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Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a moulder'd

string? I am shamed thro' all my nature to have loved so slight

a thing.

Weakness to be wroth with weakness ! woman's plea

sure, woman's pain — Nature made them blinder motions bounded in a shal

lower brain :

Woman is the lesser man, and all thy passions, match'd

with mine, Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto

wine —

Here at least, where nature sickens, nothing. Ah, for

some retreat

Deep in yonder shining Orient, where my life began to

beat ;

Where in wild Mahratta-battle fell my father evil-starred; I was left a trampled orphan, and a selfish uncle's ward.

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, droops the trailer

from the crag ;

Droops the heavy-blossom’d bower, hangs the heavy

fruited tree – Summer-isles of Eden lying in dark-purple spheres of

sea.

There methinks would be enjoyment more than in this

march of mind, In the steamship, in the railway, in the thoughts that

shake mankind.

There the passions cramp'd no longer shall have scope

and breathing-space; I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my dusky

race.

Iron-jointed, supple-sinew'd, they shall dive, and they

shall run, Catch the wild goat by the hair, and hurl their lances in

the sun;

Whistle back the parrot's call, and leap the rainbows of

the brooks, Not with blinded eyesight poring over miserable

books —

Fool, again the dream, the fancy! but I know my words

are wild, But I count the gray barbarian lower than the Christian

child.

1, to herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of our glorious

gains, Like a beast with lower pleasures, like a beast with

lower pains !

Mated with a squalid savage — what to me were sun or

clime ? I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time

I that rather held it better men should perish one by

one, Than that earth should stand at gaze like Joshua's moon

in Ajalon!

Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward

let us range. Let the peoples spin for ever down the ringing grooves

of change.

Thro’ the shadow of the world 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.

Comes a vapour from the margin, blackening over heath

and holt, Cramming all the blast before it, in its breast a thunder.

bolt.

Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or hail, or fire

or snow; For the mighty wind arises, roaring seaward, and I go.

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