Because the Spirit of happiness
And perfect rest so inward is;
And loveth so his innocent heart,
Her temple and her place of birth,
Where she would ever wish to dwell,
Life of the fountain there, beneath
Its salient springs, and far apart,
Hating to wander out on earth,
Or breathe into the hollow air,
Whose chillness would make visible
Her subtile, warm, and golden breath,
Which mixing with the infant's blood,
Fulfils him with beatitude.

Oh! sure it is a special care
Of God, to fortify from doubt,
To arm in proof, and guard about
With triple-mailèd trust, and clear
Delight, the infant's dawning year.
Would that my gloomèd fancy were
As thine, my mother, when with brows
Propped on thy knees, my hands upheld
In thine, I listened to thy vows,
For me outpoured in holiest prayer -
For me unworthy!- and beheld

The mild deep eyes upraised, that knew
The beauty and repose of faith,

And the clear spirit shining through.

Oh! wherefore do we grow awry

From roots which strike so deep? why dare

Paths in the desert? Could not I

Bow myself down, where thou hast knelt,
To the earth -until the ice would melt
Here, and I feel as thou hast felt?

What Devil had the heart to scathe

Flowers thou hadst reared to brush the dew

From thine own lily, when thy grave

Was deep, my mother, in the clay?

Myself? Is it thus? Myself? Had I

So little love for thee? But why

Prevailed not thy pure prayers? Why pray
To one who heeds not, who can save
But will not? Great in faith, and strong
Against the grief of circumstance

Wert thou, and yet unheard. What if
Thou pleadest still, and seest me drive
Through utter dark a full-sailed skiff,
Unpiloted i' the echoing dance

Of reboant whirlwinds, stooping low
Unto the death, not sunk! I know
At matins and at evensong,

That thou, if thou wert yet alive,

In deep and daily prayers wouldst strive
To reconcile me with thy God.
Albeit, my hope is gray, and cold
At heart, thou wouldest murmur still
"Bring this lamb back into thy fold,
My Lord, if so it be thy will."
Wouldst tell me I must brook the rod,
And chastisement of human pride;
That pride, the sin of devils, stood
Betwixt me and the light of God!
That hitherto I had defied,

And had rejected God

- that grace

Would drop from his o'erbrimming love,

As manna on my wilderness,

If I would pray

And strike the hard, hard rock, and thence,

Sweet in their utmost bitterness,

Would issue tears of penitence

Which would keep green hope's life. Alas!
I think that pride hath now no place
Or sojourn in me. I am void,
Dark, formless, utterly destroyed.

Why not believe then? Why not yet
Anchor thy frailty there, where man

Hath moored and rested? Ask the sea
At midnight, when the crisp slope waves,
After a tempest, rib and fret

The broad-imbasèd beach, why he
Slumbers not like a mountain tarn?
Wherefore his ridges are not curls
And ripples of an inland mere?
Wherefore he moaneth thus, nor can
Draw down into his vexèd pools

All that blue heaven which hues and paves
The other? I am too forlorn,

Too shaken my own weakness fools
My judgment, and my spirit whirls,

Moved from beneath with doubt and fear.

“Yet,” said I, in my morn of youth,
The unsunned freshness of my strength,
When I went forth in quest of truth,
"It is man's privilege to doubt,

If so be that from doubt at length
Truth may stand forth unmoved of change,
An image with profulgent brows,
And perfect limbs, as from the storm
Of running fires and fluid range
Of lawless airs, at last stood out
This excellence and solid form
Of constant beauty. For the Ox
Feeds in the herb, and sleeps, or fills
The horned valleys all about,
And hollows of the fringèd hills
In summerheats, with placid lows
Unfearing, till his own blood flows
About his hoof. And in the flocks
The lamb rejoiceth in the year,
And raceth freely with his fere,
And answers to his mother's calls
From the flowered furrow. In a time,
Of which he wots not, run short pains

Through his warm heart: and then, from whence

He knows not, on his light there falls
A shadow; and his native slope,
Where he was wont to leap and climb,
Floats from his sick and filmèd eyes,
And something in the darkness draws
His forehead earthward, and he dies.
Shall men live thus, in joy and hope
As a young lamb, who cannot dream,
Living, but that he shall live on?
Shall we not look into the laws

Of life and death, and things that seem,
And things that be, and analyze

Our double nature, and compare

All creeds till we have found the one,
If one there be?" Ay me! I fear
All may not doubt, but everywhere
Some must clasp Idols. Yet, my God,
Whom call I Idol? Let thy dove
Shadow me over, and my sins
Be unremembered, and thy love
Enlighten me. O teach me yet
Somewhat before the heavy clod
Weighs on me, and the busy fret
Of that sharp-headed worm begins
In the gross blackness underneath.

O weary life! O weary death!
O spirit and heart made desolate!

O damned vacillating state!

NOTE. The passage in brackets has been omitted from the latest edition.

ROSALIND.

I.

MY Rosalind, my Rosalind,

My frolic falcon, with bright eyes,

Whose free delight, from any height of rapid flight,
Stoops at all game that wing the skies,
My Rosalind, my Rosalind,

My bright-eyed, wild-eyed falcon, whither,
Careless both of wind and weather,
Whither fly ye, what game spy ye,
Up or down the streaming wind?

II.

The quick lark's closest-carolled strains,
The shadow rushing up the sea,
The lightning flash atween the rains,
The sunlight driving down the lea,
The leaping stream, the very wind,
That will not stay, upon his way,
To stoop the cowslip to the plains,
Is not so clear and bold and free
As you, my falcon Rosalind.

You care not for another's pains,
Because you are the soul of joy,
Bright metal all without alloy.

Life shoots and glances thro' your veins,
And flashes off a thousand ways
Through lips and eyes in subtle rays.
Your hawkeyes are keen and bright,
Keen with triumph watching still

To pierce me through with pointed light;
But oftentimes they flash and glitter
Like sunshine on a dancing rill,

And your words are seeming-bitter,
Sharp and few, but foeming-bitter
From excess of swift delight.

III.

Come down, come home, my Rosalind,
My gay young hawk, my Rosalind:
Too long you keep the upper skies;
Too long you roam and wheel at will;
But we must hood your random eyes,