Then some one spake: Behold! it was a crime Of sense avenged by sense that wore with time.' Another said: 'The crime of sense became The crime of malice, and is equal blame.' And one: He had not wholly quench'd his power; A little grain of conscience made him sour.' At last I heard a voice upon the slope Cry to the summit, 'Is there any hope?' To which an answer peal'd from that high land, But in a tongue no man could understand; And on the glimmering limit far withdrawn God made Himself an awful rose of dawn. And trust me while I turn'd the page, For me the torrent ever pour'd And glisten'd-here and there alone The broad-limb'd Gods at random thrown By fountain-urns ;-and Naiads oar'd A glimmering shoulder under gloom Of cavern pillars; on the swell The silver lily heaved and fell; And many a slope was rich in bloom From him that on the mountain lea By dancing rivulets fed his flocks To him who sat upon the rocks, And fluted to the morning sea. BREAK, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, O Sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me. O well for the fisherman's boy, That he shouts with his sister at play! O well for the sailor lad, That he sings in his boat on the bay! And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill; But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand, And the sound of a voice that is still ! Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me. THE POET'S SONG. THE rain had fallen, the Poet arose, He pass'd by the town and out of the street, A light wind blew from the gates of the sun, And waves of shadow went over the wheat, And he sat him down in a lonely place, And chanted a melody loud and sweet, That made the wild-swan pause in her cloud, And the lark drop down at his feet. The swallow stopt as he hunted the bee, And stared, with his foot on the prey, And the nightingale thought, 'I have sung many songs, But never a one so gay, |