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On some mild pastoral slope Emerge, and resting on the moonlit pales, Freshen thy flowers, as in former years, With dew, or listen with enchanted ears, From the dark dingles," to the nightingales.

But fly our paths, our feverish contact fly! For strong the infection of our mental strife, Which, though its gives no bliss, yet spoils. for rest;

And we should win thee from thy own fair life,

Like us distracted, and like us unblest.
Soon, soon thy cheer would die,

Let the long contention cease!
Geese are swans, and swans are geese.
Let them have it how they will!
Thou art tired; best be still.

3

6

8

1 vines hanging down from a cliff over the sea 2 wine of Chios, a Greek island Mediterranean the gulfs of Sidra and Gabes on the north coast of Africa 5 the Straits of Gibraltar a race inhabiting the Spanish peninsula and, at this time, parts of the British Islands

And round her happy footsteps blow
The authentic airs of Paradise.
For joy of her he cannot sleep,

Her beauty haunts him all the night;
It melts his heart, it makes him weep
For wonder, worship, and delight.
O, paradox of love, he longs,
Most humble when he most aspires,
To suffer scorn and cruel wrongs

From her he honours and desires. Her graces make him rich, and ask No guerdon; this imperial style Affronts him; he disdains to bask,

The pensioner of her priceless smile.
He prays for some hard thing to do,
Some work of fame and labour immense,
To stretch the languid bulk and thew

Of love's fresh-born magnipotence.
No smallest boon were bought too dear,
Though bartered for his love-sick life;
Yet trusts he, with undaunted cheer,

To vanquish heaven, and call her Wife. He notes how queens of sweetness still Neglect their crowns, and stoop to mate; How, self-consign'd with lavish will,

They ask but love proportionate; How swift pursuit by small degrees, Love's tactic, works like miracle; How valour, clothed in courtesies, Brings down the loftiest citadel; And therefore, though he merits not To kiss the braid upon her skirt, His hope discouraged ne'er a jot, Out-soars all possible desert.

BOOK I, CANTO VIII. PRELUDES
I. LIFE OF LIFE

What's that, which, ere I spake, was gone:
So joyful and intense a spark
That, whilst o'erhead the wonder shone,
The day, before but dull, grew dark?
I do not know; but this I know,

That, had the splendour lived a year,
The truth that I some heavenly show

Did see, could not be now more clear.
This know I too: might mortal breath
Express the passion then inspired,
Evil would die a natural death,

And nothing transient be desired;
And error from the soul would pass,
And leave the senses pure and strong
As sunbeams. But the best, alas,
Has neither memory nor tongue!

ΙΟ

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25

31

35

40

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ΙΟ

15

II. THE REVELATION

An idle poet, here and there,

Looks round him; but, for all the rest, The world, unfathomably fair,

Is duller than a witling's jest. Love wakes men, once a life-time each; They lift their heavy lids and look; And, lo, what one sweet page can teach, They read with joy, then shut the book. And some give thanks, and some blaspheme, And most forget; but, either way, That and the Child's unheeded dream Is all the light of all their day.

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10

5

ΙΟ

Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem,
No wrought flowers did adorn,
But a white rose of Mary's gift,

For service meetly worn;
Her hair that lay along her back
Was yellow like ripe corn.

Herseemed she scarce had been a day
One of God's choristers;

The wonder was not yet quite gone
From that still look of hers;
Albeit, to them she left, her day
Had counted as ten years.

(To one, it is ten years of years.

Yet now, and in this place,
Surely she leaned o'er me her hair
Fell all about my face.
Nothing: the autumn fall of leaves.
The whole year sets apace.)

It was the rampart of God's house
That she was standing on;

1 lady 2 It seemed to her