Perchance, to lull the throbs of pain, Perchance, to charm a vacant brain, Perchance, to dream you still beside me, My fancy fled to the South again. TO THE REV. F. D. MAURICE, COME, when no graver cares employ, Your presence will be sun in winter, For, being of that honest few, Who give the Fiend himself his due, Should eighty-thousand college-councils Thunder ‘Anathema,' friend, at you; M Should all our churchmen foam in spite At you, so careful of the right, Yet one lay-hearth would give you welcome (Take it and come) to the Isle of Wight; Where, far from noise and smoke of town, I watch the twilight falling brown All round a careless-order'd garden Close to the ridge of a noble down. You'll have no scandal while you dine, For groves of pine on either hand, Tumbles a breaker on chalk and sand; TO THE REV. F. D. MAURICE. 163 Where, if below the milky steep Some ship of battle slowly creep, And on thro' zones of light and shadow Glimmer away to the lonely deep, We might discuss the Northern sin Which made a selfish war begin; Dispute the claims, arrange the chances; Emperor, Ottoman, which shall win: Or whether war's avenging rod Shall lash all Europe into blood; Till you should turn to dearer matters, Dear to the man that is dear to God; How best to help the slender store, How mend the dwellings, of the poor; Valour and charity more and more. |