Till then, the low keen sound of Life’s “Alas!”
    Change as thou canst to themes in every key,
    That so for thee and others time may pass
    Full of presagings of content to be
          Age-long in that far bourne,
          Till thought end, quite outworn.

V.

    "And there shall be no night there and they
    need no candle, and neither light of the sun;
    for the Lord God giveth them Light."

    Your place is Heaven, a stormless nightless home? 
    Then we twain never more shall live together
    Such days of gladdest thought as here, whilom,
    We spent amid the change of earthly weather.

    No white young day like hope smiles in yon east,
    Or, westering, cleaves wild-omened scarlet glooms;
    No frosty breezes wreathe your woods in mist;
    No breaker o’er Heaven’s glassy ocean booms.

    No scents of delved dewy soil arise;
    No storm-blue pall in state hangs hill or lea;
    No nightly seas swirl in grey agonies;
    Nor old Earth’s sweet decays dye herb or tree.

    Do wan gold tints shot on the midnight air
    Herald the moon that loiters far away? 
    Or moony sea-gleams peep and beckon there
    From sapphire dark or mystic silver grey?

    No, not the olden pleasure shall be there
    We knew, before the grass sprang o’er your breast;
    Yet that is yours which here hearts cannot share—­
    Heaven’s summer peace eterne and noonday rest.

VI.

    Northumbria.—­A Dirge.

    Dirge the sorrows by time made dim: 
      Seas are sullen in rain and mist.
    Regret the woes that behind us swim: 
      Sullen’s the north and grey the east.

    Black boats speck the horizon’s rim: 
      The north is heavy and grey the east.
    They plash to shore in unison grim: 
      The breakers roar through rain and mist.

    Ah! the ravening Dane of old!
      Joys are born of time and sorrow.
    He was beautiful, cruel and bold: 
      Death yesterday is life to-morrow.

    The slain lie stark on bented mounds: 
      Winds are calling in rain and mist.
    There’s blood and smoke and wide red wounds,
      And black boats make to north and east.

    Through murky weltering seas they row: 
      Dirge the eyes their deeds made dim.
    Wives at their conning smile and glow,
      And hail them on the horizon’s rim.

    There’s peace on low mounds and shallow dells,
      Yellow rag-wort and sea-reed grey,
    And thrumming and booming of village bells: 
      Dirge the lives of that faded day.

VII.