LXVIII. All grass of silky feather grow And while he sinks or swells The full south-breeze around thee blow The sound of minster bells. LXIX. The fat earth feed thy branchy root, That under deeply strikes! The northern morning o'er thee shoot, High up, in silver spikes! LXX. Nor ever lightning char thy grain, But, rolling as in sleep, Low thunders bring the mellow rain, That makes thee broad and deep! LXXI. And hear me swear a solemn oath, That only by thy side Will I to Olive plight my troth, And gain her for my bride. LXXII. And when my marriage-morn may fall, She, Dryad-like, shall wear Alternate leaf and acorn-ball In wreath about her hair. LXXIII. And I will work in prose and rhyme, Than bard has honour'd beech or lime, Or that Thessalian growth, LXXIV. In which the swarthy ringdove sat, And mystic sentence spoke; And more than England honours that, Thy famous brother-oak, LXXV. Wherein the younger Charles abode Till all the paths were dim, And far below the Roundhead rode, And humm'd a surly hymn. LOVE AND DUTY. Of love that never found his earthly close, What sequel? Streaming eyes and breaking hearts ? Not so. Shall Error in the round of time If this were thus, if this, indeed, were all, Better the narrow brain, the stony heart, The staring eye glazed o'er with sapless days, The set gray life, and apathetic end. But am I not the nobler thro' thy love? O three times less unworthy! likewise thou Art more thro' Love, and greater than thy years. Will some one say, then why not ill for good? But then most Godlike being most a man. So let me think 'tis well for thee and me Ill-fated that I am, what lot is mine Whose foresight preaches peace, my heart so slow To feel it! for how hard it seem'd to me, When eyes, love-languid thro' half-tears, would dwell One earnest, earnest moment upon mine, Then not to dare to see! when thy low voice, My own full-tuned, hold passion in a leash, And not leap forth and fall about thy neck, And on thy bosom, (deep-desired relief!) Rain out the heavy mist of tears, that weigh'd For Love himself took part against himself came Like Death betwixt thy dear embrace and mine, And crying, "Who is this? behold thy bride," She push'd me from thee. If the sense is hard To alien ears, I did not speak to these No, not to thee, but to thyself in me : Hard is my doom and thine: thou knowest it all. |