Thou too, O Thyrsis, on like quest wast bound; Thou wanderedst with me for a little hour! Men gave thee nothing; but this happy quest. If men esteemed thee feeble, gave thee power, If inen procured thee trouble, gave thee rest. And this rude Cumner ground, Its fir-topped Hurst, its farms, its quiet fields. Here cams't thou in thy jocund youthful time. Here was thine height of strength, thy golden prime! And still the haunt beloved a virtue yields. What though the music of thy rustic flute Kept not for long its happy, country tone; Lost it too soon, and learnt a stormy note Of men contention-tost, of men who groan, To chase fatigue and fear: Why faintest thou!" "I wander'd till I died. Roam on! The light we sought is shining still. Dost thou ask proof? Our tree yet crowns the hill. Our Scholar travels yet the loved hill-side. 1866. YOUTH AND CALM 'Tis death! and peace, indeed, is here, T is all perhaps which man acquires, AUSTERITY OF POETRY THAT Son of Italy who tried to blow, Ere Dante came, the trump of sacred song, In his light youth amid a festal throng Sate with his bride to see a public show. Fair was the bride, and on her front did glow Youth like a star; and what to youth belong Gay raiment, sparkling gauds, elation strong. A prop gave way! crash fell a platform! lo. 'Mid struggling sufferers, hurt to death, she lay! Shuddering, they drew her garments off-and found A robe of sackcloth next the smooth, white skin. Such, poets, is your bride, the Muse! young, gay, Radiant, adorn'd outside; a hidden ground Of thought and of austerity within. Sophocles long ago Heard it on the Egæan, and it brought Find also in the sound a thought, Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furl'd. But now I only hear Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, Retreating, to the breath Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear And naked shingles of the world. To one another! for the world, which Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain; And we are here as on a darkling plain Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, Where ignorant armies clash by night. 1867. GROWING OLD WHAT is it to grow old? Is it to lose the glory of the form, Is it for beauty to forego her wreath? Is it to feel our strength Not our bloom only, but our strengthdecay? Is it to feel each limb Grow stiffer, every function less exact, Each nerve more loosely strung? Yes, this, and more: but not Ah, 't is not what in youth we dream'd 't would be! "T is not to have our life Mellow'd and soften'd as with sunsetglow, A golden day's decline. "T is not to see the world As from a height, with rapt prophetic eyes. And heart profoundly stirr'd; And weep, and feel the fulness of the past, The years that are no more. It is to spend long days And not once feel that we were ever young; It is to add, immured In the hot prison of the present, month To month with weary pain. It is to suffer this, And feel but half, and feebly, what we feel. Deep in our hidden heart Festers the dull remembrance of a change, But no emotion-none. And pale dog-roses in the hedge. Loitering and leaping, Loose o'er their shoulders white Tear from the rifled hedge Fill with their sports the field, Shepherd, what ails thee, then? Shepherd, why mute? Forth with thy joyous song! Forth with thy flute! Tempts not the revel blithe? Lure not their cries? Glow not their shoulders smooth? Is not, on cheeks like those, -Ah, so the quiet was! II The epoch ends, the world is still. The age has talk'd and work'd its filThe famous orators have shone, The famous poets sung and gone. The famous men of war have fought. The famous speculators thought, The famous players, sculptors, wrought The famous painters fill'd their wall. The famous critics judged it all. The combatants are parted now~ Uphung the spear, unbent the bow. The puissant crown'd, the weak laid And in the after-silence sweet. Now strifes are hush'd, our ears Gol meet, |