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The first spring in the pursuing,
The first pride in the Begun,First recoil from incompletion, in the face of what is
Exaltations in the far light
Which the sadder-hearted miss;
I have lost the sound child-sleeping
Of the staglike heart awake,
Some respect to social fictions
Which my spirit offered free
All my losses did I tell you,
Make sad company to-day,
All the sun and all the shower :
children laugh thereat ; Yet the wind that struck it riseth, and the tempest shall
One who knew me in
childhood In the glamour and the game, Looking on me long and mild, would
Never know me for the same. Come, unchanging recollections, where those changes
By this couch I weakly lie on,
I press closely on mine eyes,-
Springs the linden-tree as greenly,
Each in either intertwined ;
grown nor pined.
From those overblown faint roses
Not a thorn's-breadth more of red
And that music overfloweth,
Thrush or nightingale—who knoweth ?
Fay or Faunus- who believes ? But my heart still trembles in me to the trembling of the
Is the bower lost, then? who sayeth
Through the solstice and the frost,-
Till another open for me
White with gazing at His throne ;
lost ... and won !”
THE ROMAUNT OF THE PAGE.
A KNIGHT of gallant deeds
young page at his side,
Did slow and thoughtful ride,
The dews of the eventide.
“O young page,” said the knight,
“A noble page art thou !
The curls upon thy brow;
Didst ward me a mortal blow."
“O brave knight,” said the page,
“ Or ere we hither came,
Of the bloody battle-game;
I cannot speak the same.
“ Our troop is far behind,
The woodland calm is new ;
Tread deep the shadows through;
Is dropping with the dew.
I cannot choose but have
Which in our England wave,
there while in Palestine The warrior hilt we drave.
“ Methinks, a moment gone,
I heard my mother pray !
Wherein she passed away ;
To hear what I shall say."
The page spake calm and high,
As of no mean degree ; Perhaps he felt in nature's broad,
Full heart, his own was free: And the knight looked up to his lifted eye,
Then answered smilingly“Sir Page, I pray your grace !
Certes, I meant not so
To cross your pastoral mood, Sir Page,
With the crook of the battle-bow; But a knight may speak of a lady's face, I ween,
mood or place, If the grasses die or grow.
" And this I meant to say-
My lady's face shall shine
My page from Palestine ;
She is no lady of mine.
" And this I meant to fear
Her bower may suit thee ill ;
Thy talk was somewhat still :
Than thy tongue for my lady's will !”
Slowly and thankfully
The young page bowed his head;
Until he blushed instead,
Could blush more sudden red :
Is suited well,” he said
Beati, beati mortui !