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In Memoriam A.H.H.

         
      O true and tried, so well and long,
          Demand not thou a marriage lay;
          In that it is thy marriage day
      Is music more than any song.

      Nor have I felt so much of bliss
          Since first he told me that he loved
          A daughter of our house; nor proved
      Since that dark day a day like this;

      Tho’ I since then have number’d o’er
          Some thrice three years: they went and came,
          Remade the blood and changed the frame,
      And yet is love not less, but more;

      No longer caring to embalm
          In dying songs a dead regret,
          But like a statue solid-set,
      And moulded in colossal calm.

      Regret is dead, but love is more
          Than in the summers that are flown,
          For I myself with these have grown
      To something greater than before;

      Which makes appear the songs I made
          As echoes out of weaker times,
          As half but idle brawling rhymes,
      The sport of random sun and shade.

      But where is she, the bridal flower,
          That must he made a wife ere noon?
          She enters, glowing like the moon
      Of Eden on its bridal bower:

      On me she bends her blissful eyes
          And then on thee; they meet thy look
          And brighten like the star that shook
      Betwixt the palms of paradise.

      O when her life was yet in bud,
          He too foretold the perfect rose.
          For thee she grew, for thee she grows
      For ever, and as fair as good.

      And thou art worthy; full of power;
          As gentle; liberal-minded, great,
          Consistent; wearing all that weight
      Of learning lightly like a flower.

      But now set out: the noon is near,
          And I must give away the bride;
          She fears not, or with thee beside
      And me behind her, will not fear.

      For I that danced her on my knee,
          That watch’d her on her nurse’s arm,
          That shielded all her life from harm
      At last must part with her to thee;

      Now waiting to be made a wife,
          Her feet, my darling, on the dead;
          Their pensive tablets round her head,
      And the most living words of life

      Breathed in her ear. The ring is on,
          The ‘wilt thou’ answer’d, and again
          The ‘wilt thou’ ask’d, till out of twain
      Her sweet ‘I will’ has made you one.

      Now sign your names, which shall be read,
          Mute symbols of a joyful morn,
          By village eyes as yet unborn;
      The names are sign’d, and overhead

      Begins the clash and clang that tells
          The joy to every wandering breeze;
          The blind wall rocks, and on the trees
      The dead leaf trembles to the bells.

      O happy hour, and happier hours
          Await them. Many a merry face
          Salutes them–maidens of the place,
      That pelt us in the porch with flowers.

      O happy hour, behold the bride
          With him to whom her hand I gave.
          They leave the porch, they pass the grave
      That has to-day its sunny side.

      To-day the grave is bright for me,
          For them the light of life increased,
          Who stay to share the morning feast,
      Who rest to-night beside the sea.

      Let all my genial spirits advance
          To meet and greet a whiter sun;
          My drooping memory will not shun
      The foaming grape of eastern France.

      It circles round, and fancy plays,
          And hearts are warm’d and faces bloom,
          As drinking health to bride and groom
      We wish them store of happy days.

      Nor count me all to blame if I
          Conjecture of a stiller guest,
          Perchance, perchance, among the rest,
      And, tho’ in silence, wishing joy.

      But they must go, the time draws on,
          And those white-favour’d horses wait;
          They rise, but linger; it is late;
      Farewell, we kiss, and they are gone.

      A shade falls on us like the dark
          From little cloudlets on the grass,
          But sweeps away as out we pass
      To range the woods, to roam the park,

      Discussing how their courtship grew,
          And talk of others that are wed,
          And how she look’d, and what he said,
      And back we come at fall of dew.

      Again the feast, the speech, the glee,
          The shade of passing thought, the wealth
          Of words and wit, the double health,
      The crowning cup, the three-times-three,

      And last the dance;–till I retire:
          Dumb is that tower which spake so loud,
          And high in heaven the streaming cloud,
      And on the downs a rising fire:

      And rise, O moon, from yonder down,
          Till over down and over dale
          All night the shining vapour sail
      And pass the silent-lighted town,

      The white-faced halls, the glancing rills,
          And catch at every mountain head,
          And o’er the friths that branch and spread
      Their sleeping silver thro’ the hills;

      And touch with shade the bridal doors,
          With tender gloom the roof, the wall;
          And breaking let the splendour fall
      To spangle all the happy shores

      By which they rest, and ocean sounds,
          And, star and system rolling past,
          A soul shall draw from out the vast
      And strike his being into bounds,

      And, moved thro’ life of lower phase,
          Result in man, be born and think,
          And act and love, a closer link
      Betwixt us and the crowning race

      Of those that, eye to eye, shall look
          On knowledge; under whose command
          Is Earth and Earth’s, and in their hand
      Is Nature like an open book;

      No longer half-akin to brute,
          For all we thought and loved and did,
          And hoped, and suffer’d, is but seed
      Of what in them is flower and fruit;

      Whereof the man, that with me trod
          This planet, was a noble type
          Appearing ere the times were ripe,
      That friend of mine who lives in God,

      That God, which ever lives and loves,
          One God, one law, one element,
          And one far-off divine event,
      To which the whole creation moves.
       


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