Amen, mine England! 't is a courteous claim: Because it was not well, it was not well, To bind and bare and vex with vulture fell. I would that hostile fleets had scarred Torbay, Not for to-night's moon, nor to-morrow's sun: But since it was done,-in sepulchral dust To France, if not to honour, and forget How through much fear we falsified the trust Orestes to Electra-in his urn. A little urn-a little dust inside, Which once outbalanced the large earth, albeit Sleek-browed and smiling, “Let the burden 'bide !” Of Paris, how the wild tears will run down And run back in the chariot-marks of time, Dyed their rapacious beaks at Austerlitz! Napoleon! he hath come again, borne home And grave-deep, 'neath the cannon-moulded column ! There, weapon spent and warrior spent may rest His bolts!—and this he may: for, dispossessed The goat, Jove sucked, as likely to do harm. And yet Napoleon the recovered name Attesting that the Dead makes good his claim Blood fell like dew beneath his sunrise-sooth! And if they asked for rights, he made reply I do not praise this man: the man was flawed His hand unclean, his aspiration pent Within a sword-sweep-pshaw !—but since he had I think this nation's tears thus poured together, Grander than crownings, though a Pope bless all. A RHAPSODY OF LIFE'S PROGRESS. WE are born into life-it is sweet, it is strange. But we doubt not of changes, we know not of spaces, It is warm with our touch, not with sun of the south, O Life, O Beyond, Thou art sweet, thou art strange evermore! Then all things look strange in the pure golden æther; We walk through the gardens with hands linked together, And the lilies look large as the trees; And, as loud as the birds, sing the bloom-loving bees, And the birds sing like angels, so mystical-fine, And the cedars are brushing the archangels' feet, And the world is complete. Now, God bless the child,—father, mother, respond! Thou art strange, thou art sweet! Then we leap on the earth with the armour of youth, And we breathe out, "O beauty!" we cry out, "O truth!" And the bloom of our lips drops with wine, And our blood runs amazed 'neath the calm hyaline : The earth cleaves to the foot, the sun burns to the brain, What is this exultation? and what this despair?— And the breath of an angel cold-piercing the air And we think him so near he is this side the sun, Thou art strange, thou art sweet! And the winds and the waters in pastoral measures Till the soul lies within in a circle of pleasures Which hideth the soul: And we run with the stag, and we leap with the horse, And we swim with the fish through the broad water course, And we strike with the falcon, and hunt with the hound, And we shout so adeep down creation's profound, And we bind the rose-garland on forehead and ears, And the dew of the roses that runneth unblamed Down our cheeks, is not taken for tears. Help us, God! trust us, man, love us, woman! "I hold Thy small head in my hands,—with its grapelets of gold Growing bright through my fingers,—like altar for oath, 'Neath the vast golden spaces like witnessing faces That watch the eternity strong in the troth— I love thee, I leave thee, Live for thee, die for thee! Undo evermore thee ! Help me, God! slay me, man!-one is mourning for both. Art thou fair, art thou sweet? Then we act to a purpose, we spring up erect: In a purple sublimity, And grind down men's bones To a pale unanimity. |