Who orderd that their longings fire
Should be, as soon as kindled, coold?
Who renders vain
their deep desire?
A God, a God their severance ruled;
And bade betwixt their shores to be
salt, estranging sea.
STREW on her roses, roses,
And never a spray of yew.
In quiet she reposes:
Ah! would that I
Her mirth the world required:
She bathed it in smiles of glee.
But her heart was tired, tired,
now they let her be.
Her life was turning, turning,
In mazes of heat and sound.
But for peace her soul was yearning,
now peace laps her round.
Her cabind, ample Spirit,
It flutterd and faild for breath.
To-night it doth inherit
The vasty hall
GO, for they call you, Shepherd, from the hill;
Go, Shepherd, and untie the wattled cotes:
longer leave thy wistful flock unfed,
Nor let thy bawling fellows rack their throats,
Nor the croppd grasses
shoot another head.
But when the fields are still,
And the tired men and dogs all gone to rest,
the white sheep are sometimes seen
Cross and recross the strips of moon-blanchd green;
and again begin the quest.
Here, where the reaper was at work of late,
In this high fields dark corner, where he leaves
coat, his basket, and his earthen cruise,
And in the sun all morning binds the sheaves,
Then here, at
noon, comes back his stores to use;
Here will I sit and wait,
While to my ear from uplands far away
bleating of the folded flocks is borne,
With distant cries of reapers in the corn
All the live murmur of a
Screend is this nook oer the high, half-reapd field,
And here till sundown, Shepherd, will I
Through the thick corn the scarlet poppies peep,
And round green roots and yellowing stalks I see
pink convolvulus in tendrils creep:
And air-swept lindens yield
Their scent, and rustle down their perfumed
Of bloom on the bent grass where I am laid,
And bower me from the August sun with shade;
the eye travels down to Oxfords towers:
And near me on the grass lies Glanvils book
Come, let me read the oft-read tale again:
story of that Oxford scholar poor,
Of pregnant parts and quick inventive brain,
Who, tired of knocking at
One summer morn forsook
His friends, and went to learn the Gipsy-lore,
the world with that wild brotherhood,
And came, as most men deemd, to little good,
But came to Oxford
and his friends no more.
But once, years after, in the country lanes,
Two scholars, whom at college erst he knew,
him, and of his way of life inquired.
Whereat he answerd that the Gipsy-crew,
His mates, had arts to rule
as they desired
The workings of mens brains;
And they can bind them to what thoughts they will:
I, he said, the secret of their art,
When fully learnd, will to the world impart:
But it needs Heaven-sent
moments for this skill!
This said, he left them, and returnd no more,
But rumours hung about the country-side,
the lost Scholar long was seen to stray,
Seen by rare glimpses, pensive and tongue-tied,
In hat of antique
shape, and cloak of grey,
The same the Gipsies wore.
Shepherds had met him on the Hurst in spring;
some lone alehouse in the Berkshire moors,
On the warm ingle-bench, the smock-frockd boors
him seated at their entering,