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Begins the clash and clang that tells
O happy hour! and happier hours
O happy hour! behold the bride
With him to whom her hand I gave.
That has to-day its sunny side.
To-day the grave is bright for me,
For them the light of life increased
Who stay to share the morning feast,
Who rest to-night beside the sea.
Let all my genial spirits advance
To meet and greet a whiter sun;
The foaming grape of eastern France.
It circles round, and fancy plays,
And hearts are warmed and faces bloom,
We wish them store of happy days.
Nor count me all to blame if I
Perchance, perchance, among the rest,
And, though in silence, wishing joy.
But they must go; the time draws on,
And those white-favored horses wait; They rise, but linger, it is late; Farewell, we kiss, and they are gone.
A shade falls on us like the dark
From little cloudlets on the grass,
Discussing how their courtship grew,
Again the feast, the speech, the glee,
The shade of passing thought, the wealth Of words and wit, the double health, The crowning cup, the three times three,
And last the dance;-till I retire :
Dumb is that tower which spake so loud, And high in heaven the streaming cloud, And on the downs a rising fire:
And rise, O moon, from yonder down,
The white-faced halls, the glancing rills,
And o'er the friths that branch and spread
Their sleeping silver through the hills;
And touch with shade the bridal doors,
To spangle all the happy shores
By which they rest, and ocean sounds,
And, moved through life of lower phase,
Of those that, eye to eye, shall look
No longer half-akin to brute,
For all we thought and loved and did, And hoped, and suffered, is but seed Of what in them is flower and fruit;
Whereof the man, that with me trod
That God, which ever lives and loves,
I HATE the dreadful hollow behind the little wood, Its lips in the field above are dabbled with bloodred heath,
The red-ribb'd ledges drip with a silent horror of blood,
And Echo there, whatever is ask'd her, answers • Death.'
For there in the ghastly pit long since a body was
His who had given me life-O father! O God! was it well?.
Mangled, and flatten'd, and crush'd, and dinted into the ground:
There yet lies the rock that fell with him when he
Did he fling himself down? who knows? for a vast speculation had fail'd,
And ever he mutter'd and madden'd, and ever wann'd with despair,
And out he walk'd when the wind like a broken
And the flying gold of the ruin'd woodlands drove thro' the air.
I remember the time, for the roots of my hair were
By a shuffled step, by a dead weight trail'd, by a whisper'd fright,
And my pulses closed their gates with a shock on my heart as I heard
The shrill-edged shriek of a mother divide the shuddering night.
Villany somewhere! whose ? One says, we are
Not he his honest fame should at least by me be maintain'd:
But that old man, now lord of the broad estate and the Hall,
Dropt off gorged from a scheme that had left us flaccid and drain’d.
Why do they prate of the blessings of Peace? we have made them a curse,
Pickpockets, each hand lusting for all that is not its
And lust of gain, in the spirit of Cain, is it better
Than the heart of the citizen hissing in war on his own hearthstone ?
But these are the days of advance, the works of the men of mind,
When who but a fool would have faith in a tradesman's ware or his word ?
Is it peace or war? Civil war, as I think, and that
of a kind
The viler, as underhand, not openly bearing the sword.