No more shall commerce be all in all, and Peace

Pipe on her pastoral hillock a languid note,
And watch her harvest ripen, her herd increase,
Nor the cannon-bullet rust on a slothful shore,
And the cobweb woven across the cannon's

throat

Shall shake its threaded tears in the wind no more.

3.

And as months ran on and rumour of battle grew, "It is time, it is time, O passionate heart,' said I (For I cleaved to a cause that I felt to be pure and true),

It is time, O passionate heart and morbid eye,

That old hysterical mock-disease should die.'

And I stood on a giant deck and mix'd my breath With a loyal people shouting a battle cry,

Till I saw the dreary phantom arise and fly

Far into the North, and battle, and seas of death.

4.

Let it go or stay, so I wake to the higher aims
Of a land that has lost for a little her lust of gold,
And love of a peace that was full of wrongs and
shames,

Horrible, hateful, monstrous, not to be told;

And hail once more to the banner of battle unroll'd!

Tho' many a light shall darken, and many shall weep For those that are crush'd in the clash of jarring

claims,

Yet God's just wrath shall be wreak'd on a giant

liar;

And many a darkness into the light shall leap, And shine in the sudden making of splendid names,

And noble thought be freer under the sun,

And the heart of a people beat with one desire;

For the peace, that I deem'd no peace, is over and

done,

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.

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

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,

1

By twenty thorps, a little town,

And half a hundred bridges.