Before me now a little picture lies— A little shadow of a childish face,
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A Meditation in the British Museum.
I say it to myself--in meekest awe
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Numb, half asleep, and dazed with whirl of wheels,
And gasp of steam, and measured clank of chains,
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Spirit and Breath of Life, whate'er Thy name!
Bear with Thy creature, Man,
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Midsummer, 1867.
We have heard many sermons, you and I,
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O sweet darkness, still, and calm, and lonely!
Spread thy downy pinions round about.
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An evening all aglow with summer light
And autumn colour--fairest of the year.
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Another mile--a year
Pass'd by for ever! And the warnings swell
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Blessed are they whose baby-souls are bright,
Whose brows are sealèd with the cross of light,
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"But they are at peace."
Never to weary more, nor suffer sorrow,--
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I.
AS flower to sun its drop of dew
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Low on her little stool she sits
To make a nursing lap,
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Late, late, the prize is drawn, the goal attained,
The Heart's Desire fulfilled, Love's guerdon gained.
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When the investing darkness growls,
And deep reverberates to deep;
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Come, go and practise--get your work--
Do something, Nelly, pray.
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So still--so still! Only the endless sighing
Of sad Æolian harp-notes overhead;
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Calm as that moonbeam on the wall,
Sleep broods on baby's eyes;
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One hour ago the crimson sun, that seemed so long a-drowning, sank.
The summer day is all but done. Our boat is moored beneath the b
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Ah, 'twas but now I saw the sun flush pink on yonder placid tide;
The purple hill-tops, one by one, were strangely lit and glorified;
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Is it a virtue, as the sages say,
The "trivial round and common task" to ply,
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Those anguished voices in the air!
Oh, I could shriek and tear my hair
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When I kneel down the dawn is only breaking;
Sleep fetters still the brown wings of the lark;
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"On board the Petrel, in St. Lucia's bay,
Of yellow fever--aged twenty-nine."
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Bright eyes, sweet lips, with many fevers fill
The young blood, running wildly, as it must;
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Alone! Alone! No beacon, far or near!
No chart, no compass, and no anchor stay!
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The filthy beast! And is he here again,
With his foul slobbering mouth and shuffling feet,
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Can this be my poem?--this poor fragment
Of bald thought in meanest language dressed!
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The sun has set; grey shadows darken slowly
The rose-red cloud-hills that were bathed in light
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And is the great cause lost beyond recall?
Have all the hopes of ages come to naught?
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See those resplendent creatures, as they glide
O'er scarlet carpet, between footmen tall,
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