Obrazy na stronie

And now by the side of the Black and the Baltic


And deathful-grinning mouths of the fortress,


The blood-red blossom of war with a heart of fire.


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


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


I embrace the purpose of God, and the doom




'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

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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