The lion-heart, Plantagenet, Sang looking through his prison bars? The last wild thought of Chatelet, A fairy shield your Genius made And gave you on your natal day. But ever trembling through the dew O sweet pale Margaret, O rare pale Margaret, Come down, come down, and hear me speak The sun is just about to set. The arching limes are tall and shady, Rise from the feast of sorrow, lady, Look out below your bower-eaves, THE BLACKBIRD. O BLACKBIRD! sing me something well: While all the neighbors 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: The unnetted blackhearts ripen dark, All thine, against the garden wall. Yet, though 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, I hear thee not at all, or hoarse As when a hawker hawks his wares. Take warning! he that will not sing THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR. I. FULL knee-deep lies the winter snow, Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow, And tread softly and speak low, Old year, you must not die; II. He lieth still: he doth not move: He gave me a friend, and a true, true-love So long as you have been with us, III. He frothed his bumpers to the brim; But though his eyes are waxing dim, Old year, you shall not die; We did so laugh and cry with you, To see him die, across the waste Every one for his own. The night is starry and cold, my friend, V. How hard he breathes! over the snow The cricket chirps: the light burns low: Shake hands, before you die. Old year, we'll dearly rue for you: VI. His face is growing sharp and thin. And waiteth at the door. There's a new foot on the floor, my friend, THE wind, that beats the mountain, blows And gently comes the world to those II. And me this knowledge bolder made, III. "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. IV. God gives us love. Something to love V. 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. VI. 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. VII. 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. VIII. I knew your brother: his mute dust VOL. I. |