Oh, thou large heart, and ample chest!
Oh, Man contemn'd, reviled, oppress'd!
(Yet not unloved, though rude thy form;
Nor all-contemn'd, nor all-unbless'd,
Though trampled, like a trampled worm ;)
Join, in the realm that knows not pain,
Thy vainly loved, who loved in vain,
And there thy soul's high lineage prove;
Though conquer'd, not enslaved ;

Not lost! but saved

By All-Redeeming Love.

XXI.

"He hath escaped," the King-Priest said. Then, turn'd he to the lifeless maid. Nor armlet she, nor anklet wore,

But on her veiny wrist

A clasp of amethyst,

And on her right third finger fair
A relic, which he valued more;
A ring of gold-and-silver twist,
And Homer's auburn-silver'd hair.
He took the ring, and from her wrist
The nun its clasp of amethyst,
The mighty spell by which men knew

She could o'ercome, far off, the foe
Who but in thought might work her woe;

And then the darkness-clad withdrew

The long rich robe of tyrian hue

Which, folded round her beauteous waist,
And underdrawn, her hips embraced;
Leaving her naked, where she lay,
To be of worms and wolves the prey.
Thus sternly Highest Love decided,
That not by death divided,

But side by side, like groom and bride,
Should lie, at last, His sternly tried;
And, lo, the pair are not alone,

Though priest, and nun, and guard are gone!

Above them bends

A form that godlike man's transcends,

When godlike most; a face of pride,
More mournful than a fallen king's
Whose world-wide realms are miseries,
Whose empire, splendors fled!

And in his mien

Such majesty is seen,

That in heav'n's courts he might have borne

A demigod's regalities,

And on immortal shoulders worn

Archangel's wings.

"These are but seeds of future weeds

Sown to replace our hated race,"

In thought, he sighs,

Contemplating the dead;

414

And to the skies

Raising his heav'n-reft eyes,

Adds, with serenely saddest brow,.

"Will not the seed He soweth grow?"

LAST LINES.

The Poet's last utterances, dictated on his death-bed to his daughter.

Thy notes, sweet Robin, soft as dew,
Heard soon or late, are dear to me;
To music I could bid adieu,

But not to thee!

When from my heart Earth's lifeful throng
Shall pass away, no more to be,
Oh! Autumn's primrose, Robin's song,
Return to me!

Printed by Woodfall & Kinder, Milford Lane, Strand, London, W.C.