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Old age hath yet his honor and his toil. Death closes all; but something ere the end,

Some work of noble note, may yet be done,

Not unbecoming men that strove with gods.

The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks;

The long day wanes; the slow moon climbs; the deep

Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,

'Tis not too late to seek a newer world. Push off, and sitting well in order smite The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds 59

To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us
down;

It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,1 And see the great Achilles, whom we knew,

Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'

We are not now that strength which in old days

Moved earth and heaven, that which we

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They reel, they roll in clanging lists,

And when the tide of combat stands,1 10 Perfume and flowers fall in showers,

That lightly rain from ladies' hands.

How sweet are looks that ladies bend
On whom their favors fall!

For them I battle till the end,

To save from shame and thrall. But all my heart is drawn above, My knees are bow'd in crypts and shrine;

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I never felt the kiss of love,
Nor maiden's hand in mine.
More bounteous aspects on me beam,
Me mightier transports move and thrill;
So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer
A virgin heart in work and will.

When down the stormy crescent goes,
A light before me swims,
Between dark stems the forest glows,
I hear a noise of hymns.

Then by some secret shrine I ride;

I hear a voice, but none are there; 30 The stalls are void, the doors are wide, The tapers burning fair.

Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth,

The silver vessels sparkle clean,
The shrill bell rings, the censer swings,
And solemn chants resound between.
Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres
I find a magic bark.

I leap on board; no helmsman steers;
I float till all is dark.

A gentle sound, an awful light!

Three angels bear the Holy Grail;
With folded feet, in stoles of white,
On sleeping wings they sail.
Ah, blessed vision! blood of God!
My spirit beats her mortal bars,
As down dark tides the glory slides,
And star-like mingles with the stars.

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[This poem was inspired by a report lately made by Richard H. Horne on the employment of children in English mines and factories. Mrs. Browning mentioned this, in particular, as her authority for the superstition referred to in lines 113-116.]

Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers,

Ere the sorrow comes with years? They are leaning their young heads against their mothers,

And that cannot stop their tears. The young lambs are bleating in the meadows,

The young birds are chirping in the nest,

The young fawns are playing with the shadows,

The young flowers are blowing toward the west

But the young, young children, O my brothers,

They are weeping bitterly!

ΤΟ

They are weeping in the playtime of the

others,

In the country of the free.

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Few paces have we taken, yet are weary-
Our grave-rest is very far to seek.
Ask the aged why they weep, and not the
children;

For the outside earth is cold; And we young ones stand without, in our bewildering,

And the graves are for the old."

"True," say the children, "it may happen That we die before our time; Little Alice died last year-her grave is shapen

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Like a snowball, in the rime.1 We looked into the pit prepared to take her:

Was no room for any work in the close clay!

From the sleep wherein she lieth none will wake her,

Crying, 'Get up, little Alice! it is day.' If you listen by that grave, in sun and shower,

With your ear down, little Alice never cries;

Could we see her face, be sure we should not know her,

For the smile has time for growing in her eyes:

And merry go her moments, lulled and stilled in

I rime. Frost.

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Alas, alas, the children! they are seeking
Death in life, as best to have;
They are binding up their hearts away
from breaking,

With a cerement from the grave. Go out, children, from the mine and from the city,

Sing out, children, as the little thrushes do;

Pluck you handfuls of the meadow cowslips pretty,

Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let them through!

60 But they answer, "Are your cowslips of the meadows

Like our weeds anear the mine? Leave us quiet in the dark of the coalshadows,

From your pleasures fair and fine!

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'O ye wheels' (breaking out in a mad moaning),

'Stop! be silent for to-day!" "

Aye! be silent! Let them hear each other breathing

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For a moment, mouth to mouth! Let them touch each other's hands, in a fresh wreathing

Of their tender human youth!

Let them feel that this cold metallic motion

Is not all the life God fashions or reveals:

Let them prove their living souls against the notion

That they live in you, or under you, O wheels!

Still, all day, the iron wheels go onward, Grinding life down from its mark;1 And the children's souls, which God is calling sunward,

Spin on blindly in the dark.

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Are worn, as if with age, yet unretrievingly

The harvest of its memories cannot reap,

Are orphans of the earthly love and heavenly.

Let them weep! let them weep!

They look up, with their pale and sunken faces,

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And their look is dread to see, For they mind you of their angels in high places,1

With eyes turned on Deity !— "How long," they say, "how long, O cruel nation,

Will you stand, to move the world, on a child's heart.

Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpitation,

And tread onward to your throne amid the mart?

Our blood splashes upward, O goldheaper,

And your purple shows your path! But the child's sob in the silence curses deeper

Than the strong man in his wrath." 160 (1844)

RONDEAU

LEIGH HUNT

Jenny kissed me when we met,

Jumping from the chair she sat in; Time, you thief, who love to get

Sweets to fill your list, put that in: Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,

Say that health and wealth have missed me,

Say I'm growing old, but add,
Jenny kissed me.

(1844)

I See Matthew 18:10.

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