Down behind the hidden village, fringed around with hazel brake,
(Like a holy hermit dreaming, half asleep and half awake,
One who loveth the sweet quiet for the happy quiet's sake,)
Dozing, murmuring in its visions, lay the heaven-enamoured lake.

And within a dell, where shadows through the brightest days abide,
Like the silvery swimming gossamer by breezes scattered wide,
Fell a shining skein of water that ran down the lakelet's side,
As within the brain by beauty lulled, a pleasant thought may glide.

She was the first I loved; but years had gone
Since we had parted. Still the very look,
That lent me such enchantment, that I seemed
Raised to a higher being, when she sat
Sweet in her mildness by me, or with light
And flying footstep hastened to my call,
And hung upon my words with such a fond
And all-confiding earnestness, — that look
Still lived in all its light before me, fair
As the fresh dress of nature in the calm,
Unclouded beauty of an April eve,
When the gay twilight ends, and in her full
The white-robed planet overtops the hill,

Charres very well all Iewels , may be said,
Hearty firme love hath your true honour made;
A most entire affection in your Sier
Regarded well our King, whom all desire;
Long life may long unto his raigne succeed,
England of him hath evermore great need:
So well we love him, that we much affect,

Very much loving, where he doth select.
In you then finding, for your fathers sake,
Largely delight our Soveraigne doth take,
Loving him so intirely as we do.
Ever true honour we do wish unto,
Rare Imp of worth, your heart to honour prest,

O Evening! thou art lovely: — in thy dress
Of sober gray I woo thee, when thy star
Comes o'er the hazy hills, that rise afar,
When tender thoughts upon my spirit press,
And with the whispering gales and fanning airs
The quiet swelling of my bosom pairs;
And by the lake that lieth motionless,
Low in the secret hollow, where the shade,
By bending elms and drooping willows made,
Displays its peaceful canopy, and gives
A moving picture to the lymph below,
Where float the sapphire sky, the clouds of snow,

O, Love was made to mourn,
Its home is not below;
While in this being's bourn,
It still must weep in woe.

Its home is in the skies;
A wanderer with men,
It turns its longing eyes
To find that home again.

But there are forms so bright,
So fair, they seem its own;
They glow, like stars at night,
When clouds away have flown.

And there we fondly turn,
And think, that love's pure fire
Will ever brightly burn,
The spirit's vestal pyre.

But oh! how short the light,
How soon it fades away!

Not to the sober and staid,
Leading a quiet life,
But to men whose paths are laid
Ever through storm and strife —
Here is a song from me,
Sent to the tragic West,
Message of sympathy
To the hearts that can never rest.
This is the song I send
Out to the Western land —
Sinner, and martyr, and friend,
Brother! you'll take my hand.

To you who have loved and lost;

Should love return before I die,
If haply love could live so long,
He will not come with smile or sigh,
Nor wake in me the gift of song.

No, rather with a lordly scorn
I would receive the fatal trust,
For pleasures out of season born
Are ashes at the core, and dust.

And beauty's eyes might plead in vain,
And music's voice intone forever —
I should hear nothing in the strain
But one sad note of never, never.

I dare not worship Love, whose warm hands hold
The true immortal worth of mortal breath,
And every deathless beauty this side death,
And seeds wherein are hidden manifold
Spring's promise, summer's glory, autumn's gold —
I dare not, for so many voices say,
" I am the Mighty Love thou must obey —
The Love thy dreams foreshadowed and foretold. "
I thirst for Love, and yet I dare not slake
My thirst at his cool fountain's singing flow;
I long to love, and yet I dare not stake
Eternal happiness upon one throw;

I

Mother-Queen, Mother-Queen,
How hast thou heard, how hast thou seen,
Thy people's woe?
Are there not golden bars between
The high and low?
How hast thou heard? How hast thou seen?
How dost thou know?
What can our lowly sorrow mean
To one so high?
Though thou listen, and though thou lean,
Down from the sky,
Thou canst not tell our sorrow and teen,
Nor hear us sigh.

II

Throned afar
On a golden star,
How canst thou guess
What sore distress,
And cold, and hunger, and weeping are?

I had been lost and lonely, and the stars
Like dust in desert places had been whirled,
And even things of beauty had been bars
Between me and the Spirit-of-the-World.

For vainly, ever vainly, had I sought,
In many a lovely body's lily shrine,
Beauty of Spirit, till one morning brought
Such beauty in that lovely body of thine.

Then through thine eyes into thy soul I went,
And through mine eyes thy spirit flashed like flame:
For one eternal moment we were blent,
And all the world a world of Love became.