These strangers heed me not. Far off in France Are young men not so fair, and not so cold, My listeners. Were they here, their greeting glance Might charm me to forget that I were old. 1863. A RETROSPECT OF SCHOOL LIFE I go, and men who know me not, When I am reckoned man, will ask, "What is it then that thou hast got By drudging through that five-year task? "What knowledge or what art is thine? Set out thy stock, thy craft declare." Then this child-answer shall be mine, "I only know they loved me there." There courteous strivings with my peers, And duties not bound up in books, And courage fanned by stormy cheers, And wisdom writ in pleasant looks, And hardship buoyed with hope, and pain Encountered for the common weal, And glories void of vulgar gain, Were mine to take, were mine to feel. Nor from Apollo did I shrink Like Titans chained; but sweet and low Whispered the Nymphs, who seldom think: "Up, up for action, run and row!" He let me, though his smile was grave, Seek an Egeria out of town Beneath the chestnuts; he forgave; And should the jealous Muses frown? Fieldward some remnants of their lore Went with me, as the rhymes of Gray Annealed the heart of Wolfe for war When drifting on his starlit way. Much lost I; something stayed behind, A snatch, maybe, of ancient song; Some breathings of a deathless mind, Some love of truth, some hate of wrong. And to myself in games I said, "What mean the books? Can I win fame? I would be like the faithful dead A fearless man, and pure of blame. I may have failed, my School may fail; I tremble, but thus much I dare; I love her. Let the critics rail, My brethren and my home are there. July 28th, 1863. CLOVELLY BEACH Oh, music! breathe me something old to-day, Some fine air gliding in from far away, Through to the soul that lies behind the clay. This hour, if thou did'st ever speak before, Speak in the wave that sobs upon the shore, Speak in the rill that trickles from the moor. Known was this sea's slow chant when I was young; To me these rivulets sing as once they sung, No need this hour of human throat and tongue. The Dead who loved me heard this selfsame tide. Oh that the Dead were listening by my side, And I could give the fondness then denied. Once in the parlour of my mother's sire One sang, "And ye shall walk in silk attire." Then my cold childhood woke to strange desire. That was an unconfessed and idle spell, A drop of dew that on a blossom fell; And what it wrought I cannot surely tell. Far off that thought and changed, like lines that stay On withered canvas, pink and pearly grey, When rose and violet hues have passed away.