That dies not, but endures with pain, And slowly forms the firmer mind, Treasuring the look it cannot 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 cannot 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.

XX.

THE lesser griefs, that may be said,
That breathe a thousand tender vows,
Are but as servants in a house
Where lies the master newly dead;

Who speak their feeling as it is,

And weep the fulness from the mind: It will be hard," they say, "to find Another service such as this."

My lighter moods are like to these,
That out of words a comfort win;
But there are other griefs within,
And tears that at their fountain freeze;

For by the hearth the children sit

Cold in that atmosphere of Death,

And scarce endure to draw the breath,

Or like to noiseless phantoms flit;

But open converse is there none,
So much the vital spirits sink

To see the vacant chair, and think,

"How good! how kind! and he is gone."

XXI.

I SING to him that rests below,

And, since the grasses round me wave,
I take the grasses of the grave,
And make them pipes whereon to blow.

The traveller hears me now and then,

And sometimes harshly will he speak : "This fellow would make weakness weak, And melt the waxen hearts of men."

Another answers, "Let him be;

He loves to make parade of pain, That with his piping he may gain The praise that comes to constancy."

A third is wroth: "Is this an hour

For private sorrow's barren song,

When more and more the people throng

The chairs and thrones of civil power?