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The sort of mock-heroic gigantesque,
I moved as in a strange diagonal,
And maybe neither pleased myself nor them.
But Li'ia pleased me, for she took no part
Had touch'd her; and she sat, she pluck'd the grass,
So I and some went out to these: we climb'd
"Look there, a garden!" said my college friend, The Tory member's elder son " and there ! God bless the narrow sea which keeps her off, And keeps our Britain, whole within herself,
A nation yet, the rulers and the ruled-
No graver than a schoolboys' barring out;
"Have patience," I replied, "ourselves are full
In such discourse we gain'd the garden rails,
Among six boys, head under head, and look'd
A great broad-shoulder'd genial Englishman,
A quarter-sessions chairman, abler none;
To follow a shout rose again, and made
More joyful than the city-roar that hails
Premier or king! Why should not these great Sirs
But we went back to the Abbey, and sat on,
Beyond all thought into the Heaven of Heavens.
Last little Lilia, rising quietly,
Disrobed the glimmering statue of Sir Ralph
I HATE the dreadful hollow behind the little wood,
For there in the ghastly pit long since a body was found, His who had given me life--O father! O God! was it well ?
Mangled, and flatten'd, and crush'd, and dinted into the ground:
There yet lies the rock that fell with him when he fell.
Did he fling himself down? who knows? for a vast speculation had fail'd,
And ever he mutter'd and madden'd, and ever wann'd with despair,
And out he walk'd when the wind like a broken worldling wail'd,
And the flying gold of the ruin'd woodlands drove thro' the
I remember the time, for the roots of my hair were stirr'd By a shuffled step, by a dead weight trail'd, by a whisper'd fright,
And my pulses closed their gates with a shock on my heart as I heard
The shrill-edged shriek of a mother divide the shuddering night.
Villainy somewhere! whose? One says, we are villains all.
Not he his honest fame should at least by me be maintain'd:
But that old man, now lord of the broad estate and the Hall,
Dropt off gorged from a scheme that had left us flaccid and drain'd.
Why do they prate of the blessings of Peace? we have made them a curse,
Pickpockets, each hand lusting for all that is not its own; And lust of gain, in the spirit of Cain, is it better or worse Than the heart of the citizen hissing in war on his own hearthstone?
But these are the days of advance, the works of the men of
When who but a fool would have faith in a tradesman's ware or his word?
Is it peace or war? Civil war, as I think, and that of a
The viler, as underhand, not openly bearing the sword.
Sooner or later I too may passively take the print
Of the golden age-why not?
May make my heart as a millstone, set my face as a flint, Cheat and be cheated, and die: who knows? we are ashes and dust.
Peace sitting under her olive, and slurring the days gone by, When the poor are hovell'd and hustled together, each sex, like swine,
When only the ledger lives, and when only not all men lie; Peace in her vineyard-yes !-but a company forges the
And the vitriol madness flushes up in the ruffian's head,
And the spirit of murder works in the very means of life.
And Sleep must lie down arm'd, for the villainous centre
Grind on the wakeful ear in the hush of the moonless
While another is cheating the sick of a few last gasps, as
To pestle a poison'd poison behind his crimson lights.
When a Mammonite mother kills her babe for a burial fee,
War with a thousand battles, and shaking a hundred thrones.
For I trust if an enemy's fleet came yonder round by the
And the rushing battle-bolt sang from the three-decker out of the foam,
That the smoothfaced snubnosed rogue would leap from his counter and till,
And strike, if he could, were it but with his cheating yard wand, home.