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Me lying dead, my crown about my Hearing the holy organ rolling waves

brows,

Of sound on roof and floor

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The light white cloud swam over us. Anon

We heard the lion roaring from his den; We saw the large white stars rise one by

one,

Or, from the darken'd glen,

'Saw God divide the night with flying flame,

And thunder on the everlasting hills. I heard Him, for He spake, and grief became

A solemn scorn of ills.

When the next moon was roll'd into the sky,

Strength came to me that equall'd my
desire.

How beautiful a thing it was to die
For God and for my sire!

It comforts me in this one thought to dwell,

That I subdued me to my father's will; Because the kiss he gave me, ere I fell,

Sweetens the spirit still.

'Moreover it is written that my race Hew'd Ammon, hip and thigh, from Aroer

On Arnon unto Minneth.' Here her face Glow'd, as I look'd at her.

She lock'd her lips: she left me where I stood :

'Glory to God,' she sang, and past

afar,

Thridding the sombre boskage of the wood, Toward the morning-star.

Losing her carol I stood pensively,

As one that from a casement leans his head,

When midnight bells cease ringing sud. denly,

And the old year is dead.

Alas! alas!' a low voice, full of care, Murmur'd beside me : Turn and look

on me:

I am that Rosamond, whom men call fair, If what I was I be.

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Or her who knew that Love can vanquish Yet, tho' I spared thee all the spring,

Death,

Who kneeling, with one arm about

her king,

Thy sole delight is, sitting still, With that gold dagger of thy bill To fret the summer jenneting.

Drew forth the poison with her balmy A golden bill! the silver tongue,

breath,

Sweet as new buds in Spring.

No memory labours longer from the deep Gold-mines of thought to lift the hidden ore

That glimpses, moving up, than I from sleep

To gather and tell o'er

Each little sound and sight. With what dull pain

Compass'd, how eagerly I sought to strike

Into that wondrous track of dreams again!

But no two dreams are like.

Cold February loved, is dry: Plenty corrupts the melody That made thee famous once, when

young:

And in the sultry garden-squares,

Now thy flute-notes are changed to

coarse,

I hear thee not at all, or hoarse As when a hawker hawks his wares.

Take warning! he that will not sing

While yon sun prospers in the blue, Shall sing for want, ere leaves are

new,

Caught in the frozen palms of Spring.

THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR.

FULL knee-deep lies the winter snow, And the winter winds are wearily sighing:

Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow,
And tread softly and speak low,
For the old year lies a-dying.

Old year, you must not die;
You came to us so readily,
You lived with us so steadily,
Old year, you shall not die.

He lieth still: he doth not move :
He will not see the dawn of day.
He hath no other life above.
He gave me a friend, and a true true-love,
And the New-year will take 'em away.

Old year, you must not go;

So long as you have been with us,
Such joy as you have seen with us,
Old year, you shall not go.

He froth'd his bumpers to the brim;
A jollier year we shall not see.
But tho' his eyes are waxing dim,
And tho' his foes speak ill of him,
He was a friend to me.

Old year, you shall not die;
We did so laugh and cry with you,
I've half a mind to die with you,
Old year, if you must die.

He was full of joke and jest,
But all his merry quips are o'er.
To see him die, across the waste
His son and heir doth ride post-haste,
But he'll be dead before.

Every one for his own.

The night is starry and cold, my friend,

And the New-year blithe and bold, my friend,

Comes up to take his own.

How hard he breathes! over the snow I heard just now the crowing cock. The shadows flicker to and fro :

Shake hands, before you die.

Old year, we'll dearly rue for you:
What is it we can do for you?
Speak out before you die.

His face is growing sharp and thin.
Alack! our friend is gone.

Close up his eyes: tie up his chin:
Step from the corpse, and let him in
That standeth there alone,

And waiteth at the door.

There's a new foot on the floor, my friend,

And a new face at the door, my friend,

A new face at the door.

TO J. S.

THE wind, that beats the mountain, blows More softly round the open wold, And gently comes the world to those

That are cast in gentle mould.

And me this knowledge bolder made,

Or else I had not dared to flow In these words toward you, and invade Even with a verse your holy woe.

'Tis strange that those we lean on most, Those in whose laps our limbs are nursed,

Fall into shadow, soonest lost :

Those we love first are taken first.

God gives us love. Something to love
He lends us; but, when love is grown
To ripeness, that on which it throve
Falls off, and love is left alone.
This is the curse of time.

Alas!

In grief I am not all unlearn'd; Once thro' mine own doors Death did

pass;

One went, who never hath return'd.

He will not smile-not speak to me Once more. Two years his chair is

seen

The cricket chirps: the light burns low: Empty before us. That was he

'Tis nearly twelve o'clock.

Without whose life I had not been.

Your loss is rarer; for this star

Rose with you thro' a little arc Y heaven, nor having wander'd far Shot on the sudden into dark.

I knew your brother: his mute dust I honour and his living worth: A man more pure and bold and just Was never born into the earth.

I have not look'd upon you nigh,

Since that dear soul hath fall'n asleep. Great Nature is more wise than I :

I will not tell you not to weep.

And tho' mine own eyes fill with dew,

Drawn from the spirit thro' the brain, I will not even preach to you,

'Weep, weeping dulls the inward pain.'

Let Grief be her own mistress still.

She loveth her own anguish deep More than much pleasure. Let her will Be done to weep or not to weep.

I will not say, 'God's ordinance

Of Death is blown in every wind;' For that is not a common chance

That takes away a noble mind. His memory long will live alone

In all our hearts, as mournful light That broods above the fallen sun,

And dwells in heaven half the night.

Vain solace! Memory standing near

Cast down her eyes, and in her throat

Her voice seem'd distant, and a tear

Dropt on the letters as I wrote.

I wrote I know not what. In truth,

How should I soothe you anyway, Who miss the brother of your youth?

Yet something I did wish to say:

For he too was a friend to me :

Both are my friends, and my true breast

Bleedeth for both; yet it may be

That only silence suiteth best.

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