31, a. Sounds: Construe, of course, not as a noun, but as a verb coördinate with rest. The phrase by which belongs to bot 31, c. A soul shall draw from out the vast: Profundis," also "Crossing the Bar," 2, c.

Compare “De

32, d. The crowning race: Compare CXVIII, 4, b.

Some have criticised the poet for closing his elegy with this happy marriage song, but the poet replied that he meant it to be "a kind of Divina Commedia, ending with happiness."

(Memoir,

1, 304). Genung puts the idea very happily: "The poem that began with death, over which in its long course it has found love triumphant, now ends with marriage, that highest earthly illustration of crowned and completed love." Besides being in itself a beautiful epithalamium, the poem sums up in concrete and vivid way the results of the poet's long struggle with grief and doubt. The following points may be noted:

1. Regret has ceased, but love is greater than before. (3-5.) 2. The poet feels himself a stronger and a wiser man than in the days gone by. (5-6.)

3. His heart is at peace and life seems full of joy. (17-21.) 4. He thinks of his friend as still existent, and perhaps present with him. (22, and 35, d.)

5. He looks forward to the future with a happy confidence in the development of the race and the ultimate triumph of the highest and the best. (31-34.)

6. For all these thoughts he finds assurance in the character of his glorified friend whose life was a pledge of the final union of the race with God.

(35-36.)

INDEX OF FIRST LINES

Again at Christmas did we weave, LXXVIII.
A happy lover who has come, VIII.

And all is well, tho' faith and form, CXXVII.
And was the day of my delight, XXIV.

As sometimes in a dead man's face, LXXIV.

Be near me when my light is low, L.
By night we linger'd on the lawn, XCV.

Calm is the morn without a sound, XI.
Contemplate all this work of time, CXVIII.
Could I have said while he was here, LXXXI.
Could we forget the widow'd hour, XL.

Dark house, by which once more I stand, VII.
Dear friend, far off, my lost desire, CXXIX.
Dip down upon the northern shore, LXXXIII.
Doors, where my heart was used to beat, CXIX.
Dost thou look back on what hath been, LXIV.
Do we indeed desire the dead, LI.

Fair ship, that from the Italian shore, IX.
From art, from nature, from the schools, XLIX.

Heart-affluence in discursive talk, CIX.

He past; a soul of nobler tone, LX.

Her eyes are homes of silent prayer, XXXII.
He tasted love with half his mind, XC.
High wisdom holds my wisdom less, CXII.
How fares it with the happy dead, XLIV.
How many a father have I seen, LIII.
How pure at heart and sound in head, XCIV.

I cannot love thee as I ought, LII.

I cannot see the features right, LXX.

I climb the hill: from end to end, C.

I dream'd there would be Spring no more, LXIX.

I envy not in any moods, XXVII.

If any vision should reveal, XCII.

If any vague desire should rise, LXXX.
If, in thy second state sublime, LXI.

If one should bring me this report, XIV.

If Sleep and Death be truly one, XLIII.
If these brief lays, of sorrow born, XLVIII.
I hear the noise about thy keel, X.

I held it truth, with him who sings, I.

I know that this was Life,—the track, XXV.
I leave thy praises unexpress'd, LXXV.

I past beside the reverend walls, LXXXVII.
In those sad words I took farewell, LVIII.
I shall not see thee. Dare I say, XCIII.
I sing to him that rests below, XXI.
I sometimes hold it half a sin, V.

I trust I have not wasted breath, CXX.

I vex my heart with fancies dim, XLII.
I wage not any feud with Death, LXXXII.
I will not shut me from my kind, CVIII.
Is it, then, regret for buried time, CXVI.
It is the day when he was born, CVII.

Lo, as a dove when up she springs, XII.
Love is and was my Lord and King, CXXVI.

"More than my brothers are to me," LXXIX. My love has talk'd with rocks and trees, XCVII. My own dim life should teach me this, XXXIV.

Now fades the last long streak of snow, CXV. Now, sometimes in my sorrow shut, XXIII.

O days and hours, your work is this, CXVII.
Oh, wast thou with me, dearest, then, CXXII.
Oh, yet we trust that somehow good, LIV.
Old warder of these buried bones, XXXIX.
Old Yew, which graspest at the stones, II.
O living will that shalt endure, CXXXI.
One writes that "Other friends remain", VI.
On that last night before we went, CIII.
O Sorrow, cruel fellowship, III.

O Sorrow, wilt thou live with me, LIX.

O thou that after toil and storm, XXXIII.
O true and tried, so well and long, EPILOGUE.

Peace; come away: the song of woe, LVII.

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, CVI.
Risest thou thus, dim dawn, again, LXXII.
Risest thou thus, dim dawn, again, XCIX.

Sad Hesper o'er the buried sun, CXXI.
Sleep, kinsman thou to death and trance, LXXI.
"So careful of the type?"—but no, LVI.
So many worlds, so much to do, LXXIII.
Still onward winds the dreary way, XXVI.
Strong Son of God, immortal Love, PROLOGUE.
Sweet after showers, ambrosial air, LXXXVI.
Sweet soul, do with me as thou wilt, LXV.

Take wings of fancy, and ascend, LXXVI.
Tears of the widower, when he sees, XIII.
That each, who seems a separate whole, XLVII
That which we dare invoke to bless, CXXIV.
The baby new to earth and sky, XLV.
The churl in spirit, up or down, CXI.

The Danube to the Severn gave, XIX.
The lesser griefs that may be said, XX.

The love that rose on stronger wings, CXXVIII.
The path by which we twain did go, XXII.

The time draws near the birth of Christ, XXVIII.
The time draws near the birth of Christ, CIV.
The wish, that of the living whole, LV.
There rolls the deep where grew the tree, CXXIII.
This truth came borne with bier and pall, LXXXV.
Tho' if an eye that's downward cast, LXII.

Tho' truths in manhood darkly join, XXXVI.

Thou comest, much wept for; such a breeze, XVII. Thy converse drew us with delight, CX.

Thy spirit ere our fatal loss, XLI.

Thy voice is on the rolling air, CXXX,

'Tis held that sorrow makes us wise, CXIII.

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

10-night the winds begin to rise, XV. To-night ungather'd let us leave, CV. To Sleep I give my powers away, IV.

Unwatch'd, the garden bough shall sway, CI.
Urania speaks with darken'd brow, XXXVII.

We leave the well-beloved place, CII.

We ranging down this lower track, XLVI.
What hope is here for modern rhyme, LXXVII.
What words are these have fall'n from me, XVI.
Whatever I have said or sung, CXXV.
When I contemplate all alone, LXXXIV.
When in the down I sink my head, LXVIII.
When Lazarus left his charnel-cave, XXXI.
When on my bed the moonlight falls, LXVII.
When rosy plumelets tuft the larch, XCI.

Who loves not Knowledge? Who shall rail, CXIV.
Wild bird, whose warble, liquid sweet, LXXXVIII.
Witch-elms, that counterchange the floor, LXXXIX.
With such compelling cause to grieve, XXIX.
With trembling fingers did we weave, XXX.
With weary steps I loiter on, XXXVIII.

Yet if some voice that man could trust, XXXV.
Yet pity for a horse o'er-driven, LXIII.
You leave us: you will see the Rhine, XCVIII.
You say, but with no touch of scorn, XCVI.
You thought my heart too far diseased, LXVI.