Morn broaden'd on the borders of the dark, Or her, who knew that Love can vanquish Death, No memory labours longer from the deep Gold-mines of thought to lift the hidden ore Each little sound and sight. With what dull pain As when a soul laments, which hath been blest, In yearnings that can never be exprest Because all words, tho' cull'd with choicest art, XLIII MARGARET 1 O SWEET pale Margaret, What lit your eyes with tearful power, As perfume of the cuckoo-flower? From all things outward you have won A tearful grace, as tho' you stood Between the rainbow and the sun. The very smile before you speak, Of dainty sorrow without sound, 2 You love, remaining peacefully, To hear the murmur of the strife, Your spirit is the calmed sea, Laid by the tumult of the fight. You are the evening star, alway Remaining betwixt dark and bright: Lull'd echoes of laborious day Come to you, gleams of mellow light 3 What can it matter, Margaret, What songs below the waning stars The lion-heart, Plantagenet, Sang looking thro' his prison bars? Exquisite Margaret, who can tell The last wild thought of Chatelet, Just ere the falling axe did part The burning brain from the true heart, Even in her sight he loved so well? 4 A fairy shield your Genius made Than your twin-sister, Adeline. Touch'd with a somewhat darker hue, But ever trembling thro' the dew Of dainty-woeful sympathies. 5 O sweet pale Margaret, O rare pale Margaret, Come down, come down, and hear me speak : Rise from the feast of sorrow, lady, Or only look across the lawn, Look out below your bower-eaves, Look down, and let your blue eyes dawn Upon me thro' the jasmine-leaves. XLIV THE BLACKBIRD O BLACKBIRD! sing me something well: While all the neighbours shoot thee round, I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground, Where thou may'st warble, eat and dwell. The espaliers and the standards all Are thine; the range of lawn and park: Yet, tho' I spared thee all the spring, A golden bill! the silver tongue, That made thee famous once, when young: And in the sultry garden-squares, Now thy flute-notes are changed to coarse, Take warning! he that will not sing XLV DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR FULL knee-deep lies the winter snow, Old year, you must not die; He lieth still: he doth not move: He hath no other life above. He gave me a friend, and a true true-love, So long as you have been with us, He froth'd his bumpers to the brim ; Old year, you shall not die; He was full of joke and jest, To see him die, across the waste His son and heir doth ride post-haste, But he'll be dead before. Every one for his own. The night is starry and cold, my friend, How hard he breathes! over the snow I heard just now the crowing cock. The cricket chirps: the light burns low: Shake hands, before you die. His face is growing sharp and thin. Close up his eyes: tie up his chin : And waiteth at the door. There's a new foot on the floor, my friend, XLVI TO J. S. THE wind, that beats the mountain, blows And me this knowledge bolder made 'Tis strange that those we lean on most, Those in whose laps our limbs are nursed, Fall into shadow, soonest lost : Those we love first are taken first. God gives us love. Something to love He lends us; but, when love is grown This is the curse of time. Alas! In grief I am not all unlearn'd; Once thro' mine own doors Death did pass ; He will not smile-not speak to me Once more. Two years his chair is seen Empty before us. That was he Without whose life I had not been. |