little Monaco, basking, glow'd.
Porch-pillars on the lion resting, How richly down the rocky dell
And sombre, old, colonnaded aisles. The torrent vineyard streaming fell
O Milan, O the chanting quires, To meet the sun and sunny waters,
| The giant windows' blazon'd fires, That only heaved with a summer swell.
The height, the space, the gloom, the What slender campanili grew
glory! By bays, the peacock's neck in hue ;
A mount of marble, a hundred spires ! "Where, here and there,on sandy beaches | 1 climb'd the roofs at break of day; A milky-bell’d amaryllis blew.
Sun-smitten Alps before me lay. How young Columbus seem'd to rove,
I stood among the silent statues, Yet present in his natal grove,
| And statued pinnacles, mute as they. Now watching high on mountain How faintly-flushed, how phantom-fair, cornice,
Was Monte Rosa hanging there
And snowy dells in a golden air.
To Como; shower and storm and blast And drank, and loyally drank to him. Had blown the lake beyond his limit,
And all was flooded ; and how we past Nor knew we well what pleased us most, Not the clipt palm of which they boast ; | From Como, when the light was gray,
But distant color, happy hamlet, And in my head, for half the day, A moulder'd citadel on the coast,
The rich Virgilian rustic measure
Of Lari Maxume, all the way,
Like ballad-burden music, kept,
As on The Lariano crept Or rosy blossom in hot ravine,
To that fair port below the castle
Of Queen Theodolind, where we slept; Where oleanders flush'd the bed Of silent torrents, gravel-spread;
Or hardly slept, but watch'd awake And, crossing, oft we saw the glisten
A cypress in the moonlight shake,
| The moonlight touching o'er a terrace Of ice, far up on a mountain head.
One tall Agave above the lake. We loved that hall, tho' white and cold, What more? we took our last adieu, Those niched shapes of noble mould,
| And up the snowy Splugen drew, A princely people's awful princes,
| But ere we reach'd the highest summit The grave, severe Genovese of old.
I pluck'd a daisy, I gave it you. At Florence too what golden hours, It told of England then to me, In those long galleries, were ours; And now it tells of Italy.
What drives about the fresh Cascine, O love, we two shall go no longer Or walks in Boboli's ducal bowers. 1 To lands of summer across the sea ;