742. For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, And not by eastern windows only, When daylight comes, comes in the light; WALT WHITMAN The Imprisoned Soul T the last, tenderly, AT 1819-1892 From the walls of the powerful, fortress'd house, From the clasp of the knitted locks-from the keep of the well-closed doors, Let me be wafted. Let me glide noiselessly forth; With the key of softness unlock the locks—with a whisper Set ope the doors, O soul! Tenderly! be not impatient! (Strong is your hold, O mortal flesh! Strong is your hold, O love!) 743. O Captain! My Captain! O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won, The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; But O heart! heart! heart! O the bleeding drops of red! O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up for you the flag is flung-for you the bugle trills, For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths—for you the shores crowding, For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning ; Here, Captain! dear father! This arm beneath your head! It is some dream that on the deck You've fallen cold and dead. My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, But I, with mournful tread, 744. JOHN RUSKIN Trust Thou Thy Love 1819-1900 TRUST thou thy Love: if she be proud, is she not sweet? Where the dance is sweeping, 1820-1860 746. FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON At Her Window BEATING Heart! we come again Where my Love reposes: This is Mabel's window-pane; Is she nested? Does she kneel In the twilight stilly, Soon the wan, the wistful stars, Let this friendly pebble plead Mabel will be deck'd anon, Zoned in bride's apparel; Sing thy song, thou tranced thrush, 1821-1895 747. Сс MATTHEW ARNOLD The Forsaken Merman COME, dear children, let us away; Now my brothers call from the bay; Call her once before you go. In a voice that she will know: Margaret! Margaret !' Children's voices should be dear (Call once more) to a mother's ear; 'Mother dear, we cannot stay.' The wild white horses foam and fret. Come, dear children, come away down. Call no more. One last look at the white-wall'd town, 1822-1888 And the little grey church on the windy shore. She will not come though you call all day. |