English

Let all of the bells ring clear,
And all of the flags be seen;
The King of the Western Hemisphere
Has married the Island Queen!
For years he watched and waited
Along the river side,
And vowed that she was fated
To be his own fair bride;
Full many a night he wooed her
Upon her lofty throne,
And he hath long pursued her,
To make the prize his own;
Nor thankless his endeavor,
Nor coy the royal maid,
But, like true-love's course ever,
The banns were long delayed!

And boys to men had grown,

He lay on the beach, just out of the reach
Of waves that had cast him by:
With fingers grim they reached for him
As often as they came nigh.
The shore-face brown had a surly frown,
And glanced at the dancing sea,
As if to say, “Take back the clay
You tossed this morning at me.”
Great fragments rude, by the shipwreck strewed,
Had found by this wreck a place:
He had grasped them tight, and hope-strewn fright
Sat still on the bloated face.
Battered and bruised, forever abused,
He lay by the heartless sea,

In stature perfect, and with every gift
Which God would on his favourite work bestow,
Did our great Parent his pure from uplift,
And sprang from earth, the Lord of all below.

But Adam fell before a child was born,
And want and weakness with his fall began—
So his first offspring was a thing forlorn—
In human shape, without the strength of man—

So, heaven has doom'd that all of Adam's race,
Naked and helpless, shall their course begin
E'en at their birth confess their need of grace—
And weeping, wail the penalty of sin.

O wearisome condition of humanity!
Born under one law, to another bound;
Vainly begot, and yet forbidden vanity,
Created sick, commanded to be sound.
What meaneth nature by these diverse laws?
Passion and reason self-division cause.
Is it the mark or majesty of power
To make offences that it may forgive?
Nature herself doth her own self deflower,
To hate those errors she herself doth give.
For how should man think that he may not do,
If nature did not fail, and punish too?
Tyrant to others, to herself unjust,

Vast Superstition! Glorious stile of Weaknesse!
Sprung from the deepe disquiet of Man's passion,
To desolation, and despaire of Nature:
Thy texts bring Princes' Titles into question:
Thy Prophets set on worke the sword of Tyrants:
They manacle sweet Truth with their distinctions;
Let Vertue blood; teach Crueltie for Gods sake;
Fashioning one God, yet him of many fashions,
Like many-headed Error, in their Passions.
Mankinde! Trust not these Superstitious dreames;
Feare's Idoles, Pleasure's Relikes, Sorrowe's Pleasures.

Honor in chief, our Oath is to uphold,
That by no trafficke it be bought or sold.
Else looke what brings that dainty Throne-worke downe,
Addes not, but still takes something from a Crowne.
Profit, and her true Mine, Frugality,
Incident likewise to our Office be:
As husbanding the Scepters spreading right,
To stretch itself, yet not grow infinite;
Or with Prerogative to Tyrannize,
Whose workes prove oft more absolute than wise.
Not mastering Lawes, which Freedom interrupt;
Nor moulding Pulpits, which is to corrupt,

In the high-vaulted temple of my heart
There is an oratory thine alone—
A sweet, hushed, sacred chantry all thine own.
There do I fly when I would be apart
To dream dear dreams, for there I know thou art,
Albeit I see thee not. There is thy throne;
There thou art crowned, and as at altar-stone
Fain would I kneel and let the day depart!
While this remains I cannot lose thee, dear,
Though countless centuries between us roll,
Though earth dissolves, and planets disappear,
And all the splendor of the starry scroll

WITHDRAW thee, soul, from strife.
Enter thine unseen bark,
And sail across the dark,
The silent sea of life.
Leave Care and Grief, feared now no more,
To wave and beckon from the shore.

Thy tenement is bare.
Shut are the burning eyes,
Ears deaf against surprise,
Limbs in a posture fair.
The body sleeps, unheeding thee,
And thou, my sailing soul, art free.

Rouse not to choose thy way;
To make it long or short,
Or seek some golden port
In haste, ere springs the day.

CXVI

Prove whether I do change, my dear,
Or if that I do still remain
Like as I went, or far or near,
And if ye find . . .

The world's a very happy place,
Where every child should dance and sing,
And always have a smiling face,
And never sulk for anything.

I waken when the morning's come,
And feel the air and light alive
With strange sweet music like the hum
Of bees about their busy hive.

The linnets play among the leaves
At hide-and-seek, and chirp and sing;
While, flashing to and from the eaves,
The swallows twitter on the wing.

The twigs that shake, and boughs that sway;
And tall old trees you could not climb;