There have been tears and breaking hearts for thee, And mine were nothing, had I such to give; But when I stood beneath the fresh green tree, Which living waves where thou didst cease to live, And saw around me the wide field revive With fruits and fertile promise, and the Spring[294] Come forth her work of gladness to contrive, With all her reckless birds upon the wing, I turned from all she brought to those she could not bring.[6.B.] XXXI. I turned to thee, to thousands, of whom each And one as all a ghastly gap did make In his own kind and kindred, whom to teach Forgetfulness were mercy for their sake; The Archangel's trump, not Glory's, must awake Those whom they thirst for; though the sound of Fame May for a moment soothe, it cannot slake The fever of vain longing, and the name So honoured but assumes a stronger, bitterer claim. XXXII. They mourn, but smile at length--and, smiling, mourn: The tree will wither long before it fall; The hull drives on, though mast and sail be torn;[hp] The roof-tree sinks, but moulders on the hall In massy hoariness; the ruined wall Stands when its wind-worn battlements are gone; The bars survive the captive they enthral; The day drags through though storms keep out the sun;[hq] And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on:[295] XXXIII. Even as a broken Mirror,[296] which the glass In every fragment multiplies--and makes A thousand images of one that was, The same--and still the more, the more it breaks; And thus the heart will do which not forsakes, Living in shattered guise; and still, and cold, And bloodless, with its sleepless sorrow aches, Yet withers on till all without is old, Showing no visible sign, for such things are untold. XXXIV. There is a very life in our despair, Vitality of poison,--a quick root Which feeds these deadly branches; for it were As nothing did we die; but Life will suit Itself to Sorrow's most detested fruit, Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's shore,[7.B.] All ashes to the taste: Did man compute Existence by enjoyment, and count o'er Such hours 'gainst years of life,--say, would he name threescore? XXXV. The Psalmist numbered out the years of man: They are enough; and if thy tale be _true_,[hr] Thou, who didst grudge him even that fleeting span,[297] More than enough, thou fatal Waterloo! Millions of tongues record thee, and anew Their children's lips shall echo them, and say-- "Here, where the sword united nations drew,[hs] Our countrymen were warring on that day!" And this is much--and all--which will not pass away.