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But, since it pleased a vanished eye,
I go to plant it on his tomb,
That, if it can, it there may bloom; Or, dying, there at least
Sailest the placid ocean-plains
With my lost Arthur's loved remains, Spread thy full wings, and waft him o'er. So draw him home to those that
Thy sliding keel, till Phosphor, bright
As our pure love, through early light Shall glimmer on the dewy decks. Sphere all your lights around, above! Sleep, gentle heavens! before the prow;
Sleep, gentle winds! as he sleeps now,My friend, the brother of my love; My Arthur, whom I shall not see
Till all my widowed race be run;
Dear as the mother to the son, More than my brothers are to me.
I HEAR the noise about thy keel ;
I hear the bell struck in the night;
I see the cabin-window bright; I see the sailor at the wheel.
Thou bring'st the sailor to his wife,
And traveled men from foreign lands,
And letters unto trembling hands, And thy dark freight, — a vanished life. So bring him. We have idle dreams :
This look of quiet flatters thus
Our home-bred fancies: oh! to us,
That takes the sunshine and the rains, Or where the kneeling hamlet drains The chalice of the grapes of God,
Than if with thee the roaring wells
Should gulf him fathom-deep in brine,
And hands so often clasped in mine Should toss with tangle and with shells.
Calm as to suit a calmer grief;
And on these dews that drench the furze,
And all the silvery gossamers
That sweeps with all its autumn bowers,
And crowded farms and lessening towers, To mingle with the bounding main. Calm and deep peace in this wide air,
These leaves that redden to the fall;
And in my heart, if calm at all,
And waves that sway themselves in rest;
And dead calın in that noble breast, Which heaves but with the heaving deep.
To bear through heaven a tale of woe,
Some dolorous message knit below The wild pulsations of her wings : Like her I go; I can not stay ;
I leave this mortal ark behind,
A weight of nerves without a mind, And leave the cliffs, and haste away O’er ocean-mirrors rounded large,
And reach the glow of southern skies,
And see the sails at distance rise, And linger weeping on the marge, And saying, “ Comes he thus, my friend ?
Is this the end of all my care ?” And circle, moaning in the air, “Is this the end ? is this the end ?”
And forward dart again, and play
About the prow, and back return To where the body sits, and learn That I have been an hour away.
XVIII. 'Tis well, 'tis something, we may stand
Where he in English earth is laid,
And from his ashes may be made The violet of his native land. 'Tis little; but it looks in truth
As if the quiet bones were blest,
Among familiar names to rest, And in the places of his youth. Come then, pure hands, and bear the head
That sleeps, or wears the mask of sleep;
And come, whatever loves to weep,
I, falling on his faithful heart,
Would, breathing through his lips, impart The life that almost dies in me, – That dies not, but endures with pain,
And slowly forms the firmer mind,
Treasuring the look it can not find, The words that are not heard again.
The darkened heart that beat no more:
They laid him by the pleasant shore,
The salt sea-water passes by,
And hushes half the babbling Wye,
And hushed my deepest grief of all,
When, filled with tears that can not fall, I brim with sorrow drowning song. The tide flows down; the wave again
Is vocal in its wooded walls :
My deeper anguish also falls, And I can speak a little then.
XXVII. I ENVY not in any moods
The captive void of noble rage ;
The linnet born within the cage, That never knew the summer woods : I envy not the beast that takes
His license in the field of time,
Unfettered by the sense of crime, To whom a conscience never wakes : Nor, what may count itself as blest,
The heart that never plighted troth, But stagnates in the weeds of sloth; Nor
any want-begotten rest. I hold it true, whate'er befall,
I feel it when I sorrow most,
'Tis better to have loved and lost Than never to have loved at all.
The flying cloud, the frosty light:
Ring out the old, ring in the new;
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
year is going, — let him go: Ring out the false, ring in the true. Ring out the grief that saps
Ring out the feud of rich and poor ;
And ancient forms of party strife ;
Ring in the nobler modes of life, With sweeter manners, purer laws. Ring out the want, the care, the sin,
The faithless coldness, of the times;
Ring out, ring out, my mournful rhymes, But ring the fuller minstrel in. Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;
Ring in the love of truth and right; Ring in the common love of good.