Obrazy na stronie

And there rang on a sudden a passionate cry,

Α. cry

for a brother's blood:

It will ring in my heart and my ears, till I die, till

I die.


Is it gone ? my pulses beat-
What was it ? a lying trick of the brain ?
Yet I thought I saw her stand,

A shadow there at my feet,

High over the shadowy land.
It is gone; and the heavens fall in a gentle rain,
When they should burst and drown with deluging


The feeble vassals of wine and


and lust,

The little hearts that know not how to forgive :

Arise, my God, and strike, for we hold Thee just,

Strike dead the whole weak race of venomous


That sting each other here in the dust;
We are not worthy to live.



SEE what a lovely shell,
Small and pure as a pearl,
Lying close to my foot,
Frail, but a work divine,

Made so fairily well

With delicate spire and whorl,
How exquisitely minute,
A miracle of design!


What is it ? a learned man

Could give it a clumsy name.

Let him name it who can,

The beauty would be the same.


The tiny cell is forlorn,

Void of the little living will

That made it stir on the shore.

Did he stand at the diamond door

Of his house in a rainbow frill ?

Did he push, when he was uncurld,
A golden foot or a fairy horn
Thro' his dim water-world ?


Slight, to be crush'd with a tap
Of my finger-nail on the sand,
Small, but a work divine,

Frail, but of force to withstand,

[blocks in formation]

Plagued with a flitting to and fro,
A disease, a hard mechanic ghost
That never came from on high
Nor ever arose from below,
But only moves with the moving eye,
Flying along the land and the main-
Why should it look like Maud ?

Am I to be overawed

By what I cannot but know
Is a juggle born of the brain ?


Back from the Breton coast,

Sick of a nameless fear,

Back to the dark sea-line

Looking, thinking of all I have lost;

An old song vexes my ear;

But that of Lamech is mine.


For years, a measureless ill,

For years, for ever, to part-
But she, she would love me still ;
And as long, O God, as she

Have a grain of love for me,

So long, no doubt, no doubt,

Shall I nurse in my

dark heart,

However weary, a spark of will
Not to be trampled out.

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