Here where a mother laid her only son, Here where a lover left his bride, below The treasured names their own are added on To those whom they have followed long ago: Sealing the record of the tears they shed, That 'where their treasure there their hearts are fled.' Grandfather, father, son, and then again Child, grandchild, and great-grandchild laid beneath Numbered in turn among the sons of men, And gathered each one in his turn to death: While he that occupies their house and name To-day,--to-morrow too their grave shall claim. And where are all the spirits? Ah! could we tell The manner of our being when we die, And see beyond the scene we know so well, The country that so much obscured doth lie! With brightest visions our fond hopes repair, Or crown our melancholy with despair; From death, still death, still would a comfort come: Since of this world the essential joy must fall In all distributed, in each thing some, In nothing all, and all complete in all; Till pleasure, ageing to her full increase, Puts on perfection, and is throned in peace. Yea, sweetest peace, unsought-for, undesired, Loathed and misnamed, 'tis thee I worship here: Though in most black habiliments attired, Thou art sweet peace, and thee I cannot fear. Nay, were my last hope quenched, I here would sit And praise the annihilation of the pit. Nor quickly disenchanted will my feet Back to the busy town return, but yet Linger, ere I my loving friends would greet, Or touch their hands, or share without regret The warmth of that kind hearth, whose sacred ties Only shall dim with tears my dying eyes. 11 DEJECTION Wherefore to-night so full of care, My soul, revolving hopeless strife, Pointing at hindrance, and the bare Painful escapes of fitful life? Shaping the doom that may befall By precedent of terror past: By love dishonoured, and the call Of friendship slighted at the last? By treasured names, the little store That memory out of wreck could save Of loving hearts, that gone before Call their old comrade to the grave? O soul, be patient: thou shall find A little matter mend all this; Some strain of music to thy mind, Some praise for skill not spent amiss. Again shall pleasure overflow Thy cup with sweetness, thou shalt taste Nothing but sweetness, and shalt grow Half sad for sweetness run to waste. O happy life! I hear thee sing, O rare delight of mortal stuff! I praise my days for all they bring, Yet are they only not enough. 12 MORNING HYMN O golden Sun, whose ray My path illumineth: Light of the circling day, Whose night is birth and death: That dost not stint the prime Of wise and strong, nor stay The changeful ordering time, That brings their sure decay: