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L'ENVOI.

TO M. W.

WHETHER my heart hath wiser grown or not,
In these three years, since I to thee inscribed,
Mine own betrothed, the firstlings of my muse,-
Poor windfalls of unripe experience,

Young uds plucked hastily by childish hands
Not patient to await more full-blown flowers, -
At least it hath seen more of life and men,

And pondered more, and grown a shade more sad;
Yet with no loss of hope or settled trust
In the benignness of that Providence,
Which shapes from out our elements awry
The grace and order that we wonder at,
The mystic harmony of right and wrong,
Both working out His wisdom and our good:

XIV.

SUB PONDERE CRESCIT.

THE hope of Truth grows stronger, day by day;
I hear the soul of Man around me waking,
Like a great sea, its frozen fetters breaking,
And flinging up to heaven its sunlit spray,
Tossing huge continents in scornful play,
And crushing them, with din of grinding thunder,
That makes old emptinesses stare in wonder;

The memory of a glory passed away
Lingers in every heart, as, in the shell,
Ripples the bygone freedom of the sea,
And, every hour, new signs of promise tell
That the great soul shall once again be free,

For high, and yet more high, the murmurs swell
Of inward strife for truth and liberty.

XV.

TO THE SPIRIT OF KEATS.

GREAT soul, thou sittest with me in my room,
Uplifting me with thy vast, quiet eyes,

On whose full orbs, with kindly lustre, lies
The twilight warmth of ruddy ember-gloom :

Thy clear, strong tones will oft bring sudden bloom
Of hope secure, to him who lonely cries,

Wrestling with the young poet's agonies,

Neglect and scorn, which seem a certain doom:
Yes! the few words which, like great thunder-drops,
Thy large heart down to earth shook doubtfully,
Thrilled by the inward lightning of its might,
Serene and pure, like gushing joy of light,
Shall track the eternal chords of Destiny,

After the moon-led pulse of ocean stops.

XVI.

THE POET.

POET! thou art most wealthy, being poor;
For are not thine the only earthly ears
Made rich with golden music of the spheres ?
Hast thou not snowy wings whereon to soar
Through the wide air of after and before,
And set thee high among thy crowned peers ?
Hath any man such joy as thy deep tears,

Or

eyes like thine to pierce great nature's core ? Thou hast the fairy coin, which, in wrong hands,

Is merely stones and leaves, in thine, true gold;

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Thou art the very strength of all men's shields;
By divine right, art monarch of all lands;
And there is none but willing tribute yields,

Of worth too precious to be bought or sold.

XVII.

BELOVED, in the noisy city here,

The thought of thee can make all turmoil cease; Around my spirit, folds thy spirit clear

Its still, soft arms, and circles it with peace;

There is no room for

any doubt or fear

In souls so overfilled with love's increase,
There is no memory of the bygone year

But growth in heart's and spirit's perfect ease :
How hath our love, half nebulous at first,
Rounded itself into a full-orbed sun!

How have our lives and wills, (as haply erst
They were, ere this forgetfulness begun,)
Through all their earthly distantness outburst,
And melted, like two rays of light, in one!

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