"Oh, Brandan, think what grace divine, "Well-fed, well-clothed, well-friended, I "That germ of kindness, in the womb "Once every year, when carols wake, "I stanch with ice my burning breast, Tears started to Saint Brandan's eyes; THE GOOD SHEPHERD WITH THE KID. [New Poems 1867.] HE saves the sheep, the goats he doth not save. So rang Tertullian's sentence, on the side Of that unpitying Phrygian sect which cried:1 “Who sins, once wash'd by the baptismal wave.”- And then she smiled; and in the Catacombs, Her head 'mid ignominy, death, and tombs, EAST LONDON. [New Poems 1867.] 'Twas August, and the fierce sun overhead I met a preacher there I knew, and said: "Ill and o'erwork'd, how fare you in this scene?”"Bravely!" said he; "for I of late have been Much cheer'd with thoughts of Christ, the living bread." O human soul! as long as thou canst so Set up a mark of everlasting light, To cheer thee, and to right thee if thou roam- 1 The Montanists. WEST LONDON. [New Poems 1867.] CROUCH'D on the pavement, close by Belgrave Square, A tramp I saw, ill, moody, and tongue-tied. A babe was in her arms, and at her side A girl; their clothes were rags, their feet were bare. Some labouring men, whose work lay somewhere there, Thought I: "Above her state this spirit towers; "She turns from that cold succour, which attends The unknown little from the unknowing great, And points us to a better time than ours." WORLDLY PLACE. [New Poems 1867.] EVEN in a palace, life may be led well! Our freedom for a little bread we sell, Even in a palace! On his truth sincere, Some nobler, ampler stage of life to win, The aids to noble life are all within.” GROWING OLD. [New Poems 1867.] WHAT is it to grow old? Is it to lose the glory of the form, Is it for beauty to forego her wreath? Is it to feel our strength Not our bloom only, but our strength-decay? Grow stiffer, every function less exact, Each nerve more loosely strung? Yes, this, and more; but not Ah, 'tis not what in youth we dream'd 'twould be! 'Tis not to have our life Mellow'd and soften'd as with sunset-glow, A golden day's decline. 'Tis not to see the world As from a height, with rapt prophetic eyes, And weep, and feel the fulness of the past, It is to spend long days And not once feel that we were ever young; It is to add, immured In the hot prison of the present, month It is to suffer this, And feel but half, and feebly, what we feel. Festers the dull remembrance of a change, It is last stage of all When we are frozen up within, and quite To hear the world applaud the hollow ghost THE LAST WORD. [New Poems 1867.] CREEP into thy narrow bed, Let the long contention cease! Let them have it how they will! Thou art tired; best be still. They out-talk'd thee, hiss'd thee, tore thee? Better men fared thus before thee; Fired their ringing shot and pass'd, Hotly charged--and sank at last. Charge once more, then, and be dumb! Let the victors, when they come, When the forts of folly fall, Find thy body by the wall! |