Well he slumbers, greatly slain, Who in splendid battle dies; Deep his sleep in midmost main Pillowed upon pearl who lies. Ease, of all good gifts the best,

That night he dreamed that over hi… A change miraculous, whereby his s… Was parted from his body for a spa… And through a labyrinth of secret… Entered the world where dead men’s…

Our men, they are our stronghold, Our bastioned wall unscaled, Who, against Hate and Wrong, hold This Realm that never quailed; Who bear the noblest burden

What! and shall _we_, with such su… As age demands in reverence from t… Await these crumbs of praise from… And doubt of our own greatness til… The signet of your Goethes or Vol…

Not here, O teeming City, was it… Thy lover, thy most faithful, shou… But where the multitudinous life-t… Whose ocean-murmur was to him more… Than melody of birds at morn, or b…

MY little maiden two years old, j… To tower full half a head above th… With inquisition keen must needs e… Whatever in my dwelling hath a doo… Whatever is behind a curtain hid,

As one whose eyes have watched the… Swoon to its crimson death adown t… Turning his face to eastward sudde… Sees a lack—lustre world all chill… Then, wandering sunless whitherso…

Thou burden of all songs the earth… Thou retrospect in Time’s reverte… Thou metaphor of everything that d… That dies ill-starred, or dies bel… And therefore blest and wise,-

I asked of heaven and earth and se… Saying: ‘O wondrous trinity, Deign to make answer unto me, And tell me truly what ye be.’ And they made answer: 'Verily,

Scentless flow’rs I bring thee-ye… In thy bosom be they set; In thy bosom each one grows Fragrant beyond any rose. Sweet enough were she who could,

March, that comes roaring, maned,… And bleatingly withdraws; March,—'tis the year’s fantastic n… That, born when frost hath nipped The shivering fields, or tempest s…

Five-and-thirty black slaves, Half-a-hundred white, All their duty but to sing For their Queen’s delight, Now with throats of thunder,

NO courtier this, and naught to c… Fawned not on thrones, hymned not… Yet, in one strain, that few remem… He had the password of King Obero… And seeing a London seamstress’s…

So, into Cornwall you go down, And leave me loitering here in tow… For me, the ebb of London’s wave, Not ocean-thunder in Cornish cave… My friends (save only one or two)

I know not if they erred Who thought to see The tale of all the times to be, Star-character’d; I know not, neither care,