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No more shall commerce be all in all, and Peace
Pipe on her pastoral hillock a languid note,
And watch her harvest ripen, her herd increase,
Nor the cannon-bullet rust on the slothful shore,
And the cobweb woven across the cannon's throat,
Shall shake its threaded tears in the wind no more.

3

And as months ran on and rumor 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),

breath

'It is time, O passionate heart and morbid eye,
That old hysterical mock-disease should die.'
And I stood on a giant deck and mixed my
With a loyal people shouting a battle cry,
Till I saw the dreary phantom arise and fly
Far into the North, and battle, and seas of death.

4.

Let it go or stay, so I wake to the higher aims

Of 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

weep

For those that are crush'd in the clash of jarring

claims,

Yet God's just doom 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 long, long canker of peace is over and done;

And now by the side of the Black and the Baltic

deep,

And deathful-grinning mouths of the fortress,

flames

The blood-red blossom of war with a heart of fire.

THE BROOK;

AN IDYL.

'HERE, by this brook, we parted; I to the East

And he for Italy

too late

too late:

One whom the strong sons of the world despise ;
For lucky rhymes to him were scrip and share,

And mellow metres more than cent for cent;
Nor could he understand how money breeds,
Thought it a dead thing; yet himself could make
The thing that is not as the thing that is.

O had he lived! In our school-books we say,
Of those that held their heads above the crowd,

They flourish'd then or then; but life in him

Could scarce be said to flourish, only touch'd
On such a time as goes before the leaf,
When all the wood stands in a mist of green,
And nothing perfect: yet the brook he loved,
For which, in branding summers of Bengal,
Or ev'n the sweet half-English Neilgherry air,
I panted, seems, as I relisten to it,

Prattling the primrose fancies of the boy,

To me that loved him; for "O brook," he says,

"O babbling brook," says Edmund in his rhyme, "Whence come you?" and the brook, why not? replies.

I come from haunts of coot and hern,

I make a sudden sally

And sparkle out among the fern,

To bicker down a valley.

By thirty hills I hurry down,
Or slip between the ridges,
By twenty thorps, a little town,

And half a hundred bridges.

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