A simple maiden in her flower Lady Clara Vere de Vere, Some meeker pupil you must find, Lady Clara Vere de Vere, You put strange memories in my head. But there was that across his throat Lady Clara Vere de Vere, When thus he met his mother's view, She had the passions of her kind, She spake some certain truths of Indeed I heard one bitter word That scarce is fit for you to hear; Her manners had not that repose you. Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, There stands a spectre in your hall: The guilt of blood is at your door: You changed a wholesome heart to gall. You held your course without remorse, To make him trust his modest worth, And, last, you fixed a vacant stare, And slew him with your noble birth. Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, From yon blue heavens above us bent, I know you, Clara Vere de Vere: You pine among your halls and towers: The languid light of your proud eyes Is wearied of the rolling hours. In glowing health, with boundless wealth, But sickening of a vague disease, You know so ill to deal with time, You needs must play such pranks as these. Clara, Clara Vere de Vere, If Time be heavy on your hands, ' EXTRACTS FROM IN MEMORIAM." ENVY not, in any moods, The captive void of noble rage, The linnet born within the cage, That never knew the summer woods. I envy not the beast that takes Nor, what may count itself as blest, I hold it true, whate'er befall- WITH trembling fingers did we weave At our old pastimes in the hall We gambolled, making vain pretence Of gladness, with an awful sense Of one mute Shadow watching all. We paused; the winds were in the beech- Sat silent, looking each at each. Then echo-like our voices rang; We sang, though every eye was dim— We ceased. A gentler feeling crept Upon us; surely rest is meet; 66 "They rest," we said; their sleep is sweet." And silence followed, and we wept. Our voices took a higher range; Once more we sang: "They do not die, Nor lose their mortal sympathy, Nor change to us, although they change: "Rapt from the fickle and the frail, With gathered power, yet the same, Pierces the keen seraphic flame From orb to orb, from veil to veil. 66 Rise, happy morn! rise, holy morn! The light that shone when Hope was born!" Dost thou look back on what hath been, As some divinely gifted man, Whose life in low estate began, And on a simple village green? Who breaks his birth's invidious bar, Who makes by force his merit known, And moving up from high to higher, Yet feels, as in a pensive dream, The limit of his narrower fate, While yet beside its vocal springs Who ploughs with pain his native lea, WITCH-ELMS, that counterchange the floor Of this flat lawn with dusk and bright; And thou, with all thy breadth and height Of foliage, towering sycamore; |