p. 1033¶2What , if she be fasten'd to this fool lord,Dare I bid her abide by her word?Should I love her so well if sheHad given her word to a thing so low?Shall I love her as well if sheCan break her word were it even for me?I trust that it is not so.
¶3Catch not my breath, O clamorous heart,Let not my tongue be a thrall to my eyeFor I must tell her before we part,I must tell her, or die.
XVII
¶Go not, happy day,From the shining fields,Go not, happy day,Till the maiden yields.Rosy is the West,Rosy is the South,[1034]Roses are her cheeks,And a rose her mouth.When the happy YesFalters from her lips,Pass and blush the newsO'er the blowing ships.Over blowing seas,Over seas at rest,Pass the happy news,Blush it thro' the West;Till the red man danceBy his red cedar tree,And the red man's babeLeap, beyond the sea.Blush from West to East,Blush from East to West,Till the West is East,Blush it thro' the West.Rosy is the West,Rosy is the South,Roses are her cheeks,And a rose her mouth.
XVIII
¶iI HAVE led her home, my love, my only friend.There is none like her, none.And never yet so warmly ran my bloodAnd sweedy, on and onCalming itself to the long-wish'd-for end,Full to the banks, close on the promised good.
¶2None like her, none.Just now the dry-tongued laurels' pattering talkSeem'd her light foot along the garden walk,And shook my heart to think she comes once more,But even then I heard her close the door,The gates of Heaven are closed, and she is gone.[1035]3There is none like her, none.Nor will be when our summers have deceased.O , art thou sighing for LebanonIn the long breeze that streams to thy delicious East,Sighing for Lebanon,Dark cedar, tho' thy limbs have here increased,Upon a pastoral slope as fair,And looking to the South, and fedWith honey'd rain and delicate air,And haunted by the starry headOf her whose gentle will has changed my fate,And made my life a perfumed altar-flame;And over whom thy darkness must have spreadWith such delight as theirs of old, thy greatForefathers of the thornless garden, thereShadowing the snow-limb'd Eve from whom she came.
¶4Here will I lie, while these long branches sway,And you fair stars that crown a happy dayGo in and out as if at merry play,Who am no more so all forlornAs when it seem'd far better to be bornTo labour and the mattock-harden'd hand,Than nursed at ease and brought to understandA sad astrology, the boundless planThat makes you tyrants in your iron skies,Innumerable, pitiless, passionless eyes,Cold fires, yet with power to burn and brandHis nothingness into man.
¶5But now shine on, and what care I,Who in this stormy gulf have found a pearlThe countercharm of space and hollow sky,And do accept my madness, and would dieTo save from some slight shame one simple girl.[1036]6Would die; for sullen-seeming Death may giveMore life to love than is or ever wasIn our low world, where yet 'tis sweet to live.Let no one ask me how it came to pass;It seems that I am happy, that to meA livelier emerald twinkles in the grass,A purer sapphire melts into the sea.
¶7Not die; but live a life of truest breath,And teach true life to fight with mortal wrongs.O , why should Love, like men in drinking-songs,Spice his fair banquet with the dust of death?Make answer, Maud my bliss,Maud made my Maud by that long loving kiss,Life of my life, wilt thou not answer this?" The dusky strand of Death inwoven hereWith dear Love's tie, makes Love himself more dear."
¶8Is that enchanted moan only the swellOf the long waves that roll in yonder bay?And hark the clock within, the silver knellOf twelve sweet hours that past in bridal white,And died to live, long as my pulses play;But now by this my love has closed her sightAnd given false death her hand, and stol'n awayTo dreamful wastes where footless fancies dwellAmong the fragments of the golden day.May nothing there her maiden grace affright!Dear heart, I feel with thee the drowsy spell.My bride to be, my evermore delight,My own heart's heart, my ownest own, farewell;It is but for a little space I go :And ye meanwhile far over moor and fellBeat to the noiseless music of the night!Has our whole earth gone nearer to the glowOf your soft splendours that you look so bright?[1037]/ have climb'd nearer out of lonely Hell.Beat, happy stars, timing with things below,Beat with my heart more blest than heart can tell,Blest, but for some dark undercurrent woeThat seems to draw—but it shall not be so:Let all be well, be well.
XIX
¶2My dream? do I dream of bliss?I have walk'd awake with Truth.0 when did a morning shineSo rich in atonement as thisFor my dark-dawning youth,Darken'd watching a mother declineAnd that dead man at her heart and mine:For who was left to watch her but I ?Yet so did I let my freshness die.
¶3I trust that I did not talkTo gentle Maud in our walk(For often in lonely wanderingsI have cursed him even to lifeless things)But I trust that I did not talk,Not touch on her father's sin:I am sure I did but speakOf my mother's faded cheekWhen it slowly grew so thin,That I felt she was slowly dyingVext with lawyers and harass'd with debt:For how often I caught her with eyes all wet,Shaking her head at her son and sighing,A world of trouble within!
4
¶And Maud too, Maud was movedTo speak of the mother she lovedAs one scarce less forlorn,Dying abroad and it seems apartFrom him who had ceased to share her heart,And ever mourning over the feud,The household Fury sprinkled with bloodBy which our houses are torn:How strange was what she said,When only Maud and the brotherHung over her dying bed—That Maud's dark father and mineHad bound us one to the other,Betrothed us over their wine,On the day when Maud was born;Seal'd her mine from her first sweet breath.Mine, mine by a right, from birth till deathMine, mine—our fathers have sworn.
¶5But the true blood spilt had in it a heatTo dissolve the precious seal on a bond,That, if left uncancell'd, had been so sweet:And none of us thought of a something beyond,A desire that awoke in the heart of the child,As it were a duty done to the tomb,To be friends for her sake, to be reconciled;And I was cursing them and my doom,And letting a dangerous thought run wildWhile often abroad in the fragrant gloomOf foreign churches—I see her there,Bright English lily, breathing a prayerTo be friends, to be reconciled!
¶6But then what a flint is he!Abroad, at Florence, at Rome,I find whenever she touch'd on me[1039]This brother had laugh'd her down,And at last, when each came home,He had darken'd into a frown,Chid her, and forbid her to speakTo me, her friend of the years before;And this was what had redden'd her cheekWhen I bow'd to her on the moor.
¶7Yet Maud, altho' not blindTo the faults of his heart and mind,I see she cannot but love him,And says he is rough but kind,And wishes me to approve him,And tells me, when she laySick once, with a fear of worse,That he left his wine and horses and play,Sat with her, read to her, night and day,And tended her like a nurse.
¶8Kind ? but the deathbed desireSpurn'd by this heir of the liar—Rough but kind? yet I knowHe has plotted against me in this,That he plots against me still.Kind to Maud ? that were not amiss.Well, rough but kind; why , let it be so:For shall not Maud have her will?
¶9For, Maud, so tender and true,As long as my life enduresI feel I shall owe you a debt,That I never can hope to pay;And if ever I should forgetThat I owe this debt to youAnd for your sweet sake to yours;O then, what then shall I say?—[1040]If ever I should forget,May God make me more wretchedThan ever I have been yet!
¶10
¶So now I have sworn to buryAll this dead body of hate,I feel so free and so dearBy the loss of that dead weight.That I should grow light-headed, I fear,Fantastically merry;But that her brother comes, like a blightOn my fresh hope, to the Hall to-night.
XX
¶Strange, that I felt so gay,Strange, that / tried to-dayTo beguile her melancholy;The Sultan, as we name him,—She did not wish to blame him—But he vext her and perplext herWith his worldly talk and folly:Was it gentle to reprove herFor stealing out of viewFrom a little lazy loverWho but claims her as his due?Or for chilling his caressesBy the coldness of her manners,Nay, the plainness of her dresses?Now I know her but in two,Nor can pronounce upon itIf one should ask me whetherThe habit, hat, and feather.Or the frock and gipsy bonnetBe the neater and completer;For nothing can be sweeterThan maiden Maud in either.[1041]But to-morrow, if we live.Our ponderous squire will giveA grand political dinnerTo half the squirelings near;And Maud will wear her jewels,And the bird of prey will hover.And the titmouse hope to win herWith his chirrup at her ear.
¶3A grand political dinnerTo the men of many acres,A gathering of the Tory,A dinner and then a danceFor the maids and marriage-makers.And every eye but mine will glanceAt Maud in all her glory.
¶4For I am not invited.But, with the Sultan's pardon,I am all as well delighted.For I know her own rose-garden,And mean to linger in itTill the dancing will be over;And then, oh then, come out to meFor a minute, but for a minute.Come out to your own true lover,That your true lover may seeYour glory also, and renderAll homage to his own darling.Queen Maud in all her splendour.
¶XXI
¶Rivulet crossing my ground.And bringing me down from the HallThis garden-rose that I found.Forgetful of Maud and me.[1042]And lost in trouble and moving roundHere at the head of a tinkling fall,And trying to pass to the sea;0 Rivulet, born at the Hall,My Maud has sent it by thee(If I read her sweet will right)On a blushing mission to me,Saying in odour and colour, " Ah , beAmong the roses to-night."
XXII
¶1COME into the garden, Maud,For the black bat, night, has flown,Come into the garden, Maud,I am here at the gate alone;And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad,And the musk of the roses blown.
¶2For a breeze of morning moves,And the planet of Love is on high,Beginning to faint in the light that she lovesOn a bed of daffodil sky,To faint in the light of the sun she loves,To faint in his light, and to die.
¶3All night have the roses heardThe flute, violin, bassoon;All night has the casement jessamine stirr'dTo the dancers dancing in tune;Till a silence fell with the waking bird,And a hush with the setting moon.
¶4I said to the lily, "There is but oneWith whom she has heart to be gay.When will the dancers leave her alone?[1043]She is weary of dance and play."Now half to the setting moon are gone,And half to the rising day;Low on the sand and loud on the stoneThe last wheel echoes away.
¶5I said to the rose, " The brief night goesIn babble and revel and wine.O young lord-lover, what sighs are those,For one that will never be thine?But mine, but mine," so I sware to the rose,"For ever and ever, mine."
¶6And the soul of the rose went into my blood,As the music dash'd in the hall;And long by the garden lake I stood,For I heard your rivulet fallFrom the lake to the meadow and on to the wood,Our wood, that is dearer than all;
¶7From the meadow your walks have left so sweetThat whenever a March-wind sighsHe sets the jewel-print of your feetIn violets blue as your eyes,To the woody hollows in which we meetAnd the valleys of Paradise.
¶8The slender acacia would not shakeOne long milk-bloom on the tree;The white lake-blossom fell into the lake,As the pimpernel dozed on the lea;But the rose was awake all night for your sake,Knowing your promise to me;The lilies and roses were all awake,They sigh'd for the dawn and thee.[1044]9Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls,Come hither, the dances are done,In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls,Queen lily and rose in one;Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls,To the flowers, and be their sun.
¶10There has fallen a splendid tearFrom the passion-flower at the gate.She is coming, my dove, my dear;She is coming, my life, my fate;The red rose cries, "She is near, she is near;"And the white rose weeps, "She is late;"The larkspur listens, "I hear, I hear;"And the lily whispers, "I wait."
II
¶She is coming, my own , my sweet,Were it ever so airy a tread,My heart would hear her and beat,Were it earth in an earthy bed;My dust would hear her and beat,Had I lain for a century dead;Would start and tremble under her feet,And blossom in purple and red.
Part III
¶i" THE fault was mine, the fault was mine"—Why am I sitting here so stunn'd and still,Plucking the harmless wild-flower on the hill ?—It is this guilty hand!—And there rises ever a passionate cryFrom underneath in the darkening land—•What is it, that has been done ?[1045]O dawn of Eden bright over earth and sky,The fires of Hell brake out of thy rising sun,The fires of Hell and of Hate;For she, sweet soul, had hardly spoken a word,When her brother ran in his rage to the gate;He came with the babe-faced lord;Heap'd on her terms of disgrace,And while she wept, and I strove to be cool,He fiercely gave me the lie,Till I with as fierce an anger spoke,And he struck me, madman, over the face,Struck me before the languid fool,Who was gaping and grinning by:Struck for himself an evil stroke;Wrought for his house an irredeemable woeFor front to front in an hour we stood,And a million horrible bellowing echoes brokeFrom the red-ribb'd hollow behind the wood,And thunder'd up into Heaven the Christless code,That must have life for a blow.Ever and ever afresh they seem'd to grow.Was i the lay there with a fading eye?" The fault was mine," he whisper'd, "fly!"Then glided out of the joyous woodThe ghastly Wraith of one that I know ;And there rang on a sudden a passionate cry,A cry for a brother's blood:It will ring in my heart and my ears, till I die,till I die.
¶2Is it gone? my pulses beat—What was it? a lying trick of the brain?Yet I thought I saw her stand,A shadow there at my feet,High over the shadowy land.It is gone; and the heavens fall in a gentle rain,When they should burst and drown with delugingstormsThe feeble vassals of wine and anger and lust,[1046]The little hearts that know not how to forgive:Arise, my God , and strike, for we hold Thee just,Strike dead the whole weak race of venomous worms,That sting each other here in the dust;We are not worthy to live.
II
¶SEE what a lovely shell,Small and pure as a pearl,Lying close to my foot,Frail, but a work divine,Made so fairily wellWith delicate spire and whorl,How exquisitely minute,A miracle of design!
¶2What is it? a learned manCould give it a clumsy name.Let him name it who can,The beauty would be the same.
¶3The tiny cell is forlorn,Void of the little living willThat made it stir on the shore.Did he stand at the diamond doorOf his house in a rainbow frill?Did he push, when he was uncurl'd,A golden foot or a fairy hornThro ' his dim water-world?
¶4Slight, to be crush'd with a tapOf my finger-nail on the sand,Small, but a work divine,Frail, but of force to withstand,Year upon year, the shock[1047]Of cataract seas that snapThe three-decker's oaken spineAthwart the ledges of rock.Here on the Breton strand!
¶Breton, not Briton; hereLike a shipwreck'd man on a coastOf ancient fable and fear—Plagued with a flitting to and fro,A disease, a hard mechanic ghostThat never came from on highNor ever arose from below.But only moves with the moving eye,Flying along the land and the main—Why should it look like Maud?Am I to be overawedBy what I cannot but knowIs a juggle born of the brain?
¶Back from the Breton coast.Sick of a nameless fear.Back to the dark sea-lineLooking, thinking of all I have lost;An old song vexes my ear;But that of Lamech is mine.
¶For years, a measureless ill,For years, for ever, to part—But she, she would love me still;And as long, O God, as sheHave a grain of love for me.So long, no doubt, no doubt.Shall I nurse in my dark heart.However weary, a spark of willNot to be trampled out.[1048]8Strange, that the mind, when fraughtWith a passion so intenseOne would think that it wellMight drown all life in the eye,—That it should, by being so over-wrought,Suddenly strike on a sharper senseFor a shell, or a flower, little thingsWhich else would have been past by IAnd now I remember, I,When he lay dying there,I noticed one of his many rings(For he had many, poor worm ) and thoughtIt is his mother's hair.
¶9Who knows if he be dead?Whether I need have fled?Am I guilty of blood ?However this may be,Comfort her, comfort her, all things good,While I am over the sea!Let me and my passionate love go by,But speak to her all things holy and high,Whatever happens to me!Me and my harmful love go by;But come to her waking, find her asleep,Powers of the height, Powers of the deep,And comfort her tho' I die.
¶IllCOURAGE , poor heart of stone!I will not ask thee whyThou canst not understandThat thou art left for ever alone:Courage, poor stupid heart of stone.—Or if I ask thee why ,[1049]She is but dead, and the time is at handWhen thou shalt more than die.
IV
¶1O THAT 'twere possibleAfter long grief and painTo find the arms of my true loveRound me once again!
¶2When I was wont to meet herIn the silent woody placesBy the home that gave me birth,We stood tranced in long embracesMixt with kisses sweeter sweeterThan anything on earth.
¶3A shadow flits before me,Not thou, but like to thee;Ah Christ, that it were possibleFor one short hour to seeThe souls we loved, that they might tell usWhat and where they be.
¶4It leads me forth at evening,It lightly winds and stealsIn a cold white robe before me,When all my spirit reelsAt the shouts, the leagues of lights,And the roaring of the wheels.
¶5Half the night I waste in sighs,Half in dreams I sorrow afterThe delight of early skies;In a wakeful doze I sorrow[1050]For the hand, the lips, the eyes,For the meeting of the morrowThe delight of happy laughter,The delight of low replies.
¶6'Tis a morning pure and sweetAnd a dewy splendour fallsOn the little flower that clingsTo the turrets and the walls;'Tis a morning pure and sweet,And the light and shadow fleet;She is walking in the meadow,And the woodland echo rings;In a moment we shall meet;She is singing in the meadow,And the rivulet at her feetRipples on in light and shadowTo the ballad that she sings.
¶7Do I hear her sing as of old,My bird with the shining head,My own dove with the tender eye ?But there rings on a sudden a passionate cry,There is some one dying or dead,And a sullen thunder is roll'd;For a tumult shakes the city,And I wake, my dream is fled;In the shuddering dawn, behold,Without knowledge, without pity,By the curtains of my bedThat abiding phantom cold.
¶8Get thee hence, nor come again,Mix not memory with doubt,Pass, thou deathlike type of pain,Pass and cease to move about,'Tis the blot upon the brainThat will show itself without.[1051]9Then I rise, the eavedrops fall.And the yellow vapours chokeThe great city sounding wide;The day comes, a dull red ballWrapt in drifts of lurid smokeOn the misty river-tide.
¶Thro' the hubbub of the marketI steal, a wasted frame,It crosses here, it crosses there.Thro' all that crowd confused and loudThe shadow still the same;And on my heavy eyelidsMy anguish hangs like shame.
¶II
¶Alas for her that met me.That heard me softly call.Came glimmering thro' the laurelsAt the quiet evenfall.In the garden by the turretsOf the old manorial hall.
¶12
¶Would the happy spirit descend.From the realms of light and song,In the chamber or the street.As she looks among the blest.Should I fear to greet my friendOr to say "Forgive the wrong,"Or to ask her, "Take me, sweet.To the regions of thy rest"?
¶13But the broad light glares and beats,And the shadow flits and fleetsAnd will not let me be;[1052]And I loathe the squares and streets,And the faces that one meets,Hearts with no love for me :Always I long to creepInto some still cavern deep,There to weep, and weep, and weepMy whole soul out to thee.
V
¶1DEAD , long dead,Long dead!And my heart is a handful of dust,And the wheels go over my head,And my bones are shaken with pain,For into a shallow grave they are thrust,Only a yard beneath the street,And the hoofs of the horses beat, beat,The hoofs of the horses beat,Beat into my scalp and my brain,With never an end to the stream of passing feet,Driving, hurrying, marrying, burying,Clamor and rumble, and ringing and clatter,And here beneath it is all as badFor I thought the dead had peace, but it is not so;To have no peace in the grave, is that not sad?But up and down and to and fro,Ever about me the dead men go;And then to hear a dead man chatterIs enough to drive one mad.
¶2
¶Wretchedest age, since Time began,They cannot even bury a man;And tho' w e paid our tithes in the days that are gone,Not a bell was rung, not a prayer was read;It is that which makes us loud in the world of the dead;There is none that does his work, not one;A touch of their office might have sufficed,[1053]But the churchmen fain would kill their church,As the churches have kill'd their Christ.
¶3See, there is one of us sobbing,No limit to his distress;And another, a lord of all things, prayingTo his own great self, as I guess;And another, a statesman there, betrayingHis party-secret, fool, to the press;And yonder a vile physician, blabbingThe case of his patient—all for what?To tickle the maggot born in an empty head,And wheedle a world that loves him not,For it is but a world of the dead.
¶4Nothing but idiot gabble!For the prophecy given of oldAnd then not understood,Has come to pass as foretold;Not let any man think for the public good,But babble, merely for babble.For I never whisper'd a private affairWithin the hearing of cat or mouse,No , not to myself in the closet alone,But I heard it shouted at once from the top of the house;Everything came to be known :Who told him we were there?
¶5Not that gray old wolf, for he came not backFrom the wilderness, full of wolves, where he used to lie;He has gather'd the bones for his o'ergrown whelp tocrack;
¶Crack them now for yourself, and howl, and die.
¶6Prophet, curse me the blabbing lip,And curse me the British vermin, the rat;[1054]I know not whether he came in the Hanover ship,But I knows that he lies and listens muteIn an ancient mansion's crannies and holes:Arsenic, arsenic, sure, would do it,Except that now we poison our babes, poor souls!It is all used up for that.
¶7Tell him now ; she is standing here at my head;Not beautiful now, not even kind;He may take her now; for she never speaks her mind,But is ever the one thing silent here.She is not of us, as I divine;She comes from another stiller world of the dead,Stiller, not fairer than mine.
¶8But I know where a garden grows,Fairer than aught in the world beside,All made up of the lily and roseThat blow by night, when the season is good,To the sound of dancing music and flutes:It is only flowers, they had no fruits,And I almost fear they are not roses, but blood;For the keeper was one, so full of pride,He linkt a dead man there to a spectral bride;For he, if he had not been a Sultan of brutes,Would he have had that hole in his side?
¶9But what will the old man say?He laid a cruel snare in a pitTo catch a friend of mine one stormy day;Yet now I could even weep to think of it;For what will the old man sayWhen he comes to the second corpse in the pit?
¶10Friend, to be struck by the public foe,Then to strike him and lay him low,[1055]That were a public merit, far,Whatever the Quaker holds, from sin;But the red life spilt for a private blowI swear to you, lawful and lawless warAre scarcely even akin.
II
¶0 me, why have they not buried me deep enough?Is it kind to have made me a grave so rough,Me, that was never a quiet sleeper?Maybe still I am but half-dead;Then I cannot be wholly dumb :I will cry to the steps above my head,And somebody, surely, some kind heart will comeTo bury me, bury meDeeper, ever so little deeper.
¶Part III
VIi
¶MY life has crept so long on a broken wingThro ' cells of madness, haunts of horror and fear,That I come to be grateful at last for a little thing:My mood is changed, for it fell at a time of yearWhen the face of night is fair on the dewy downs,And the shining daffodil dies, and the CharioteerAnd starry Gemini hang like glorious crownsOver Orion's grave low down in the west,That like a silent lightning under the starsShe seem'd to divide in a dream from a band of the blest,And spoke of a hope for the world in the coming wars—" And in that hope, dear soul, let trouble have rest,Knowing I tarry for thee," and pointed to Mars,As he glow'd like a ruddy shield on the Lion's breast.
¶2And it was but a dream, yet it yielded a dear delightTo have look'd, tho' but in a dream, upon eyes so fair,That had been in a weary world my one thing bright;[1056]And it was but a dream, yet it lighten'd my despairWhen I thought that a war would arise in defence of the right,That an iron tyranny now should bend or cease,The glory of manhood stand on his ancient height,Nor Britain's one sole God be the millionaire:No more shall commerce be all in all, and PeacePipe on her pastoral hillock a languid note,And watch her harvest ripen, her herd increase,Nor the cannon-bullet rust on a slothful shore,And the cobweb woven across the cannon's throatShall shake its threaded tears in the wind no more.
¶3And as months ran on and rumour of battle grew,"It is time, it is time, O passionate heart," said I(For I cleaved to a cause that I felt to be pure and true),"It is time, O passionate heart and morbid eye,That old hysterical mock-disease should die."And I stood on a giant deck and mix'd my breathWith a loyal people shouting a battle-cry,Till I saw the dreary phantom arise and flyFar into the North, and battle, and seas of death.
¶4Let it go or stay, so I wake to the higher aimsOf a land that has lost for a little her lust of gold,And love of a peace that was full of wrongs and shames,Horrible, hateful, monstrous, not to be told;And hail once more to the banner of battle unroll'd!Tho ' many a light shall darken, and many shall weepFor those that are crush'd in the clash of jarring claims,Yet God's just wrath shall be wreak'd on a giant liar;And many a darkness into the light shall leap,And shine in the sudden making of splendid names,And noble thought be freer under the sun,And the heart of a people beat with one desire;For the peace, that I deem'd no peace, is over and done,And now by the side of the Black and the Baltic deep,And deathful-grinning mouths of the fortress, flamesThe blood-red blossom of war with a heart of fire.[1057]5Let it flame or fade, and the war roll down like a wind,We have proved we have hearts in a cause, we are noble stillAnd myself have awaked, as it seems, to the better mindIt is better to fight for the good, than to rail at the ill;I have felt with my native land, I am one with my kind,I embrace the purpose of God , and the doom assign'd.
Crossing the Bar
¶SUNSET and evening star,And one clear call for me!And may there be no moaning of the bar,When I put out to sea,
¶But such a tide as moving seems asleep,Too full for sound and foam,When that which drew from out the boundless deepTurns again home.
¶Twilight and evening bell,And after that the dark!And may there be no sadness of farewell,When I embark;
¶For tho' from out our bourne of Time and PlaceThe flood may bear me far,I hope to see my Pilot face to faceWhen I have crossed the bar.