CONCLUSiON.

Life treads on life, and heart on heart—
We press too close in church and mart.
To keep a dream or grave apart.

And I was 'ware of walking down
That same green forest where had gone
The poet-pilgrim. One by one

I traced his foststeps: From the east
A red and tender radiance pressed
Through the near trees, until I guessed

The sun behind shone full and round;

While up the leafiness profound

A wind scarce old enough for sound

Stood ready to blow on me when

I turned that way; and now and then

The birds sang and brake off again

To shake their pretty feathers dry
Of the dew sliding droppingly
From the leaf-edges, and apply

Back to their song. 'Twixt dew and bird

So sweet a silence ministered,
God seemed to use it for a word.

Yet morning souls did leap and run
In all things, as the least had won
A joyous insight of the sun.

And no one looking round the wood
Could help confessing as he stood.
This Poet-God is glad and good.

But hark I a distant sound that grows!
A heaving, sinking of the boughs—
A rustling murmur, not of those!

A breezy noise, which is not breeze I
And white-clad children by degrees
Steal out in troops among the trees;

Fair little children, morning-bright
With faces grave, yet soft to sight,
Expressive of restrained delight.

Some plucked the palm-boughs within ieach,

And others leapt up high to catch
The upper boughs, and shake from each

A rain of dew, till, wetted so.

The child who held the branch let go,

And it swang backward with a flow

Of faster drippings. Then I knew The children laughed—but the laugh flew

From its own chirrup, as might do

A frightened song-bird ; and a child Who seemed the chief, said very mild, 'Hush! keep this morning undefiled.'

His eyes rebuked them from calm

spheres; His soul upon his brow appears In waiting for more holy years.

I called the child to me, and said, 'What are your palms for?' — ' To be

spread, ' He answered, * on a poet dead.

'The poet died last month ; and now The world, which had been somewhat slow

In honoring his living brow,

'Commands the palms—They must be strown

On his new marble very soon.
In a procession of the town.'

I sighed and said, ' Did he foresee

Any such honor V * Verily

I cannot tell you,' answered he,

'But this I know,—I fain would lay Mine own head down, another day, As ke did,—with the fame away.

'A lily, a friend's hand had plucked,
I^ay by his death-bed, which he looked
As deep down as a bee had sucked;

'Then, turning to the lattice, gazed,
O'er hill and river, and upraised
His eyes illumined and amazed

'With the world's beauty, up to God,
Re-offering*on their iris broad,
The images of things bestowed

'By the chief Poet,—God !' he cried,
'Be praised for anguish, which has tried;
For beauty, which has satisfied :—

'For this world's presence, half withinAnd half without me—sound and sceneThis sense of Being and of Having been.

'I thank thee that my soul hath room For Thy grand world! Both guests may come—

Beauty, to soul—Body, to tomb!

'I am content to be so weak.

Put strength into the words I speak,

And I am strong in what I seek.

'I am content to be so hare Before the archers I everywhere My wounds being stroked by heavenly air.

'I laid my soul before Thy feet, That Images of fair and sweet Should walk to other men on it.

* I am content to feel the step

Of each pure Image !—let those keep To mandragore, who care to sleep.

'I am content to touch the brink Of the other goblet, and I think My bitter drink a wholesome drink. •

'Because my portion was assigned Wholesome and bitter—Thou art kind And I am blessed to my mind.

* Gifted for giving, I receive

The maythorn, and its scent outgive! I grieve not that I once did grieve.

'In my large joy of sight and touch Beyond what others count for such, I am content to suffer much.

'I know—is all the mourner saith, Knowledge by suffering entereth; And life is perfected by Death l' *

The child spake nobly. Strange to hear His infantine soft accents clear. Charged with high meanings, did appear,

And fair to see, his form and face. Winged out with whiteness and pure grace

From the green darkness of the place.

Behind his head a palm-tree grew;
An orient beam which pierced it through
Transversely on his forehead drew

The figure of a palm-branch brown
Traced on its brightness up and down
In fine fair lines,—a shadow-crown.

Guido might paint his angels so—
A little angel, taught to go
With holy words to saints below.

Such innocence of action yet

Significance of object met

In his whole bearing strong and sweet

And all the children, the whole hand.
Did round in rosy reverence stand.
Each with a palm-bough in his hand.

'And so he died,' I whispered ;—' Nay;
Not so' the childish voice did say—
'That poet turned him, first, to pray

'In silence; and God heard the rest, 'Twixt the sun's footsteps down th* west.

Then he called one who loved him best,

* Yea, he called softly through the room (His voice was weak yet tender; — 'Come,'

He said, 'come nearer! Let the bloom

'Of Life grow over, undented. This bridge of Death, which is not wide—

I shall be soon at the other side.

'Come, kiss me I* So the one in truth Who loved him best—in love, not ruth. Bowed down and kissed him mouth to mouth.

*

'And, in that kiss of Love, was won
Life's manumission: Ail was done—
The mouth that kissed last, kissed alone.

'But in the former, confluent kiss,
The same was sealed, I think, by His,
To words of truth and uprightness.'

The' child's voice trembled — his lips shook

Like a rose leaning over a brook. Which vibrates though it is not struck.

'And who,' I asked, a little moved Yet curious-eyed, 'was this that loved And kissed him last, as it behooved?'

'/,' softly said the child; and then,

* /,' said he louder, once again.

'His son,—my rank is among men.

'And now that men exalt his name I come to gather palms with them, That holy Love may hallow Fame.

'He did not die alone; nor should His memory live so, 'mid these rude World praisers—a worse solitude.

'Me, a voice calleth to that tomb Where these are strewing branch and bloom,

Saying, come nearer !—and I come.

'Glory to God!' resumed he,

And his eyes smiled for victory

O'er their own tears which I could see

Fallen on the palm, down cheek and chin

'That poet now hath entered in The place of rest which is not sin.

'And while he rests, his songs in troops Walk up and down our earthly slopes, Companioned by diviner Hopes.'

'But thou,' I murmured,—to engage The child's speech farther—' hast an age Too tender fortius orphanage.'

'* Glorj iO God—to God!' he saith— Knowledge Iiv Suffering Endureth; And Life Is Fepfected By Death!'

! CROWNED AND WEDDEI>.

J When last before her people's face her

own fair face she bent, Within the meek projection of thatshade

she was content To erase the child-smile from her lips,

which seemed as if it might Be still kept holy from the world to

childhood still in sight— To erase it with a solemn vow—a prince

ly vow—to rule— A priestly vow—to rule by grace of God

the pitiful, A very god-like vow—to rule in right

and righteousness. And with the law and for the land !—so

God the vower bless! The minster was alight that day, but

not with fire, I ween, And long-drawn glitterings swept adown

that mighty aisled scene: The priests stood stoled in their pomp,

the sworded chiefs in theirs, And so, the collared knights,—and so,

the civil ministers, And so, the waiting lords and dames—

and little pages best At holding trains—and legates so, from

countries east and west— So, alien princes, native peers, and highborn ladies bright. Along whose brows the queen's new

crowned, flashed coronets to light! And so, the people at the gates, with

priestly hands on high, Which bring the first anointing to all

legal majesty. And so the Dead—who lie in rows beneath the minster floor. There, verily an awful state maintaining evermore— The statesman whose clean palm will

kiss no bribe whate'er it be— The courtier, who, for no fair queen

will rise up to his knee— The court-dame who, for no court-tire,

will leave her shroud behind— The laureate who no courtlier rbyme

than ' dust to dust' can find— The kings and queens who having made

that vow and worn that crown, Descended unto lower thrones and darker, deep adown l

Dieu et man droit—what is't to them?

what meaning can it have ?— The King of kings, the right of death—

God's judgment and the grave! And when betwixt the quick and dead

the young fair queen had vowed, The livmg shouted 'May she live!

Victoria, live !' aloud— And as the loyal shouts went up, true

spirits prayed between, 'The blessings happy monarchs have

be thine, O crowned queen!' But now before her people's face she

bendeth hers anew, And calls them, while she vows, to be

her witness thereunto. She vowed to rule, and in that oath, her

childhood put away— She doth maintain her womanhood, in

vowing love to-day. O, lovely lady !—let her vow !—such lips

become such vows, And fairer goeth bridal wreath than

crown with vernal brows! O, lovely lady !—let her vow !—yea, let

her vow to love !— And though she be no less a queen—

with purples hung above. The pageant of a court behind, the

royal kin around, And woven gold to catch her looks

turned maidenly to ground. Yet may the bride-veil hide from her a

little of that state, While loving hopes, for retinues, about

her sweetness wait: She Vows to love who vowed to rule—

the chosen at her side Let none say, God preserve the queen 1

—but rather, Bless the bride! None blow the trump, none bend the

knee, none violate the dream Wherein no monarch but a wife, she to

herself may seem: Or, if ye say, Preserve the queen !—oh,

breathe it inward low— She is a woman and beloved I—and 'tis

enough but so! Count it enough, thou noble prince, who

tak'st her by the hand, And claimest for thy lady-love, our lady

of the land! And since, Prince Albert, men have

called thy spirit high and rare.

And true to truth and brave for truth,

as some at Augsburg were,— We charge thee, by thy lofty thoughts,

and by thy poet-mind. Which not by glory and degree takes

measure of mankind, Esteem that wedded hand less dear for

sceptre than for ring. And hold her uncrowned womanhood

to be the royal thing: . And now, upon our queen's last vow,

what blessings shall we pray 1 None straitened to a shallow crown,

will suit our lips to-day. Behold, they must be free as love—they

must be broad as free, Even to the borders of heaven's light

and earth's humanity. Long live she !—send up loyal shouts—

and true hearts pray between,— 'The blessings happy Peasants h,.ve,

be thine, O crowned queen I*

CROWNED AND BURIED.

Napoleon !—years ago, and that great word

Compact of human breath in hate ai'-l dread

And exaltation, skied us overhead— An atmosphere whose lightning was th*' sword

Scathing the cedars of the world,

drawn down In burnings, by the metal of a crown.

Napoleon [ Nations, while they cursed

that name. Shook at their own curse; and whil?

others bore Its sound, as of a trumpet, on before, Brass-fronted legions justified its fame— And dying men, on trampled hattlesods.

Near their last silence, uttered it for God's.

Napoleon! Sages, with high foreheads drooped,

Did use it for a problem; children small Leapt up to greet it, as at manhood's call:

Priests blessed it from their altars overstooped

By meek-eyed Christs,—and widows

with a moan Spake it, when questioned why they sat

alone.

That name consumed the silence of the snows

In Alpine keeping, holy and cloud-hid: The mimic eagles dared what Nature's did,

And over-rushed her mountainous repose

In search of eyries: and the Egyptian river

Mingled the same word with its grand 'for ever.'

That name was shouted near the pyramidal

Nilotic tombs, whose mummied habitants,

Packed to humanity's significance, Motioned it hack with stillness: Shouts as idle

As hireling artists' work of myrrh and spice

Which swathed last glories round the Ptolemies.

The world's face changed to hear it. Kingly men

Came down in chidden habes'bewilderment

From autocratic places—each content With sprinkled ashes for anointing :— then

The people laughed or wondered for the nonce,

To see one throne a composite of thrones.

Napoleon! Even the torrid vastitude Of India felt in throbbings of the air That name which scattered by disastrous blare

All Europe's bound-lines,—drawn afresh in blood I

Napoleon—from the Russias, west to Spain!

And Austria trembled—till we heard l,er chain.

And Germany was 'ware and Italy Oblivious of old fames — her laurellocked.

High-ghosted Caesars passing unin. voked,—

Did crumble her own ruins with her knee,

To serve a newer :—Ay! but Frenchmen cast

A future from them nobler than her past.

For, verily, though France augustly rose

With that raised Name, and did assume by such

The purple of the world,—none gave so much

As she in purchase—to speak plain, in loss—

Whose hands, to freedom stretched,

dropped paralyzed To wield a sword or fit an undersized

King's crown to a great man's head. And though along

Her Paris's streets, did float on frequent streams

Of triumph, pictured or emmarbled dreams,

Dreampt right by genius in a world gone wrong,—

No dream, of all so won, was fair to see As the lost vision of her liberty.

Napoleon! 'twas a high name lifted high!

It met at last God's thunder sent to clear

Our compassing and covering atmosphere,

And open a clear sight beyond the sky Of supreme empire: this of earth's was done—

And kings crept out again to feel the sun.

The kings crept out—the peoples sat at home.

And finding, the long-invocated peace
A pall embroidered with worn images
Of rights divine, too scant to cover doom
Such as they suffered,—cursed the corn

that grew
Rankly, to bitter bread, on Waterloo.