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Their faces grow between me and my book:
While I spake then, a sting of shrewdest pain
That holds a crown? Come, blessed brother, come.
And from it melt the dews of Paradise,
Sweet! sweet! spikenard, and balm, and frankin
Ah! let me not be fooled, sweet saints: I trust That I am whole, and clean, and meet for Heaven.
Speak, if there be a priest, a man of God,
But thou, oh Lord,
THE SE A-FAIRIES.
SLOW sailed the weary mariners, and saw, Betwixt the green brink and the running foam, Sweet faces, rounded arms, and bosoms prest To little harps of gold; and, while they mused, Whispering to each other half in fear,
Shrill music reached them on the middle sea.
Whither away, whither away, whither away? fly
Whither away from the high green field, and the happy blossoming shore?
Day and night to the billow the fountain calls;
From wandering over the lea:
Out of the live-green heart of the dells
They freshen the silvery-crimson shells,
And thick with white bells the clover-hill swells
High over the full-toned sea :
O hither, come hither, and furl your sails,
Come hither to me and to me!
Hither, come hither, and frolic and play;
We will sing to you all the day:
Mariner, mariner, furl your sails,
For here are the blissful downs and dales,
And the rainbow lives in the curve of the sand;
And the rainbow hangs on the poising wave,
And sweet shall your welcome be;
O hither, come hither, and be our lords,
For merry brides are we!
We will kiss sweet kisses, and speak sweet words: O listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten
With pleasure and love and jubilee!
O listen, listen, your eyes shall glisten
When the sharp, clear twang of the golden chords Runs up the ridgéd sea!
Who can light on as happy a shore
All the world o'er, all the world o'er?
Whither away? listen and stay: mariner, mariner fly no more.
THE DESERTED HOUSE.
LIFE and Thought have gone away
Side by side,
Leaving door and windows wide :
Careless tenants they!
All within is dark as night:
Close the door, the shutters close,
Of the dark, deserted house.
Come away; no more of mirth
Is here or merry-making sound.
Come away; for Life and Thought
But in a city glorious
A great and distant city-have bought
Would they could have stayed with us.
OR, THE LAKE.
O ME, my pleasant rambles by the lake,
Of city life! I was a sketcher then;
See here, my doing: curves of mountain, bridge,
When men knew how to build, upon a rock,
O me! my pleasant rambles by the lake With Edwin Morris and with Edward Bull, The curate; he was fatter than his cure.
But Edwin Morris, he that knew the names,
And once I asked him of his early life,
My love for Nature is as old as I;
But thirty moons, one honeymoon to that,
And three rich sennights more, my love for her.
To some full music rose and sank the sun,
Or this or something like to this he spoke. Then said the fat-faced curate, Edward Bull, "I take it, God made the woman for the man, And for the good and increase of the world. A pretty face is well, and this is well, To have a dame indoors that trims us up, And keeps us tight; but these unreal ways