Give me of the true, Whose ample leaves and tendrils curl'd Draw everlasting dew; Wine of wine, Blood of the world, Form of forms, and mould of statures, 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, 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; Quicken'd so, will I unlock Every crypt of every rock. I thank the joyful juice Winds of remembering Of the ancient being blow, And seeming-solid walls of use Pour, Bacchus! the remembering wine; And the grape requite the lote ! 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, 673. Far or forgot to me is near; Shadow and sunlight are the same; And one to me are shame and fame. They reckon ill who leave me out; And I the hymn the Brahmin sings. The strong gods pine for my abode, 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; Over the broad hill creeps a beam, Like hope that gilds a good man's brow; Of stalwart horses come to plough. 674. Ye rigid Ploughmen, bear in mind Plough deep and straight with all your powers! ROBERT STEPHEN HAWKER King Arthur's Waes-hael AES-HAEL for knight and dame! Drink-hael! in Jesu's name But cover down the curving crest, Drain ye the reeds for wine. That soothed that Babe divine; Life from its mystic spring; Then hush and bend in reverent sign Lo! Christmas children we: At a far Mother's knee; To dream that thus her bosom smiled, 1804-1875 675. Are they not all Ministering Spirits? 676. WE E see them not-we cannot hear Yet know we that they sojourn near, They glide along this lovely ground I gather it for thy dear breast, From stain and shadow free: That which an Angel's touch hath blest 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. |