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Here there was laughing of old, there was weeping, Earth, stones, and thorns of the wild ground Haply of lovers none ever will know,
growing, Whose eyes went seaward a hundred sleeping While the sun and the rain live, these shall be ;
Till a last wind's breath upon all these blowing
Roll the sea. Heart handfast in heart as they stood, “Look thither,"
Till the slow sea rtse and the sheer cliff crumble, Did he whisper? "Look forth from the flowers
Till terrace and meadow the deep gulfs drink, to the sea;
Till the strength of the waves of the high tides
humble For the foam flowers endure when the rose-blos
The fields that lessen, the rocks that shrink, soms wither, And men that love lightly may die — but we?
Here now in his triumph where all things falter, And the same wind sang and the same waves
Stretched out on the spoils that his own hand whitened,
spread, And or ever the garden's last petals were shed,
As a god self-slain on his own strange altar,
Death lies dead. In the lips that had whispered, the eyes that had
ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. lightened,
Love was dead.
Or they loved their life through, and then went
whither And were one to the end – but what end, who
knows? Love deep as the sea as a rose must wither,
As the rose-red seaweed that mocks the rose. Shall the dead take thought for the dead to love
them What love was ever as deep as a grave! They are loveless now as the grass above them,
Or the wave.
The Latter Rain.
All are at one now, roses and lovers,
In the air now soft with a summer to be.
weep, When as they that are free now of weeping and laughter
We shall sleep.
The Autumn is old;
The sere leaves are flying;
And now he is dying:
Old age, begin sighing !
The harvest is heaping;
Have no riches for reaping:
Here death may deal not again for ever;
Here change may come not till all change end. From the graves they have made they shall rise up
never, Who have left naught living to ravage and rend.
Creeping where no life is seen,
Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed,
And nations have scattered been;
From its hale and hearty green.
Shall fatten upon the past ;
Creeping where no life is seen,
Grongar Hill. SILENT nymph, with curious eye, Who, the purple evening, lie On the mountain's lonely van, Beyond the noise of busy man Painting fair the form of things, While the yellow linnet sings, Or the tuneful nightingale Charms the forest with her tale. Come, with all thy various hues, Come, and aid thy sister Muse. Now, while Phæbus, riding high, Gives lustre to the land and sky, Grongar Hill invites my song Draw the landscape bright and strong; Grongar, in whose mossy cells Sweetly musing Quiet dwells; Grongar, in whose silent shade, For the modest Muses made, So oft I have, the evening still, At the fountain of a rill, Sat upon a flowery bed, With my hand beneath my head, While strayed my eyes o'er Towy's flood, Over mead and over wood, From house to house, from hill to hill, Till Contemplation had her fill.
About his checkered sides I wind, And leave his brooks and meads behind, And groves and grottoes where I lay, And vistas shooting beams of day. Wide and wider spreads the vale,
As circles on a smooth canal.
Now I gain the mountain's brow;
Old castles on the cliffs arise,
Below me trees unnumbered rise,
Concealed in ruins, moss, and weeds ;
And see the rivers, how they run
gay To disperse our cares away.
Ever charming, ever new,
See on the mountain's southern side,
Oh may I with myself agree,
And never covet what I see;
Now, even now, my joys run high,
Be full, ye courts; be great who will;
The mellow year is hasting to its close;
Blow! let us hear the purple glens replying ;
O love, they die in yon rich sky;
They faint on hill or field or river: Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow for ever and for ever. Blow, bugle, blow! set the wild echoes flying, And answer, echoes, answer - dying, dying, dying!
The Evening Wind.
Folding the Flocks. SHEPHERDS all, and maidens fair, Fold your flocks up; for the air 'Gins to thicken, and the sun Already his great course hath run. See the dew-drops, how they kiss Every little flower that is: Hanging on their velvet heads, Like a string of crystal beads. See the heavy clouds low falling And bright Hesperus down calling The dead night from under ground; At whose rising, mists unsound, Damps and vapors, fly apace, And hover o'er the smiling face Of these pastures; where they come, Striking dead both bud and bloom. Therefore from such danger lock Every one his loved flock; And let your dogs lie loose without, Lest the wolf come as a scout From the mountain, and, ere day, Bear a lamb or kid away; Or the crafty, thievish fox, Break upon your simple flocks. To secure yourself from these, Be not too secure in ease; So shall you good shepherds prove, And deserve your master's love. Now, good night! may sweetest slumbers And soft silence fall in numbers On your eyelids. So farewell : Thus I end my evening knell.
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.
Bugle Song. The splendor falls on castle walls
And snowy summits old in story; The long light shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow! set the wild echoes flying ; Blow, bugle; answer, echoes – dying, dying, dying!
The wide, old wood from his majestic rest,
Summoning, from the innumerable boughs, The strange deep harmonies that haunt his breast.
Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass, And where the o'ershadowing branches sweep the
grass. Stoop o'er the place of graves, and softly sway
The sighing herbage by the gleaming stone; That they who near the churchyard willows
stray, And listen in the deepening gloom, alone,
Oh hark, oh hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, further going! O sweet and far, from cliff and scar,
The horns of Elfand faintly blowing !