Green be those downs and dells above the sea,
Smooth-green for ever, by the plough unhurt,
Nor overdrifted by their neighbouring sands,
Where first I saw you! first since long ago,
When we were children at an inland place
And play'd together. I had often thought,
I wonder should I know that pleasant child?
Hardly, I doubt. I knew her the first glimpse;
E'en while the flexile curvature of hat
Kept all her face in shadow to the chin.
And when a breeze to which the harebells danced
Lifted the sun a moment to her eyes,
The ray of recognition flew to mine
Through all the dignity of womanhood.
Like dear old friends we were, yet wondrous new;
The others chatted, she and I not much;
Hearing her ribbon whirring in the wind
(No doubting hopes nor whimsies born as yet)
Was pure felicity, like his who sleeps
Within a sense of some unknown good-fortune,
True, or of dreamland, undetermined which;
My spirit buoyant as the gulls that swept
That line of cliff above the summer surge,
Smooth-wing'd and snowy in the blue of air.
Since, what vicissitude! We read the past
Bound in a volume, catch the story up
At any leaf we choose, and much forget
How every blind to-morrow was evolved,
How each oracular sentence shaped itself
For after comprehension.

Even so,
This twilight of last summer, it befell;
My wife and boy up-stairs, I leaning grave
Against the window; when through favourite paths,
My memory, as if sauntering in a wood,
Took sober joy: an evening which itself
Returns distinctly. Troops of dancing moths
Brush'd the dry grass; I heard, as if from far,
The children playing in the village street,
And saw the widow, our good neighbour, light
Her candle, sealing up the mail. At six,
Announced by cheerful octaves of a horn,
A pair of winking wheels shake the white rose.
And just at tea-time, with the day's work done—
A link of the year's order, lest we lose
In floating tangle every thread of life—
Appears in happy hour the lottery-bag;
Which, with its punctual " Times," may bring us word
From Annie's house; or some one by the Thames,
The smoky friendly Thames, who thinks of us;
Or sultry Ganges, or Saint Lawrence chill,
Or from the soil of kangaroos and gold,
Magnetic metal! Thus to the four winds
One's ancient comrades scatter through the world.
Where's Georgy now, I thought, our dread, our pride,
George Levison, the sultan of the school?
With Greek and Latin at those fingers' ends
That sway'd the winning oar and bat; a prince
In pocket-money and accoutrement;
A Cribb in fist, a Cicero in tongue;
Already victor, when his eye should deign
To fix on any summit of success.
For, in his haughty careless way, he'd hint—
' I've got to push my fortune, by-and-by.'
How we all worshipp'd Georgy Levison!
But when I went to college he was gone,
They said to travel, and he took away
Mentor conjoin'd with Crichton from my hopes,—
No trifling blank. George had done little there,
But could— what could he not? . . . And now,
perhaps,
Some city, in the strangers' burial-ground,
Some desert sand, or hollow under sea,
Hides him without an epitaph. So men
Slip under, fit to shape the world anew;
And leave their trace— in schoolboy memories.

Then I went thinking how much changed I am
Since those old school-times, not so far away,
Yet now like pre-existence. Can that house,
Those fields and trees, be extant anywhere?
Have not all vanish'd, place, and time, and men?
Or with a journey could I find them all,
And myself with them, as I used to be?
Sore was my battle after quitting these.
No one thing fell as plann'd for; sorrows came
And sat beside me; years of toil went round;
And victory's self was pale and garlandless.
Fog rested on my heart; till softly blew
The wind that clear'd it. 'Twas a simple turn
Of life,— a miracle of heavenly love,
For which, thank God!

When Annie call'd me up,
We both bent silent, looking at our boy;
Kiss'd unaware (as angels, may be, kiss
Good mortals) on the smoothly rounded cheek,
Turn'd from the window,— where a fringe of leaves,
With outlines melting in the darkening blue,
Waver'd and peep'd and whisper'd. Would she walk
Not yet a little were those clouds to stoop
With freshness to the garden and the field.
I waited by our open door; while bats
Flew silently, and musk geranium-leaves
Were fragrant in the twilight that had quench'd
Or tamed the dazzling scarlet of their blooms.
Peace, as of heaven itself, possess'd my heart.
A footstep, not the light step of my wife,
Disturb'd it; and, with slacker pace, a man
Came up beside the porch. Accosting whom,
And answering to my name: " I fear," he said,
"You'll hardly recollect me; though indeed
We were at school together on a time.
Do you forget old Georgy Levison?"

He in the red arm-chair; I not far off,
Excited, laughing, waiting for his face:
The first flash of the candles told me all:
Or, if not all, enough, and more. Those eyes,
When they look'd up at last, were his indeed,
Though mesh'd in ugly threads as with a snare;
And, while his mouth preserved the imperious curve,
Evasion, vacillation, discontent,
Droop'd on the handsome features like a fog.
His hair hung prematurely grey and thin;
From thread-bare sleeves the wither'd tremulous hands
Protruded. Why paint every touch of blight?

Tea came. He hurried into ceaseless chat;
Glanced at the ways of many foreign towns;
Knew all those great men, landmarks of the time,
And set their worths punctiliously; brought back
Our careless years; paid Annie compliments
To spare; admired the pattern of the cups;
Lauded the cream,— our dairy's, was it not?
A country life was pleasant, certainly,
If one could be content to settle down;
And yet the city had advantages.
He trusted, shortly, underneath his roof
To practise hospitality in turn.
But first to catch the roof, eh? Ha, ha, ha!
That was a business topic he'd discuss
With his old friend by-and-by—