‘Wilt thou run to me for ever?’
Said the ocean to the river.
‘Will ye ever fall on my hills and plains?’
Said the dry land to the rains.
‘Will ye ever blossom while I sing?’
Said the lark to the flowers of spring.
‘Will ye ever ripen while I shine?’
Said the sun to the corn and vine.
And ever the answer the breezes bore
Was, ‘ Evermore—for Evermore .’

‘As long as all these things shall be,’
Said I, to Rosa kissing me,
‘Shall Truth be sharper than a sword?
Shall kindness be its own reward?

" A true sister's love, Sir Knight —
That thou mayst attain;
But no other love invite,
For 'twould cause me pain.
I would see thee calm draw near,
Calm depart as well.
In thine eye I mark a tear: —
Why, I can not tell. "

And he hears in dumb distress,
But can scarcely heed;
And with one intense caress
Leaps upon his steed.
At his rigorous behest
All his Switzers come,
Bound (the cross on every breast)
To the holy tomb.

There are feats of derring-do
Wrought by heroes' arms;

I was fashioned long ago
In an element of snow,
And a white pair of cold wings
Bore me towards sublunar things;
Over thought's immense dominions,
Floating on these chilly pinions,
Long I wandered, faint and thin
As a leaf the wind may spin,
And the tossing, flashing sea
Moaned and whispered under me,
And the mountains of man's mind
Threw short shadows far behind,
And the rivers of the soul
That still thunder as they roll,
At my cold height streamed and fled
Silent as a glacier-bed.

I was light and gay and bold,

A LEGEND OF HAVERING .

King Edward dwelt at Havering-atte-Bower—
Old, and enfeebled by the weight of power—
Sick of the troublous majesty of kings—
Weary of duty and all mortal things—
Weary of day—weary of night—forlorn—
Cursing, like Job, the hour that he was born,
Thick woods environed him, and in their shade
He roamed all day, and told his beads, and prayed.
Men's faces pained him, and he barred his door
That none might find him;—even the sunshine bore
No warmth or comfort to his wretched sight;

The Preacher who hath fought a goodly fight
And toiled for his great Master all day long,
Grows faint and harassed after evensong,
And harshly chides the eager proselyte;
The Sage who strode along the even height
Of narrow Justice severing wrong from wrong,
Stumbles, and sinks below the common throng,
In pits of prejudice forlorn of light.
But thou, within whose veins a cooler blood
Runs reasonably quiet, brand not thou
With name of hypocrite each sunken brow;
To every son of man on earth who would

Cupid, at length I spy thy crafty wile,
Though for a time thou didst me sore beguile.
When first thy shaft did wound my tender heart,
It touched me light; methought I felt some pain;
Some little prick at first did make me smart,
But yet that grief was quickly gone again.
Full small account I made of such a sore,
As now doth rankle inward more and more.

So poison first the sinews lightly strains,
Then strays, and after spreads through all the veins;
No otherwise, than he, that pricked with thorn,

The frozen snake, oppressed with heaped snow,
By struggling hard gets out her tender head,
And spies far off, from where she lies below,
The winter sun that from the North is fled:
But all in vain she looks upon the light,
Where heat is wanting to restore her might.

What doth it help a wretch in prison pent,
Long time with biting hunger overpressed,
To see without, or smell within the scent
Of dainty fare, for others tables dressed?
Yet snake and pris'ner both behold the thing,
The which, but not with sight, might comfort bring.

I.

" Why dost thou look so sad and wan?
And why art thou so wo-begone?
Why dost thou mutter words of fear?
Do I not love thee, father dear?
Is not earth a place of joy?
Tell me, father, tell thy boy."

II.

" There is a fiend doth follow me;
A fearful fiend thou canst not see —
But I behold him. Day or night
He is not absent from my sight:
I know thou lovest me, O my child, —
But this demon drives me wild.

III.

" The world was once both good and fair,
There was a glory in the air,

She hath lived so silently and loved so much,
That she is deeply stirred by little things,
While pain's long ache and sorrow's sharper stings
Scarce move her spirit that eludes their clutch;
But one half-tone of music, or the touch
Of some tame bird's eager vibrating wings,
Breaks up the sealed fountain's murmurings
To storm, or what in others might seem such;
So, when she lifts her serious lids to turn
On ours her soft and magical dark eyes,
All womanhood seems on her, in disguise;
As on the pale white peacock we discern

" Whither away? whither away,
With thine eyes through the distance looking so keen?
The road is narrow, and is not long;
And if thou wouldst but awhile delay,
I would show thee sights thou hast not seen.
And thou shouldst hear a voice of song,
And thou shouldst learn of things unknown,
And live a double and fuller life.
Whither away? I prithee stay, —
There are angels near; thou'rt not alone —
The very air is with beauty rife.
The night is lovely, fair is the day,
Why this hurry to travel away,
To close thy journey, to shut thy book?