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Then rose a little feud betwixt the two,
Betwixt the mockers and the realists:
And I, betwixt them both, to please them both,
And yet to give the story as it rose,

I moved as in a strange diagonal,

And maybe neither pleased myself nor them.

But Lilia pleased me, for she took no part In our dispute: the sequel of the tale

Had touch'd her; and she sat, she pluck'd the grass,

She flung it from her, thinking: last, she fixt A showery glance upon her aunt, and said, 'You tell us what we are' who might have told, For she was cramm'd with theories out of books, But that there rose a shout: the gates were closed

At sunset, and the crowd were swarming now, To take their leave, about the garden rails.

So I and some went out to these: we climb'd The slope to Vivian-place, and turning saw The happy valleys, half in light, and half Far-shadowing from the west, a land of peace; Gray halls alone among their massive groves; Trim hamlets; here and there a rustic tower Half-lost in belts of hop and breadths of wheat; The shimmering glimpses of a stream; the seas; A red sail, or a white; and far beyond,

Imagined more than seen, the skirts of France.

'Look there, a garden!' said my college friend, The Tory member's elder son, and there! God bless the narrow sea which keeps her off, And keeps our Britain, whole within herself, A nation yet, the rulers and the ruledSome sense of duty, something of a faith, Some reverence for the laws ourselves have made, Some patient force to change them when we will, Some civic manhood firm against the crowdBut yonder, whiff! there comes a sudden heat, The gravest citizen seems to lose his head, The king is scared, the soldier will not fight, The little boys begin to shoot and stab, A kingdom topples over with a shriek Like an old woman, and down rolls the world In mock heroics stranger than our own; Revolts, republics, revolutions, most No graver than a schoolboys' barring out; Too comic for the solemn things they are, Too solemn for the comic touches in them, Like our wild Princess with as wise a dream As some of theirs-God bless the narrow seas! I wish they were a whole Atlantic broad.'

'Have patience,' I replied, 'ourselves are full Of social wrong; and maybe wildest dreams. Are but the needful preludes of the truth : For me, the genial day, the happy crowd, The sport half-science, fill me with a faith. This fine old world of ours is but a child

Yet in the go-cart. Patience! Give it time
To learn its limbs: there is a hand that guides.'

In such discourse we gain'd the garden rails,
And there we saw Sir Walter where he stood,
Before a tower of crimson holly-hoaks,
Among six boys, head under head, and look'd
No little lily-handed Baronet he,

A great broad-shoulder'd genial Englishman,
A lord of fat prize-oxen and of sheep,
A raiser of huge melons and of pine,
A patron of some thirty charities,
A pamphleteer on guano and on grain,
A quarter-sessions chairman, abler none;
Fair-hair'd and redder than a windy morn;
Now shaking hands with him, now him, of those
That stood the nearest-now
now address'd to


Who spoke few words and pithy, such as closed Welcome, farewell, and welcome for the year To follow a shout rose again, and made

The long line of the approaching rookery swerve From the elms, and shook the branches of the


From slope to slope thro' distant ferns, and rang
Beyond the bourn of sunset; O, a shout
More joyful than the city-roar that hails
Premier or king! Why should not these great


up their parks some dozen times a year

To let the people breathe? So thrice they cried, I likewise, and in groups they stream'd away.

But we went back to the Abbey, and sat on, So much the gathering darkness charm'd: we sat But spoke not, rapt in nameless reverie,

Perchance upon the future man: the walls Blacken'd about us, bats wheel'd, and owls whoop'd,

And gradually the powers of the night,
That range above the region of the wind,
Deepening the courts of twilight broke them up
Thro' all the silent spaces of the worlds,
Beyond all thought into the Heaven of Heavens.

Last little Lilia, rising quietly,

Disrobed the glimmering statue of Sir Ralph From those rich silks, and home well-pleased we





BURY the Great Duke


With an empire's lamentation, Let us bury the Great Duke

To the noise of the mourning of a mighty


Mourning when their leaders fall,

Warriors carry the warrior's pall,

And sorrow darkens hamlet and hall.


Where shall we lay the man whom we deplore ?

Here, in streaming London's central roar.

Let the sound of those he wrought for,

And the feet of those he fought for,

Echo round his bones for evermore.

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