Sing, riding's a joy! For me I ride. The last Ride together. vii. When the liquor's out, why clink the cannikin? The Flight of the Duchess. xvi. That low man seeks a little thing to do, Sees it and does it; This high man, with a great thing to pursue, That low man goes on adding one to one, His hundred's soon hit; This high man, aiming at a million, Misses an unit. That has the world here—should he need the next, Let the world mind him! This throws himself on God, and unperplexed Seeking shall find him. A Grammarian's Funeral. Ibid. Lofty designs must close in like effects. I hear you reproach, "But delay was best, For their end was a crime." Oh, a crime will do As a virtue golden through and through, And prove its worth at a moment's view! Let a man contend to the uttermost For his life's set prize, be it what it will! The Statue and the Bust. Lost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of years, Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came. xxxiii. Just for a handful of silver he left us, The Lost Leader. i. We shall march prospering, not thro' his presence; Songs may inspirit us, not from his lyre; Deeds will be done, while he boasts his quiescence, Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire. The Lost Leader. ii. They are perfect; how else?- they shall never change: We are faulty; why not? we have time in store. Old Pictures in Florence. xvi. What's come to perfection perishes. Things learned on earth we shall practise in heaven; xvii. De Gustibus. ii. That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, Lest you should think he never could recapture The first fine careless rapture. Home-Thoughts from Abroad. ii. God made all the creatures, and gave them our love and our fear, To give sign we and they are his children, one family here. Saul. vi. How good is man's life, the mere living! how fit to employ All the heart and the soul and the senses forever in joy! ix. 'Tis not what man does which exalts him, but what man would do. O woman-country!1 wooed not wed, xviii. By the Fireside. vi. 1 Italy. That great brow And the spirit-small hand propping it. By the Fireside. xxiii. If two lives join, there is oft a scar. They are one and one, with a shadowy third; One near one is too far. Only I discern Infinite passion, and the pain xlvi. of finite hearts that yearn. Two in the Campagna. xii. Round and round, like a dance of snow How he lies in his rights of a man! Women and Roses. And absorbed in the new life he leads, Nor his wrong nor my vengeance; both strike On his senses alike, And are lost in the solemn and strange Surprise of the change. Ah, did you once see Shelley plain, How strange it seems, and new! After. Memorabilia. i. He who did well in war just earns the right Luria. Act ii. And inasmuch as feeling, the East's gift, Act v. A people is but the attempt of many And those who live as models for the mass Ibid. I count life just a stuff To try the soul's strength on. Was there nought better than to enjoy ? In a Balcony. No feat which, done, would make time break, Into eternity, our due? No forcing earth teach heaven's employ? Dis Aliter Visum; or, Le Byron de nos Jours. There shall never be one lost good! What was, shall live as before; The evil is null, is nought, is silence implying sound; What was good shall be good, with for evil so much good more; On the earth the broken arcs; in the heaven, a perfect Abt Vogler. ix. round. Then welcome each rebuff That turns earth's smoothness rough, Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand, but go! Be our joys three-parts pain! Strive, and hold cheap the strain; Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge the throe! What I aspired to be, And was not, comforts me. Rabbi Ben Ezra. Earth changes, but thy soul and God stand sure. For life, with all it yields of joy and woe, Ibid. Ibid. A Death in the Desert. The body sprang At once to the height, and stayed; but the soul, — no! Ibid. What? Was man made a wheel-work to wind up, Ibid. For I say this is death and the sole death, A Death in the Desert. Progress, man's distinctive mark alone, The ultimate, angels' law, Indulging every instinct of the soul How sad and bad and mad it was! But then, how it was sweet! Ibid. Ibid. Confessions. ix. So may a glory from defect arise. Deaf and Dumb. Fear death? Youth and Art. xvii. -to feel the fog in my throat, The mist in my face. No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers, The heroes of old; Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears It's wiser being good than bad; It's fitter being sane than mad. Prospice. My own hope is, a sun will pierce In the great right of an excessive wrong. The Ring and the Book. The other Half-Rome. Line 1055. |