Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward let us range, Let the great world spin forever down the ringing grooves of change. Thro' the shadow of the globe we sweep into the younger day: Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay. Mother-Age (for mine I knew not), help me as when life begun: Rift the hills, and roll the waters, flash the lightnings, weigh the Sun. O, I see the crescent promise of my spirit hath not set. Ancient founts of inspiration well thro' all my fancy yet. Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to Locksley Hall ! Now for me the woods may wither, now for me the roof-tree fall. 190 Comes a vapour from the margin, blackening over heath and holt, Cramming all the blast before it, in its breast a thunderbolt. Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or hail, or fire or snow; For the mighty wind arises, roaring seaward, and I go. ST. AGNES' EVE Deep on the convent-roof the snows The shadows of the convent-towers My good blade carves the casques of men, The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, The hard brands shiver on the steel, And when the tide of combat stands, How sweet are looks that ladies bend To save from shame and thrall: But all my heart is drawn above, My knees are bow'd in crypt and shrine: I never felt the kiss of love, Nor maiden's hand in mine. ΙΟ 20 The cock crows ere the Christmas morn, The tempest crackles on the leads, And, ringing, springs from brand and mail; But o'er the dark a glory spreads, And gilds the driving hail. I leave the plain, I climb the height; A maiden knight to me is given I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven I muse on joy that will not cease, Whose odours haunt my dreams; This mortal armour that I wear, This weight and size, this heart and eyes, Are touch'd, are turn'd to finest air. 60 70 In our low world, where yet 'tis sweet to live. 50 Not die; but live a life of truest breath, Maud made my Maud by that long loving kiss, Is that enchanted moan only the swell бо Of twelve sweet hours that past in bridal white, away To dreamful wastes where footless fancies dwell Among the fragments of the golden day. 70 May nothing there her maiden grace affright! And ye meanwhile far over moor and fell 80 |