University of Virginia Library

POEMS AND EPIGRAMS CHIEFLY FROM THE COLLECTION OF 1846.

[O friends! who have accompanied thus far]

I.

[She leads in solitude her youthful hours]

She leads in solitude her youthful hours,
Her nights are restlessness, her days are pain.
O when will Health and Pleasure come again,
Adorn her brow and strew her path with flowers,
And wandering wit relume the roseate bowers,
And turn and trifle with his festive train?
Grant me, O grant this wish, ye heavenly Powers!
All other hope, all other wish, restrain.

II.

[Come back, ye Smiles, that late forsook]

III. WITH PETRARCA'S SONNETS.

Behold what homage to his idol paid
The tuneful suppliant of Valclusa's shade.
Often his lively fancy tried to cheat
Passion's fixed gaze with some assumed conceit,
Often behind the mould'ring columns stood,
And often darted from the laureate wood.
His verses still the tender heart engage,
They charmed a rude, and please a polisht age:
Some are to nature and to passion true,
And all had been so, had he lived for you.

IV.

[The touch of Love dispels the gloom]

The touch of Love dispels the gloom
Of life, and animates the tomb;
But never let it idly flare
On gazers in the open air,
Nor turn it quite away from one
To whom it serves for moon and sun,
And who alike in night and day
Without it could not find his way.

V. TWELFTH-NIGHT.

I draw with trembling hand my doubtful lot;
Yet where are Fortune's frowns if she frown not
From whom I hope, from whom I fear, the kiss?
O gentle Love! if there be aught beyond
That makes the bosom calm, but leaves it fond,
O let her give me that, and take back this!

VI.

[She I love (alas in vain!)]

She I love (alas in vain!)
Floats before my slumbering eyes:
When she comes she lulls my pain,
When she goes what pangs arise!
Thou whom love, whom memory flies,
Gentle Sleep! prolong thy reign!
If even thus she soothe my sighs,
Never let me wake again!

VII.

[Thou hast not rais'd, Ianthe, such desire]

Thou hast not rais'd, Ianthe, such desire
In any breast as thou hast rais'd in mine.
No wandering meteor now, no marshy fire,
Leads on my steps, but lofty, but divine:
And, if thou chillest me, as chill thou dost
When I approach too near, too boldly gaze,
So chills the blushing morn, so chills the host
Of vernal stars, with light more chaste than day's.

VIII.

[Darling shell, where hast thou been]

IX.

[Away my verse; and never fear]

Away my verse; and never fear,
As men before such beauty do;
On you she will not look severe,
She will not turn her eyes from you.
Some happier graces could I lend
That in her memory you should live,
Some little blemishes might blend,
For it would please her to forgive.

X.

[Pleasure! why thus desert the heart]

XI.

[My hopes retire; my wishes as before]

My hopes retire; my wishes as before
Struggle to find their resting-place in vain:
The ebbing sea thus beats against the shore;
The shore repels it; it returns again.

XII.

[Lie, my fond heart at rest]

XIII.

[The heart you cherish can not change]

The heart you cherish can not change;
The fancy, faint and fond,
Has never more the wish to range
Nor power to rise beyond.

XIV.

[Clifton! in vain thy varied scenes invite]

Clifton! in vain thy varied scenes invite,
The mossy bank, dim glade, and dizzy hight;
The sheep that, starting from the tufted thyme,
Untune the distant church's mellow chime,
As o'er each limb a gentle horror creeps,
And shakes above our heads the craggy steeps.
Pleasant I've thought it to pursue the rower
While light and darkness seize the changeful oar,
The frolic Naiads drawing from below
A net of silver round the black canoe.
Now the last lonely solace must it be
To watch pale evening brood o'er land and sea,
Then join my friends and let those friends believe
My cheeks are moisten'd by the dews of eve.

XV.

[Ask me not, a voice severe]

Ask me not, a voice severe
Tells me, for it gives me pain.
Peace! the hour, too sure, is near
When I can not ask again.

XVI.

[O thou whose happy pencil strays]

O thou whose happy pencil strays
Where I am call'd, nor dare to gaze,
But lower my eye and check my tongue;
O, if thou valuest peaceful days,
Pursue the ringlet's sunny maze,
And dwell not on those lips too long.
What mists athwart my temples fly,
Now, touch by touch, thy fingers tie
With torturing care her graceful zone!
For all that sparkles from her eye
I could not look while thou art by,
Nor could I cease were I alone.

XVII.

[All tender thoughts that e'er possest]

All tender thoughts that e'er possest
The human brain or human breast,
Centre in mine for thee . .
Excepting one . . and that must thou
Contribute: come, confer it now:
Grateful I fain would be.

XVIII.

[Past ruin'd Ilion Helen lives]

XIX.

[Soon, O Ianthe! life is o'er]

Soon, O Ianthe! life is o'er,
And sooner beauty's heavenly smile:
Grant only (and I ask no more),
Let love remain that little while.

XX.

[Flow, precious tears! thus shall my rival know]

Flow, precious tears! thus shall my rival know
For me, not him, ye flow.
Stay, precious tears! ah stay! this jealous heart
Would bid you flow apart,
Lest he should see you rising o'er the brim,
And hope you rise for him.
Your secret cells, while he is present, keep,
Nor, tho' I'm absent, weep.

XXI.

[It often comes into my head]

It often comes into my head
That we may dream when we are dead,
But I am far from sure we do.
O that it were so! then my rest
Would be indeed among the blest;
I should for ever dream of you.

XXII.

[Your pleasures spring like daisies in the grass]

Your pleasures spring like daisies in the grass,
Cut down, and up again as blithe as ever;
From you, Ianthe, little troubles pass
Like little ripples down a sunny river.

XXIII.

[Ianthe! you are call'd to cross the sea!]

Ianthe! you are call'd to cross the sea!
A path forbidden me!
Remember, while the Sun his blessing sheds
Upon the mountain-heads,
How often we have watcht him laying down
His brow, and dropt our own
Against each other's, and how faint and short
And sliding the support!
What will succeed it now? Mine is unblest,
Ianthe! nor will rest
But on the very thought that swells with pain.
O bid me hope again!
O give me back what Earth, what (without you)
Not Heaven itself can do,
One of the golden days that we have past;
And let it be my last!
Or else the gift would be, however sweet,
Fragile and incomplete.

XXIV.

[Mine fall, and yet a tear of hers]

Mine fall, and yet a tear of hers
Would swell, not soothe their pain.
Ah! if she look but at these tears,
They do not fall in vain.

XXV.

[Circe, who bore the diadem]

XXVI.

[If mutable is she I love]

XXVII.

[Could but the dream of night return by day]

Could but the dream of night return by day,
And thus again the true Ianthe say,
“Altho' some other I should live to see
As fond, no other can have charms for me.
No, in this bosom none shall ever share,
Firm is, and tranquil be, your empire there!
If wing'd with amorous fear the unfetter'd slave
Stole back the struggling heart she rashly gave,
Weak, they may call it, weak, but not untrue;
Its destination, though it fail'd, was you.
So to some distant isle the unconscious dove
Bears at her breast the billet dear to love,
But drops, while viewless lies the happier scene,
On some hard rock or desert beach between.”

XXVIII.

[I love to hear that men are bound]

I love to hear that men are bound
By your enchanting links of sound:
I love to hear that none rebel
Against your beauty's silent spell.
I know not whether I may bear
To see it all, as well as hear;
And never shall I clearly know
Unless you nod and tell me so.

XXIX.

[Soon as Ianthe's lip I prest]

Soon as Ianthe's lip I prest,
Thither my spirit wing'd its way:
Ah, there the wanton would not rest!
Ah, there the wanderer could not stay!

XXX.

[Beloved the last! beloved the most!]

XXXI.

[Art thou afraid the adorer's prayer]

Art thou afraid the adorer's prayer
Be overheard? that fear resign.
He waves the incense with such care
It leaves no stain upon the shrine.

XXXII.

[You see the worst of love, but not the best]

You see the worst of love, but not the best,
Nor will you know him till he comes your guest.
Tho' yearly drops some feather from his sides,
In the heart's temple his pure torch abides.

XXXIII.

[While the winds whistle round my cheerless room]

While the winds whistle round my cheerless room,
And the pale morning droops with winter's gloom;
While indistinct lie rude and cultured lands,
The ripening harvest and the hoary sands;
Alone, and destitute of every page
That fires the poet or informs the sage,
Where shall my wishes, where my fancy, rove,
Rest upon past or cherish promist love?
Alas! the past I never can regain,
Wishes may rise and tears may flow . . in vain.
Fancy, that brings her in her early bloom,
Throws barren sunshine o'er the unyielding tomb.
What then would passion, what would reason, do?
Sure, to retrace is worse than to pursue.
Here will I sit till heaven shall cease to lour
And happier Hesper bring the appointed hour,
Gaze on the mingled waste of sky and sea,
Think of my love, and bid her think of me.

XXXIV.

[One pansy, one, she bore beneath her breast]

One pansy, one, she bore beneath her breast,
A broad white ribbon held that pansy tight.
She waved about nor lookt upon the rest,
Costly and rare; on this she bent her sight.
I watcht her raise it gently when it droopt;
I knew she wisht to show it me; I knew
She would I saw it rise, to lie unloopt
Nearer its home, that tender heart! that true!

XXXV.

[You tell me I must come again]

You tell me I must come again
Now buds and blooms appear:
Ah! never fell one word in vain
Of yours on mortal ear.
You say the birds are busy now
In hedgerow, brake, and grove,
And slant their eyes to find the bough
That best conceals their love:
How many warble from the spray!
How many on the wing!
“Yet, yet,” say you, “one voice away
I miss the sound of spring.”
How little could that voice express,
Beloved, when we met!
But other sounds hath tenderness,
Which neither shall forget.

XXXVI.

[I often ask upon whose arm she leans]

I often ask upon whose arm she leans,
She whom I dearly love,
And if she visit much the crowded scenes
Where mimic passions move.
There, mighty powers! assert your just controul,
Alarm her thoughtless breast,
Breathe soft suspicion o'er her yielding soul,
But never break its rest.
O let some faithful lover, absent long,
To sudden bliss return;
Then Landor's name shall tremble from her tongue,
Her cheek thro' tears shall burn.

XXXVII.

[I sadden while I view again]

XXXVIII.

[A time will come when absence, grief, and years]

XXXIX.

[Have I, this moment, led thee from the beach]

Have I, this moment, led thee from the beach
Into the boat? now far beyond my reach!
Stand there a little while, and wave once more
That kerchief; but may none upon the shore
Dare think the fond salute was meant for him!
Dizzily on the plashing water swim
My heavy eyes, and sometimes can attain
Thy lovely form, which tears bear off again.
In vain have they now ceast; it now is gone
Too far for sight, and leaves me here alone.
O could I hear the creaking of the mast!
I curst it present, I regret it past.

XL.

[Yes, we shall meet (I knew we should) again]

Yes, we shall meet (I knew we should) again,
And I am solaced now you tell me when.
Joy sprung o'er sorrow as the morning broke,
And, as I read the words, I thought you spoke.
Altho' you bade it, yet to find how fast
My spirits rose, how lightly grief flew past,
I blush at every tear I have represt,
And one is starting to reprove the rest.

XLI.

[Ye walls! sole witnesses of happy sighs]

Ye walls! sole witnesses of happy sighs,
Say not, blest walls, one word.
Remember, but keep safe from ears and eyes
All you have seen and heard.

XLII. IANTHE'S LETTER.

We will not argue, if you say
My sorrows when I went away
Were not for you alone;
For there were many very dear,
Altho' at dawn they came not near,
As you did, yet who griev'd when I was gone.
We will not argue (but why tell
So false a tale?) that scarcely fell
My tears where mostly due.
I can not think who told you so:
I shed (about the rest I know
Nothing at all) the first and last for you.

XLIII.

[“Remember you the guilty night,”]

“Remember you the guilty night,”
A downcast myrtle said,
“You snatcht and held me pale with fright
Till life almost had fled?
At every swell more close I prest
With jealous care that lovely breast;
Of every tender word afraid,
I cast a broader, deeper shade,
And trembled so, I fell between
Two angel-guards, by you unseen:
There, pleasures, perils, all forgot,
I clung and fainted: who would not?
Yet certainly, this transport over,
I should, for who would not? recover.
Yes! I was destined to return
And sip anew the crystal urn,
Where with four other sister sprays
I bloom'd away my pleasant days.
But less and less and less again
Each day, hour, moment, is the pain
My little shrivel'd heart endures . .
Now can you say the same for yours?
I torn from her and she from you,
What wiser thing can either do
Than with our joys our fears renounce
And leave the vacant world at once?
When she you fondly love must go,
Your pangs will rise, but mine will cease;
I never shall awake to woe,
Nor you to happiness or peace.”

XLIV.

[On the smooth brow and clustering hair]

On the smooth brow and clustering hair
Myrtle and rose! your wreath combine,
The duller olive I would wear,
Its constancy, its peace, be mine.

XLV.

[Along this coast I led the vacant Hours]

Along this coast I led the vacant Hours
To the lone sunshine on the uneven strand,
And nipt the stubborn grass and juicier flowers
With one unconscious inobservant hand,
While crept the other by degrees more near
Until it rose the cherisht form around,
And prest it closer, only that the ear
Might lean, and deeper drink some half-heard sound.

XLVI.

[Pursuits! alas, I now have none]

Pursuits! alas, I now have none,
But idling where were once pursuits,
Often, all morning quite alone,
I sit upon those twisted roots
Which rise above the grass, and shield
Our harebell, when the churlish year
Catches her coming first afield,
And she looks pale tho' spring is near;
I chase the violets, that would hide
Their little prudish heads away,
And argue with the rills, that chide
When we discover them at play.

XLVII.

[No, thou hast never griev'd but I griev'd too]

No, thou hast never griev'd but I griev'd too;
Smiled thou hast often when no smile of mine
Could answer it. The sun himself can give
But little colour to the desert sands.

XLVIII.

[Where alders rise up dark and dense]

Where alders rise up dark and dense
But just behind the wayside fence,
A stone there is in yonder nook
Which once I borrow'd of the brook:
You sate beside me on that stone,
Rather (not much) too wide for one.
Untoward stone! and never quite
(Tho' often very near it) right,
And putting to sore shifts my wit
To roll it out, then steady it,
And then to prove that it must be
Too hard for anyone but me.
Ianthe, haste! ere June declines
We'll write upon it all these lines.

XLIX.

[From heaven descend two gifts alone]

From heaven descend two gifts alone;
The graceful line's eternal zone
And beauty, that too soon must die.
Exposed and lonely Genius stands,
Like Memnon in the Egyptian sands,
At whom barbarian javelins fly.
For mutual succour Heaven design'd
The lovely form and vigorous mind
To seek each other and unite.
Genius! thy wing shall beat down Hate,
And Beauty tell her fears at Fate
Until her rescuer met her sight.

L.

[Remain, ah not in youth alone]

Remain, ah not in youth alone,
Tho' youth, where you are, long will stay,
But when my summer days are gone,
And my autumnal haste away.
“Can I be always by your side?”
No; but the hours you can, you must,
Nor rise at Death's approaching stride,
Nor go when dust is gone to dust.

LI.

[It is no dream that I am he]

LII.

[Here, ever since you went abroad]

LIII.

[Silent, you say, I'm grown of late]

Silent, you say, I'm grown of late,
Nor yield, as you do, to our fate?
Ah! that alone is truly pain
Of which we never can complain.

LIV.

[I held her hand, the pledge of bliss]

I held her hand, the pledge of bliss,
Her hand that trembled and withdrew;
She bent her head before my kiss . .
My heart was sure that hers was true.
Now I have told her I must part,
She shakes my hand, she bids adieu,
Nor shuns the kiss. Alas, my heart!
Hers never was the heart for you.

LV. TO LOVE.

LVI.

[You smiled, you spoke, and I believed]

You smiled, you spoke, and I believed,
By every word and smile deceived.
Another man would hope no more;
Nor hope I what I hoped before:
But let not this last wish be vain;
Deceive, deceive me once again!

LVII.

[Proud word you never spoke, but you will speak]

Proud word you never spoke, but you will speak
Four not exempt from pride some future day.
Resting on one white hand a warm wet cheek
Over my open volume you will say,
“This man loved me!” then rise and trip away

LVIII.

[Tears, and tears only, are these eyes that late]

Tears, and tears only, are these eyes that late
In thine could contemplate
Charms which, like stars, in swift succession rise.
No longer to these eyes!
Love shows the place he flew from; there, bereft
Of motion, Grief is left.

LIX.

[The Loves who many years held all my mind]

The Loves who many years held all my mind,
A charge so troublesome at last resign'd.
Among my books a feather here and there
Tells what the inmates of my study were.
Strong for no wrestle, ready for no race,
They only serve to mark the left-off place.
'Twas theirs to dip in the tempestuous waves,
'Twas theirs to loiter in cool summer caves;
But in the desert where no herb is green
Not one, the latest of the flight, is seen.

LX.

[As round the parting ray the busy motes]

LXI.

[So late removed from him she swore]

LXII.

[Mild is the parting year, and sweet]

Mild is the parting year, and sweet
The odour of the falling spray;
Life passes on more rudely fleet,
And balmless is its closing day.
I wait its close, I court its gloom,
But mourn that never must there fall
Or on my breast or on my tomb
The tear that would have sooth'd it all.

LXIII.

[Dull is my verse: not even thou]

Dull is my verse: not even thou
Who movest many cares away
From this lone breast and weary brow,
Canst make, as once, its fountain play;
No, nor those gentle words that now
Support my heart to hear thee say:
“The bird upon its lonely bough
Sings sweetest at the close of day.”

LXIV.

[When we have panted past life's middle space]

When we have panted past life's middle space,
And stand and breathe a moment from the race,
These graver thoughts the heaving breast annoy:
“Of all our fields how very few are green!
And ah! what brakes, moors, quagmires, lie between
Tired age and childhood ramping wild with joy.”

LXV.

[There are some wishes that may start]

There are some wishes that may start
Nor cloud the brow nor sting the heart.
Gladly then would I see how smiled
One who now fondles with her child;
How smiled she but six years ago,
Herself a child, or nearly so.
Yes, let me bring before my sight
The silken tresses chain'd up tight,
The tiny fingers tipt with red
By tossing up the strawberry-bed;
Half-open lips, long violet eyes,
A little rounder with surprise,
And then (her chin against the knee)
“Mamma! who can that stranger be?
How grave the smile he smiles on me!”

LXVI.

[Youth is the virgin nurse of tender Hope]

LXVII.

[Here, where precipitate Spring, with one light bound]

LXVIII.

[Hark! 'tis the laugh of Spring: she comes]

LXIX.

[I would invoke you once again]

I would invoke you once again,
Pale shades of gloomy Walcheren,
By every name most dear!
But every name what voice could call?
What tears could flow enough for all,
Within the circling year?
Yet comfort ye, illustrious band,
That might have saved your native land
Had life and health remain'd!
Who cast ye on those sands accurst?
Traitor! he sold his country first
And gave her up enchain'd.
No human power the wretch shall screen
That sent you to the misty scene,
Where glory never shone!
His vacant buoyant heart shall rue
The lingering death he brought on you
And wish that death his own.

LXX. THE PROGRESS OF EVENING.

From yonder wood mark blue-eyed Eve proceed:
First thro' the deep and warm and secret glens,
Thro' the pale-glimmering privet-scented lane,
And thro' those alders by the river-side:
Now the soft dust impedes her, which the sheep
Have hollow'd out beneath their hawthorn shade.
But ah! look yonder! see a misty tide
Rise up the hill, lay low the frowning grove,
Enwrap the gay white mansion, sap its sides
Until they sink and melt away like chalk;
Now it comes down against our village-tower,
Covers its base, floats o'er its arches, tears
The clinging ivy from the battlements,
Mingles in broad embrace the obdurate stone,
(All one vast ocean), and goes swelling on
In slow and silent, dim and deepening waves.

LXXI.

[In Clementina's artless mien]

LXXII.

[Against the rocking mast I stand]

LXXIII.

[To-morrow, brightest-eyed of Avon's train]

LXXIV. WRITTEN IN WALES.

Ipsley! when hurried by malignant fate
I past thy court and heard thy closing gate,
I sigh'd, but sighing to myself I said
“Now for the quiet cot and mountain shade.”
Ah! what resistless madness made me roam
From cheerful friends and hospitable home!
Whether in Arrow's vale or Tachbrook's grove
My lyre resounded Liberty and Love.
Here never Love hath fann'd his purple flame,
And fear and anger start at Freedom's name.
Yet high exploits the churlish nation boasts
Against the Norman and the Roman hosts.
'Tis false; where conquest had but reapt disgrace
Contemptuous Valour spurn'd the reptile race.
Let me once more my native land regain,
Bounding with steady pride and high disdain;
Then will I pardon all the faults of fate,
And hang fresh garlands, Ipsley, on thy gate.

LXXV.

[Maria! I have said adieu]

Maria! I have said adieu
To one alone so fair as you;
And she, beyond my hopes, at last
Returns and tells me of the past;
While happier for remembering well
Am I to hear and she to tell.
Whether gay Paris may again
Admire you gayest of her train,
Or, Love for pilot, you shall go
Where Orellana's waters flow,
And cull, amid Brazilian bowers,
Of richer fruits and gaudier flowers;
Or on the Siene or on the Line
Remember one command of mine:
Love with as steady love as e'er
Illumed the only breast so fair;
That, in another year at most,
Whether the Alps or seas are crost,
Something may scatter from the flame
Fresh lustre o'er Pereira's name.

LXXVI.

[Wert thou but blind, O Fortune, then perhaps]

Wert thou but blind, O Fortune, then perhaps
Thou mightest always have avoided me;
For never voice of mine (young, middle-aged,
Or going down on tottering knee the shelf
That crumbles with us to the vale of years)
Call'd thee aside, whether thou rannest on
To others who expected, or didst throw
Into the sleeper's lap the unsought prize.
But blind thou art not; the refreshing cup
For which my hot heart thirsted, thou hast ever
(When it was full and at the lip) struck down.

LXXVII.

[Let me sit here and muse by thee]

LXXVIII. FOR AN URN IN THORESBY PARK.

With frigid art our numbers flow
For joy unfelt and fabled woe;
And listless are the poet's dreams
Of pastoral pipe and haunted streams.
All Nature's boundless reign is theirs,
But most her triumphs and her tears.
They try, nor vainly try, their power
To cheer misfortune's lonely hour;
Whether they raise the laurell'd head,
Or stoop beneath the peasant's shed,
They pass the glory they bestow,
And shine above the light they throw.
To Valour, in his car of fire,
Shall Genius strike the solemn lyre:
A Riou's fall shall Manvers mourn,
And Virtue raise the vacant urn.

LXXIX. ON READING IN A NEWSPAPER THE DEATH OF A MOTHER AND THREE CHILDREN.

LXXX.

[Ah what avails the sceptred race]

Ah what avails the sceptred race,
Ah what the form divine!
What every virtue, every grace!
Rose Aylmer, all were thine.
Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes
May weep, but never see,
A night of memories and of sighs
I consecrate to thee.

LXXXI.

[Child of a day, thou knowest not]

Child of a day, thou knowest not
The tears that overflow thine urn,
The gushing eyes that read thy lot,
Nor, if thou knewest, couldst return!
And why the wish! the pure and blest
Watch like thy mother o'er thy sleep.
O peaceful night! O envied rest!
Thou wilt not ever see her weep.

LXXXII. ON A POET IN A WELSH CHURCHYARD.

Kind souls! who strive what pious hand shall bring
The first-found crocus from reluctant Spring,
Or blow your wintry fingers while they strew
This sunless turf with rosemary and rue,
Bend o'er your lovers first, but mind to save
One sprig of each to trim a poet's grave.

LXXXIII.

[Thou in this wide cold church art laid]

Thou in this wide cold church art laid,
Close to the wall, my little maid!
My little Fanny Verchild! thou
Sole idol of an infant vow!
My playmate in life's break of day,
When all we had to do was play!
Even then, if any other girl
To kiss my forehead seiz'd a curl,
Thou wouldst with sad dismay run in,
And stamp, and call it shame and sin.
And should some rash intrusive boy
Bring thee an orange, flower, or toy,
That instant I laid fist on frill,
I bore my jealousy so ill,
And felt my bosom beat so bold,
Altho' he might be six years old.
Against the marble slab mine eyes
Dwell fixt; and from below arise
Thoughts, not yet cold nor mute, of thee
It was their earliest joy to see.
One who had marcht o'er Minden's plain
In thy young smile grew young again.
That stern one melted into love,
That father traced the line above.
His Roman soul used Roman speech,
And taught (ah thou too, thou didst teach!)
How, soon as in our course we start,
Death follows with uplifted dart.

LXXXIV.

[Tears driven back upon the fountain-head]

Tears driven back upon the fountain-head,
And Sorrow's voice supprest,
Heave, while in quiet sleep repose the dead;
Oh! when will they too rest!

LXXXV.

[Not the last struggles of the Sun]

Not the last struggles of the Sun,
Precipitated from his golden throne,
Hold darkling mortals in sublime suspense;
But the calm exod of a man
Nearer, tho' far above, who ran
The race we run, when Heaven recalls him hence.
Thus, O thou pure of earthly taint!
Thus, O my Southey! poet, sage, and saint!
Thou, after saddest silence, art removed.
What voice in anguish can we raise,
Or would we? Need we, dare we, praise?
God now does that, the God thy whole heart loved.

LXXXVI.

[The day returns, my natal day]

LXXXVII.

[When Helen first saw wrinkles in her face]

LXXXVIII.

[A provident and wakeful fear]

LXXXIX.

[Boastfully call we all the world our own]

Boastfully call we all the world our own:
What are we who should call it so? The form
Erect, the eye that pierces stars and suns,
Droop and decay; no beast so piteously.
More mutable than wind-worn leaves are we:
Yea, lower are we than the dust's estate;
The very dust is as it was before;
Dissever'd from ourselves, aliens and outcasts
From what our pride dared call inheritance,
We only live to feel our fall and die.

XC.

[When the mimosas shall have made]

When the mimosas shall have made
(O'erarching) an unbroken shade;
And the rose-laurels let to breathe
Scarcely a favourite flower beneath;
When the young cypresses which now
Look at the olives, brow to brow,
Cheer'd by the breezes of the south
Shall shoot above the acacia's growth,
One peradventure of my four
Turning some former fondness o'er,
At last impatient of the blame
Cast madly on a father's name,
May say, and check the chided tear,
“I wish he still were with us here.”

XCI.

[Everything tells me you are near]

Everything tells me you are near;
The hail-stones bound along and melt,
In white array the clouds appear,
The spring and you our fields have felt.
Paris, I know, is hard to quit;
But you have left it; and 'twere silly
To throw away more smiles and wit
Among the forests of Chantilly.
Her moss-paved cell your rose adorns
To tempt you; and your cyclamen
Turns back his tiny twisted horns
As if he heard your voice again.

XCII.

[November! thou art come again]

November! thou art come again
With all thy gloom of fogs and rain,
Yet woe betide the wretch who sings
Of sadness borne upon thy wings.
The gloom that overcast my brow,
The whole year's gloom, departs but now;
And all of joy I hear or see,
November! I ascribe to thee!

XCIII.

[Retire, and timely, from the world, if ever]

Retire, and timely, from the world, if ever
Thou hopest tranquil days;
Its gaudy jewels from thy bosom sever,
Despise its pomp and praise.
The purest star that looks into the stream
Its slightest ripple shakes,
And Peace, where'er its fiercer splendours gleam,
Her brooding nest forsakes.
The quiet planets roll with even motion
In the still skies alone;
O'er ocean they dance joyously, but ocean
They find no rest upon.

XCIV.

[To our past loves we oft return]

To our past loves we oft return,
When years that choked our path are past,
And wish again the incense-urn
Its flickering flame once more to cast
On paler brows, until the bourn
Is reacht, where we may rest at last.

XCV.

[Smiles soon abate; the boisterous throe]

Smiles soon abate; the boisterous throe
Of anger long burst forth:
Inconstantly the south-wind blows,
But steadily the north.
Thy star, O Venus! often changes
Its radiant seat above;
The chilling pole-star never ranges.
'Tis thus with hate and love.

XCVI.

[I will not call her fair]

I will not call her fair,
For that all women are,
Shady or sunny, dim of eye or bright:
But tell me, tell me where
Is one of tint so clear,
Unless it may be one who bathes in upper light.
The fair above their kind,
Shallow of heart and mind,
Share with the fragile flower and senseless stone
Their richer tints; we find
No vestige left behind:
She moves the distant breast, and fills the whole alone.

XCVII.

[Did I then ask of you why one so wise]

Did I then ask of you why one so wise
Should often look on life with downcast eyes,
And mar sometimes their brightness with a tear?
The vainer and less gentle are more gay,
Over the level wave they glide away,
And little know what hidden rocks are near.

XCVIII.

[The maid I love ne'er thought of me]

The maid I love ne'er thought of me
Amid the scenes of gaiety;
But when her heart or mine sank low,
Ah then it was no longer so.
From the slant palm she rais'd her head,
And kist the cheek whence youth had fled.
Angels! some future day for this,
Give her as sweet and pure a kiss.

XCIX.

[Neither the suns nor frosts of rolling years]

Neither the suns nor frosts of rolling years
Dry up the springs or change the course of tears.
Sorrow will ever mark her stated days,
Sacred as those Religion claims for praise.

C.

[Why, why repine, my pensive friend]

CI.

[Thou whom the wandering comets guide]

Thou whom the wandering comets guide,
O turn awhile to Virtue's side,
Goddess by all adored! and deign
Once more to smile on rising Spain.
No secret pang my bosom wrings
For prostrate lords and captive kings;
I, mighty Power, invoke thy aid
To Valour crost and Faith betray'd.
O leave the marshal'd ranks of war,
Nor blindly urge Bellona's car,
When hearts so generous, arms so brave,
Resist the conqueror, spurn the slave,
And, striking home for equal laws,
Pray Fortune to sustain the cause.
Not such is theirs as wafted o'er
The crescent and the crafty Moor;
No tears for virgin honour flow,
No father calls the avenging foe;
Napoleon leads no faithless host,
Nor tears the heart that trusts him most;
A rescued son, a prince restored,
Against his country draws the sword,
And wily priests in vengeful mood
Surround their fires with dykes of blood:
Turn then, O Fortune, and sustain
The cause of Freedom and of Spain!

CII.

[Humblest among the vernal train]

CIII.

[The burden of an ancient rhyme]

The burden of an ancient rhyme
Is, “By the forelock seize on Time.”
Time in some corner heard it said;
Pricking his ears, away he fled;
And, seeing me upon the road,
A hearty curse on me bestow'd.
“What if I do the same by thee?
How wouldst thou like it?” thunder'd he,
And, without answer thereupon,
Seizing my forelock . . it was gone.

CIV.

[Will mortals never know each other's station]

Will mortals never know each other's station
Without the herald? O abomination!
Milton, even Milton, rankt with living men!
Over the highest Alps of mind he marches,
And far below him spring the baseless arches
Of Iris, colouring dimly lake and fen.

CV.

[Tell me, perverse young year!]

Tell me, perverse young year!
Why is the morn so drear?
Is there no flower to twine?
Away, thou churl, away!
'Tis Rose's natal day,
Reserve thy frown for mine.

CVI. ON RECEIVING A BOOK TO WRITE IN.

Tost in what corner hast thou lain?
And why art thou come back again?
I should as soon have thought to see
One risen from the dead as thee.
I have survived my glory now
Three years; but just the same art thou;
I am not quite; and three years hence
I may have lept that ugly fence,
Which men attempt to shirk in vain,
And never can leap back again.
But welcome, welcome! thou art sent
I know on generous thoughts intent;
And therefore thy pale cheeks I'll kiss
Before I scribble more than this.

CVII. A SEA-SHELL SPEAKS.

CVIII.

[Often I have heard it said]

CIX.

[In spring and summer winds may blow]

CX. ON RECEIVING A PORTRAIT.

To gaze on you when life's last gleams decline,
And hold your hand, to the last clasp, in mine . .
Of these two wishes, these my only two,
One has been granted, gentle maid, by you:
Were thus the other certain, I should go,
And leave but one man happier here below.

CXI.

[Beauty's pure native gems, ye quivering hairs!]

CXII. SENT TO A LADY WITH FLOWERS.

CXIII.

[Very true, the linnets sing]

Very true, the linnets sing
Sweetest in the leaves of spring:
You have found in all these leaves
That which changes and deceives,
And, to pine by sun or star,
Left them, false ones as they are.
But there be who walk beside
Autumn's, till they all have died,
And who lend a patient ear
To low notes from branches sere.

CXIV. ON HAIR FALLING OFF AFTER AN ILLNESS.

Conon was he whose piercing eyes
Saw Berenice's hair surmount the skies,
Saw Venus spring away from Mars
And twirl it round and fix it 'mid the stars.
Then every poet who had seen
The glorious sight sang to the youthful queen,
Until the many tears were dried,
Shed for that hair by that most lovely bride.
Hair far more beauteous be it mine
Not to behold amid the lights divine,
But gracing, as it graced before,
A brow serene which happier men adore.

CXV.

[First bring me Raffael, who alone hath seen]

First bring me Raffael, who alone hath seen
In all her purity Heaven's virgin queen,
Alone hath felt true beauty; bring me then
Titian, ennobler of the noblest men;
And next the sweet Correggio, nor chastise
His little Cupids for those wicked eyes.
I want not Rubens's pink puffy bloom,
Nor Rembrandt's glimmer in a dusty room.
With those, and Poussin's nymph-frequented woods,
His templed highths and long-drawn solitudes
I am content, yet fain would look abroad
On one warm sunset of Ausonian Claude.

CXVI. FAREWELL TO ITALY.

I leave thee, beauteous Italy! no more
From the high terraces, at even-tide,
To look supine into thy depths of sky,
Thy golden moon between the cliff and me,
Or thy dark spires of fretted cypresses
Bordering the channel of the milky-way.
Fiesole and Valdarno must be dreams
Hereafter, and my own lost Affrico
Murmur to me but in the poet's song.
I did believe (what have I not believed?)
Weary with age, but unopprest by pain,
To close in thy soft clime my quiet day
And rest my bones in the Mimosa's shade.
Hope! Hope! few ever cherisht thee so little;
Few are the heads thou hast so rarely raised;
But thou didst promise this, and all was well.
For we are fond of thinking where to lie
When every pulse hath ceast, when the lone heart
Can lift no aspiration . . reasoning
As if the sight were unimpaired by death,
Were unobstructed by the coffin-lid,
And the sun cheered corruption! Over all
The smiles of Nature shed a potent charm,
And light us to our chamber at the grave.

CXVII.

[He who sees rising from some open down]

He who sees rising from some open down
A column, stately, beautiful, and pure,
Its rich expansive capital would crown
With glorious statue, which might long endure,
And bring men under it to gaze and sigh
And wish that honour'd creature they had known,
Whose name the deep inscription lets not die.
I raise that statue and inscribe that stone.

CXVIII. TO ONE WHO SAID SHE SHOULD LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT.

When sea-born Venus guided o'er
Her warrior to the Punic shore,
Around that radiant head she threw
In deep'ning clouds ambrosial dew:
But when the Tyrian queen drew near,
The light pour'd round him fresh and clear.
Ill-starr'd Elissa! hence arose
Her faithless joys, her stedfast woes,
Sighs, that with life alone expire,
And flames that light the funeral pyre.
O Goddess! if that peerless maid
Thou hast with every grace array'd,
Must, listening to thy gentle voice,
Fix at first view th' eternal choice . .
Suspend the cloud before her eyes
Until some godlike man arise;
One of such wisdom that he knows
How much he wins, how much he owes;
One in whose breast united lie
Calm courage and firm constancy;
Whose genius makes the world his own,
Whose glory rests in her alone.

CXIX. ON AN ECLIPSE OF THE MOON.

Struggling, and faint, and fainter didst thou wane,
O Moon! and round thee all thy starry train
Came forth to help thee, with half-open eyes,
And trembled every one with still surprise,
That the black Spectre should have dared assail
Their beauteous queen and seize her sacred veil.

CXX. ON SHAKESPEARE.

In poetry there is but one supreme,
Tho' there are many angels round his throne,
Mighty, and beauteous, while his face is hid.

CXXI.

[There is, alas! a chill, a gloom]

There is, alas! a chill, a gloom,
About my solitary room
That will not let one flowret bloom
Even for you:
The withering leaves appear to say,
“Shine on, shine on, O lovely May!
But we meanwhile must drop away.”
Light! life! adieu.

CXXII.

[Ternissa! you are fled!]

Ternissa! you are fled!
I say not to the dead,
But to the happy ones who rest below:
For, surely, surely, where
Your voice and graces are,
Nothing of death can any feel or know.
Girls who delight to dwell
Where grows most asphodel,
Gather to their calm breasts each word you speak:
The mild Persephone
Places you on her knee,
And your cool palm smooths down stern Pluto's cheek.

CXXIII.

[You love me; but if I confess]

You love me; but if I confess
That I in turn love you no less,
I know that you will glance aside
With real or affected pride;
And, be it true or be it feign'd,
My bosom would alike be pain'd,
So that I will not tell you now
Whether I love; and as for vow . .
You may demand it ten times over,
And never win from wary lover.
Mind! if we men would be as blest
For ever as when first carest,
We must excite a little fear,
And sometimes almost domineer.

CXXIV.

[One morning in the spring I sate]

One morning in the spring I sate
Kicking my heels upon a gate,
The birds were singing all around,
And cowslips sunn'd the sheeny ground,
And next to me above the post
A certain shrub its branches tost,
Seeming to whisper in my ear,
“Have you no song for her so dear?”
Now never in my life could I
Write at command; I know not why.
I tried to write; I tried in vain;
The little birds, to mock my pain,
Sang cheerily; and every note
Seem'd rushing from a clearer throat.
I was half mad to think that they
So easily should win the day.
The slender shrub I thought held down
Its head to whisper “What a clown!”
Stung by its touch and its reproof,
And saying, “Keep your thorns aloof,”
Unconsciously I spoke the name,
And verses in full chorus came.

CXXV. TO LADY CALDWELL.

Sophy! before the fond adieu
We long but shrink to say,
And while the home prepared for you
Looks dark at your delay,
Before the graces you disclose
By fresh ones are o'ershaded,
And duties rise more grave than those,
To last when those are faded,
It will not weary you, I know,
To hear again the voice
First heard where Arno's waters flow
And Flora's realms rejoice.
Of beauty not a word have I
(As thousands have) to say,
Of vermeil lip or azure eye
Or cheek of blushful May.
The gentle temper blessing all,
The smile at Envy's leer,
Are yours; and yours at Pity's call
The heart-assuaging tear.
Many can fondle and caress . .
No other have I known
Proud of a sister's loveliness,
Unconscious of her own.

CXXVI.

[To write as your sweet mother does]

CXXVII.

[From leaves unopen'd yet, those eyes she lifts]

From leaves unopen'd yet, those eyes she lifts,
Which never youthful eyes could safely view.
“A book or flower, such are the only gifts
I like to take, nor like them least from you.”
A voice so sweet it needs no music's aid
Spake it, and ceast: we, offering both, reply:
These tell the dull old tale that bloom must fade,
This the bright truth that genius can not die.

CXXVIII. CHRISTMAS HOLLY.

Bethink we what can mean
The holly's changeless green,
Unyielding leaves, and seeds blood-red:
These, while the smoke below
Curls slowly upward, show
Faith how her gentle Master bled.
Those drop not at the touch
Of busy over-much,
They shrink not at the blazing grate;
And the same green remains,
As when autumnal rains
Nurst them with milky warmth of late.
The stedfast bough scarce bends,
But hang it over friends
And suddenly what thoughts there spring!
Harsh voices all grow dumb,
While myriad pleasures come
Beneath Love's ever-widening wing.

CXXIX.

[Various the roads of life; in one]

Various the roads of life; in one
All terminate, one lonely way.
We go; and “Is he gone?”
Is all our best friends say.

CXXX.

[Never may storm thy peaceful bosom vex]

Never may storm thy peaceful bosom vex,
Thou lovely Exe!
O'er whose pure stream that music yesternight
Pour'd fresh delight,
And left a vision for the eye of Morn
To laugh to scorn,
Showing too well how Love once led the Hours
In Youth's green bowers;
Vision too blest for even Hope to see,
Were Hope with me;
Vision my fate at once forbids to stay
Or pass away.

CXXXI. FOR THE ALBUM OF THE DUCHESS DE GUICHE.

CXXXII.

[No, my own love of other years!]

No, my own love of other years!
No, it must never be.
Much rests with you that yet endears,
Alas! but what with me?
Could those bright years o'er me revolve
So gay, o'er you so fair,
The pearl of life we would dissolve
And each the cup might share.
You show that truth can ne'er decay,
Whatever fate befals;
I, that the myrtle and the bay
Shoot fresh on ruin'd walls.

CXXXIII. LINES TO A DRAGON-FLY.

Life (priest and poet say) is but a dream;
I wish no happier one than to be laid
Beneath a cool syringa's scented shade,
Or wavy willow, by the running stream,
Brimful of moral, where the dragon-fly,
Wanders as careless and content as I.
Thanks for this fancy, insect king,
Of purple crest and filmy wing,
Who with indifference givest up
The water-lily's golden cup,
To come again and overlook
What I am writing in my book.
Believe me, most who read the line
Will read with hornier eyes than thine;
And yet their souls shall live for ever,
And thine drop dead into the river!
God pardon them, O insect king,
Who fancy so unjust a thing!

CXXXIV.

[Absent is she thou lovest? be it so]

Absent is she thou lovest? be it so;
Yet there is what should drive away thy woe
And make the night less gloomy than the day.
Absent she may be; yet her love appears
Close by; and through the labyrinth of the ears
Her voice's clue to the prone heart makes way.

CXXXV.

[“Do you remember me? or are you proud?”]

“Do you remember me? or are you proud?”
Lightly advancing thro' her star-trimm'd crowd,
Ianthe said, and lookt into my eyes.
“A yes, a yes, to both: for Memory
Where you but once have been must ever be,
And at your voice Pride from his throne must rise.”

CXXXVI.

[No charm can stay, no medicine can assuage]

No charm can stay, no medicine can assuage,
The sad incurable disease of age;
Only the hand in youth more warmly prest
Makes soft the couch and calms the final rest.

CXXXVII.

[Many may yet recall the hours]

Many may yet recall the hours
That saw thy lover's chosen flowers
Nodding and dancing in the shade
Thy dark and wavy tresses made:
On many a brain is pictured yet
Thy languid eye's dim violet:
But who among them all foresaw
How the sad snows which never thaw
Upon that head one day should lie,
And love but glimmer from that eye!

CXXXVIII. TO A SPANIEL.

No, Daisy! lift not up thy ear,
It is not she whose steps draw near.
Tuck under thee that leg, for she
Continues yet beyond the sea,
And thou may'st whimper in thy sleep
These many days, and start and weep.

CXXXIX.

[True, ah too true! the generous breast]

True, ah too true! the generous breast
Lies bare to Love and Pain.
May one alone, the worthier guest,
Be yours, and there remain.

CXL. ON SEEING A HAIR OF LUCRETIA BORGIA.

Borgia, thou once wert almost too august
And high for adoration; now thou'rt dust.
All that remains of thee these plaits unfold,
Calm hair, meandering in pellucid gold.

CXLI. ON MIGNIONETTE.

CXLII.

[In his own image the Creator made]

In his own image the Creator made,
His own pure sunbeam quicken'd thee, O man!
Thou breathing dial! since thy day began
The present hour was ever markt with shade!

CXLIII. WRITTEN ON THE RHINE.

CXLIV. MALVOLIO.

Thou hast been very tender to the moon,
Malvolio! and on many a daffodil
And many a daisy hast thou yearn'd, until
The nether jaw quiver'd with thy good heart.
But tell me now, Malvolio, tell me true,
Hast thou not sometimes driven from their play
The village children, when they came too near
Thy study, if hit ball rais'd shouts around,
Or if delusive trap shook off thy muse,
Pregnant with wonders for another age?
Hast thou sat still and patient (tho' sore prest
Hearthward to stoop and warm thy blue-nail'd hand)
Lest thou shouldst frighten from a frosty fare
The speckled thrush, raising his bill aloft
To swallow the red berry on the ash
By thy white window, three short paces off?
If this thou hast not done, and hast done that,
I do exile thee from the moon twelve whole
Calendar months, debarring thee from use
Of rose, bud, blossom, odour, simile,
And furthermore I do hereby pronounce
Divorce between the nightingale and thee.

CXLV. WITH AN ALBUM.

I know not whether I am proud,
But this I know, I hate the crowd:
Therefore pray let me disengage
My verses from the motley page,
Where others far more sure to please
Pour out their choral song with ease.
And yet perhaps, if some should tire
With too much froth or too much fire,
There is an ear that may incline
Even to words so dull as mine.

CXLVI.

[My serious son! I see thee look]

My serious son! I see thee look
First on the picture, then the book.
I catch the wish that thou couldst paint
The yearnings of the ecstatic saint.
Give it not up, my serious son!
Wish it again, and it is done.
Seldom will any fail who tries
With patient hand and stedfast eyes,
And wooes the true with such pure sighs.

CXLVII. WRITTEN AT MR RAWSON'S, WAS-WATER LAKE.

CXLVIII.

[Give me the eyes that look on mine]

Give me the eyes that look on mine,
And, when they see them dimly shine,
Are moister than they were.
Give me the eyes that fain would find
Some relicks of a youthful mind
Amid the wrecks of care.
Give me the eyes that catch at last
A few faint glimpses of the past,
And, like the arkite dove,
Bring back a long-lost olive bough,
And can discover even now
A heart that once could love.

CXLIX.

[Loved, when my love from all but thee had flown]

Loved, when my love from all but thee had flown,
Come near me; seat thee on this level stone;
And, ere thou lookest o'er the churchyard wall,
To catch, as once we did, yon waterfall,
Look a brief moment on the turf between,
And see a tomb thou never yet hast seen.
My spirit will be sooth'd to hear once more
Good-bye as gently spoken as before.

CL.

[I leave with unreverted eye the towers]

CLI.

[Summer has doft his latest green]

Summer has doft his latest green,
And Autumn ranged the barley-mows.
So long away then have you been?
And are you coming back to close
The year? it sadly wants repose.

CLII.

[Where Malvern's verdant ridges gleam]

CLIII. ON THE DECEASE OF MRS ROSENHAGEN.

CLIV.

[How many voices gaily sing]

How many voices gaily sing,
“O happy morn, O happy spring
Of life!” Meanwhile there comes o'er me
A softer voice from Memory,
And says, “If loves and hopes have flown
With years, think too what griefs are gone!”

CLV.

[Who smites the wounded on his bed]

CLVI.

[What, of house and home bereft]

What, of house and home bereft,
For my birthday, what is left?
Not the hope that any more
Can be blest like those of yore,
Not the wish; for wishes now
Fall like flowers from aching brow,
When the jovial feast is past,
And when heaven, with clouds o'ercast,
Strikes the colours from the scene,
And no herb on earth is green.
What is left me after all?
What, beside my funeral?
Bid it wait a little while,
Just to let one thoughtful smile
Its accustom'd time abide:
There are left two boons beside . .
Health, and eyes that yet can see
Eyes not coldly turn'd from me.

CLVII.

[Under the hollies of thy breezy glade]

CLVIII.

[Where three huge dogs are ramping yonder]

CLIX. THE DEAD MARTEN.

My pretty Marte, my winter friend,
In these bright days ought thine to end!
When all thy kindred far away
Enjoy the genial hours of May.
How often hast thou play'd with me,
And lickt my lip to share my tea,
And run away and turn'd again
To hide my glove or crack my pen,
Until I swore, to check thy taunts,
I'd write to uncles and to aunts,
And grandmama, whom dogs pursued
But could not catch her in the wood.
Ah! I repeat the jokes we had,
Yet think me not less fond, less sad.
Julia and Charles and Walter grave
Would throw down every toy they have
To see thy joyous eyes at eve,
And feel thy feet upon the sleeve,
And tempt thy glossy teeth to bite
And almost hurt them, but not quite;
For thou didst look, and then suspend
The ivory barbs, but reprehend
With tender querulous tones, that told
Thou wert too good and we too bold.
Never was malice in thy heart,
My gentlest, dearest little Marte!
Nor grief, nor reason to repine,
As there is now in this of mine.

CLX.

[Ye little household gods, that make]

CLXI.

[The leaves are falling; so am I]

The leaves are falling; so am I;
The few late flowers have moisture in the eye;
So have I too.
Scarcely on any bough is heard
Joyous, or even unjoyous, bird
The whole wood through.
Winter may come: he brings but nigher
His circle (yearly narrowing) to the fire
Where old friends meet:
Let him; now heaven is overcast,
And spring and summer both are past,
And all things sweet.

CLXII.

[The place where soon I think to lie]

CLXIII.

[As he who baskt in sunshine loves to go]

As he who baskt in sunshine loves to go
Where in dim coolness graceful laurels grow;
In that lone narrow path whose silent sand
Hears of no footstep, while some gentle hand
Beckons, or seems to beckon, to the seat
Where ivied wall and trellised woodbine meet;
Thus I, of ear that tingles not to praise,
And feet that weary of the world's highways,
Recline on mouldering tree or jutting stone,
And (tho' at last I feel I am alone)
Think by a gentle hand mine too is prest
In kindly welcome to a calmer rest.

CLXIV.

[Love is like Echo in the land of Tell]

Love is like Echo in the land of Tell,
Who answers best the indweller of her bowers,
Silent to other voices (idly loud
Or wildly violent) letting them arouse
Eagle or cavern'd brute, but never her.

CLXV. ON RECEIVING A MONTHLY ROSE.

CLXVI.

[Sweet was the song that Youth sang once]

Sweet was the song that Youth sang once,
And passing sweet was the response;
But there are accents sweeter far
When Love leaps down our evening star,
Holds back the blighting wings of Time,
Melts with his breath the crusty rime,
And looks into our eyes, and says,
“Come, let us talk of former days.”

CLXVII.

[Fate! I have askt few things of thee]

CLXVIII. TO A LADY ON COMING OF AGE.

Fear not my frequent verse may raise
To your clear brow the vulgar gaze.
Another I reserve in store
For day yet happier; then no more.
Believe (youth's happy creed!) believe
That never can bright morns deceive;
That brighter must arise for you
Than ever the proud sun rode through.
It has been said, on wedlock-land
Some paths are thorny, more are sand.
I hope the coming spring may show
How little they who say it, know.
Meanwhile with tranquil breast survey
The trophies of the present day.
When twenty years their course have run,
Anxious we wait the following one.
Lo! Fortune in full pomp descends
Surrounded by her host of friends,
And Beauty moves, in passing by,
With loftier port and steadier eye.
Alas, alas! when these are flown,
Shall there be nothing quite your own?
Not Beauty from her stores can give
The mighty charm that makes us live,
Nor shieldless Fortune overcome
The shadows that besiege the tomb.
You, better guarded, may be sure
Your name for ages will endure,
While all the powerful, all the proud,
All that excite the clamorous crowd,
With truncheon or with diadem,
Shall lie one mingled mass with them.
Chide you our praises? You alone
Can doubt of glories fairly won.
Genius, altho' he seldom decks
Where beauty does the softer sex,
Approaches you with accents bland,
Attunes your voice, directs your hand.
And soon will fix upon your brow
A crown as bright as Love does now.

CLXIX.

[Beauty! thou arbitress of weal or woe]

Beauty! thou arbitress of weal or woe
To others, but how powerless of thy own,
How prone to fall on the smooth path, how prone
To place thy tender foot on the sharp flint
And bleed until the evening fade and die!
I see thee happy now, and I rejoice,
As if thou wert (almost as if!) for me:
But thou hast tarried with me long enough,
And now hast taken all thy gifts away.
How various and how changeful is thy mien!
Various and changeful as the neck of doves
In colour: here so meek, so stately there;
Here festive, and there sad; here, tall, erect,
Commanding; there, small, slender, bent to yield.
I have observ'd thee resolute and bold
And stepping forth to conquer, and thy brow
Rattling its laurel o'er the myrtle crown;
Beauty! I now behold thee lower thine eyes
And throw them forward on the ground, while two
Close at thy side interrogate and plead.
Others have done the same, but those were met
Calmly, and smiles were cast indifferently
Back into them; smiles that smote every heart,
But most the heart they fell into that hour.
It pleas'd me to behold it: we all love
To see a little of the cruelty
We could ill bear, and, when we read of, weep.
Beauty! thou now art with that innocent
Who seems of Love's own age, and Love's own power.
Haply ere this there are upon the earth
Some, by all hope abandoned, who ascend
The highths of Himalaya; some who fight
Where Napier's foot makes Hindus run straight on,
And Kyber quails beneath his eagle eye;
While others bear her on untiring breast
To Zembla, and with iron that often breaks
Engrave her name upon eternal ice.

CLXX.

[My guest! I have not led you thro']

CLXXI.

[O'erfoaming with rage]

O'erfoaming with rage
The foul-mouth'd judge Page
Thus question'd a thief in the dock:
“Didst never hear read
In the church, lump of lead!
Loose chip from the devil's own block!
‘Thou shalt not steal?’” “Yea,”
The white chap did say,
“‘Thou shalt not:’ but thou was the word.
Had he piped out ‘Jem Hewitt!
Be sure you don't do it,’
I'd ha' thought of it twice ere I did it, my lord.”

CLXXII. ON A QUAKER'S TANKARD.

Ye lie, friend Pindar! and friend Thales,
Nothing so good as water? Ale is.

CLXXIII. INVOCATION TO THE MUSE.

CLXXIV. EPITHALAMIUM.

Weep Venus, and ye
Adorable Three
Who Venus for ever environ.
Pounds, shillings, and pence
And shrewd sober sense
Have clapt the strait waistcoat on ---
Off Mainot and Turk
With pistol and dirk,
Nor palace nor pinnace set fire on
The cord's fatal jerk
Has done its last work
And the noose is now slipped upon ---

CLXXV.

[Go on, go on, and love away!]

Go on, go on, and love away!
Mine was, another's is, the day.
Go on, go on, thou false one! now
Upon his shoulder rest thy brow,
And look into his eyes until
Thy own, to find them colder, fill.

CLXXVI.

[Ten thousand flakes about my windows blow]

Ten thousand flakes about my windows blow,
Some falling and some rising, but all snow.
Scribblers and statesmen! are ye not just so?

CLXXVII. OLD STYLE.

Aurelius, Sire of Hungrinesses!
Thee thy old friend Catullus blesses,
And sends thee six fine watercresses.
There are who would not think me quite
(Unless we were old friends) polite
To mention whom you should invite.
Look at them well; and turn it o'er
In your own mind . . I'd have but four . .
Lucullus, Cæsar, and two more.

CLXXVIII. SUGGESTED BY HORACE.

Never, my boy, so blush and blink,
Or care a straw what people think,
If you by chance are seen to dally
With that sweet little creature Sally.
Lest by degrees you sidle from her,
I'll quote you Ovid, Horace, Homer.
If the two first are loose, there still is
Authority in proud Achilles;
And never, night or day, could be his
Dignity hurt by dear Briseis.
Altho' I take an interest
In having you and Sally blest,
I know those ancles small and round
Are standing on forbidden ground,
So fear no rivalry to you
In gentlemen of thirty-two.

CLXXIX.

[An English boy, whose travels lay]

CLXXX.

[Pleasant it is to wink and sniff the fumes]

Pleasant it is to wink and sniff the fumes
The little dainty poet blows for us,
Kneeling in his soft cushion at the hearth,
And patted on the head by passing maids.
Who would discourage him? who bid him off?
Invidious or morose! Enough, to say
(Perhaps too much unless 'tis mildly said)
That slender twigs send forth the fiercest flame,
Not without noise, but ashes soon succeed,
While the broad chump leans back against the stones,
Strong with internal fire, sedately breathed,
And heats the chamber round from morn till night.

CLXXXI. COTTAGE LEFT FOR LONDON.

The covert walk, the mossy apple-trees,
And the long grass that darkens underneath,
I leave for narrow streets and gnats and fleas,
Water unfit to drink and air to breathe.

CLXXXII.

[Come, Sleep! but mind ye! if you come without]

Come, Sleep! but mind ye! if you come without
The little girl that struck me at the rout,
By Jove! I would not give you half-a-crown
For all your poppy-heads and all your down.

CLXXXIII.

[Deep forests hide the stoutest oaks]

Deep forests hide the stoutest oaks;
Hazels make sticks for market-folks;
He who comes soon to his estate
Dies poor; the rich heir is the late.
Sere ivy shaded Shakespeare's brow;
But Matho is a poet now.

CLXXXIV.

[God's laws declare]

CLXXXV. FLOWERS SENT IN BAY-LEAVES.

I leave for you to disunite
Frail flowers and lasting bays:
One, let me hope, you'll wear to-night
The other all your days.

CLXXXVI.

[“I'm half in love,” he who with smiles hath said]

“I'm half in love,” he who with smiles hath said,
In love will never be.
Whoe'er, “I'm not in love,” and shakes his head,
In love too sure is he.

CLXXXVII.

[“Fear God!” says Percival: and when you hear]

“Fear God!” says Percival: and when you hear
Tones so lugubrious, you perforce must fear:
If in such awful accents he should say,
“Fear lovely Innocence!” you'd run away.

CLXXXVIII.

[Two cackling mothers hatch two separate broods]

Two cackling mothers hatch two separate broods
Of patriots; neither shall infest my house.
I shun the noisier, but I loathe far more
Patriots with tags about their carcases
Bedolled with bits of ribbon and rag-lace,
Or dangling, dainty, jewel'd crucifix
The puft heart's pride, and not its purifier.
Limbs, lives, and fortunes, all before the king,
Until he ask the hazard of the same;
Then the two broods unite, one step, one voice,
For their dear country in its sad estate.

CLXXXIX.

[Does it become a girl so wise]

Does it become a girl so wise,
So exquisite in harmonies,
To ask me when do I intend
To write a sonnet? What? my friend!
A sonnet? Never. Rhyme o'erflows
Italian, which hath scarcely prose;
And I have larded full three-score
With sorte, morte, cuor, amor.
But why should we, altho' we have
Enough for all things, gay or grave,
Say, on your conscience, why should we
Who draw deep seans along the sea,
Cut them in pieces to beset
The shallows with a cabbage-net?
Now if you ever ask again
A thing so troublesome and vain,
By all your charms! before the morn,
To show my anger and my scorn,
First I will write your name a-top,
Then from this very ink shall drop
A score of sonnets; every one
Shall call you star, or moon, or sun,
Till, swallowing such warm-water verse,
Even sonnet-sippers sicken worse.

CXC.

[Plants the most beauteous love the water's brink]

Plants the most beauteous love the water's brink,
Opening their bosoms at young Zephyr's sighs.
Maidens, come hither: see with your own eyes
How many are trod down, how many sink.

CXCI.

[Each year bears something from us as it flies]

Each year bears something from us as it flies,
We only blow it farther with our sighs.

CXCII.

[Idle and light are many things you see]

Idle and light are many things you see
In these my closing pages: blame not me.
However rich and plenteous the repast,
Nuts, almonds, biscuits, wafers, come at last.

CXCIII.

[In wrath a youth was heard to say]

In wrath a youth was heard to say,
“From girl so false I turn away.
By all that's sacred ice shall burn
And sun shall freeze ere I return.”
But as he went, at least one finger
Within her hand was found to linger;
One foot, that should outstrip the wind,
(But only one) drew loads behind.

CXCIV.

[I've never seen a book of late]

I've never seen a book of late
But there is in it palmy state.
To realm or city you apply
The palm, and think it raised thereby.
Yet always does the palmy crown
On every side hang loosely down,
And its lank shade falls chiefly on
Robber or reptile, sand or stone.
Compare it with the Titan groves
Where, east or west, the savage roves,
Its highth and girth before them dwindle
Into the measure of a spindle.
But often you would make it bend
To some young poet, if your friend.
Look at it first, or you may fit
Your poet-friend too well with it.
The head of palm-tree is so-so,
And bare or ragged all below.
If it suits anything, I wist
It suits the archæologist.
To him apply the palmy state
Whose fruit is nothing but a date.

CXCV. A MASK ON A RING.

Forster! you who never wore
Any kind of mask before;
Yet, by holy friendship! take
This, and wear it for my sake.

CXCVI.

[I would give something, O Apollo!]

I would give something, O Apollo!
Thy radiant course o'er earth to follow,
And fill it up with light and song,
But rather would be always young.
Since that perhaps thou canst not give,
By me let those who love me live.

CXCVII.

[Alas, how soon the hours are over]

Alas, how soon the hours are over
Counted us out to play the lover!
And how much narrower is the stage
Allotted us to play the sage!
But when we play the fool, how wide
The theatre expands! beside,
How long the audience sits before us!
How many prompters! what a chorus!

CXCVIII.

[Is it not better at an early hour]

Is it not better at an early hour
In its calm cell to rest the weary head,
While birds are singing and while blooms the bower,
Than sit the fire out and go starv'd to bed?

CXCIX. TO JULIUS HARE, WITH “PERICLES AND ASPASIA.”

Julius, of three rare brothers, my fast friends,
The latest known to me! Aspasia comes
With him, high-helmeted and trumpet-tongued,
Who loved her. Well thou knowest all his worth,
Valuing him most for trophies reared to Peace,
For generous friendships, like thy own, for Arts
Ennobled by protection, not debased.
Hence, worthless ones! throne-cushions, puft, inert,
Verminous, who degrade with patronage
Bargain'd for, ere dealt out! The stone that flew
In splinters from the chisel when the hand
Of Phidias wielded it, the chips of stone
Weigh with me more than they do. To thy house
Comes Pericles. Receive the friend of him
Whose horses started from the Parthenon
To traverse seas and neigh upon our strand.
From pleasant Italy my varied page,
Where many men and many ages meet,
Julius! thy friendly hand long since received.
Accept my last of labours and of thanks.
He who held mute the joyous and the wise
With wit and eloquence, whose tomb (afar
From all his friends and all his countrymen)
Saddens the light Palermo, to thy care
Consign'd it; knowing that whate'er is great
Needs not the looming of a darker age,
Nor knightly mail nor scymetar begemm'd.
Stepping o'er all this lumber, where the steel
Is shell'd with rust, and the thin gold worm'd out
From its meandering waves, he took the scroll,
And read aloud what sage and poet spake
In sunnier climes; thou heardest it well pleased;
For Truth from conflict rises more elate
And lifts a brighter torch, beheld by more.
Call'd to befriend me by fraternal love,
Thou pausedst in thy vigorous march amid
The German forests of wide-branching thought,
Deep, intricate, whence voices shook all France,
Whence Blucher's soldiers heard the trumpet-tongue
And knew the footstep of Tyrtæan Arndt.

CC. TO SOUTHEY.

CCI. LINES ON THE DEATH OF CHARLES LAMB.

Once, and once only, have I seen thy face,
Elia! once only has thy tripping tongue
Run o'er my breast, yet never has been left
Impression on it stronger or more sweet.
Cordial old man! what youth was in thy years,
What wisdom in thy levity, what truth
In every utterance of that purest soul!
Few are the spirits of the glorified
I'd spring to earlier at the gate of heaven.

CCII. TO ANDREW JACKSON.

CCIII. TO WORDSWORTH.

CCIV. TO THE COMTESSE DE MOLANDE, ABOUT TO MARRY THE DUC DE LUXEMBOURG.

CCV. TO THE COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON.

Since in the terrace-bower we sate
While Arno gleam'd below,
And over sylvan Massa late
Hung Cynthia's slender bow,
Years after years have past away
Less light and gladsome; why
Do those we most implore to stay
Run ever swiftest by!

CCVI.

[Unjust are they who argue me unjust]

Unjust are they who argue me unjust
To thee, O France! Did ever man delight
More cordially in him who held the hearts
Of beasts to his, and searcht into them all,
And took their wisdom, giving it profuse
To man, who gave them little in return,
And only kept their furs and teeth and claws.
What comic scenes are graceful, saving thine?
Where is philosophy like thy Montaigne's?
Religion, like thy Fenelon's? Sublime
In valour's self-devotion were thy men,
Thy women far sublimer: but foul stains
At last thou bearest on thy plume; thy steps
Follow false honour, deviating from true.
A broken word bears on it worse disgrace
Than broken sword; erewhile thou knewest this.
Thou huggest thy enslaver: on his tomb
What scrolls! what laurels! Are there any bound
About the braver Corday's? Is one hymn
Chaunted in prayers or praises to the Maid
To whom all maidens upon earth should bend,
Who at the gate of Orleans broke thy chain?

CCVII. TO LADY CHARLES BEAUCLERK.

CCVIII. TO MY DAUGHTER.

By that dejected city Arno runs
Where Ugolino claspt his famisht sons;
There wert thou born, my Julia! there thine eyes
Return'd as bright a blue to vernal skies;
And thence, sweet infant wanderer! when the Spring
Advanced, the Hours brought thee on silent wing,
Brought (while anemones were quivering round,
And pointed tulips pierced the purple ground)
Where stands fair Florence: there thy voice first blest
My ears, and sank like balm into my breast.
For many griefs had wounded it, and more
Thy little hands could lighten, were in store.
But why revert to griefs? thy sculptur'd brow
Dispels from mine its darkest cloud even now.
What then the bliss to see again thy face
And all that rumour has announced of grace!
I urge with fevered breast the coming day . .
O could I sleep and wake again in May!

CCIX. TO ANDREW CROSSE.

Altho' with Earth and Heaven you deal
As equal, and without appeal,
And bring beneath your ancient roof
Records of all they do, and proof,
No right have you, sequester'd Crosse,
To make the Muses weep your loss.
A poet were you long before
Gems from the struggling air you tore,
And bade the far-off flashes play
About your woods, and light your way.
With languor and disease opprest,
And years, that crush the tuneful breast,
Southey, the pure of soul is mute!
Hoarse whistles Wordsworth's watery flute,
Which mourn'd with loud indignant strains
The famisht Black in Corsic chains:
Nor longer do the girls for Moore
Jilt Horace as they did before.
He sits contented to have won
The rose-wreath from Anacreon,
And bears to see the orbs grow dim
That shone with blandest light on him.
Others there are whose future day
No slender glories shall display;
But you would think me worse than tame
To find me stringing name on name,
And I would rather call aloud
On Andrew Crosse than stem the crowd.
Now chiefly female voices rise
(And sweet are they) to cheer our skies.
Suppose you warm these chilly days
With samples from your fervid lays.
Come! courage! man! and don't pretend
That every verse cuts off a friend,
And that in simple truth you fain
Would rather not give poets pain.
The lame excuse will never do . .
Philosophers can envy too.

CCX. TO A LADY.

Sweet are the siren songs on eastern shores,
To songs as sweet are pulled our English oars:
And farther upon ocean venture forth
The lofty sails that leave the wizard north.
Altho' by fits so dense a cloud of smoke
Puffs from his sappy and ill-season'd oak,
Yet, as the Spirit of the Dream draws near,
Remembered loves make Byron's self sincere.
The puny heart within him swells to view,
The man grows loftier and the poet too.
When War sweeps nations down with iron wings,
Alcæus never sang as Campbell sings;
And, caught by playful wit and graceful lore,
The Muse invoked by Horace bends to Moore.
Theirs, not my verses, come I to repeat,
So draw the footstool nearer to your feet.

CCXI. TO CZARTORYSKI, ATTENDING ON FOOT THE FUNERAL OF THE POET MENINCIVICZ.

In Czartoryski I commend
The patriot's guide, the poet's friend.
King, sprung of kings, yet great and good
As any pure from royal blood;
O'er genius not ashamed to bear
The pall, or shed at home the tear.
Thou, who hast shown us how the great
Are greater in their fallen state,
Another rare example give . .
That kings, uncurst by men, may live,
And Poland by thy light shall see
One nation in wide Europe free.

CCXII. TO MY DAUGHTER IN ITALY, AT CHRISTMAS.

Where is, ah where! the citron bloom
That threw its fragrance o'er my room?
Where, white magnolia-cup entwined
With pliant myrtle's ruddy rind?
Julia, with you the flowers are gay,
And cluster round the shortest day
Little at Fiesole ye know
Of holly, less of mistleto;
Such as the Druid priest of yore
To grim god-monsters grimly bore.
Run: from her pouting infants call
The musk-rose at our chapel-wall;
Run, bring the violets up, that blow
Along the banks of Africo;
And tell them, every soul, they must
Bend their coy heads and kiss my bust.
Christmas is come: on such a day
Give the best thoughts fair room for play,
And all the Sabbath dance and sing
In honour of your new-born king.

CCXIII. TO MISS ISABELLA PERCY.

If that old hermit laid to rest
Beneath your chapel-floor,
Could leave the regions of the blest
And visit earth once more:
If human sympathies could warm
His tranquil breast again,
Your innocence that breast could charm,
Perhaps your beauty pain.

CCXIV. TO CHARLES DICKENS.

CCXV. TO SOUTHEY, 1833.

CCXVI. TO BARRY CORNWALL.

Barry! your spirit long ago
Has haunted me; at last I know
The heart it sprung from: one more sound
Ne'er rested on poetic ground.
But, Barry Cornwall! by what right
Wring you my breast and dim my sight,
And make me wish at every touch
My poor old hand could do as much?
No other in these later times
Has bound me in so potent rhymes.
I have observed the curious dress
And jewelry of brave Queen Bess,
But always found some o'ercharged thing,
Some flaw in even the brightest ring,
Admiring in her men of war,
A rich but too argute guitar.
Our foremost now are more prolix,
And scrape with three-fell fiddlesticks,
And, whether bound for griefs or smiles,
Are slow to turn as crocodiles.
Once, every court and country bevy
Chose the gallant of loins less heavy,
And would have laid upon the shelf
Him who could talk but of himself.
Reason is stout, but even Reason
May walk too long in Rhyme's hot season.
I have heard many folks aver
They have caught horrid colds with her.
Imagination's paper kite,
Unless the string is held in tight,
Whatever fits and starts it takes,
Soon bounces on the ground, and breaks.
You, placed afar from each extreme,
Nor dully drowse nor wildly dream,
But, ever flowing with good-humour,
Are bright as spring and warm as summer.
Mid your Penates not a word
Of scorn or ill-report is heard;
Nor is there any need to pull
A sheaf or truss from cart too full,
Lest it overload the horse, no doubt,
Or clog the road by falling out.
We, who surround a common table,
And imitate the fashionable,
Wear each two eye-glasses: this lens
Shows us our faults, that other men's.
We do not care how dim may be
This by whose aid our own we see
But, ever anxiously alert
That all may have their whole desert,
We would melt down the stars and sun
In our heart's furnace, to make one
Thro' which the enlighten'd world might spy
A mote upon a brother's eye.

CCXVII. TO MAJOR-GENERAL W. NAPIER.

Napier! take up anew thy pen,
To mark the deeds of mighty men.
And whose more glorious canst thou trace
Than heroes of thy name and race?
No other house hath ever borne
So many of them to adorn
The annals of our native land
In virtue, wisdom, and command.
But foremost, and to thee most near,
Is he who vanquisht the Ameer.
And when before his feet was laid
By fallen power the thirteenth blade,
With every hilt more rich in gems
Than Europe's kingly diadems,
Then, and then only did he stoop
To take the spoils of victory up,
That he might render each again
To hands which wielded them in vain.
“Is this the race of Clive?” cried they:
“Did Hastings exercise such sway?”
They since have seen him rais'd not more
In pride or splendour than before,
And studious but to leave behind
The blessing of just laws to Scinde.
Therefore do thou, if health permit,
Add one page more to Holy Writ.
Such is the page wherein are shown
The fragments of a bloody throne,
And peace and happiness restor'd
By their old enemy the sword.
Hasten, my friend, the work begun,
For daily dimmer grows our sun,
And age, if farther off from thee,
Creeps on, though imperceptibly.
Some call him slow, some find him fast,
But all he overtakes at last,
Unless they run and will not wait,
But overleap life's flower-twined gate.
We may not leave the lighted town
Again to tread our turfy down,
Thence tracing Avon's misty white,
The latest object seiz'd by Night,
Nor part at Claverton when Jove
Is the sole star we see above;
Yet friends for evermore. If War
Had rear'd me a triumphal car,
Imperfect would have been my pride
Unless he plac'd thee close beside,
And shouts like these the skies might rend,
“See the brave man he chose for friend!”

CCXVIII. TO MATHEW AND WOLFF.

CCXIX. TO JOHN KENYON.

CCXX. TO ROBERT BROWNING.

There is delight in singing, tho' none hear
Beside the singer; and there is delight
In praising, tho' the praiser sit alone
And see the prais'd far off him, far above.
Shakespeare is not our poet, but the world's,
Therefore on him no speech! and brief for thee,
Browning! Since Chaucer was alive and hale,
No man hath walkt along our roads with step
So active, so inquiring eye, or tongue
So varied in discourse. But warmer climes
Give brighter plumage, stronger wing: the breeze
Of Alpine highths thou playest with, borne on
Beyond Sorrento and Amalfi, where
The Siren waits thee, singing song for song.

CCXXI. TO THE SISTER OF ELIA.

CCXXII. TO JOSEPH ABLETT.

CCXXIII. TO EMMA ISOLA.

CCXXIV. TO A PAINTER.

Conceal not Time's misdeeds, but on my brow
Retrace his mark:
Let the retiring hair be silvery now
That once was dark:
Eyes that reflected images too bright
Let clouds o'ercast,
And from the tablet be abolisht quite
The cheerful past.
Yet Care's deep lines should one from waken'd Mirth
Steal softly o'er,
Perhaps on me the fairest of the Earth,
May glance once more.

CCXXV. FOR AN EPITAPH AT FIESOLE.

Lo! where the four mimosas blend their shade
In calm repose at last is Landor laid,
For ere he slept he saw them planted here
By her his soul had ever held most dear,
And he had lived enough when he had dried her tear.

CCXXVI. TO A BRIDE, FEB. 17, 1846.

CCXXVII. TO JOHN FORSTER.

Forster! whose zeal hath seiz'd each written page
That fell from me, and over many lands
Hath clear'd for me a broad and solid way,
Whence one more age, aye, haply more than one,
May be arrived at (all through thee), accept
No false or faint or perishable thanks.
From better men, and greater, friendship turn'd
Thy willing steps to me. From Eliot's cell
Death-dark, from Hampden's sadder battle-field,
From steadfast Cromwell's tribunitian throne,
Loftier than kings' supported knees could mount,
Hast thou departed with me, and hast climbed
Cecropian highths, and ploughed Ægean waves.
Therefore it never grieved me when I saw
That she who guards those regions and those seas
Hath lookt with eyes more gracious upon thee.
There are no few like that conspirator
Who, under prètext of power-worship, fell
At Cæsar's feet, only to hold him down
While others stabb'd him with repeated blows:
And there are more who fling light jibes, immerst
In gutter-filth, against the car that mounts
Weighty with triumph up the Sacred Way.
Protect in every place my stranger guests,
Born in the lucid land of free pure song,
Now first appearing on repulsive shores,
Bleak, and where safely none but natives move,
Red-poll'd, red-handed, siller-grasping men.
Ah! lead them far away, for they are used
To genial climes and gentle speech; but most
Cymodameia: warn the Tritons off
While she ascends, while through the opening plain
Of the green sea (brighten'd by bearing it)
Gushes redundantly her golden hair.