English

We know the moment comes, that comes the last —
When all is merged in one wild word, — the past!
And all thenceforth is new ; a mighty scene
Of strange, bright, wonderful, that hath not been .
We've climb'd life's weary hill; the early plain,
Track'd as it was by many a step of pain,
Seen from that lofty brow, is seen — a span!
Beside, behind us, rush the host of man;
Before us, all is precipice; the eye
Strains but through depth on depth, — infinity!
On rush the host, like waves, like armies mown

Death, thou art terrible! 't is not the sting
Of the mere sense that makes thy suffering;
'T is not the pang, the thirst, the midnight groan;
Though all their host do homage to thy throne;
Thy terrors live in thy dark mystery,
All crowded in the one drear thought — we die!
We see the dying struggle, — all thus far
Is plain; up springs at once the mighty bar,
Gloomy as night; no twilight upper ray
Helps out the image of its further day.
And is this all; — the worm, the hideous sleep
That makes the very flesh by instinct creep.

Morn came in clouds; the tempest's heavy swell
Stoop'd ominous; it bore no birthday peal!
Egypt! when Heaven's high wrath thy heart assail'd,
And o'er its wrath that heart of stone prevail'd,
Where smote the final plague, the conquering woe?
'T was in the sword that laid thy first-born low!
Guilt was on England, and the blow was given
On England's heart, — in mercy be it, Heaven!

That morn the MIGHTY CITY silence kept;
Grief was upon her, and her spirit wept.
'T was no dissembled woe; the sudden stroke,

The sigh, but not the sorrow pass'd; for there
Were tremblings for another sufferer.
Yet in the palace all seem'd quickly calm,
No hurrying taper on the darkness swam,
No echo on the gusty air was borne,
Now chiller with the coming of the morn.
Dimness and silence all, but where the gloom
Hung fainter round the ray from one high room,
That seem'd a room of slumber; deep the fold
Through which the struggling light in crimson roll'd.

If slumber, 't was soon past! a woman's cry
Was heard within! 't was pain, 't was agony!

Spirits who sit in glory! if ye brook
To look below, 't is on such hours ye look.
The round of fate was sweeping; woe or joy
To millions hung on that Imperial boy;
Earth's furthest bound, earth's final age might feel
This moment's impulse of the mighty wheel.
If angels sorrow, deathless eyes were wan
That midnight for the blighted hopes of man.

There lies posterity! that babe belong'd
To times still coming, when our forms had throng'd
The populous grave. Of all the myriad eyes
Once fix'd to see his star of empire rise,

'T was night; but there were thoughts in England's breast
Too wild, too waking for its hour of rest;
The strong anxieties of hope and fear,
That must be joy or woe ere morn appear.
Man loves the throne! — 't is not the glare of power;
Flatterers may fawn before it, dastards cower,
The free-soul'd feel the homage that they feign:
That morn might England hail a Sovereign!
But, round the couch where England's daughter lies
Are hovering all the heart's high sympathies.
And thousands, tens of thousands that had ne'er

We are immortals! Earth to us is vain;
The lesson of our vigour must be pain.
Is the world in thee still, thy heart a tide
Still rolling with the gusts of passion, pride? —
Go to the house of mourning! see the eye,
Rais'd in its meek submissiveness, to die;
The bloom, like roses once, now sunk and sere;
Check not the tear; there 's virtue in that tear.
'T is not in mockery thus that Death betrays
His footsteps; 't is to force, — to fix our gaze.
Go to the house of mourning! Is there one,

In answer to the preceding

— I, that have been Love's whip,
A very beadle to a hmorous sigh

Sure thou at least did never prove
" The pangs, the bliss that wait on love, "
Nor felt within thy throbbing heart,
The witching anguish of his dart;
Nor round thy brow his myrtle worn,
Nor pluck'd his rose of many a thorn;
Or, trust me, thou would'st ne'er suppose,
That one who felt his pleasing woes;
Whose heart confess'd his thrilling joy,
Could calmly sit and paint the boy.

1. THE BATTLE OF BRUNANBURH

Her Æþelstan cyning, eorla dryhten,
beorna beahgifa, and his broþor eac,
Eadmund aeþeling, ealdorlangne tir
geslogon aet saecce sweorda ecgum
ymbe Brunanburh. Bordweal clufan,
heowan heaþolinde hamora lafan,
afaran Eadweardes, swa him geaeþele waes
from cneomaegum, þaet hi aet campe oft
wiþ laþra gehwaene land ealgodon,
hord and hamas. Hettend crungun,
Sceotta leoda and scipflotan
faege feollan, feld daennede
secga swate, si├░þan sunne up

I.

" Oh where's that fount, whose cleansing ray
" Would wash this little orb away?
" That seems, as if by dread command,
" To linger on this little hand.
" I've dipp'd it in the Ocean's stream,
" When fairies hail the lunar beam;
" And when the sun-light gilds each wave,
" In Ocean's breast my hand I 'd lave;
" But not the dark sea's shining spray
" Would wash this little orb away. "

II.

Thus spoke a child; while passing by,
A friar heard the infant sigh,