That day, to her near grave, thro’ frost and sleet, He, following from his toys on truant feet, Cried: ‘Mother, mother!’ joyous and most sweet. And as their souls ached in them at the word, The father lifted his new-wakened bird With one rapt tear, that now at last she heard! THE WILD RIDE. _I HEAR in my heart, I hear in its ominous pulses, All day, the commotion of sinewy, mane-tossing horses; All night, from their cells, the importunate tramping and neighing._ Cowards and laggards fall back; but alert to the saddle, Straight, grim, and abreast, vault our weather-worn, galloping legion, With a stirrup-cup each to the one gracious woman that loves him. The road is thro’ dolor and dread, over crags and morasses; There are shapes by the way, there are things that appal or entice us: What odds? We are knights, and our souls are but bent on the riding! _I hear in my heart, I hear in its ominous pulses, All day, the commotion of sinewy, mane-tossing horses; All night, from their cells, the importunate tramping and neighing._ We spur to a land of no name, out-racing the storm-wind; We leap to the infinite dark, like the sparks from the anvil. Thou leadest, O God! All’s well with Thy troopers that follow. THE LIGHT OF THE HOUSE. BEYOND the cheat of Time, here where you died, you live; You pace the garden-walks secure and sensitive; You linger on the stair: Love’s lonely pulses leap! The harpsichord is shaken, the dogs look up from sleep. Years after, and years after, you keep your heirdom still, Your winning youth about you, your joyous force and skill, Unvexed, unapprehended, with waking sense adored; And still the house is happy that hath so dear a lord. To every quiet inmate, strong in the cheer you brought, Your name is as a spell midway of speech and thought; And unto whoso knocks, an awe-struck visitor, The sunshine that was you floods all the open door! A LAST WORD ON SHELLEY. EACH ninth hierarchal wave, a league of sound, To phantom shreds the hostile crags confound, To wreck on wreck forlorn. The crags remain. Smile at the storm for our safe poet’s sake! Not ever this ordainèd world shall break That mounting, foolish, foam-bright heart again. IMMUNITY. LEAF of the deep-leaved holly-tree, Long spared the weather-god’s disdain, Have not thy brothers borne for thee June’s inavertible raging rain? And they are beautiful and hale, Those sun-veined revellers; and thou Still crippled, still afraid and pale, Sole discord of the singing bough! PAULA’S EPITAPH.