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Thy curse it was to see and hear
Beyond to-day's scant hemisphere,
Beyond all mists of doubt and fear,
Into a life more true and clear,-

And dearly thou didst rue it.

"Thou sow'st no gold, and shalt not reap!' Muttered Earth, turning in her sleep; "Come home to the eternal deep!" Murmured a voice, and a wide sweep Of wings through thy soul's hush did creep,

As of thy doom o'erflying;

It seemed as thy strong heart would leap
Out of thy breast, and thou didst weep,

But not with fear of dying;

Men could not fathom thy deep fears,
They could not understand thy tears,
The hoarded agony of years

Of bitter self-denying ;,

So once, when, high above the spheres,
Thy spirit sought its starry peers,
It came not back to face the jeers

Of brothers who denied it;

Star-crowned, thou dost possess the deeps

Of God, and thy white body sleeps
Where the lone pine for ever keeps

Patient watch beside it.

Poet! underneath the turf,

Soft thou sleepest, free from morrow; Thou hast struggled through the surf

Of wild thoughts, and want, and sorrow; Now, beneath the moaning pine,

Full of rest thy body lieth, While, far up in pure sunshine, Underneath a sky divine,

Her loosed wings thy spirit trieth; Oft she strove to spread them here, But they were too white and clear For our dingy atmosphere.

Thy body findeth ample room
In its still and grassy tomb

By the silent river;


But thy spirit found the earth
Narrow for the mighty birth

Which it dreamed of ever;
Thou wast guilty of a rhyme
Learned in a benigner clime,

And of that more grievous crime,

An ideal too sublime

For the low-hung sky of Time.

The calm spot where thy body lies
Gladdens thy soul in Paradise,

It is so still and holy;

Thy body sleeps serenely there,
And well for it thy soul may care,
It was so beautiful and rare,

Lily-white so wholly :
From so pure and sweet a frame

Thy spirit parted as it came,

Gentle as a maiden;

Now it hath its full of rest,

Sods are lighter on its breast

Than the great prophetic guest

Wherewith it was laden.


THERE came a youth upon the earth,

Some thousand years ago,

Whose slender hands were nothing worth,
Whether to plough, or reap, or sow.

He made a lyre, and drew therefrom

Music so strange and rich,

That all men loved to hear, — and some
Muttered of fagots for a witch.

But King Admetus, one who had

Pure taste by right divine,
Decreed his singing not too bad
To hear between the cups of wine :

And so, well-pleased with being soothed

Into a sweet half-sleep,

Three times his kingly beard he smoothed, And made him viceroy o'er his sheep.

His words were simple words enough

And yet he used them so,

That what in other mouths was rough
In his seemed musical and low.

Men called him but a shiftless youth,

In whom no good they saw; And yet, unwittingly, in truth, They made his careless words their law.

They knew not how he learned at all,
For, long hour after hour,

He sat and watched the dead leaves fall,
Or mused upon a common flower.

It seemed the loveliness of things
Did teach him all their use,

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