The fragile bindweed-bells and briony rings;

And he look'd up. There stood a maiden near,

Waiting to pass. In much amaze he stared

On eyes a bashful azure, and on hair In gloss and hue the chestnut, when the shell

Divides threefold to show the fruit within:

Then, wondering, ask'd her "Are you from the farm?"

"Yes" answer'd she. Pray stay a little: pardon me;

What do they call you?" "Katie." "That were strange. What surname?"

Willows." "No!"

"That is my name.'

And then we met in wrath and wrong,
We met, but only meant to part.
Full cold my greeting was and dry;
She faintly smiled, she hardly moved;
I saw with half-unconscious eye

She wore the colors I approved.
III.

She took the little ivory chest.

With half a sign she turn'd the key, Then raised her head with lips comprest,

And gave my letters back to me. And gave the trinkets and the rings, My gifts, when gifts of mine could please,

As looks a father on the things

Of his dead son, I look'd on these.

IV.

She told me all her friends had said;
I raged against the public liar;
She talk'd as if her love were dead,

But in my words were seeds of tire.
"No more of love; your sex is known:
I never will be twice deceived.
Henceforth I trust the man alone,
The woman cannot be believed.
V.

"Thro' slander, meanest spawn of Hell (And women's slander is the worst), And you, whom once I loved so well, Thro' you, my life will be accurst." I spoke with heart, and heat and force, I shook her breast with vague alarms

Like torrents from a mountain source We rush'd into each other's arms.

VI.

We parted: sweetly gleam'd the stars,
And sweet the vapor-braided blue,
Low breezes fann'd the belfry bars,
As homeward by the church I drew.
The very graves appear'd to smile,

So fresh they rose in shadow'd swells; "Dark porch." I said, "and silent aisle, There comes a sound of marriago bells."

ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.

I.

BURY the Great Duke

With an empire's lamentation, Let us bury the Great Duke

To the noise of the mourning of a mighty nation,

Mourning when their leaders fall,
Warriors carry the warrior's pall,
And sorrow darkens hamlet and hall.

II.

Where shall we lay the man whom we deplore?

Here, in streaming London's central

roar.

O friends, our chief state-oracle is mute;

Mourn for the man of long enduring blood,

The statesman-warrior, moderate, resolute,

Whole in himself, a common good. Mourn for the inan of amplest influence,

Yet clearest of ambitious crime,
Our greatest yet with least pretence,
Great in council and great in war,
Foremost captain of his time,
Rich in saving common-sense,
And, as the greatest only are,
In his simplicity sublime.

O good gray head which all men knew,
O voice from which their omens all

All is over and done;

Render thanks to the Giver,

England, for thy son.

Let the bell be toll'd.

Render thanks to the Giver.
And render him to the mould.
Under the cross of gold

That shines over city and river,
There he shall rest for ever
Among the wise and the bold.
Let the bell be toll'd:

And a reverent people behold
The towering ear, the sable steeds:
Bright let it be with its blazon'd deeds,
Dark in its funeral fold.

Let the bell be toll'd:

And a deeper knell in the heart be knoll'd;

And the sound of the sorrowing anthem roll'd

Thro' the dome of the golden cross; And the volleying cannon thunder his loss;

He knew their voices of old.
For many a time in many a clime
His captain's-ear has heard them boom
Bellowing victory, bellowing doom;
When he with those deep voices
wrought,

Guarding realms and kings from shame;

With those deep voices our dead captain taught

The tyrant, and asserts his claim
In that dread sound to the great name,
Which he has worn so pure of blame,
In praise and in dispraise the same,
A man of well-attemper'd frame.
O civic muse, to such a name,
To such a name for ages long,
To such a name.

Preserve a broad approach of fame,
And ever-echoing avenues of song.

VI.

Who is he that cometh, like an hon or'd guest,

With banner and with music, with soldier and with priest,

With a nation weeping, and breaking on my rest?

Mighty Seaman, this is ho

Was great by land as thou by sea. Thine island loves thee well, thou fa

mous man,

The greatest sailor since our world be

gan.

Now, to the roll of muffled drums,
To thee the greatest soldier comes ;
For this is he

Was great by land as thou by sea;
His foes were thine; he kept us free;
O give him welcome, this is he
Worthy of our gorgeous rites,
And worthy to be laid by thee;
For this is England's greatest son
He that gain'd a hundred fights.
Nor ever lost an English gun;
This is he that far away
Against the myriads of Assayo
Clash'd with his fiery few and won;
And underneath another sun,

Warring on a later day,
Round affrighted Lisbon drew
The treble works; the vast designs
Of his labor'd rampart-lines,
Where he greatly stood at bay,
Whence he issued forth anew,
And ever great and greater grew,
Beating from the wasted vines
Back to France her banded swarms,
Back to France with countless blows,
Till o'er the hills her eagles flew
Beyond the Pyrenean pines.
Follow'd up in valley and glen
With blare of bugle, clamor of men,
Roll of cannon and clash of arms,
And England pouring on her foes.
Such a war had such a close.
Again their ravening eagle rose

In anger, wheel'd on Europe-shadowing wings;

And barking for the thrones of kings; Till one that sought but Duty's iron

crown

On that loud sabbath shook the spoiler down;

A day of onsets of despair!
Dash'd on every rocky square.

Their surging charges foam'd themselves away;

Last, the Prussian trumpet blew :
Thro' the long-tormented air
Heaven flash'd a sudden jubilant ray,
And down we swept and charged and
overthrew.

So great a soldier taught us there,
What long-enduring hearts could do
In that world's-earthquake, Waterloo!
Mighty Seaman, tender and true,
And pure as he from taint of craven
guile,

O saviour of the silver-coasted isle,
O shaker of the Baltic and the Nile,
If aught of things that here befall
Touch a spirit among things divine,
If love of country move thee there at
all,

Be glad, because his bones are laid by thine!

And thro' the centuries let a people's voice

forget,

Confused by brainless mobs and lawless Powers;

Thank Him who isled us here, and roughly set

His Briton in blown seas and storming showers,

We have a voice, with which to pay the debt

Of boundless love and reverence and regret

To those great men who fought, and kept it ours,

And keep it ours, O God, from brute control;

O Statesmen, guard us, guard the eye, the soul

Of Europe, keep our noble England whole,

And save the one true seed of freedom sown;

Betwixt a people and their ancient throne,

That sober freedom out of which there

springs

Our loyal passion for our temperate kings;

For, saving that, ye help to save mankind

Till public wrong be crumbled into dust.

And drill the raw world for the march of mind,

Till crowds at length be sane and crowns be just.

But wink no more in slothful overtrust.

Remember him who led your hosts; He bade you guard the sacred coasts. Your cannons moulder on the seaward wall;

His voice is silent in your council-hall For ever; and whatever tempests lower

For ever silent; even if they broke
In thunder, silent; yet remember all
He spoke among you, and the Man
who spoke

Who never sold the truth to serve the hour,

Nor palter'd with Eternal God for power:

Who let the turbid streams of rumor flow

Thro' either babbling world of high and low;

Whose life was work, whose languago rife

With rugged maxims hewn from life; Who never spoke against a foe: Whose eighty winters freeze with one

rebuke

All great self-seekers trampling on the right;

Truth-teller was our England's Alfred named;

Truth-lover was our English Duke;
Whatever record leap to light
He never shall be shamed."

VIII.

Lo, the leader in these glorious wars Now to glorious burial Slowly borne, Follow'd by the brave of other lands, He, on whom from both her open hands

Lavish Honor shower'd all her stars, And affluent Fortune emptied all her horn.

Yea, let all good things await
Him who cares not to be great,
But as he saves or serves the state.
Not once or twice in our rough island-
story,

The path of duty was the way to glory;
He that walks it, only thirsting

For the right, and learns to deaden Love of self, before his journey closes, He shall find the stubborn thistle bursting

Into glossy purples, which outredden All voluptuous garden-roses,

Not once or twice in our fair island