To The Muse Of The North.

O muse that swayest the sad Northern Song,     Thy right hand full of smiting & of wrong,     Thy left hand holding pity; & thy breast     Heaving with hope of that so certain rest:     Thou, with the grey eyes kind and unafraid,     The soft lips trembling not, though they have said     The doom of the World and those that dwell therein.     The lips that smile not though thy children win     The fated Love that draws the fated Death.     O, borne adown the fresh stream of thy breath,     Let some word reach my ears and touch my heart,     That, if it may be, I may have a part     In that great sorrow of thy children dead     That vexed the brow, and bowed adown the head,     Whitened the hair, made life a wondrous dream,     And death the murmur of a restful stream,     But left no stain upon those souls of thine     Whose greatness through the tangled world doth shine.     O Mother, and Love and Sister all in one,     Come thou; for sure I am enough alone     That thou thine arms about my heart shouldst throw,     And wrap me in the grief of long ago.