The Lotos blooms below the barren peak : The Lotos blows by every winding creek: All day the wind breathes low with mellower tone: Thro' every hollow cave and alley lone Round and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotos-dust is blown. We have had enough of action, and of motion we, Roll'd to starboard, roll'd to larboard, when the surge was seething free, Where the wallowing monster spouted his foam-fountains in the sea. Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind, In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie reclin'd On the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind. For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurl'd Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curl'd Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world: Where they smile in secret, looking over wasted lands, Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring deeps and fiery sands, Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships, and praying hands. But they smile, they find a music centred in a doleful song Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of wrong, Like a tale of little meaning tho' the words are strong; Chanted from an ill-us'd race of men that cleave the soil, Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with enduring toil, Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine and oil; Till they perish and they suffer—some, 't is whisper'd-down in hell Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys dwell, Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel. Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore Than labor in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oar; Oh rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more. ULYSSES IT little profits that an idle king, By this still hearth, among these barren crags, Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole Unequal laws unto a savage race, That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me. I cannot rest from travel: I will drink Life to the lees: all times I have enjoy'd Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those That lov'd me, and alone; on shore, and when Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades Myself not least, but honor'd of them all; Gleams that untravell'd world, whose margin fades For ever and for ever when I move. Were all too little, and of one to me And this gray spirit yearning in desire There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail : My There gloom the dark broad seas. mariners, Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me— That ever with a frolic welcome took The thunder and the sunshine, and oppos'd Free hearts, free foreheads — you and I are old; Old age hath yet his honor and his toil; Death closes all ; but something ere the end, Some work of noble note, may yet be done, Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks : The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs : the deep Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, "T is not too late to seek a newer world. Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho' We are not now that strength which in old days Mov'd earth and heaven, that which we are, we are : One equal temper of heroic hearts, Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. SIR GALAHAD My good blade carves the casques of men, The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, They reel, they roll in clanging lists, And when the tide of combat stands, Perfume and flowers fall in showers, That lightly rain from ladies' hands. How sweet are looks that ladies bend To save from shame and thrall: My knees are bow'd in crypt and shrine : I never felt the kiss of love, Nor maiden's hand in mine. Me mightier transports move and thrill; When down the stormy crescent goes, I hear a voice, but none are there; The stalls are void, the doors are wide, The tapers burning fair. Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth, The silver vessels sparkle clean, The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, And solemn chaunts resound between. Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres I find a magic bark; I leap on board: no helmsman steers : I float till all is dark. A gentle sound, an awful light! And star-like mingles with the stars. When on my goodly charger borne The cock crows ere the Christmas morn, But o'er the dark a glory spreads, A maiden knight-to me is given I muse on joy that will not cease, Whose odors haunt my dreams; This mortal armor that I wear, This weight and size, this heart and eyes, Are touch'd, are turn'd to finest air. The maiden Spring upon the plain In crystal vapor everywhere Sometimes the linnet pip'd his song: Above the teeming ground. Then, in the boyhood of the year, She seem'd a part of joyous Spring; Now on some twisted ivy-net, As fast she fled thro' sun and shade, The rein with dainty finger-tips, BREAK, BREAK, BREAK BREAK, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, O Sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me. O well for the fisherman's boy, That he shouts with his sister at play! O well for the sailor lad, That he sings in his boat on the bay! And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill; But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand, And the sound of a voice that is still! Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me. SONGS FROM "THE PRINCESS" AS THRO' THE LAND As thro' the land at eve we went, And kiss again with tears! For when we came where lies the child BUGLE SONG THE splendor falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story: The long light shakes across the lakes, And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. O hark, O hear! how thin and clear, And thinner, clearer, farther going! O sweet and far from cliff and scar The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. O love, they die in yon rich sky, They faint on hill or field or river: Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow for ever and for ever. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying. And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. TEARS, IDLE TEARS TEARS, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depth of some divine despair Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy Autumn-fields, And thinking of the days that are no more. Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, That brings our friends up from the underworld, Sad as the last which reddens over one That sinks with all we love below the verge ; So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds square; So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. Dear as remember'd kisses after death, And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd On lips that are for others; deep as love, Deep as first love, and wild with all regret ; O Death in Life, the days that are no more. Let the sound of those he wrought for, And the feet of those he fought for, Echo round his bones for evermore. III Lead out the pageant: sad and slow, Let the long long procession go, IV Mourn, for to us he seems the last, O good gray head which all men knew, O iron nerve to true occasion true, O fall'n at length that tower of strength Which stood four-square to all the winds that blew ! Such was he whom we deplore. The long self-sacrifice of life is o'er. no more. All is over and done : Render thanks to the Giver, |