Yes, I who now, with angry tears,
Am exiled back to brutish clod,

Have borne unquenched for fourscore years
A spark of the eternal God:

And to what end? How yield I back
The trust for such high uses given?
Heaven's light hath but revealed a track
Whereby to crawl away from Heaven.

Men think it is an awful sight
To see a soul just set adrift

On that drear voyage from whose night
The ominous shadows never lift;
But 'tis more awful to behold

A helpless infant newly born,
Whose little hands unconscious hold
The keys of darkness and of morn.

Mine held them once; I flung away
Those keys that might have open set
The golden sluices of the day,

But clutch the keys of darkness yet ;—
I hear the reapers singing go

Into God's harvest; I, that might With them have chosen, here below

Grope shuddering at the gates of night. O glorious Youth, that once wast mine! O high Ideal! all in vain

Ye enter at this ruined shrine

'Whence worship ne'er shall rise again; The bat and owl inhabit here,

The snake nests in the altar-stone, The sacred vessels moulder near; The image of the God is gone.

J. R. LOWELL

137.-SONNETS

I l

MUCH have I travelled in the realms of gold,
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen ;
Round many western islands have I been
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.

Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne :
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene

Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken;
Or like stout Cortez 2 when with eagle eyes
He stared at the Pacific-and all his men
Looked at each other with a wild surmise,
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

II

When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain,
Before high pilèd books, in charact❜ry,
Hold like rich garners the full-ripened grain ;
When I behold, upon the night's starred face,
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And think that I may never live to trace
Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour!
That I shall never look upon thee more,

1 On first looking into Chapman's Homer.

2 Cortez, the conqueror of Mexico, seems to be here confused with Balboa, the discoverer of the Pacific.

Never have relish in the faery power

Of unreflecting love !—then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.
J. KEATS

138.-A DIRGE

Now is done thy long day's work;
Fold thy palms across thy breast,
Fold thine arms, turn to thy rest.
Let them rave.

Shadows of the silver birk

Sweep the green that folds thy grave.
Let them rave.

Thee nor carketh care nor slander;
Nothing but the small cold worm
Fretteth thine enshrouded form.
Let them rave.

Light and shadow ever wander
O'er the green that folds thy grave.
Let them rave.

Thou wilt not turn upon thy bed;
Chaunteth not the brooding bee
Sweeter tones than calumny?
Let them rave.

Thou wilt never raise thine head
From the green that folds thy grave.
Let them rave.

Crocodiles wept tears for thee
The woodbine and eglatere

Drip sweeter dews than traitor's tear.
Let them rave.

Rain makes music in the tree

O'er the green that folds thy grave.
Let them rave.

Round thee blow, self-pleachèd1 deep,
Bramble roses,2 faint and pale,
And long purples of the dale.
Let them rave.

These in every shower creep

Through the green that folds thy grave.
Let them rave.

The gold-eyed kingcups fine;
The frail bluebell peereth over
Rare broidry of the purple clover.
Let them rave.

Kings have no such couch as thine,
As the green that folds thy grave.
Let them rave.

Wild words wander here and there;
God's great gift of speech abused
Makes thy memory confused:
But let them rave.

2 Dog-roses.

1 Naturally intertwined.

So Chaucer

"the bramble flower

That bereth the red hepe."

The balm-cricket 1 carols clear

In the green that folds thy grave.
Let them rave.

TENNYSON

139.-MAN

WEIGHING the steadfastness and state

Of some mean things which here below reside, Where birds like watchful clocks the noiseless date And intercourse of times divide,

Where bees at night get home and hive, and flowers,

Early as well as late,

Rise with the sun, and set in the same bowers;

I would, said I, my God would give
The staidness of these things to man! for these
To His divine appointments ever cleave,

And no new business breaks their peace;
The birds nor sow nor reap, yet sup and dine,
The flowers without clothes live,
Yet Solomon was never drest so fine.

Man hath still either toys or care;
He hath no root, nor to one place is tied,
But ever restless and irregular

About this earth doth run and ride.

He knows he hath a home, but scarce knows where; He says it is so far

That he hath quite forgot how to go there.

1 Literally "tree (baum) cricket," or cicada; here, apparently, grasshopper,