But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home.

Heaven lies about us in our infancy!

Shades of the prison-house begin to close

Upon the growing boy,

But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,—
He sees it in his joy;

The youth, who daily farther from the east
Must travel, still is Nature's priest,

And by the vision splendid

Is on his way attended;

At length the man perceives it die away,
And fade into the light of common day.

VI.

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own;
Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind,
And, even with something of a mother's mind,

And no unworthy aim,

The homely nurse doth all she can

To make her foster-child, her inmate man,

Forget the glories he hath known, And that imperial palace whence he came.

VII.

Behold the child among his new-born blisses,

A six years' darling of a pigmy size!

See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies,

Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses,

With light upon him from his father's eyes!
See, at his feet, some little plan or chart,
Some fragment from his dream of human life,
Shaped by himself with newly-learned art-
A wedding or a festival,

A mourning or a funeral;

And this hath now his heart,
And unto this he frames his song:
Then will he fit his tongue

To dialogues of business, love, or strife;

But it will not be long

Ere this be thrown aside,

And with new joy and pride

The little actor cons another part,

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Filling from time to time his "humorous stage"
With all the persons, down to palsied age,
That Life brings with her in her equipage;
As if his whole vocation
Were endless imitation.

VIII.

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie
Thy soul's immensity;

Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep
Thy heritage; thou eye among the blind,
That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep,
Haunted for ever by the eternal mind,-

Mighty Prophet! Seer blest!

On whom those truths do rest,
Which we are toiling all our lives to find;
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave;
Thou, over whom thy immortality
Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave,
A presence which is not to be put by;
-Thou little child, yet glorious in the might
Of heaven-born freedom, on thy being's height,
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke
The years to bring the inevitable yoke,
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?

Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight,

And custom lie upon thee with a weight,

Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!

IX.

O joy, that in our embers

Is something that doth live,

That Nature yet remembers

What was so fugitive!

The thought of our past years in me doth breed

Perpetual benedictions, not indeed

For that which is most worthy to be blest

Delight and liberty, the simple creed

Of childhood, whether busy or at rest,

With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast;

Not for these I raise

The song of thanks and praise ;

But for those obstinate questionings

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Though nothing can bring back the hour

Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find

Strength in what remains behind,
In the primal sympathy

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Which having been, must ever be ;
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering;

In the faith that looks through death,

In years that bring the philosophic mind.

XI.

And O ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves, 'Forebode not any severing of our loves!

Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;

I only have relinquished one delight,

To live beneath your more habitual sway.

I love the brooks, which down their channels fret,
Even more than when I tripp'd lightly as they :
The innocent brightness of a new-born day

Is lovely yet;

The clouds that gather round the setting sun
Do take a sober colouring from an eye

That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality!

Another race hath been, and other palms are won.
Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys and fears,
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

LAODAMIA.

"WITH sacrifice, before the rising morn,
Vows have I made, by fruitless hope inspired;
And from the infernal gods, 'mid shades forlorn
Of night, my slaughter'd lord have I required;
Celestial pity I again implore ;-

Restore him to my sight--great Jove, restore!"

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So speaking, and by fervent love endowed

With faith, the suppliant heavenward lifts her hands;
While, like the sun emerging from a cloud,
Her countenance brightens, and her eye expands,

Her bosom heaves and spreads, her stature grows,
And she expects the issue in repose.

O terror! what hath she perceived? O joy!

What doth she look on-whom doth she behold?
Her hero slain upon the beach of Troy?
His vital presence-his corporeal mould?
It is if sense deceive her not-'tis he!

And a god leads him, winged Mercury!

Mild Hermes spake-and touched her with his wand

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That calms all fear: "Such grace hath crowned thy prayer,
Laodamia! that at Jove's command

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Thy husband walks the paths of upper air:

He comes to tarry with thee three hours' space;

Accept the gift; behold him face to face!"

Forth sprang the impassion'd queen her lord to clasp ;
Again that consummation she essayed;
But unsubstantial form eludes her grasp
As often as that eager grasp was made.
The phantom parts-but parts to reunite,
And reassume his place before her sight.

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"Protesilaus, lo! thy guide is gone!

Confirm, I pray, the vision with thy voice;

This is our palace,-yonder is thy throne;

Speak, and the floor thou tread'st on will rejoice.

Not to appal me have the gods bestow'd

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This precious boon, and blest a sad abode."

"Great Jove, Laodamia, doth not leave
His gifts imperfect :-Spectre though I be,
I am not sent to scare thee or deceive,
But in reward of thy fidelity;
And something also did my worth obtain,
For fearless virtue bringeth boundless gain.

"Thou knowest, the Delphic oracle foretold

That the first Greek that touched the Trojan strand
Should die; but me the threat could not withhold :
A generous cause a victim did demand;
And forth I leapt upon the sandy plain,

A self-devoted chief-by Hector slain."

Supreme of heroes-bravest, noblest, best!
Thy matchless courage I bewail no more,
Which then, when tens of thousands were deprest

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