Part 4

There's plunder, -- where? Tankard, or spoon, Earring, or stone, A watch, some ancient brooch To match the grandmamma, Staid sleeping there.

Day rattles, too, Stealth's slow; The sun has got as far As the third sycamore. Screams chanticleer, "Who's there?" And echoes, trains away, Sneer -- "Where?" While the old couple, just astir, Fancy the sunrise left the door ajar!

XVI.

To fight aloud is very brave, But gallanter, I know, Who charge within the bosom, The cavalry of woe.

Who win, and nations do not see, Who fall, and none observe, Whose dying eyes no country Regards with patriot love.

We trust, in plumed procession, For such the angels go, Rank after rank, with even feet And uniforms of snow.

XVII.

DAWN.

When night is almost done, And sunrise grows so near That we can touch the spaces, It 's time to smooth the hair

And get the dimples ready, And wonder we could care For that old faded midnight That frightened but an hour.

XVIII.

THE BOOK OF MARTYRS.

Read, sweet, how others strove, Till we are stouter; What they renounced, Till we are less afraid; How many times they bore The faithful witness, Till we are helped, As if a kingdom cared!

Read then of faith That shone above the fagot; Clear strains of hymn The river could not drown; Brave names of men And celestial women, Passed out of record Into renown!

XIX.

THE MYSTERY OF PAIN.

Pain has an element of blank; It cannot recollect When it began, or if there were A day when it was not.

It has no future but itself, Its infinite realms contain Its past, enlightened to perceive New periods of pain.

XX.

I taste a liquor never brewed, From tankards scooped in pearl; Not all the vats upon the Rhine Yield such an alcohol!

Inebriate of air am I, And debauchee of dew, Reeling, through endless summer days, From inns of molten blue.

When landlords turn the drunken bee Out of the foxglove's door, When butterflies renounce their drams, I shall but drink the more!

Till seraphs swing their snowy hats, And saints to windows run, To see the little tippler Leaning against the sun!

XXI.

A BOOK.

He ate and drank the precious words, His spirit grew robust; He knew no more that he was poor, Nor that his frame was dust. He danced along the dingy days, And this bequest of wings Was but a book. What liberty A loosened spirit brings!

XXII.

I had no time to hate, because The grave would hinder me, And life was not so ample I Could finish enmity.