Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there rained a ghastly dew From the nations' airy navies grap pling in the central blue; Far along the world-wide whisper of the south-wind rushing warm, With the standards of the peoples plunging through the thunderstorm; Till the war-drum throbbed no longer, and the battle-flags were furled In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the world. There the common sense of most shall hold a fretful realm in awe, And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapped in universal law. So I triumphed ere my passion sweeping through me left me dry, Left me with the palsied heart, and left me with the jaundiced eye; Eye, to which all order festers, all things here are out of joint: Science moves, but slowly, slowly, creeping on from point to point: Slowly comes a hungry people, as a lion, creeping nigher, Glares at one that nods and winks behind a slowly-dying fire. Yet I doubt not through the ages one increasing purpose runs, And the thoughts of men are widened with the process of the suns. What is that to him that reaps not harvest of his youthful joys, Though the deep heat of existence beat forever like a boy's? Knowledge comes, but wisdom lin gers, and I linger on the shore, And the individual withers, and the world is more and more. Or to burst all links of habit-there to wander far away, On from island unto island at the gateways of the day. Larger constellations burning, mellow moons and happy skies, Breadths of tropic shade and palms in cluster, knots of Paradise. Never comes the trader, never floats an European flag, Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland, swings the trailer from the crag; Droops the heavy-blossomed bower, hangs the heavy-fruited treeSummer isles of Eden lying in darkpurple spheres of sea. Oh, sweetest melancholy! Fountain-head and pathless groves, A midnight bell, a parting groan! These are the sounds we feed upon; Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley: Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy. BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. MOODS. OUT upon it: I have loved Three whole days together; And am like to love three more, If it prove fair weather. Time shall moult away his wings Ere he shall discover But the spite on't is, no praise Had it any been but she, SIR JOHN SUCKLING. THE SOUL'S ERRAND. Go, Soul, the body's guest, Go tell the Court it glows If Court and Church reply, Give Court and Church the lie. Tell Potentates they live Give Potentates the lie. Tell men of high condition, And if they do reply, Tell those that brave it most Tell Zeal it lacks devotion; And wish them not reply, Tell Age it daily wasteth; Tell Wit how much it wrangles Tell Physic of her boldness; Tell Fortune of her blindness; And if they do reply, |