. Maud, Locksley hall, and other poems . billow-ing ran. And he felt himself in his force to be Naturescrowning race. As nine months go to the shaping an infant ripe forhis birth. So many a million of ages have gone to the makingof man : He now is first, but is he the last ? is he not toobase? man of science himself is fonder of glory, and eye well-practised in nature, a spirit bounded and poor; A Moiiodraina. 15 The passionate heart ofthe poet is whirld intofolly and vice. I would not marvel ateither, but keep a tem-perate brain; For not to desire or ad-mire, if a man couldlea
. Maud, Locksley hall, and other poems . billow-ing ran. And he felt himself in his force to be Naturescrowning race. As nine months go to the shaping an infant ripe forhis birth. So many a million of ages have gone to the makingof man : He now is first, but is he the last ? is he not toobase? man of science himself is fonder of glory, and eye well-practised in nature, a spirit bounded and poor; A Moiiodraina. 15 The passionate heart ofthe poet is whirld intofolly and vice. I would not marvel ateither, but keep a tem-perate brain; For not to desire or ad-mire, if a man couldlearn it, were more Than to walk all day likethe sultan of old in agarden of spice. For the drift of the Maker is dark, an Isis hid by the knows the ways of the world, how God will bring them about ?Our planet is one, the suns are many, the world is I weep if a Poland fall? shall I shriek if a Hungary fail?Or an infant civilisation be ruled with rod or with knout?/have not made the , and He that made itwill LIKE THE SULTAN OF OLD i6 Maud; Be mine a philosophers life in the quiet woodlandways, Where if I cannot be gay let a passionless peace bemy lot, Far-ofF from the clamour of liars belied in the hub-bub of lies; From the long-neckd geese of the world that areever hissing dispraise Because their natures are little, and, whether heheed it or not. Where each man walks with his head in a cloud ofpoisonous flies. And most of all would I flee from the cruel madness of love,The honey of poison-flowers and all the measureless , Maud, you milkwhite fawn, you are all unmeet for a mother is mute in her grave as her image in marble above;Your father is ever in London, jou wander about at your will ;You have but fed on the roses and lain in the lilies of life. A Monodrarna. 17 A voice by the cedar tree lu the meadow under the Hall ; She is singing an air that is known to me, A passionate ballad gallant and gay, A martial song like a trumpets c
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