In the poem called _Home_, every stanza is perfectly
finished till the last: in it, with an access of art or artfulness, he
destroys the rhyme. I shall not quarrel with my reader if he calls it the
latter, and regards it as art run to seed. And yet--and yet--I confess I
have a latent liking for the trick. I shall give one or two stanzas out
of the rather long poem, to lead up to the change in the last.
Come, Lord; my head doth burn, my heart is sick,
While thou dost ever, ever stay;
Thy long deferrings wound me to the quick;
My spirit gaspeth night and day.
O show thyself to me,
Or take me up to thee.
Nothing but drought and dearth, but bush and brake,
Which way soe'er I look I see:
Some may dream merrily, but when they wake
They dress themselves and come to thee.
O show thyself to me,
Or take me up to thee.
Come, dearest Lord, pass not this holy season,
My flesh and bones and joints do pray;
And even my verse, when by the rhyme and reason
The word is _stay_,[100] says ever _come_.
O show thyself to me,
Or take me up to thee.
Balancing this, my second instance is of the converse. In all the stanzas
but the last, the last line in each hangs unrhymed: in the last the
rhyming is fulfilled.
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