That friend of mine who lives in God,
That God, which ever lives and loves,
One God, one law, one element,
And one far-off divine event
To which the whole creation moves.

SELECTIONS FROM MAUD.

WE are puppets, Man in his pride, and Beauty fair in her flower;

Do we move ourselves, or are moved by an unseen hand at a

game

That pushes us off from the board, and others ever succeed?
Ah yet, we cannot be kind to each other here for an hour;
We whisper, and hint, and chuckle, and grin at a brother's
shame;

However we brave it out, we men are a little breed.

A monstrous eft was of old the Lord and Master of Earth, For him did his high sun flame, and his river billowing ran, And he felt himself in his force to be Nature's crowning race. As nine months go to the shaping an infant ripe for his birth, So many a million of ages have gone to the making of man: He now is first, but is he the last? is he not too base?

The man of science himself is fonder of glory, and vain,
An eye well-practised in nature, a spirit bounded and poor;
The passionate heart of the poet is whirl'd into folly and vice.
I would not marvel at either, but keep a temperate brain;
For not to desire or admire, if a man could learn it, were more
Than to walk all day like the sultan of old in a garden of spice.

For the drift of the Maker is dark, an Isis hid by the veil.
Who knows the ways of the world, how God will bring them
about?

Our planet is one, the suns are many, the world is wide.
Shall I weep if a Poland fall? shall I shriek if a Hungary fail?
Or an infant civilization be ruled with rod or with knout?
I have not made the world, and He that made it will guide.

A voice by the cedar tree,

In the meadow under the Hall!

She is singing an air that is known to me,

A passionate ballad gallant and gay,

A martial song like a trumpet's call !

Singing alone in the morning of life,
In the happy morning of life and of May,
Singing of men that in battle array,
Ready in heart and ready in hand,
March with banner and bugle and fife
To the death, for their native land.

Maud with her exquisite face,

And wild voice pealing up to the sunny sky,
And feet like sunny gems on an English green,
Maud in the light of her youth and her grace,
Singing of Death, and of Honour that cannot die,
Till I well could weep for a time so sordid and mean,
And myself so languid and base.

Silence, beautiful voice,

Be still, for you only trouble the mind
With a joy in which I cannot rejoice,
A glory I shall not find.

Still! I will hear you no more,

For your sweetness hardly leaves me a choice
But to move to the meadow and fall before
Her feet on the meadow grass, and adore,
Not her, who is neither courtly nor kind,
Not her, not her, but a voice.

Whom but Maud should I meet
Last night, when the sunset burn'd
On the blossom'd gable-ends

At the head of the village street,

Whom but Maud should I meet?

And she touch'd my hand with a smile so sweet
She made me divine amends

For a courtesy not return'd.

And thus a delicate spark

Of glowing and growing light

Thro' the livelong hours of the dark

Kept itself warm in the heart of my dreams,

Ready to burst in a colour'd flame;

Till at last, when the morning came

In a cloud, it faded, and seems
But an ashen-gray delight.

Birds in the high Hall-garden
When twilight was falling,
Maud, Maud, Maud, Maud,

They were crying and calling.

Where was Maud? in our wood
And I, who else, was with her,
Gathering woodland lilies,
Myriads blow together.

Birds in our wood sang
Ringing thro' the valleys,
Maud is here, here, here
In among the lilies.

I kiss'd her slender hand,

She took the kiss sedately; Maud is not seventeen,

But she is tall and stately.

I to cry out on pride

Who have won her favour! O Maud were sure of Heaven If lowliness could save her.

I know the way she went

Home with her maiden posy,

For her feet have touch'd the meadows
And left the daisies rosy.

Birds in the high Hall-garden
Were crying and calling to her,
Where is Maud, Maud, Maud,
One is come to woo her.

Look, a horse at the door,

And little King Charley snarling, Go back, my lord, across the moor, You are not her darling.

Go not, happy day,

From the shining fields,

Go not, happy day,
Till the maiden yields.

Rosy is the West,

Rosy is the South,

Roses are her cheeks,

And a rose her mouth.

When the happy Yes
Falters from her lips,
Pass and blush the news
Over glowing ships;
Over blowing seas,

Over seas at rest,
Pass the happy news,
Blush it thro' the West;
Till the red man dance

By his red cedar tree,
And the red man's babe
Leap, beyond the sea.
Blush, from West to East.
Blush from East to West,
Till the West is East,

Blush it thro' the West.
Rosy is the West,

Rosy is the South,

Roses are her cheeks,

And a rose her mouth.

I have led her home, my love, my only friend.
There is none like her, none.

And never yet so warmly ran my blood

And sweetly, on and on

Calming itself to the long-wish'd-for-end,

Full to the banks, close on the promised good.

I.

Come into the garden, Maud,

For the black bat, night, has flown,

Come into the garden, Maud,

I am here at the gate alone;

And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad,
And the musk of the roses blown.

II.

For a breeze of morning moves,

And the planet of Love is on high,

Beginning to faint in the light that she loves
On a bed of daffodil sky,

To faint in the light of the sun she loves,
To faint in his light, and to die.

1

III.

All night have the roses heard

The flute, violin, bassoon;

All night has the casement jessamine stirr'd
To the dancers dancing in tune;
Till a silence fell with the waking bird,
And a hush with the setting moon.

IV.

I said to the lily, "There is but one
With whom she has heart to be gay.
When will the dancers leave her alone?
She is weary of dance and play.”
Now half to the setting moon are gone,
And half to the rising day;

Low on the sand and loud on the stone
The last wheel echoes away.

V.

I said to the rose, "The brief night goes
In babble and revel and wine.

O young lord-lover, what sighs are those,
For one that will never be thine?

But mine, but mine," so I sware to the rose,
"For ever and ever, mine."

VI.

And the soul of the rose went into my blood,
As the music clash'd in the hall;

And long by the garden lake I stood,

For I heard your rivulet fall

From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood, Our wood, that is dearer than all;

VII.

From the meadow your walks have left so sweet

That whenever a March-wind sighs

He sets the jewel-print of your feet

In violets blue as your eyes,

To the woody hollows in which we meet

And the valleys of Paradise.