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When all the house is mute. So sigh'd | And colorless, and like the wither'd

the King, Muttering and murmuring at his ear, "Quick, quick!

I fear it is too late, and I shall die." But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge,

Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he walk'd,

Larger than human on the frozen hills. He heard the deep behind him, and a

cry

Before. His own thought drove him like a goad.

Dry clash'd his harness in the icy caves And barren chasms, and all to left and right

The bare black cliff clang'd round him, as he based

His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels

And on a sudden, lo! the level lake, And the long glories of the winter moon. Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge,

Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern, Beneath them; and descending they were

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And all his greaves and cuisses dash'd with drops

Of onset; and the light and lustrous curls

That made his forehead like a rising sun High from the daïs-throne-were parch'd with dust;

Or, clotted into points and hanging loose, Mix'd with the knightly growth that fringed his lips.

So like a shatter'd column lay the King; Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest,

From spur to plume a star of tournament, Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and charged

Before the eyes of ladies and of kings. Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedi

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Pray for my soul. More things are wrought | If, knowing God, they lift not hands of

by prayer Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice

Rise like a fountain for me night and day.

For what are men better than sheep or goats

That nourish a blind life within the brain,

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mas morn.

GARDENER'S DAUGHTER; OR, THE PICTURES.

THIS morning is the morning of the day, When I and Eustace from the city went To see the Gardener's Daughter; Iand he, Brothers in Art; a friendship so complete Portion'd in halves between us, that we grew

The fable of the city where we dwelt.

My Eustace might have sat for Hercules; So muscular he spread, so broad of breast. He, by some law that holds in love, and draws

The greater to the lesser, long desired
A certain miracle of symmetry,
A miniature of loveliness, all grace
Summ'd up and closed in little; -Juliet,
she

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oar,

That sought to sow themselves like
winged seeds,

Born out of everything I heard and saw,
Flutter'd about my senses and my soul;
And vague desires, like fitful blasts of

balm

To one that travels quickly, made the air Of Life delicious, and all kinds of thought,

That verged upon them, sweeter than the
dream

Dream'd by a happy man, when the dark
East,

Unseen, is brightening to his bridal

morn.

And sure this orbit of the memory folds
For ever in itself the day we went
To see her. All the land in flowery

squares,

Beneath a broad and equal-blowing wind, Smelt of the coming summer, as one large cloud

:

Drew downward but all else of Heaven was pure

Up to the Sun, and May from verge to

Waves all its lazy lilies, and creeps on,
Barge-laden, to three arches of a bridge | And
Crown'd with the minster-towers.
The fields between
Are dewy-fresh, browsed by deep-udder'd
kine,

And all about the large lime feathers low,
The lime a summer home of murmurous
wings.

In that still place she, hoarded in herself,

Grew, seldom seen not less among us lived

Her fame from lip to lip.

Who had not
heard
Of Rose, the Gardener's daughter?
Where was he,

So blunt in memory, so old at heart,
At such a distance from his youth in grief,
That, having seen, forgot? The common
mouth,

So gross to express delight, in praise of

her

Grew oratory. Such a lord is Love,
And Beauty such a mistress of the world.

And if I said that Fancy, led by Love,
Would play with flying forms and images,

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As tho' 't were yesterday, as tho' it were
The hour just flown, that morn with all
its sound,

(For those old Mays had thrice the life
of these,)
Rings in mine ears. The steer forgot to

graze,
And, where the hedge-row cuts the path-
way, stood,

Leaning his horns into the neighbor field,
And lowing to his fellows. From the

woods

Came voices of the well-contented doves. The lark could scarce get out his notes for joy,

But shook his song together as he near'd
His happy home, the ground. To left
and right,

The cuckoo told his name to all the hills;
The mellow ouzel fluted in the elm ;
The redcap whistled; and the nightingale
Sang loud, as tho' he were the bird of day.
And Eustace turn'd, and smiling said
to me,

"Hear how the bushes echo! by my life, | But, ere it touch'd a foot, that might have These birds have joyful thoughts. Think

you they sing

Like poets, from the vanity of song?
Or have they any sense of why they sing ?
And would they praise the heavens for
what they have?"

And I made answer, ing else

"Were there noth

For which to praise the heavens but only love,

That only love were cause enough for praise."

Lightly he laugh'd, as one that read my thought,

And on we went; but ere an hour had pass'd,

We reach'd a meadow slanting to the North;

Down which a well-worn pathway courted

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And one warm gust, full-fed with perfume, blew

Beyond us, as we enter'd in the cool. The garden stretches southward. In the midst

A cedar spread his dark-green layers of shade.

The garden-glasses shone, and momently The twinkling laurel scatter'd silver lights.

“Eustace,” I said, "this wonder keeps the house."

He nodded, but a moment afterwards He cried, "Look! look!" Before he ceased I turn'd,

And, ere a star can wink, beheld her there. For up the porch there grew an Eastern rose,

That, flowering high, the last night's gale had caught,

And blown across the walk. One arm aloft

Gown'd in pure white, that fitted to the shape

Holding the bush, to fix it back, she stood. A single stream of all her soft brown hair Pour'd on one side: the shadow of the flowers

Stole all the golden gloss, and, wavering Lovingly lower, trembled on her waist Ah, happy shade - and still went wavering down,

danced

The greensward into greener circles, dipt, And mix'd with shadows of the common ground!

But the full day dwelt on her brows, and

sunn'd

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