Give me of the true,

Whose ample leaves and tendrils curl'd
Among the silver hills of heaven

Draw everlasting dew;

Wine of wine,

Blood of the world,

Form of forms, and mould of statures,
That I intoxicated,

And by the draught assimilated,

May float at pleasure through all natures;

The bird-language rightly spell,

And that which roses say so well:

Wine that is shed

Like the torrents of the sun

Up the horizon walls,

Or like the Atlantic streams, which run

When the South Sea calls.

Water and bread,

Food which needs no transmuting,
Rainbow-flowering, wisdom-fruiting,
Wine which is already man,

Food which teach and reason can.

Wine which Music is,

Music and wine are one,—

That I, drinking this,

Shall hear far Chaos talk with me;

Kings unborn shall walk with me;
And the poor grass shall plot and plan
What it will do when it is man.

Quicken'd so, will I unlock

Every crypt of every rock.

I thank the joyful juice
For all I know;

Winds of remembering

Of the ancient being blow,

And seeming-solid walls of use
Open and flow.

Pour, Bacchus! the remembering wine;
Retrieve the loss of me and mine!
Vine for vine be antidote,

And the grape requite the lote !
Haste to cure the old despair;
Reason in Nature's lotus drench'd-
The memory of ages quench'd-
Give them again to shine;
Let wine repair what this undid ;
And where the infection slid,
A dazzling memory revive;
Refresh the faded tints,

Recut the agèd prints,

And write my old adventures with the pen

Which on the first day drew,

Upon the tablets blue,

The dancing Pleiads and eternal men.

672.

IF

Brahma

F the red slayer think he slays,
Or if the slain think he is slain,
They know not well the subtle ways
I keep, and pass, and turn again.

673.

Far or forgot to me is near;

Shadow and sunlight are the same;
The vanish'd gods to me appear;

And one to me are shame and fame.

They reckon ill who leave me out;
When me they fly, I am the wings;
I am the doubter and the doubt,

And I the hymn the Brahmin sings.

The strong gods pine for my abode,
And pine in vain the sacred Seven;
But thou, meek lover of the good!
Find me, and turn thy back on heaven.

RICHARD HENRY HORNE

The Plough

A LANDSCAPE IN BERKSHIRE

ABOVE yon sombre swell of land

1803-1884

Thou see'st the dawn's grave orange hue,

With one pale streak like yellow sand,

And over that a vein of blue.

The air is cold above the woods;
All silent is the earth and sky,
Except with his own lonely moods
The blackbird holds a colloquy.

Over the broad hill creeps a beam,

Like hope that gilds a good man's brow;
And now ascends the nostril-stream

Of stalwart horses come to plough.

674.

Ye rigid Ploughmen, bear in mind
Your labour is for future hours:
Advance-spare not-nor look behind-

Plough deep and straight with all your powers!

ROBERT STEPHEN HAWKER

King Arthur's Waes-hael

AES-HAEL for knight and dame!
O merry be their dole!

Drink-hael! in Jesu's name
We fill the tawny bowl;

But cover down the curving crest,
Mould of the Orient Lady's breast.
Waes-hael! yet lift no lid:

Drain ye the reeds for wine.
Drink-hael! the milk was hid

That soothed that Babe divine;
Hush'd, as this hollow channel flows,
He drew the balsam from the rose.
Waes-hael! thus glow'd the breast
Where a God yearn'd to cling;
Drink-hael! so Jesu press'd

Life from its mystic spring;

Then hush and bend in reverent sign
And breathe the thrilling reeds for wine.
Waes-hael! in shadowy scene

Lo! Christmas children we:
Drink-hael! behold we lean

At a far Mother's knee;

To dream that thus her bosom smiled,
And learn the lip of Bethlehem's Child.

1804-1875

675. Are they not all Ministering Spirits?

676.

WE

E see them not-we cannot hear
The music of their wing—

Yet know we that they sojourn near,
The Angels of the spring!

They glide along this lovely ground
When the first violet grows;
Their graceful hands have just unbound
The zone of yonder rose.

I gather it for thy dear breast,

From stain and shadow free:

That which an Angel's touch hath blest
Is meet, my love, for thee!

THOMAS WADE

The Half-asleep

FOR the mighty wakening that aroused

1805-1875

The old-time Prophets to their missions high; And to blind Homer's inward sunlike eye Show'd the heart's universe where he caroused Radiantly; the Fishers poor unhoused,

And sent them forth to preach divinity; And made our Milton his great dark defy, To the light of one immortal theme espoused! But half asleep are those now most awake;

And save calm-thoughted Wordsworth, we have none Who for eternity put time at stake,

And hold a constant course as doth the sun : We yield but drops that no deep thirstings slake; And feebly cease ere we have well begun.