Poems, Dialogues in Verse and Epigrams :: :: University of Virginia Library

How soon, alas, 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!

IV. TO A CYCLAMEN.

I come to visit thee again,
My little flowerless cyclamen;

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To touch the hand, almost to press,
That cheer'd thee in thy loneliness.
What could thy careful guardian find
Of thee in form, of me in mind,
What is there in us rich or rare,
To make us claim a moment's care?
Unworthy to be so carest,
We are but withering leaves at best.

V. TO THE CYCLAMEN.

Thou Cyclamen of crumpled horn
Toss not thy head aside;
Repose it where the Loves were born,
In that warm dell abide.
Whatever flowers, on mountain, field,
Or garden, may arise,
Thine only that pure odour yield
Which never can suffice.
Emblem of her I've loved so long,
Go, carry her this little song.

VI. HEART'S-EASE.

There is a flower I wish to wear,
But not until first worn by you . .
Heart's-ease . . of all earth's flowers most rare;
Bring it; and bring enough for two.

VII. HOW TO READ ME.

To turn my volumes o'er nor find
(Sweet unsuspicious friend!)
Some vestige of an erring mind
To chide or discommend,

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Believe that all were loved like you
With love from blame exempt,
Believe that all my griefs were true
And all my joys but dreamt.

VIII. APOLOGY FOR GEBIR.

Sixty the years since Fidler bore
My grouse-bag up the Bala moor;
Above the lake, along the lea
Where gleams the darkly yellow Dee;
Thro' crags, o'er cliffs, I carried there
My verses with paternal care,
But left them and went home again,
To wing the birds upon the plain.
With heavier luggage half forgot,
For many months they followed not.
When over Tawey's sands they came,
Brighter flew up my winter flame;
And each old cricket sang alert
With joy that they had come unhurt.
Gebir! men shook their heads in doubt
If we were sane: few made us out,
Beside one stranger; in his heart
We after held no niggard part.
The songs of every age he knew,
But only sang the pure and true.
Poet he was, yet was his smile
Without a tinge of gall or guile.
Such lived, 'tis said, in ages past;
Who knows if Southey was the last?
Dapper, who may perhaps have seen
My name in some late magazine,
Among a dozen or a score
Which interest wise people more,
Wonders if I can be the same
To whom poor Southey augured fame;

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Erring as usual in his choice
Of one who mocks the public voice,
And fancies two or three are worth
Far more than all the rest on earth.
Dapper, in tones benign and clear,
Tells those who treasure all they hear,

“Landor would have done better far,
Had he observed the northern star;
Or Bloomfield might have shown the way
To one who always goes astray;
He might have tried his pen upon
The living, not the dead and gone.
Are turban'd youths and muffled belles
Extinct along the Dardanelles?
Is there no scimitar, no axe?
Daggers and bow-strings, mutes and sacks?
Are they all swept away for ever
From that sky-blue resplendent river?
Do heroes of old time surpass
Cardigan, Somerset, Dundas?
Do the Sigæan mounds inclose
More corses than Death swept from those?”

No, no: but let me ask in turn,
Whether, whene'er Corinthian urn,
With ivied Faun upon the rim
Invites, I may not gaze on him?
I love all beauty: I can go
At times from Gainsboro' to Watteau;
Even after Milton's thorough-bass
I bear the rhymes of Hudibras,
And find more solid wisdom there
Than pads professor's easy chair:
But never sit I quiet long
Where broidered cassock floats round Young;
Whose pungent essences perfume
And quirk and quibble trim the tomb;
Who thinks the holy bread too plain,
And in the chalice pours champagne.
I love old places and their climes,

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Nor quit the syrinx for the chimes.
Manners have changed; but hearts are yet
The same, and will be while they beat.
Ye blame not those who wander o'er
Our earth's remotest wildest shore,
Nor scoff at seeking what is hid
Within one-chambered pyramid;
Let me then, with my coat untorn
By your acacia's crooked thorn,
Follow from Gades to the coast
Of Egypt men thro' ages lost.
Firm was my step on rocky steeps;
Others slipt down loose sandhill heaps.
I knew where hidden fountains lay;
Hoarse was their thirsty camels' bray;
And presently fresh droves had past
The beasts expiring on the waste.

IX. DEATH OF THE DAY.

My pictures blacken in their frames
As night comes on,
And youthful maids and wrinkled dames
Are now all one.

Death of the day! a sterner Death
Did worse before;
The fairest form, the sweetest breath,
Away he bore.

X. ON SOUTHEY'S DEATH.

Friends! hear the words my wandering thoughts would say,
And cast them into shape some other day.
Southey, my friend of forty years, is gone,
And, shattered by the fall, I stand alone.

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XI. GORE-HOUSE LEFT FOR PARIS.

Under the lilacs we shall meet no more,
Nor Alfred's welcome hail me at the door,
Nor the brave guardian of the hall contend
In harsher voice to greet his trusty friend,
Nor on the banks of Arno or of Seine
Sure is my hope to bend my steps again;
But be it surer, Margarite, that Power
May still remember many a festive hour,
More festive when we saw the captive free,
And clasp afresh the hand held forth by thee.

XII. THE THREE ROSES.

When the buds began to burst,
Long ago, with Rose the First
I was walking; joyous then
Far above all other men,
Till before us up there stood
Britonferry's oaken wood,
Whispering, “Happy as thou art,
Happiness and thou must part.”
Many summers have gone by
Since a Second Rose and I
(Rose from that same stem) have told
This and other tales of old.
She upon her wedding-day
Carried home my tenderest lay;
From her lap I now have heard
Gleeful, chirping, Rose the Third.
Not for her this hand of mine
Rhyme with nuptial wreath shall twine;
Cold and torpid it must lie,
Mute the tongue, and closed the eye.

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XIII. THE LAST GIFT.

The shadows deepen round me; take
I will not say my last adieu,
But, this faint verse; and for my sake
Keep the last line I trace for you.

The years that lightly touch your head,
Nor steal away nor change one hair,
Press upon mine with heavy tread
And leave but barren laurels there.

Another year I may not see,
I may not all I hope in this,
Receive then on your brow from me
And give Rosina's lips the kiss.

XIV. LA PENSIEROSA.

It is not envy, it is fear
Impels me, while I write, to say
When Poesy invites, forbear
Sometimes to walk her tempting way;
Readier is she to swell the tear
Than its sharp tinglings to allay.

To our first loves we oft return
When years, that smooth 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.

Are there no stories fit for song
And fit for maiden lips to sing?
To you, O Rose, they all belong,
About your knee they fondly cling,

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They love the accents of your tongue,
They seek the shadow of your wing.

Ah! let the Hours be blythe and free,
With Hope for ever at their side,
And let the Muses chaunt a glee
Of pleasures that await the bride,
Of sunny life's untroubled sea,
Smooth sands and gently-swelling tide.

A time will come when steps are slow
And apt on ancient scenes to rest,
When life hath lost its former glow
And, one by one, your shrinking breast
Hath dropt the flowers refreshing so
That mansion of the truly blest.

Then, nor till then, in spring go forth
The graves of waiting friends to see:
It would be pleasant to my earth
To know your step, if that might be:
A bayleaf is above my worth,
A daisy is enough for me.

XV. THE FIG-TREES OF GHERARDESCA.

Ye brave old fig-trees! worthy pair!
Beneath whose shade I often lay
To breathe awhile a cooler air,
And shield me from the darts of day.

Strangers have visited the spot,
Led thither by my parting song;
Alas! the strangers found you not,
And curst the poet's lying tongue.

Vanisht each venerable head,
Nor bough nor leaf could tell them where

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To look for you, alive or dead;
Unheeded was my distant prayer.

I might have hoped (if hope had ever
Been mine) that storm or time alone
Your firm alliance would dissever . .
Hath mortal hand your strength o'erthrown?

Before an axe had bitten thro'
The bleeding bark, some tender thought,
If not for me, at least for you,
On younger bosoms might have wrought.

Age after age your honeyed fruit
From boys unseen thro' foliage fell
On lifted apron; now is mute
The girlish glee! Old friends, farewell!