I hear a chirp of birds; I see

Betwixt the black fronts long-withdrawn
A light-blue lane of early dawn,

And think of early days and thee,

And bless thee, for thy lips are bland,
And bright the friendship of thine eye;
And in my thoughts with scarce a sigh
I take the pressure of thine hand.

LXXXVII

THERE rolls the deep where grew the tree.
O earth, what changes hast thou seen!
There where the long street roars, hath been
The stillness of the central sea.

The hills are shadows, and they flow

From form to form, and nothing stands ;
They melt like mist, the solid lands,
Like clouds they shape themselves and go.

But in my spirit will I dwell,

And dream my dream, and hold it true;
For tho' my lips may breathe adieu,
I cannot think the thing farewell.

LXXXVIII

OLD Yew, which graspest at the stones
That name the under-lying dead,
Thy fibres net the dreamless head,
Thy roots are wrapt about the bones.

The seasons bring the flower again,

And bring the firstling to the flock;
And in the dusk of thee, the clock
Beats out the little lives of men.

O not for thee the glow, the bloom,
Who changest not in any gale,
Nor branding summer suns avail
To touch thy thousand years of gloom :

And gazing on thee, sullen tree,
Sick for thy stubborn hardihood,
I seem to fail from out my blood
And grow incorporate into thee.

LXXXIX

ONE writes, that 'Other friends remain,'
That Loss is common to the race
And common is the commonplace,
And vacant chaff well meant for grain.

That loss is common would not make
My own less bitter, rather more:
Too common! Never morning wore
To evening, but some heart did break.

O father, wheresoe'er thou be,

Who pledgest now thy gallant son; A shot, ere half thy draught be done, Hath still'd the life that beat from thee.

O mother, praying God will save

Thy sailor,-while thy head is bow'd, His heavy-shotted hammock-shroud Drops in his vast and wandering grave.

Ye know no more than I who wrought

At that last hour to please him well;
Who mused on all I had to tell,

And something written, something thought;

Expecting still his advent home;
And ever met him on his way

With wishes, thinking, 'here to-day,' Or 'here to-morrow will he come.'

O somewhere, meek, unconscious dove,
That sittest ranging golden hair;
And glad to find thyself so fair,
Poor child, that waitest for thy love!

For now her father's chimney glows
In expectation of a guest;

And thinking this will please him best,' She takes a riband or a rose ;

For he will see them on to-night;

And with the thought her colour burns ;

And, having left the glass, she turns

Once more to set a ringlet right;

And, even when she turn'd, the curse
Had fallen, and her future Lord

Was drown'd in passing thro' the ford,

Or kill'd in falling from his horse.

O what to her shall be the end?

And what to me remains of good?
To her, perpetual maidenhood,

And unto me no second friend.

XC

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.'

XCI

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, Unfetter'd 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.

XCII

THE time draws near the birth of Christ :
The moon is hid; the night is still ;
The Christmas bells from hill to hill

Answer each other in the mist.

Four voices of four hamlets round,

From far and near, on mead and moor,
Swell out and fail, as if a door

Were shut between me and the sound:

Each voice four changes on the wind,

That now dilate, and now decrease,
Peace and goodwill, goodwill and peace,

Peace and goodwill, to all mankind.

This year I slept and woke with pain,
I almost wish'd no more to wake,
And that my hold on life would break
Before I heard those bells again :

But they my troubled spirit rule,

For they controll'd me when a boy; They bring me sorrow touch'd with joy, The merry merry bells of Yule.

XCIII

WHEN Lazarus left his charnel-cave,
And home to Mary's house return'd,
Was this demanded-if he yearn'd
To hear her weeping by his grave?
'Where wert thou, brother, those four days?'
There lives no record of reply,
Which telling what it is to die
Had surely added praise to praise.

From every house the neighbours met,
The streets were fill'd with joyful sound,
A solemn gladness even crown'd

The purple brows of Olivet.

Behold a man raised up by Christ!
The rest remaineth unreveal'd;

He told it not; or something seal'd
The lips of that Evangelist.

XCIV

HER eyes are homes of silent prayer,
Nor other thought her mind admits
But, he was dead, and there he sits,
And he that brought him back is there.

Then one deep love doth supersede
All other, when her ardent gaze
Roves from the living brother's face,

And rests upon the Life indeed.