LOCKSLEY HALL.

OMRADES, leave me here a little,

while as yet 'tis early morn:

Leave me here, and when you want

me, sound upon the bugle horn.

'Tis the place, and all around it, as of old, the

curlews call,

Dreary gleams about the moorland flying over Locksley Hall;

Locksley Hall, that in the distance overlooks the

sandy tracts,

And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into cata

racts.

Many a night from yonder ivied casement, ere I

went to rest,

Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly to the

West.

Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising thro' the

mellow shade,

Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver

braid.

Here about the beach I wander'd, nourishing a

youth sublime

With the fairy tales of science, and the long result

of Time;

When the centuries behind me like a fruitful land

reposed;

When I clung to all the present for the promise

that it closed:

When I dipt into the future far as human eye

could see;

Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be.

In the Spring a fuller crimson comes upon the robin's breast;

In the Spring the wanton lapwing gets himself another crest;

In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the bur

nish'd dove;

In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.

Then her cheek was pale and thinner than should

be for one so young,

And her eyes on all my motions with a mute

observance hung.

And I said, "My cousin Amy, speak, and speak

the truth to me,

Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being set's

to thee."

On her pallid cheek and forehead came a colour

and a light,

As I have seen the rosy red flushing in the northern night.

And she turn'd-her bosom shaken with a sudden

storm of sighs

All the spirit deeply dawning in the dark of hazel

eyes

Saying, "I have hid my feelings, fearing they should do me wrong;"

Saying, "Dost thou love me, cousin?" weeping,

"I have loved thee long."

Love took up the glass of Time, and turn'd it in his glowing hands;

Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands.

Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might;

Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, pass'd in music out of sight.

Many a morning on the moorland did we hear

the copses ring,

And her whisper throng'd my pulses with the fullness of the Spring.

Many an evening by the waters did we watch the

stately ships,

And our spirits rush'd together at the touching of

the lips.