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النشر الإلكتروني

Than if with thee the roaring wells

Should gulf him fathom-deep in brine,

And hands so often clasped in mine Should toss with tangle and with shells.

XI.
Calm is the morn, without a sound;

Calm as to suit a calmer grief;
And only through the faded leaf
The chestnut pattering to the ground.
Calm and deep peace on this high wold,

And on these dews that drench the furze,

And all the silvery gossamers
That twinkle into green and gold.
Calm and still light on yon great plain,

That sweeps with all its autumn bowers,

And crowded farms and lessening towers, To mingle with the bounding main. Calm and deep peace in this wide air,

These leaves that redden to the fall;

And in my heart, if calm at all,
If any calm, a calm despair.
Calm on the seas, and silver sleep,

And waves that sway themselves in rest;

And dead calm in that noble breast, Which heaves but with the heaving deep.

XII.
Lo! as a dove when up she springs

To bear through heaven a tale of woe,

Some dolorous message knit below The wild pulsations of her wings : Like her I go; I can not stay;

I leave this mortal ark behind,

A weight of nerves without a mind, And leave the cliffs, and haste away O'er ocean-mirrors rounded large,

And reach the glow of southern skies,

And see the sails at distance rise,
And linger weeping on the marge,
And saying, “ Comes he thus, my friend?

Is this the end of all my care ?"
And circle, moaning in the air,
“Is this the end ? is this the end ?”

And forward dart again, and play

About the prow, and back return

To where the body sits, and learn That I have been an hour away.

XVIII. 'Tis well, 'tis something, we may stand

Where he in English earth is laid,

And from his ashes may be made The violet of his native land. 'Tis little; but it looks in truth

As if the quiet bones were blest,

Among familiar names to rest, And in the places of his youth. Come then, pure hands, and bear the head

That sleeps, or wears the mask of sleep;

And come, whatever loves to weep,
And hear the ritual of the dead.
Ah! yet, even yet, if this might be,

I, falling on his faithful heart,

Would, breathing through his lips, impart The life that almost dies in me, That dies not, but endures with pain,

And slowly forms the firmer mind,

Treasuring the look it can not find, The words that are not heard again.

XIX.
The Danube to the Severn gave

The darkened heart that beat no more:

They laid him by the pleasant shore,
And in the hearing of the wave.
There twice a day the Severn fills;

The salt sea-water passes by,

And hushes half the babbling Wye,
And makes a silence in the hills.
The Wye is hushed, nor moved along;

And hushed my deepest grief of all,

When, filled with tears that can not fall, I brim with sorrow drowning song. The tide flows down; the wave again

Is vocal in its wooded walls :

My deeper anguish also falls, And I can speak a little then.

.

XXVII.

I 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

His license in the field of time,

Unfettered by the sense of crime,
To whom a conscience never wakes :
Nor, what may count itself as blest,

The heart that never plighted troth,
But stagnates in the weeds of sloth;
Nor any want-begotten rest.
I hold it true, whate'er befall, –

I feel it when I sorrow most,

'Tis better to have loved and lost Than never to have loved at all.

CV.
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,

The flying cloud, the frosty light:

The year is dying in the night; Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new;
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:

The year is going, — let him go:
Ring out the false, ring in the true.
Ring out the grief that saps the mind

For those that here we see no more;

Ring out the feud of rich and poor ;
Ring in redress to all mankind.
Ring out a slowly-dying cause,

And ancient forms of party strife ;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.
Ring out the want, the care, the sin,

The faithless coldness, of the times;

Ring out, ring out, my mournful rhymes, But ring the fuller minstrel in. Ring out false pride in place and blood,

The civic slander and the spite; Ring in the love of truth and right; Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease ;

Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;

Ring out the thousand wars of old;
Ring in the thousand years of peace.
Ring in the valiant man and free,

The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land;
Ring in the Christ that is to be.

THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.

1.
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death,

Rode the six hundred.
“ Forward, the Light Brigade !
Charge for the guns!” he said.
Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

2. “Forward, the Light Brigade !” Was there a man dismayed ? Not though the soldier knew

Some one had blundered : Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die. Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred.

3. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them,

Volleyed and thundered. Stormed at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well : Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of Hell,

Rode the six hundred.

4.
Flashed all their sabers bare,
Flashed as they turned in air,
Sabering the gunners there,

Charging an army, while

All the world wondered:
Plunged in the battery-smoke,
Right through the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reeled from the saber-stroke

Shattered and sundered.
Then they rode back; but not —

Not the six hundred.

5.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them,

Volleyed and thundered :
Stormed at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came through the jaws of Death
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them, -

Left of six hundred.

6.
When can their glory fade?
Oh the wild charge they made !

All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made !
Honor the Light Brigade !

Noble six hundred!

ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.

1.
BURY the Great Duke

With an empire's lamentation ;
Let us bury the Great Duke

To the noise of the mourning of a mighty nation, —
Mourning when their leaders fall,
Warriors carry the warrior's pall,
And sorrow darkens hamlet and hall.

2. Where shall we lay the man whom we deplore? Here, in streaming London's central roar, Let the sound of those he wrought for, And the feet of those he fought for, Echo round his bones for evermore.

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