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the ways.

Without the sense of that which I for- | Once, as a friend: this fixed a day in bore,

spring Thy touch upon the palm. The widest To come and touch my hand - a simple land

thing, Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart Yet I weep for it! this — the paper's in mine

light With pulses that beat double. What I Said, Dear, I love thee; and I sank do

and quailed And what I dream include thee, as the As if God's future thundered on my wine

past. Must taste of its own grapes. And This said, I am thine - and so its ink when I sue

has paled God for myself, He hears that name of With lying at my heart that beat too thine,

fast: And sees within my eyes the tears of And this — O Love, thy words have ill two.

availed, If, what this said, I dared repeat at

last! My own beloved, who hast lifted me From this dear flat of earth where I was thrown,

How do I love thee? Let me count And in betwixt the languid ringlets, blown

I love thee to the depth and breadth and A life breath, till the forehead hopefully height Shines out again, as all the angels see, My soul can reach, when feeling out of Before thy saving kiss! My own, my sight own,

For the ends of Being and Ideal Grace. Who camest to me when the world was I love thee to the level of every day's gone,

Most quiet need, by sun and candleAnd I who looked for only God, found

light. thee!

I love thee freely, as men strive for I find thee; I am safe, and strong, and

Right; glad.

I love thee purely, as they turn from As one who stands in dewless asphodel,

Praise; Looks backward on the tedious time he

I love thee with the passion put to use had

In my old griefs, and with my childIn the upper life - so I, with bosom

hood's faith; swell,

I love thee with a love I seemed to Make witness, here, between the good

lose and bad,

With my lost saints, — I love thee with That Love, as strong as Death, retrieves the breath, as well.

Smiles, tears, of all my life! — and, if

God choose, My letters ! all dead paper, mute and

I shall but love thee better after death. white ! And yet they seem alive and quivering Against my tremulous hands which

FROM "CASA GUIDI WINDOWS." loose the string And let them drop down on my knee | THEN, gazing, I beheld the long-drawn to-night.

street This said, - he wished to have me in Live out, from end to end, full in the his sight



With Austria's thousand; sword and

bayonet, Horse, foot, artillery, — cannons rolling


What was he doing, the great God

Pan, Down in the reeds by the river? Spreading ruin and scattering ban, Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a

goat, And breaking the golden lilies afloat

With the dragon-fly on the river.

Like blind slow storm-clouds gestant

with the heat Of undeveloped lightnings, each be

strode By a single man, dust-white from head

to heel, Indifferent as the dreadful thing he

rode, Like sculptured Fate serene and ter

rible. As some smooth river which has over

flowed, Will slow and silent down its current

wheel A loosened forest, all the pines

erect, So swept, in mute significance of

storm, The marshalled thousands; not an eye

deflects To left or right, to catch a novel

form Of Florence city adorned by architect And carver, or of Beauties live and

He tore out a reed, the great God Pan

From the deep cool bed of the river The limpid water turbidly ran, And the broken lilies a-dying lay, And the dragon-fly had fled away,

Ere he brought it out of the river.

High on the shore sat the great God

Pan, While turbidly flowed the river; And hacked and hewed as a great God

can, With his hard bleak steel at the patient

reed, Till there was not a sign of the leaf in

To prove it fresh from the river.

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He cut it short, did the great God Pan,

(How tall it stood in the river !) Then drew the pith, like the heart of a

man, Steadily from the outside ring, And notched the poor dry empty thing

In holes, as he sat by the river.

your lords.

Ye played like children, die like in

nocents. Ye mimicked lightnings with a torch,

the crack Of the actual bolt, your pastime circum

vents. Ye called up ghosts, believing they

were slack To follow any voice from Gilboa's

tents, Here's Samuel ! -- and, so, Grand-dukes

come back!

“This is the way,” laughed the great

God Pan, (Laughed while he sat by the river,) “The only way, since Gods began To make sweet music, they could suc

ceed.” Then, dropping his mouth to a hole in

the reed,
He blew in power by the river.

Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan!

Piercing sweet by the river ! Blinding sweet, O great God Pan! The sun on the hill forgot to die,

And the lilies revived, and the dragon- | The irregular line of elms by the deep fly

lane Came back to dream on the river. Which stopped the grounds and

dammed the overflow Yet half a beast is the great God Pan,

Of arbutus and laurel. Out of sight To laugh as he sits by the river, The lane was; sunk so deep, no foreign Making a poet out of a man:

tramp The true Gods sigh for the cost and Nor drover of wild ponies ou of pain,

Wales For the reed which grows never more Could guess if lady's hall or tenant's again

lodge As a reed with the reeds in the river. Dispensed such odors, — though his

stick well-crooked Might reach the lowest trail of blos

soming briar

Which dipped upon the wall. Behind AURORA'S HOME.

the elms, [From Aurora Leigh.]

And through their tops, you saw the

folded hills I HAD a little chamber in the house, Striped up and down with hedges (burly As green as any privet-hedge a bird

oaks Might choose to build in, though the Projecting from the line to show themnest itself

selves) Could show but dead brown sticks and Through which my cousin Romney's straws; the walls

chimney smoked Were green, the carpet was pure green,

As still as when a silent month in the straight

frost Small bed was curtained greenly, and Breathes, showing where the woodlands the folds

hid Leigh Hall; Hung green about the window which While, far above, a jut of table-land, let in

A promontory withoutwater stretched,The out-door world with all its greenery. You could not catch it if the days were You could not push your head out and

thick, escape

Or took it for a cloud; but, otherwise, A dash of dawn-dew from the honey- | The vigorous sun would catch it up at

suckle, But so you were baptized into the grace And use it for an anvil till he had And privilege of seeing. .

filled First, the lime, The shelves of heaven with burning (I had enough there, of the lime, be thunderbolts, sure,

Protesting against night and darkness : My morning-dream was often hummed

then, away

When all his setting trouble was reBy the bees in it); past the lime, the

solved lawn,

To a trance of passive glory, you might Which, after sweeping broadly round the house,

In apparition on the golden sky Went trickling through the shrubberies (Alas, my Giotto's background!) the in a stream,

sheep run Of tender turf, and wore and lost itself | Along the fine clear outline, small as Among the acacias, over which you

mice That run along a witch's scarlet thread.





[From Aurora Leigh.] I LEARNT to love that England. Very

oft, Before the day was born, or otherwise Through secret windings of the after

noons, I threw my hunters off and plunged my

self Among the deep hills, as a hunted stag Will take the waters, shivering with the

fear And passion of the course. And when

at last Escaped, so many a green slope built on

slope Betwixt me and the evening's house be

hind, I dared to rest, or wander, in a rest Made sweeter for the step upon the

grass, And view the ground's most gentle dim

plement, (As if God's finger touched, but did not

press In making England) such an up and

down Of verdure, — nothing too much up or

down, A ripple of land; such little hills, the

sky Can stoop so tenderly and the wheat

fields climb; Such nooks of valleys lined with or

chises, Fed full of noises by invisible streams; And open pastures where you scarcely

tell White daisies from white dew,

at intervals The mythic oaks and elm-trees standing

out Self-poised upon their prodigy of

shade, I thought my father's land was worthy

too Of being my Shakespeare's.

We read, or talked, or quarrelled, as it

chanced. We were not lovers, nor even friends

well-matched : Say rather, scholars upon different

And thinkers disagreed, he, overfull
Of what is, and I, haply, overbold
For what might be.

But then the thrushes sang, And shook my pulses and the elms' new

leaves; At which I turned, and held my finger

up, And bade him mark that, howsoe'er the

world Went ill, as he related, certainly The thrushes still sang in it. At the

word His brow would soften, - and he bore

with me In melancholy patience, not unkind, While breaking into voluble ecstasy I flattered all the beauteous country

round, As poets use, the skies, the clouds, the

fields, The happy violets hiding from the

roads The primroses run down to, carrying The tand;

push out Impatient horns and tolerant churning

mouths 'Twixt dripping ash-boughs, — hedge

rows all alive With birds and gnats and large white

butterflies, Which look as if the May-flower had

caught life And palpitated forth upon the wind; Hills, vales, woods, netted in a silver

mist, Farms, granges, doubled up among the

hills; And cattle grazing in the watered

vales, And cottage-chimneys smoking from

the woods, And cottage-gardens smelling every.


Ofter we walked only two, If cousin Romney pleased to walk with


Confused with smell of orchards.

“See,” I said, “ And see! is God not with us on the

earth? And shall we put him down by aught

we do? Who says there's nothing for the poor

and vile Save poverty and wickedness? behold!” And ankle-deep in English grass I

leaped And clapped my hands, and called all

And, staring out at us with all their

blue, As half perplexed between the angel

hood He had been away to visit in his sleep, And our most mortal presence, gradually He saw his mother's face, accepting it In change for heaven itself with such a

smile As might have well been learnt there,

never moved, But smiled on, in a drowse of ecstasy, So happy (half with her and half with

heaven) He could not have the trouble to be

stirred, But smiled and lay there. Like a rose,

I said; As red and still indeed as any rose, That blows in all the silence of its leaves, Content in blowing to fulfil its life.

very fair.

[From Aurora Leigh.]

There he lay upon his back, The yearling creature, warm and moist

with life To the bottom of his dimples, to the

ends Of the lovely tumbled curls about his

face; For since he had been covered over

much To keep him from the light-glare, both

his cheeks Were hot and scarlet as the first live



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HEARKEN, hearken! The rapid river carrieth Many noises underneath

The hoary ocean: Teaching his solemnity Sounds of inland life and glee, Learnt beside the waving tree, When the winds in summer prank Toss the shades from bank to bank, And the quick rains, in emotion Which rather gladdens earth than

grieves, Count and visibly rehearse The pulse of the universe Upon the summer leaves Learnt among the lilies straight, When they bow them to the weight Of many bees whose hidden hum Seemeth from themselves to come Learnt among the grasses green, Where the rustling mice are seen By the gleaming, as they run, Of their quick eyes in the sun; And lazy sheep are browsing through, With their noses trailed in dew;

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