We might discuss the Northern sin Which made a selfish war begin; Dispute the claims, arrange the chances; Emperor, Ottoman, which shall win: Or whether war's avenging rod Shall lash all Europe into blood; Till you should turn to dearer matters, Dear to the man that is dear to God; How best to help the slender store, How mend the dwellings, of the poor; How gain in life, as life advances, Valour and charity more and more. Come, Maurice, come: the lawn as yet Is hoar with rime, or spongy-wet; But when the wreath of March has blossom'd, Crocus, anemone, violet, Or later, pay one visit here, For those are few we hold as dear; Nor pay but one, but come for many, Many and many a happy year. _January, 1854._ TO SIR JOHN SIMEON IN THE GARDEN AT SWAINSTON Nightingales warbled without, Within was weeping for thee: Shadows of three dead men Walk'd in the walks with me, Shadows of three dead men[28] and thou wast one of the three. Nightingales sang in his woods: The Master was far away: Nightingales warbled and sang Of a passion that lasts but a day; Still in the house in his coffin the Prince of courtesy lay. Two dead men have I known In courtesy like to thee: Two dead men have I loved With a love that ever will be: Three dead men have I loved and thou art last of the three. TO EDWARD LEAR, ON HIS TRAVELS IN GREECE Illyrian woodlands, echoing falls Of water, sheets of summer glass, The long divine Peneïan pass, The vast Akrokeraunian walls, Tomohrit, Athos, all things fair, With such a pencil, such a pen, You shadow forth to distant men, I read and felt that I was there: And trust me while I turn'd the page, And track'd you still on classic ground, I grew in gladness till I found My spirits in the golden age. For me the torrent ever pour'd And glisten'd--here and there alone The broad-limb'd Gods at random thrown By fountain-urns;--and Naiads oar'd A glimmering shoulder under gloom Of cavern pillars; on the swell The silver lily heaved and fell; And many a slope was rich in bloom From him that on the mountain lea By dancing rivulets fed his flocks To him who sat upon the rocks, And fluted to the morning sea. TO THE MASTER OF BALLIOL (PROFESSOR JOWETT) I Dear Master in our classic town, You, loved by all the younger gown There at Balliol, Lay your Plato for one minute down, II And read a Grecian tale re-told,[29] Which, cast in later Grecian mould, Quintus Calaber Somewhat lazily handled of old; III And on this white midwinter day-- For have the far-off hymns of May, All her melodies, All her harmonies echo'd away?-- IV To-day, before you turn again To thoughts that lift the soul of men, Hear my cataract's Downward thunder in hollow and glen, V