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And me this knowledge bolder made,
Or else I had not dared to flow
In these words toward you, and invade
Even with a verse your holy woe.


'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
To ripeness, that on which it throve
Falls off, and love is left alone.


This is the curse of time. Alas!
In grief I am not all unlearned;
Once through mine own doors Death did pass;
One went, who never hath returned.


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.


Your loss is rarer; for this star

Rose with you through a little arc Of heaven, nor having wandered far, Shot on the sudden into dark.


I knew your brother: his mute dust
I honor, and his living worth:



A man more pure and bold and just
Was never born into the earth.


I have not looked upon you nigh,
Since that dear soul hath fallen asleep.
Great Nature is more wise than I:

I will not tell you not to weep.


And though my own eyes fill with dew, Drawn from the spirit through the brain, I will not even preach to you,

"Weep, weeping dulls the inward pain."


Let Grief be her own mistress still.
She loveth her own anguish deep
More than much pleasure. Let her will
Be done to weep or not to weep.


I will not say

"God's ordinance

Of Death is blown in every wind;"
For that is not a common chance
That takes away a noble mind.


His memory long will live alone

In all our hearts, as mournful light That broods above the fallen sun,

And dwells in heaven half the night.


Vain solace! Memory standing near

Cast down her eyes, and in her throat Her voice seemed distant, and a tear Dropt on the letters as I wrote.

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I wrote I know not what. In truth,
How should I soothe you anyway,
Who miss the brother of your youth?
Yet something I did wish to say:


For he too was a friend to me :

Both are my friends, and my true breast Bleedeth for both; yet it may be That only silence suiteth best.


Words weaker than your grief would make Grief more. "Twere better I should cease Although myself could almost take

The place of him that sleeps in

peace :


Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace:
Sleep, holy spirit, blessed soul,
While the stars burn, the moons increase,
And the great ages onward roll.


Sleep till the end, true soul and sweet.
Nothing comes to thee new or strange.
Sleep full of rest from head to feet ;
Lie still, dry dust, secure of change.


You ask me, why, though ill at ease,
Within this region I subsist,
Whose spirits falter in the mist,
And languish for the purple seas?

It is the land that freemen till,
That sober-suited Freedom chose,
The land where, girt with friends or foes,
A man may speak the thing he will;

A land of settled government,

A land of just and old renown, Where Freedom broadens slowly down From precedent to precedent:

Where faction seldom gathers head,

But by degrees to fulness wrought,
The strength of some diffusive thought
Hath time and space to work and spread.

Should banded unions persecute
Opinion, and induce a time

When single thought is civil crime, And individual freedom mute;

Though Power should make from land to land The name of Britain trebly great— Though every channel of the State Should almost choke with golden sand—

Yet waft me from the harbor-mouth,

Wild wind! I seek a warmer sky,
And I will see before I die
The palms and temples of the South.


OF old sat Freedom on the heights,
The thunders breaking at her feet:
Above her shook the starry lights:
She heard the torrents meet.

There in her place she did rejoice,
Self-gathered in her prophet-mind,
But fragments of her mighty voice
Came rolling on the wind.

Then stept she down through town and field
To mingle with the human race,
And part by part to men revealed
The fulness of her face-

Grave mother of majestic works,

From her isle-altar gazing down,
Who, God-like, grasps the triple forks,
And, King-like, wears the crown:

Her open eyes desire the truth.

The wisdom of a thousand years
Is in them. May perpetual youth

Keep dry their light from tears;

That her fair form may stand and shine,
Make bright our days and light our dreams,
Turning to scorn with lips divine

The falsehood of extremes !


LOVE thou thy land, with love far brought
From out the storied Past, and used
Within the Present, but transfused
Through future time by power of thought.

True love turned round on fixéd poles,
Love that endures not sordid ends,
For English natures, freemen, friends,
Thy brothers and immortal souls.

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