IV.

1.

A MILLION emeralds break from the ruby-budded

lime

In the little grove where I sit--ah, wherefore

cannot I be

Like things of the season gay, like the bountiful

season bland,

When the far-off sail is blown by the breeze of a

softer clime,

Half-lost in the liquid azure bloom of a crescent

of sea,

The silent sapphire-spangled marriage ring of the

land?

2.

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

leading star!

3.

When have I bow'd to her father, the wrinkled

head of the race?

I met her to-day with her brother, but not to her

brother I bow'd;

I bow'd to his lady-sister as she rode by on the

moor;

But the fire of a foolish pride flash'd over her

beautiful face.

O child, you wrong your beauty, believe it, in being so proud;

Your father has wealth well-gotten, and I am nameless and poor.

4.

I keep but a man and a maid, ever ready to slander

and steal;

I know it, and smile a hard-set smile, like a stoic, or like

A wiser epicurean, and let The world have its

way:

For nature is one with rapine, a harm no preacher

can heal;

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.

5.

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

That pushes us off from the board, and others ever

succeed?

Ah yet, we cannot be kind to each other here for

an hour;

We whisper, and hint, and chuckle, and grin at a

brother's shame;

However we brave it out, we men are a little

breed.

6.

A monstrous eft was of old the Lord and Master

of Earth,

For him did his high sun flame, and his river

billowing ran,

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

base?

7.

The man of science himself is fonder of glory, and

vain,

An eye well-practised in nature, a spirit bounded

and poor;