And I was young-too young to wed;
"Yet must I love her for your sake;
Go fetch your Alice here," she said;
Her eyelid quiver'd as she spake.

And down I went to fetch my bride:
But, Alice, you were ill at ease;
This dress and that by turns you tried,
Too fearful that you should not please.
I loved you better for your fears,

I knew you could not look but well; And dews, that would have fall'n in tears, I kiss'd away before they fell.

I watch'd the little flutterings,

The doubt my mother would not see. She spoke at large of many things, And at the last she spoke of me; And turning look'd upon your face, As near this door you sat apart, And rose, and, with a silent grace Approaching, press'd you heart to heart.

Ah, well-but sing the foolish song
I gave you. Alice, on the day
When, arm in arm, we went along,
A pensive pair, and you were gay
With bridal flowers-that I may seem,
As in the nights of old, to lie
Beside the mill-wheel in the stream,
While those full chestnuts whisper by.

It is the miller's daughter,

And she is grown so dear, so dear,
That I would be the jewel

That trembles at her ear,

For hid in ringlets day and night,

I'd touch her neck so warm and white.

And I would be the girdle

About her dainty, dainty waist,

And her heart would beat against me,

In sorrow and in rest.

And I should know if it beat right,

I'd clasp it round so close and tight.

And I would be the necklace,

And all day long to fall and rise
Upon her balmy bosom,

With her laughter or her sighs,
And I would lie so light, so light,

I scarce should be unclasp'd at night.

A trifle, sweet! which true love spells—
True love interprets-right alone.
His light upon the letter dwells,
For all the spirit is his own.

So if I waste words now, in truth

You must blame Love. His early rage Had force to make me rhyme in youth And makes me talk too much in age.

And now those vivid hours are gone,
Like my own life to me thou art,
Where Past and Present, wound in one,
Do make a garland for the heart;
So sing that other song I made,

Half anger'd with my happy lot,
The day, when in the chestnut shade
I found the blue Forget-me-not.

Love that hath us in the net
Can he pass, and we forget?
Many suns arise and set,
Many a chance the years beget.
Love the gift is Love the debt.
Ever so.

Love is hurt with jar and fret.
Love is made a vague regret,
Eyes with idle tears are wet.

Idle habit links us yet.

What is love? for we forget:
Ah, no! no!

Look thro' mine eyes with thine. True wife, Round my true heart thine arms entwine;

My other dearer life in life,

Look thro' my very soul with thine!
Untouch'd with any shade of years,
May those kind eyes forever dwell!
They have not shed a many tears,
Dear eyes, since first I knew them well.

Yet tears they shed; they had their part
Of sorrow for when the time was ripe,
The still affection of the heart

Became an outward breathing type,
That into stillness past again.

And left a want unknown before:
Although the loss that brought us pain,
That loss but made us love the more.

With farther lookings on. The kiss,
The woven arms, seem but to be
Weak symbols of the settled bliss,

The comfort, I have found in thee;
But that God bless thee, dear-who wrought
Two spirits to one equal mind-

With blessings beyond hope or thought,
With blessings which no words can find.

Arise, and let us wander forth,

To yon old mill across the wolds;
For look, the sunset, south and north,
Winds all the vale in rosy folds,
And fires your narrow casement glass,
Touching the sullen pool below:
On the chalk-hill the bearded grass
Is dry and dewless. Let us go.

THE PALACE OF ART.

I BUILT my soul a lordly pleasure-house,
Wherein at ease for aye to dwell.

I said, "O Soul, make merry and carouse,
Dear soul, for all is well.'

A huge crag-platform, smooth as burnish'd brass
I chose. The rangèd ramparts bright
From level meadow-bases of deep grass
Suddenly scaled the light.

Thereon I built it firm. Of ledge or shelf
The rock rose clear, or winding stair.
My soul would live alone unto herself
In her high palace there.

And "While the world runs round and round,” I said,

"Reign thou apart, a quiet king,

Still as, while Saturn whirls, his stedfast shade

Sleeps on his luminous ring.”

To which my soul made answer readily:

"Trust me, in bliss I shall abide

In this great mansion, that is built for me,

So royal-rich and wide."

Four courts I made, East, West, and South, and North, In each a squared lawn, wherefrom

The golden gorge of dragons spouted forth

A flood of fountain foam.

And round the cool green courts there ran a row

Of cloisters, branch'd like mighty woods,

Echoing all night to that sonorous flow
Of spouted fountain-floods.

And round the roofs a gilded gallery

That lent broad verge to distant lands,

Far as the wild swan wings, to where the sky
Dipt down to sea and sands.

From those four jets four currents in one swell
Across the mountain stream❜d below

In misty folds, that floating as they fell
Lit up a torrent-bow.

And high on every peak a statue seem'd
To hang on tiptoe, tossing up

A cloud of incense of all odour steam'd
From out a golden cup.

So that she thought, "And who shall gaze upon

My palace with unblinded eyes,

While this great bow will waver in the sun,

And that sweet incense rise?'

For that sweet incense rose and never fail'd,
And, while day sank or mounted higher,

The light aërial gallery, golden-rail'd,
Burnt like a fringe of fire.

Likewise the deep-set windows, stain'd and traced,
Would seem slow-flaming crimson fires
From shadow'd grots of arches interlaced,
And tipt with frost-like spires.

Full of long sounding corridors it was,
That over-vaulted grateful gloom,

Thro' which the livelong day my soul did pass,
Well-pleased, from room to room.

Full of great rooms and small the palace stood,
All various, each a perfect whole

From living Nature, fit for every mood

And change of my still soul.

For some were hung with arras green and blue,
Showing a gaudy summer-morn,

Where with puff'd cheek the belted hunter blew
His wreathed bugle-horn.

One seem'd all dark and red-a tract of sand,
And some one pacing there alone,

Who paced for ever in a glimmering land,
Lit with a low large moon.

One show'd an iron coast and angry waves.
You seem'd to hear them climb and fall

And roar rock-thwarted under bellowing caves,
Beneath the windy wall.

And one, a full-fed river winding slow
By herds upon an endless plain,

The ragged rims of thunder brooding low,
With shadow-streaks of rain.

And one, the reapers at their sultry toil.

In front they bound the sheaves. Behind
Were realms of upland, prodigal in oil,
And hoary to the wind.

And one, a foreground black with stones and slags,
Beyond, a line of heights, and higher

All barr'd with long white cloud the scornful crags,
And highest, snow and fire.

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