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Below me, there, is the village, and looks how
quiet and small!
And yet bubbles o’er like a city, with gossip,
scandal, and spite;
And Jack on his ale-house bench has as many lies
as a Czar; And here on the landward side, by a red rock,
glimmers the Hall;
And up in the high Hall-garden I see her pass
like a light; But sorrow seize me if ever that light be my
When have I bow'd to her father, the wrinkled
head of the race ?
I met her abroad with her brother, but not to her
brother I bow'd;
I bow'd to his lady-sister as she rode by on
But the fire of a foolish pride flash'd over her
O child, you wrong your beauty, believe it, in
being so proud ;
Your father has wealth well-gotten, and I am
nameless and poor.
I keep but a man and a maid, ever ready to slander
I know it, and smile a hard-set smile, like a stoic,
A wiser epicurean, and let the world have its
For nature is one with rapine, a harm no preacher
The Mayfly is torn by the swallow, the sparrow
spear'd by the shrike,
And the whole little wood where I sit is a world
of plunder and prey.
We are puppets, Man in his pride, and Beauty fair
in her flower; Do we move ourselves, or are moved by an unseen
hand at a game
inir éacht That pushes us off from the board, and others ever
Ah yet, we cannot be kind to each other bere for
We whisper, and hint, and chuckle, and grin at a
However we brave it out, we men are
A monstrous eft was of old the Lord and Master
For him did his high sun flame, and his river
And he felt himself in his force to be Nature's
crowning race. As nine months go to the shaping an infant ripe
for his birth,
So many a million of ages have gone to the making
of man :
He now is first, but is he the last ? is he not too
The man of science himself is fonder of glory, and
An eye well-practised in nature, a spirit bounded
and poor ;
The passionate heart of the poet is whirl'd into
folly and vice.
I would not marvel at either, but keep a temperate
For not to desire or admire, if a man could learn
it, were more
Than to walk all day like the sultan of old in a
garden of spice.
For the drift of the Maker is dark, an Isis hid by
Who knows the ways of the world, how God will
bring them about?
Our planet is one, the suns are many, the world
if a Poland fall ? shall I shriek if a
Hungary fail ?