the whale-path the heart irresistibly, O'er tracks of ocean; seeing that anyhow My lord deems to me this dead life On loan and on land, I believe not That any earth-weal eternal standeth Save there be somewhat calamitous That, ere a man's tide go, turn it to twain. Disease or oldness or sword-hate Beats out the breath from doom-gripped body. And for this, every earl whatever, for those speaking after— Laud of the living, boasteth some last word, That he will work ere he pass onward, Frame on the fair earth 'gainst foes his malice, Daring ado,... So that all men shall honour him after And his laud beyond them remain 'mid the English, Aye, for ever, a lasting life's-blast, Delight mid the doughty. Days little durable, And all arrogance of earthen riches, There come now no kings nor Cæsars Nor gold-giving lords like those gone. Howe'er in mirth most magnified, Whoe'er lived in life most lordliest, Drear all this excellence, delights undurable! Waneth the watch, but the world holdeth. Tomb hideth trouble. The blade is layed low. Earthly glory ageth and seareth. No man at all going the earth's gait, But age fares against him, his face paleth, Grey-haired he groaneth, knows gone companions, Lordly men are to earth o'ergiven, Nor may he then the flesh-cover, whose life ceaseth, Nor eat the sweet nor feel the sorry, Nor stir hand nor think in mid heart, And though he strew the grave with gold, His born brothers, their buried bodies Be an unlikely treasure hoard. ECHOES I GUIDO ORLANDO, SINGING Befits me praise thine empery, Lady of Valour, Past all disproving; Thou art the flower to me— Nay, by Love's pallor— Of all good loving. Worthy to reap men's praises Is he who'd gaze upon Truth's mazes. In like commend is he, Who, loving fixedly, Love so refineth, Till thou alone art she In whom love's vested; As branch hath fairest flower Where fruit's suggested. This great joy comes to me, To me observing How swiftly thou hast power To pay my serving. II[1]   Thou keep'st thy rose-leaf Till the rose-time will be over, Think'st thou that Death will kiss thee? Think'st thou that the Dark House Will find thee such a lover As I? Will the new roses miss thee? Prefer my cloak unto the cloak of dust 'Neath which the last year lies, For thou shouldst more mistrust Time than my eyes. 

On a certain one's departure

caught at the wonder.

golden about thee.

parted before thee.

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