Yea, thou wert singing when that Arrow clave Through Helm and Brain of him who could not save His England, even of Harold Godwin's son; The high Tide murmurs by the Hero's Grave! { 12}

And THOU wert wreathing Roses--who can tell? - Or chanting for some Girl that pleased thee well, Or satst at Wine in Nashapur, when dun The twilight veiled the Field where Harold fell!

The salt Sea-waves above him rage and roam! Along the white Walls of his guarded Home No Zephyr stirs the Rose, but o'er the Wave The wild Wind beats the Breakers into Foam!

And dear to him, as Roses were to thee, Rings the long Roar of Onset of the Sea; The SWAN'S PATH of his Fathers is his Grave: His Sleep, methinks, is sound as thine can be.

His was the Age of Faith, when all the West Looked to the Priest for Torment or for Rest; And thou wert living then, and didst not heed The Saint who banned thee or the Saint who blessed!

Ages of Progress! These eight hundred Years Hath Europe shuddered with her Hopes or Fears, And now!--she listens in the Wilderness To THEE, and half believeth what she hears!

Hadst THOU THE SECRET? Ah, and who may tell? "An Hour we have," thou saidst; "Ah, waste it well!" An Hour we have, and yet Eternity Looms o'er us, and the Thought of Heaven or Hell!

Nay, we can never be as wise as thou, O idle Singer 'neath the blossomed Bough. Nay, and we cannot be content to die. WE cannot shirk the Questions "Where?" and "How?"