Obrazy na stronie
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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.

5.

Let it flame or fade, and the war roll down like

a wind,

We have proved we have hearts in a cause, we are

noble still,

And myself have awaked, as it seems, to the better

mind;

It is better to fight for the good, than to rail at

the ill;

I have felt with my native land, I am one with my

kind,

I embrace the purpose of God, and the doom assign'd.

I

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 ;
For lucky rhymes to him were scrip and share,
And mellow metres more than cent for cent;
Nor could he understand how money breeds,
Thought it a dead thing; yet himself could make
The thing that is not as the thing that is.
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

12

Could scarce be said to flourish, only touch'd

On such a time as goes before the leaf,

When all the wood stands in a mist of green, And nothing perfect: yet the brook he loved, For which, in branding summers of Bengal, Or ev'n the sweet half-English Neilgherry air, I panted, seems, as I re-listen to it, Prattling the primrose fancies of the boy, To me that loved him; for "O brook," he says, "O babbling brook," says Edmund in his rhyme, "Whence come you?" and the brook, why not? replies.

I come from haunts of coot and hern,
I make a sudden sally

And sparkle out among the fern,

To bicker down a valley.

By thirty hills I hurry down,

Or slip between the ridges,
By twenty thorps, a little town,
And half a hundred bridges.

Till last by Philip's farm I flow

To join the brimming river,

For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.

'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.

I chatter over stony ways,

In little sharps and trebles,
I bubble into eddying bays,
I babble on the pebbles.

With many a curve my banks I fret
By many a field and fallow,
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.

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