And now by the side of the Black and the Baltic deep, And deathful-grinning mouths of the fortress, flames The blood-red blossom of war with a heart of fire. THE BROOK; AN IDYL. HERE, by this brook, we parted; I to the East And he for Italy-too late-too late : One whom the strong sons of the world despise; O had he lived! In our schoolbooks we say, Of those that held their heads above the crowd, They flourish'd then or then; but life in him Could scarce be said to flourish, only touch'd And nothing perfect: yet the brook he loved, Prattling the primrose fancies of the boy, "O babbling brook," says Edmund in his rhyme, I come from haunts of coot and hern, I make a sudden sally And sparkle out among the fern, By thirty hills I hurry down, Till last by Philip's farm I flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, 'Poor lad, he died at Florence, quite worn out, Travelling to Naples. There is Darnley bridge, It has more ivy; there the river; and there Stands Philip's farm where brook and river meet. With many a curve my banks I fret And many a fairy foreland set With willow-weed and mallow. I chatter, chatter, as I flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever. 'But Philip chatter'd more than brook or bird; Old Philip; all about the fields you caught His weary daylong chirping, like the dry High-elbow'd grigs that leap in summer grass. I wind about, and in and out, And here and there a foamy flake Upon me, as I travel With many a silvery waterbreak And draw them all along, and flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, 'O darling Katie Willows, his one child! |