But bring not thou the battle's stormy | He who, exulting on the trumpet's breath, Came charging like a star across the lists of death, chorus, The tramp of armies, and the roar of fight, Not war's hot smoke to taint the sweet morn o'er us, Nor blaze of pillage, reddening up the night. deep; I hid, but in all corners they did pry, And dragged me forth, and round did dance and leap; The clouds are on the Oberland, 265 The Jungfrau snows look faint and far; But bright are those green fields at hand, And through those fields comes down the Aar, And from the blue twin lakes it comes, Flows by the town, the churchyard fair, They mouthed on me in dream, and tore And 'neath the garden-walk it hums, me from sweet sleep. "Strange constellations burned above my head, Strange birds around the vessel shrieked and flew, Strange shapes, like shadows, through the clear sea fled, As our lone ship, wide-winged, came rippling through, Angering to foam the smooth and sleep- The lady sighed, "Far, far upon the sea, Fond heart the space between was but There was a cry of joy, with seeking hands She fled to him, like worn bird to her nest; Like washing water on the figured sands, As from the mighty shelter of his breast Now when I've found thee, after weary I cannot see thee, love! so blind I am with tears." MATTHEW ARNOLD. THE TERRACE AT BERNE. TEN years!-and to my waking eye The stream, and do I linger here? The house, and is my Marguerite there? Ah, shall I see thee, while a flush Of startled pleasure floods thy brow, Or hast thou long since wandered back, And flitted down the flowery track Doth riotous laughter now replace Thy smile, and rouge, with stony glare, Thy cheek's soft hue and fluttering lace The kerchief that enwound thy hair? Or is it over?-art thou dead? Dead?-and no warning shiver ran Across my heart, to say thy thread Of life was cut, and closed thy span! Could from earth's ways that figure slight Fail from earth's air, and I not know? Or shall I find thee still, but changed, But not the Marguerite of thy prime? With all thy being rearranged, Passed through the crucible of time; With spirit vanished, beauty waned, Of all that was my Marguerite's own? I will not know!- for wherefore try For which they were not meant to give? Like driftwood spars which meet and pass |