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COME, when no graver cares employ,
God-father, come and see your boy:

Your presence will be sun in winter, Making the little one leap for joy.

For, being of that honest few,

Who give the Fiend himself his due,

Should eighty-thousand college-councils Thunder - Anathema,' friend, at you ;


Should all our churchmen foam in spite
At you, so careful of the right,

Yet one lay-hearth would give you welcome (Take it and come to the Isle of Wight;

Where, far from noise and smoke of town,
I watch the twilight falling brown

All round a careless-order'd garden

Close to the ridge of a noble down.

You'll have no scandal while you dine,

But honest talk and wholesome wine,

And only hear the magpie gossip Garrulous under a roof of pine :

For groves of pine on either hand,
To break the blast of winter, stand ;

And further on, the hoary Channel
Tumbles a breaker on chalk and sand ;

Where, if below the milky steep
Some ship of battle slowly creep,

And on thro' zones of light and shadow Glimmer away to the lonely deep,

We might discuss the Northern sin

Which made a selfish war begin;

Dispute the claims, arrange the chances ; Emperor, Ottoman, which shall win :

Or whether war's avenging rod

Shall lash all Europe into blood;

should turn to dearer matters, Dear to the man that is dear to God;

How best to help the slender store,
How mend the dwellings, of the poor;

How gain in life, as life advances,
Valour and charity more and more.

Come, Maurice, come: the lawn as yet

Is hoar with rime, or spongy-wet;

But when the wreath of March has blossom’d, Crocus, anemone, violet,

Or later, pay one visit here,

For those are few we hold as dear;


but come for many,

Many and many a happy year.

January, 1854.



O WELL for him whose will is strong !

He suffers, but he will not suffer long;

He suffers, but he cannot suffer wrong:

For him nor moves the loud world's random mock,

Nor all Calamity's hugest waves confound,
Who seems a promontory of rock,
That, compass'd round with turbulent sound,
In middle ocean meets the surging shock,
Tempest-buffeted, citadel-crown'd.


But ill for him who, bettering not with time, Corrupts the strength of heaven-descended Will,

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