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Charging an army, while
All the world wonder'd :
Shatter'd and sunderd.
Volley'd and thunder'd;
All the world wonder'd.
Noble six hundred !
IN MEMORIAM A. H. H.
OBỊIT MDCCCXXXIII STRONG Son of God, immortal Love,
Whom we, that have not seen thy face,
By faith, and faith alone, embrace,
Thou madest Life in man and brute;
Thou madest Death ; and lo, thy foot Is on the skull which thou hast made.
Thou wilt not leave us in the dust :
Thou madest man, he knows not why;
He thinks he was not made to die; And thou hast made him : thou art just. Thou seemest human and divine,
The highest, holiest manhood, thou :
Our wills are ours, we know not how; Our wills are ours, to make them thine. Our little systems have their day;
They have their day and cease to be:
They are but broken lights of thee, And thou, O Lord, art more than they. We have but faith : we cannot know;
For knowledge is of things we see;
And yet we trust it comes from thee,
But more of reverence in us dwell ;
That mind and soul, according well,
We mock thee when we do not fear:
But help thy foolish ones to bear ; Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light. Forgive what seem'd my sin in me;
What seem'd my worth since I began;
For merit lives from man to man, And not from man, O Lord, to thee. Forgive my grief for one removed,
Thy creature, whom I found so fair.
I trust he lives in thee, and there
Confusions of a wasted youth;
Forgive them where they fail in truth, And in thy wisdom make me wise. .1849
I HELD it truth, with him who sings
To one clear harp in divers tones,
That men may rise on stepping-stones Of their dead selves to higher things.
But who shall so forecast the years
And find in loss a gain to match?
Or reach a hand thro' time to catch The far-off interest of tears ? Let Love clasp Grief lest both be drown'd,
Let darkness keep her raven gloss :
Ah, sweeter to be drunk with loss, To dance with death, to beat the ground, Than that the victor Hours should scorn
The long result of love, and boast :
“Behold the man that loved and lost, But all he was is overworn."
Old Yew, which graspest at the stones
That name the under-lying dead,
Thy fibres net the dreamless head; Thy roots are wrapt about the bones. The seasons bring the flower again,
And bring the firstling to the flock;
And in the dusk of thee, the clock
Who changest not in any gale,
Nor branding summer suns avail To touch thy thousand years of gloom : And gazing on thee, sullen tree,
Sick for thy stubborn hardihood,
I seem to fail from out my blood, And grow incorporate into thee.
O SORROW, cruel fellowship,
O Priestess in the vaults of Death,
O sweet and bitter in a breath, What whispers from thy lying lip? “The stars,” she whispers, “blindly run ;
A web is wov'n across the sky;
From out waste places comes a cry, And murmurs from the dying sun :
“ And all the phantom, Nature, stands
With all her music in her tone,
A hollow echo of my own,
Embrace her as my natural good;
Or crush her, like a vice of blood, Upon the threshold of the mind ?
To Sleep I give my powers away;
My will is bondsman to the dark ;
I sit within a helmless bark, And with my heart I muse and say : O heart, how fares it with thee now,
That thou should'st fail from thy desire,
Who scarcely darest to inquire “ What is it makes me beat so low?" Something it is which thou hast lost,
Some pleasure from thine early years!
Break, thou deep vase of chilling tears, That grief hath shaken into frost ! Such clouds of nameless trouble cross
All night below the darken'd eyes;
With morning wakes the will, and cries, “Thou shalt not be the fool of loss."
I SOMETIMES hold it half a sin
To put in words the grief I feel;
For words, like Nature, half reveal
A use in measured language lies;
The sad mechanic exercise,
Like coarsest clothes against the cold;
But that large grief which these enfold Is given in outline and no more.
One writes, that “ Other friends remain,
That “Loss is common to the race
And common is the commonplace, And vacant chaff well meant for grain, That loss is common would not make
My own less bitter, rather more:
Too common! Never morning wore
That pledgest now thy gallant son ;
A shot, ere half thy draught be done,
Thy sailor,--while thy head is bow'd,
His heavy-shotted hammock-shroud Drops in his vast and wandering grave. Ye know no more than I who wrought
At that last hour to please him well ;
Who mused on all I had to tell,
That sittest ranging golden hair;
And glad to find thyself so fair, Poor child, that waitest for thy love! For now her father's chimney glows
In expectation of a guest;
And thinking "this will please him best," She takes a riband or a rose; For he will see them on to-night;
And with the thought her colour burns;
And, having left the glass, she turns
Had fallen, and her future Lord
Was drown'd in passing thro' the ford, Or kill'd in falling from his horse.