We might discuss the Northern sin
Which made a selfish war begin;

Dispute the claims, arrange the chances;
Emperor, Ottoman, which shall win:

Or whether war's avenging rod
Shall lash all Europe into blood;

Till you should turn to dearer matters,
Dear to the man that is dear to God;

How best to help the slender store,
How mend the dwellings, of the poor;
How gain in life, as life advances,
Valour and charity more and more.

Come, Maurice, come: the lawn as yet

Is hoar with rime, or spongy-wet;

But when the wreath of March has blossom'd,

Crocus, anemone, violet,

Or later, pay one visit here,

For those are few we hold as dear;

Nor pay but one, but come for many, Many and many a happy year.

WILL.

I.

WELL for him whose will is strong!
He suffers, but he will not suffer long;

He suffers, but he cannot suffer wrong:

For him nor moves the loud world's random mock,
Nor all Calamity's hugest waves confound,
Who seems a promontory of rock,

That, compass'd round with turbulent sound,
In middle ocean meets the surging shock,
Tempest-buffeted, citadel-crown'd.

II.

But ill for him who, bettering not with time, Corrupts the strength of heaven-descended Will,

And ever weaker grows thro' acted crime,

Or seeming-genial venial fault,

Recurring and suggesting still!

He seems as one whose footsteps halt, Toiling in immeasurable sand,

And o'er a weary sultry land,

Far beneath a blazing vault,

Sown in a wrinkle of the monstrous hill,

The city sparkles like a grain of salt.

IN THE VALLEY OF CAUTERETZ.

LL along the valley, stream that

flashest white,

Deepening thy voice with the deep

ening of the night,

All along the valley, where thy waters flow,

I walk'd with one I loved two and thirty years

ago.

All along the valley, while I walk'd to-day,

The two and thirty years were a mist that rolls

away;

For all along the valley, down thy rocky bed

Thy living voice to me was as the voice of the

dead,

And all along the valley, by rock and cave and

tree,

The voice of the dead was a living voice to me.