The poems of Owen Meredith (Honble Robert Lytton.) ::

Just at sunset I would be
In a bowery island. Tree
Interlacing tree shall strew
Sighs and shadows over me;
Whom some Odysseian crew
(Far too foolish, or too wise,
Here in happy bowers to be
Woo'd away from labour due
To their chieftain's stern emprise)
Putting forth in haste to sea,
Half an hour before moon rise,
Left behind them, fancy-free,
Careless of their shouts and cries,
Mine own pleasure to pursue
Thro' the warm isle's witcheries.
And, if anywhere the breeze
Shall have stirr'd those island trees,
I, forthwith, may haply view
(Lying, lull'd by leafy sighs,
Underneath in grassy ease)
Who knows what of strange and new?
Some white naiad's wistful eyes?
Or a woodnymph's rosy knees?
Or a faun's hoof peeping thro'?
These, or stranger things than these!

II.

Nay! already Fancy, tired
Of her isle too soon desired,
Lightly borne on laughing wind
Leaves the lazy land behind.
For the seaborn airs that sigh
All about the rosy sky
Seem, in wishful tones, to say
‘Rise, O rise, and haste away!’
Seen from sea is sunset best.
Forth into the boundless west,
Ere yon sinking sun be set!
Where the seas and skies are met,
And the lights are loveliest
Round the deathbed of the day,
Find me on the breezy deck
Of some fleet felucca,—nest
Of old seabirds, born for prey,
Who these shallow seas infest.
Fancy me brown-faced as they,
With hawk eyes that watch one speck
'Twixt the crimson and the yellow;
Which shall be a little fleck
Of cloud, or gull with outstretcht neck,
To Spezia bound from Cape Circello.
With a sea-song in mine ears
Of the bronzen buccaniers,
While the night is waxing mellow,
And the helmsman slackly steers—
Leaning, talking, to his fellow,
Who hath oaths for all he hears;
Each thief swarthier than Othello!

III.

Ah, but wander where she will,
Here is Fancy's birthplace still;
And, tho' far and wide she roam,
Long she may not leave her home.
Dear, I have not any want
Deeper than to be with you,
When the low beam, falling slant,
Stains the heaven with rosy hue,
And, with shuddering pleasure, pant
The awaken'd woodlands blue;
And about his leafy haunt,
While the stars are faint and few,
The tumultuous firefly flashes;
And such languor softens thro'
The deep lights 'neath those long lashes
As the heart, it steals into,
First inspires, and then abashes.
Just to touch your hand—one touch,
The lightest,—more would be too much;
Just to watch you leaning o'er
That wandering window-rose . . . . no more!

University of Virginia Library

THOUGHTS AT SUNSET.

I.

II.

III.