THE MERRY MAN.

I am digging my warm heart

Till I find its coldest part;

I am digging wide and low,

Further than a spade will go,

Till that, when the pit is deep

And large enough, I there may heap

All my present pain and past

Joy, dead things that look aghast

By the daylight: now‘ t is done.

Throw them in, by one and one!

I must laugh, at rising sun.

Memories — of fancy's golden

Treasures which my hands have holden,

Till the chillness made them ache;

Of childhood's hopes that used to wake

If birds were in a singing strain,

And for less cause, sleep again;

Of the moss-seat in the wood

Where I trysted solitude;

Of the hill-top where the wind

Used to follow me behind,

Then in sudden rush to blind

Both my glad eyes with my hair,

Taken gladly in the snare;

Of the climbing up the rocks,

Of the playing‘ neath the oaks

Which retain beneath them now

Only shadow of the bough;

Of the lying on the grass

While the clouds did overpass,

Only they, so lightly driven,

Seeming betwixt me and Heaven;

Of the little prayers serene,

Murmuring of earth and sin;

Of large-leaved philosophy

Leaning from my childish knee;

Of poetic book sublime,

Soul-kissed for the first dear time,

Greek or English, ere I knew

Life was not a poem too:—

Throw them in, by one and one!

I must laugh, at rising sun.

— Of the glorious ambitions

Yet unquenched by their fruitions

Of the reading out the nights;

Of the straining at mad heights;

Of achievements, less descried

By a dear few than magnified;

Of praises from the many earned

When praise from love was undiscerned;

Of the sweet reflecting gladness

Softened by itself to sadness:—

Throw them in, by one and one!

I must laugh, at rising sun.

What are these? more, more than these!

Throw in dearer memories!—

Of voices whereof but to speak

Makes mine own all sunk and weak;

Of smiles the thought of which is sweeping

All my soul to floods of weeping;

Of looks whose absence fain would weigh

My looks to the ground for aye;

Of clasping hands — ah me, I wring

Mine, and in a tremble fling

Downward, downward all this paining!

Partings with the sting remaining,

Meetings with a deeper throe

Since the joy is ruined so,

Changes with a fiery burning,

( Shadows upon all the turning,)

Thoughts of... with a storm they came,

Them I have not breath to name:

Downward, downward be they cast

In the pit! and now at last

My work beneath the moon is done,

And I shall laugh, at rising sun.

But let me pause or ere I cover

All my treasures darkly over:

I will speak not in thine ears,

Only tell my beaded tears

Silently, most silently.

When the last is calmly told,

Let that same moist rosary

With the rest sepulchred be,

Finished now! The darksome mould

Sealeth up the darksome pit.

I will lay no stone on it,

Grasses I will sow instead,

Fit for Queen Titania's tread;

Flowers, encoloured with the sun,

And ~ ai ai ~ written upon none;

Thus, whenever saileth by

The Lady World of dainty eye,

Not a grief shall here remain,

Silken shoon to damp or stain:

And while she lisps, “I have not seen

Any place more smooth and clean”...

Here she cometh!— Ha, ha!— who

Laughs as loud as I can do?