Not unto them dost thou consent Who, passionless, can lead at ease A life of unalloyed content, A life like that of landlocked seas, That feel no elemental gush Of tidal forces, no fierce rush Of storm deep-grasping, scarcely spent 'Twixt continent and continent: Such quiet souls have never known Thy truer inspiration, thou Who lov'st to feel upon thy brow Spray from the plunging vessel thrown, Grazing the tusked lee shore, the cliff That o'er the abrupt gorge holds its breath, Where the frail hair's-breadth of an If Is all that sunders life and death: These, too, are cared for, and round these Bends her mild crook thy sister Peace; These in unvexed dependence lie Each 'neath his space of household sky; O'er them clouds wander, or the blue Hangs motionless the whole day through; Stars rise for them, and moons grow large And lessen in such tranquil wise As joys and sorrows do that rise Within their nature's sheltered marge; Their hours into each other flit, Like the leaf-shadows of the vine And fig-tree under which they sit; And their still lives to heaven incline With an unconscious habitude, Unhistoried as smokes that rise From happy hearths and sight elude In kindred blue of morning skies. VI. Wayward! when once we feel thy lack, 'Tis worse than vain to tempt thee back! Yet there is one who seems to be Thine elder sister, in whose eyes A faint, far northern light will rise Sometimes and bring a dream of thee: She is not that for which youth hoped; But she hath blessings all her own, Thoughts pure as lilies newly oped, And faith to sorrow given alone: Almost I deem that it is thou Come back with graver matron brow, With deepened eyes and bated breath, Like one who somewhere had met Death. "But no," she answers, "I am she Whom the gods love, Tranquillity; That other whom you seek forlorn. Half-earthly was; but I am born Of the immortals, and our race Have still some sadness in our face: He wins me late, but keeps me long, Who, dowered with every gift of passion, In that fierce flame can forge and fashion Of sin and self the anchor strong; Can thence compel the driving force Of daily life's mechanic course, Nor less the nobler energies Of needful toil and culture wise: Whose soul is worth the tempter's lure, Who can renounce and yet endure, To him I come, not lightly wooed, And won by silent fortitude." * * * * * ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. _Florence_, July 5th, 1861.