Therefore art thou ever dearer,
O, my Sibyl, my deceiver!

For thou makest each mystery clearer,
And the unattained seems nearer,

When thou fillest my heart with fever !

Muse of all the Gifts and Graces!
Though the fields around us wither,
There are ampler realms and spaces,
Where no foot has left its traces :

Let us turn and wander thither!

FLIGHT THE FOURTH

FLIGHT THE FOURTH.

1875.

CHARLES SUMNER.

ARLANDS upon his grave,
And flowers upon his hearse,
And to the tender heart and brave
The tribute of this verse.

His was the troubled life,

The conflict and the pain,

The grief, the bitterness of strife,
The honour without stain.

Like Winkelried, he took

Into his manly breast

The sheaf of hostile spears, and broke

A path for the oppressed.

Then from the fatal field,
Upon a nation's heart