Lyric Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

She is not fair, as some are fair,
Cold as the snow, as sunshine gay:
On her clear brow, come grief what may,
She suffers not too stern an air;
But, grave in silence, sweet in speech,
Loves neither mockery nor disdain;
Gentle to all, to all doth teach
The charm of deeming nothing vain.

She joined me: and we wandered on;
And I rejoiced, I cared not why,
Deeming it immortality
To walk with such a soul alone.
Primroses pale grew all around,
Violets, and moss, and ivy wild;
Yet, drinking sweetness from the ground,
I was but conscious that she smiled.

The wind blew all her shining hair
From her sweet brows; and she, the while,
Put back her lovely head, to smile
On my enchanted spirit there.
Jonquils and pansies round her head
Gleamed softly; but a heavenlier hue
Upon her perfect cheek was shed,
And in her eyes a purer blue.

There came an end to break the spell;
She murmured something in my ear;
The words fell vague, I did not hear,
And ere I knew, I said farewell;
And homeward went, with happy heart
And spirit dwelling in a gleam,
Rapt to a Paradise apart,
With all the world become a dream.

Yet now, too soon, the world's strong strife
Breaks on me pitiless again;
The pride of passion, hopes made vain,
The wounds, the weariness of life.

And losing that forgetful sphere,
For some less troubled world I sigh,
If not divine, more free, more clear,
Than this poor, soiled humanity.

But when, in trances of the night,
Wakeful, my lonely bed I keep,
And linger at the gate of Sleep,
Fearing, lest dreams deny me light;
Her image comes into the gloom,
With her pale features moulded fair,
Her breathing beauty, morning bloom,
My heart's delight, my tongue's despair.

With loving hand she touches mine,
Showers her soft tresses on my brow,
And heals my heart, I know not how,
Bathing me with her looks divine.
She beckons me; and I arise;
And, grief no more remembering,
Wander again with rapturous eyes
Through those enchanted lands of Spring.

Then, as I walk with her in peace,
I leave this troubled air below,
Where, hurrying sadly to and fro,
Men toil, and strain, and cannot cease:
Then, freed from tyrannous Fate's control,
Untouched by years or grief, I see
Transfigured in that child-like soul
The soiled soul of humanity.

II. [A child in nature, as a child in years]

A child in nature, as a child in years,
If on past hours she turn remembering eyes,
She but beholds sweet joys or gentle tears,
Flower hiding flower in her pure memories.

So flower-like, so lovely do they seem:
Too fair to be let die, they fade too fast;
Not like that hopeless beauty, which in dream
Is ever present, but to say 'tis past.

Then should I come with sorrow at my breast,
Profitless sorrow, vainly wished away,
Will she give comfort to my heart's unrest,
She, whose bright years are as a morn of May?

Though I should sigh, I could not choose but cheer,
Knowing Joy is not far, when she is near.

IV. A DIALOGUE.

The Man.
O tyrannous Angel, dreadful God,
Who taught thee thus to wield thy rod?
So jealous of a happy heart,
Thou smot'st our happy souls apart,
And chosest too the weaker prey,
Refusedst the worthier foeman!

The Angel.
Nay:
I am my Master's minister.
Why ravest? Peace abides with her.
Thou, who wast held in human thrall,
For thee I made the fetters fall;
I loosed thy bonds, I set thee free:
Now, thou regret'st thy liberty!

And why for what is cold repine?
She is no longer aught divine!
Can those chill lips, now purpled, speak?
Is any bloom upon that cheek?
Nay, if thou wilt, an idle kiss
I grant thee; that is all.

The Man.
Not this,
Not this I ask; but, Angel, give,
Give back the life that let me live!
Or take away this useless breath:
Grant me her consecrated death!
Where she has past, the way is pure,
If anything of good endure.

The Angel.
Fool, dost thou think to raise thy hand
Against the law no passion planned,
Or seek to shake the stars' repose
With crying of thy puny woes?

Turn to thy petty ways, and there,
There learn the wisdom of despair.

The Man.
O pitiless word! Yet slay me too:
Be kind, O Death! for my soul grew,
Watered and fed by gracious dew,
Till in one hour Love met with thee.
Now, the wide world is misery!

The Angel.
Love, who is Love? I know him not.
Strange things are ye, that learn your lot
So soon, and yet must needs bemoan,
When stricken with the fate foreknown.
Art thou more worthy, Man, to keep
Thine age from the appointed sleep,
Thy strength from the sure-coming hour,
Than the perfection of a flower!
They ask not for their lovely bloom
Exemption from the final doom;
And man, so full of fault and flaw,
Shall he evade the unchanging law?

Let him be wise; and, as the flowers,
With joy fulfil his destined hours,
Live with unanxious ample breath,
And when at last he comes to death,
Compose his heart and calm his eye,
And, proud to have lived, scorn not to die!

VII. [As in the dusty lane to fern or flower]

As in the dusty lane to fern or flower,
Whose freshness in hot noon is dried and dead,
Sweet comes the dark with a full-falling shower,
And again breathes the new-washed, happy head:

So when the thronged world round my spirit hums,
And soils my purer sense, and dims my eyes,
So grateful to my heart the evening comes,
Unburdening its still rain of memories.

Then in the deep and solitary night
I feel the freshness of your absent grace,
Sweetening the air, and know again the light
Of your loved presence, musing on your face,

Until I see its image, clear and whole,
Shining above me, and sleep takes my soul.

X. TO A SOLITARY FIR-TREE.

Fir, that on this moor austere,
Without kin or neighbour near,
Utterest now bleak winter's moan
As if its vext soul were thine own!
Unbefriended, placed like thee,
Ah, how lonely should I be!
But luminous midsummer nights,
Faintly filled with starry lights,
Morns miraculously clear
In the soft youth of the year,
Autumn mists and evenings chill,
Find thee proudly patient still:
None can mar thy steadfast mood,
Thy stanch and stately fortitude.
Had I no heart, to strive, to crave,
I too, perchance, could be as brave!

But oh, to crave and not be filled,
With passionate longing never stilled,
Desiring in the midst of bliss,
Thou, strong Tree, thou know'st not this:
The outstretched arms, the hungry eyes,
Gazing up to silent skies,
Beautiful, silent skies of June,
And radiant mystery of the moon!
To buy peace, we men forget:
But peace is in thy fibres set.
If thou art not stirred with joy,
Thou hast nothing that can cloy;
Without effort, without strife,
Art thyself, and liv'st thy life.
This solitude thou hast not known,
Both to be human and alone.

XII. ON A FIGURE OF JUSTICE WITH BOUND EYES.

Unhappy goddess! Has then envious earth
Denied thine eyes the radiance of thy birth?
Have mortals, that still need thy voice to school
Their wrangling lives, their daily feuds to rule,
That thou might'st judge with stern and equal mind,
Swayed by no fear or favour, made thee blind?
Immortal, yet with bound and vacant eye,
How sad an emblem of humanity!
Thou bearest the poised scales, the uplifted sword,
Dealing to each his sentence and award.
Infinite acts in tedious array,
Their petty quarrels, at thy feet they lay.
Thou hearest: and dost thou require no more,
No subtler knowledge, no profounder lore?
Hast thou searched out the individual heart?
Or deem'st thou each its fellow's counterpart?

Ah, what wronged mind might not those eyes have read,
With light and with compassion visited,
Let the soiled page of obscure lots unroll,
Nor from deeds judged, but from the striving soul!

Teased by such strife, and yet, 'mid all its din,
Conscious and proud of heavenly rays within,
Know'st thou no hour when thy long labours seem
Fruitless as foolish, a preposterous dream!
When some imperious impulse bids thee scorn
The bonds of use, no longer to be borne,
And with indignant tears at tasks so vain,
Dash down thy scales, and snap thy sword in twain;
Leave man to end his wrongs from his own store
Of wisdom, and revisit earth no more?

XV. DISAPPOINTMENT.

And were they but for this, those passionate schemes
Of joy, that I have nursed? indeed for this
That longings, day and night, have filled my dreams?
Now it has come, the hour of bliss,
How different it seems!

So thought I bitterly: but on my bed
As I lay lone and restless, in my ear,
Falling from some far place of peace o'erhead
Through the still dark, I seemed to hear
These accents softly shed:

“Wouldst thou then, child, from this invading pain
Find refuge, and relax thy suffering will
In tears? To peace wouldst thou indeed attain?
Remember all thy courage; still
True to thyself remain!

“What is it to thee, if some wished delight.
That from the future beckoned thee, at last
Comes changed, its former glory faded quite?
Fly the perfidious Hours; keep fast
Within, the springs of light!

“What is it to thee, if in some dear mind
Another is remembered, more than thou?
Quench that poor envy; let no gazer find
Aught in thine acts or on thy brow
But what is sweet and kind!

“For how shall that pure spirit, whom vain things flee,
Whom passion's ebbs and floods delight not, Love
The consolation of the world, if he
Out of his course so lightly move,
Immortal and eternal be?

“Take courage! peace at last and joy attend
The true-fixt heart that mocks Time's envious power;
The heart that, tender even to the end,
Exacts not joy from any hour,
Nor love from any friend.”

Alas! how oft I have wished that voice had spared
Its counsel stern, nor pointed me through tears
My path! How oft, to feet stumbling and scarred,
That path impossible appears;
Which yet is only hard.

XVI. AMO, ERGO SUM.

Whatever seemed to reign within my breast,
Ere now, or reigned in the true sovereign's room,
Love has dethroned, strong Love has dispossessed,
Like a glad master come to his own home.
Love is my lord: I call upon his name.

Aimless I lived; but now my aims are flown
Winged to one mark, wherever his voice call:
My heart shrinks from deep pains, too well foreknown,
But my soul leaps with joy, to welcome all.
With Love, my joy, I have no fear of shame.

So that Love lead my ever-faithful feet,
I care not whether they be scarred or no.
Somehow, somewhere, the end must needs be sweet,
However rough the road by which we go.
Love is my trust; for since I love, I am.

XIX. RECOLLECTIONS OF CORNWALL.

To R. G. R. and H. P. P.

Let not the mind, that would have peace,
Too much repose on former joy,
Nor in pourtraying past delight
Her needed, active power employ!

So, as we linger and look back,
Tired, and perplext with present fears,
Comes the clear voice of something stern
Across the frivolous, fleeting years.

Pressed onward, without power to pause,
By their imperious, silent wave,
How little of the precious past,
Hoarded so anxiously, we save.

Scarce with beseeching tears we cry,
To some delicious moment, stay!
Ere the rude hours have swept us on:
Lamenting we are borne away.

Yet often, in our deep desire,
Backward we cannot help but gaze,
If gazing might perchance restore
Some lost and lovely yesterdays.

Come then, and ere Time takes them quite,
Gather with careful choice, to find
Whatever flowering memories serve
To make a garden of the mind.

Near tender thoughts and unsoiled names,
Names murmured to our hearts in sleep,
And dreams, too pure for the world's eye,
These too, their sacred place shall keep.

Then let the cloud-swept midnight blow
Fresh on our cheeks again the spray,
As the prow plunges, where we stand
And watch the coast, from bay to bay.

Lying so lonely, sleeping soft
Under the breezes of the night;
Only on each dim headland gleams,
Far-seen, its beaconing, faithful light.

Again upon our waking eyes
Let Plymouth Sound and Plymouth Hoe,
The woody Mount, the ships, the strand,
Bright in the morning sunshine glow.

Or let the tender twilight steep,
As at our journey's end, the moor,
When glad and tired at last we reach
The Lizard, and our cottage door.

The Lizard! hark! the name brings back
The noise remote of moving seas,
Storied as those, whose waters foamed
Round the renowned Hesperides.

On Kynance Cove our window looks,
The foam-swept rocks, the tides' unrest,
The gathering dusk, and one pure star
Deep in the visionary west.

And there we sit, while evening dies
Far o'er that lone, romantic sea,
Where famous, fallen Lyonness
Sleeps with its ruined chivalry.

By Dolour Hugo's wondrous walls,
Under their arching gloom we glide:
Rocking our boat, with rustling noise,
The shadowy waters swell, subside.

Cold strikes the air; our voices wake
Weird echoes in the roof: below,
Deep through the glimmering waves, we see
The long weeds washing to and fro.

Then round the headland's troops of gulls
To hospitable Cadgwith come;
Sweet Cadgwith, climbing o'er the cliff
With cottage gardens bright in bloom.

Ah, morns at Housel, where we bathe!
Where, sounding up the cliffs and caves,
The blue sea tumbles, salt and bright;
Fresh in our faces burst the waves.

Ah, that wild slope, beyond Penzance,
Where, deep in heather, drowsed we lie,
Till on us steals the fairy mist
And makes a blank of sea and sky;

Blots out the distant Lizard coast,
And steals across the silent bay:
Saint Michael's Mount becomes a cloud,
And dimly wanes the lingering day.

So may not the oblivious months
With other scenes, however bright,
Wash out your names, with all that made
Our sojourn by your shores delight.

Sweet shores! to the remembering mind
Thrice lovelier now: for what were ye
Without the charm, that still survives,
Of chosen friends' society?

Nay, can Earth's sweetest sights and sounds,
A running stream, a rosy sky,
Uncheered by human thoughts, assuage
The deep desire for sympathy?

Like a fair face, without a heart,
They charm, and for an hour control;
But easily we turn away:
They have not lingered in the soul.

XXII. STARS.

And must I deem you mortal as my kind,
O solemn stars, that to man's doubtful mind
So long have seemed, 'mid the world's fallen kings
And glories gone, the sole eternal things;
To perishable flesh and mouldering dust
Heaven's symbols fixt, triumphant and august?
Do ye too suffer change, ye too decay,
Waxing and waning like an earthly day?
So must I deem: yet not with such a light
Shine ye, on this serene September night!
No, nor as alien splendours, worlds not ours,
In perfect order marshalled, mighty Powers,
Beneath whose peace we darkly do and dream:
Not now so vast, not so remote ye seem.
But, it may be some rising human tear
That dims my eyes and draws your radiance near,

Sweet tokens of the lands ye look upon,
Faces upturned like mine, unknown yet known,
Of musing friends and lovers, ye appear!
Pulses of Heaven, whose beating mirrors forth
The beating of the unnumbered hearts of earth!
Eyes, that in love watch over weary men!
Once more I lift my gaze to you, as then
In childhood, when you seemed but lovely lights,
The glorious visitants of cloudless nights;
And, as I gaze, I feel renewed the joy
Ignorance felt, nor knowledge can destroy.

XXIV. TWILIGHT.

Warm, the deserted evening
Closes over the moor.
Was it here we walked and were merry
Only an hour before?

Magic light in the west
Smiles over the moorland swells:
Fairies invisible roam them
Whispering wonderful spells.

They whisper, and all grows strange:
Shadows are over the stream;
The still, gray rocks are a vision,
The solid ground a dream.

Trees murmur, and hush, and tremble;
The west is drained of light.
Earth slumbers beneath silence
And the beautiful eyes of Night.

XXV. [Now that I have won]

Now that I have won
Long despaired of peace,
And those fears are flown
That vext so my heart's ease;

Shall I wish my love
Had found a path more smooth,
With no thorns to prove
Its constancy and truth?

Wish those nights not spent,
Long, unhappy nights,
Which in sighings went
Over lost delights?

Wish those tears unwept,
When you seemed unkind?
Nay; for these pangs kept
Love steadfast in my mind.

Out of these he came
Stronger, tenderer; tried
As with burning flame;
Proved and purified.

Not in vain I shook
With those tears and sighs,
If now Love may look
Out of Faith's clear eyes.

Now may my tired head
On your breast repose,
By your heart comforted,
Which it trusts and knows.

XXVI. [No more now with jealous complaining]

No more now with jealous complaining
Shall you be vext; nor I with fears
Torture my heart: my heart is secure now,
And laughs at follies of former tears.
No more now with the endless paining
Of idle desires shall Day distress;
Nor Night, from passionate envy pure now,
With insupportable loneliness.
Truth and Trust so sweetly possess
My fortress of peace, no more to be shaken;
From dreams of joy to joy I awaken
And wander in fields of happiness.
Foolish once, now I'll be wise,
And live in the light of your trusting eyes.

XXVII. MIDSUMMER VIGIL.

Night smiles on me with her stars,
Mystic, pure, enchanted, lone.
Light, that only heaven discloses,
Is in heaven that no cloud mars;
Here, through murmuring darkness blown,
Comes the scent of unseen roses.

Now the world is all asleep;
Drowsy man dull rest is taking.
I with whispering trees apart
My deserted vigil keep.
Light leaves in the light wind shaking
Echo back my beating heart.

And the garden's perfumes thrill me
Like a touch or whispered name:
Heliotrope and lavender
Slumber-odoured lilies, fill me

With their breath, like subtlest flame;
Vague desire and yearning stir.

Shadowy elms above me, crowned
With mysterious foliage, dim
Mid the stars, against the skies,
Hidden lawn and alley bound,
Full of voices, full of dream,
Fragrant breathings and long sighs.

Wishes, that with eager tongues
Strive among the soft-blown boughs,
Each an amorous messenger;
Dreams, that glide in noiseless throngs;
Wingèd flight of earnest vows;
Listening with hushed breath I hear.

This intoxicating sweetness
That the perfumed air exhales,
Stir of thoughts and dear desires,
Joys that faint with their own fleetness,
Passion that for utterance fails;
Whither burns it? where aspires?

'Tis for her, whose worshipped hand
Holds my heart, for life, for death.
Ah, could she, could she but come
Hither, where Love's witching wand
Holds the midnight's thoughtful breath,
While the stars are glittering dumb!

Come, that into that sweet ear
I might pour what until now
Never heart brought tongue to tell,
Mistress ne'er had bliss to hear,
Lover with his hundredth vow
Vainly sought to syllable.

Pale with transport when I take
'Twixt my hands her face, and look
Deep into her brimming eyes,
Passionately fain to speak,
How my trembling murmurs mock
Those unuttered ecstacies!

And when cheek to cheek is prest,
And the pulse of her pure being

Throbs from her veins into mine,
Love in torment from my breast
Cries athirst for language, freeing
In sweet speech his pangs divine.

How should language, weak and vain,
Bear the burden of such joy?
How should words the meaning reach
Of that charm's ecstatic pain;
Charm which words would but destroy
Of devotion beyond speech?

But to-night, dear, Love is kind,
And those jealous bonds that mesh
The heart's tongue-tied truth sets free.
Undivided, unconfined
By those walls of human flesh,
Look, my heart is bared to thee!

Seeing, thou shalt want not eyes;
Hearing, thou shalt need not ears;
Purged, our spirits shall burn through
Tedious day's necessities.

O to cast off doubts and fears!
To touch truth, and feel it true!

Thou my tender thought shalt find
Ever, like a quick-eyed slave,
Watching for thy wish unspoken;
In my inmost treasury shrined
Looks and tones thy spirit gave,
Faith's for ever cherished token!

Come, O come, where'er thou art!
Ere this rich hour past reprieve
In the garish daylight die,
Hear me, Sweet, and my heart's heart,
My soul's soul, believe, receive,
Poured into a single sigh!

XXIX. CHERWELL STREAM.

Green banks and gliding river!
What air from what far place
Comes down your waters' face
And makes your willows shiver?

Over me stole a spell,
A breath upon my brow;
Light on my spirit fell,
I knew not whence nor how.

Faded into a dream
Are Oxford's spires and towers;
Far down the winding stream,
Beyond the fields and flowers.

Is it that Nature here,
Finding me thus alone,
Would whisper in my ear
Some secret of her own?

Would win her child again
To these beloved retreats,
Shunned now too long for men,
For throngs and busy streets?

I know not. Round the bend
The sound of oars comes fast:
My moment's spell is past;
I hear the voice of a friend.

XXXI. [Ah, now this happy month is gone]

Ah, now this happy month is gone,
Not now, my heart, complain,
Nor rail at Time because so soon
He takes his own again.

He takes his own, the weeks, the hours,
But leaves the best with thee;
Seeds of imperishable flowers
In fields of memory.

XXXII. [Do kings put faith in fortressed walls, and bar]

Do kings put faith in fortressed walls, and bar
Their cities' gates, as strong to keep out war?
The constancy of friends is stronger far.
Are lilies pure, that in some vale unknown
Unplucked have blossomed and unpraised have blown?
The constancy of friends is purer.
The constancy of friends is lovelier
Than fame or fortune; past all riches dear;
Impossible to soil by foulest breath;
Their crown is rarer than the conqueror's wreath,
And all their joy securer.

Then let our love be simple, steadfast, true,
And we will Fate and all her arms defy.
With that blind conflict what have we to do,
However stabbed at by Adversity?
The mortal foe is slain, mistrust; the dread
Lest our love lean upon uncertainty;

Mistrust, that poisons the mind's daily bread,
And kills its needful faith.
For us, since our joined hands have made us brave,
Not ev'n Love's boastful foes,
Estranging Time nor separating Death,
Shall call us slave,
So that we keep perfect the name of those
Who did not buy each other's hearts, but gave.

XXXIII.

[O sorrowful thought! But one more flying year]

O sorrowful thought! But one more flying year,
And our ways part, perhaps no more to meet:
And must we, then, less dear
Grow to each other, as the swift days fleet?

Look, as two boughs from one stem branching grow
Apart, until their high leaves touch no longer;
Save when some chance gust, stronger
Than most, the one back to the other blow:

Like that tree's branches, so shall we two be;
Our paths how far divorced from where they started!
Yet still, however parted,
Rooted in the dear past and memory.

Time cannot take those; for our souls are free,
Whatever come. Then O when you have leisure
For old thoughts, think of me,
Whose mind holds you for its most treasured treasure.

XXXIV. [Vision of peace, Joy without stain]

Vision of peace, Joy without stain,
That on my vext heart sweetly shinest,
Hast thou, too, known the touch of pain,
Cares and dark hours, when in vain
For thy lost quiet thou repinest?

Have those eyes, in whose pure spheres
A refuge seems for all annoy,
Been indeed the place of tears?
Ah! grieve with those whom grief endears:
Still, still to me be only Joy!

XXXV. FORTUNATE MOMENTS.

Hast thou not known them, too, these moments bright,
Rare moments, such as came to me but now,
On this clear, breezy evening, when the light
Flows through the orchard's tossing leaf and bough,
As though beyond their lifted screen the breeze
Would open magic visions of the Hesperides?

Hast thou not felt a strange, arresting sense
Charm thee with wonder, fill thee unaware;
A sense of something, come thou know'st not whence,
Invisible new beauty in the air,
Wings in the light, or glory in the wind,
Make the heart throb, illumine the enchanted mind?

Ah, what an exaltation of the breast!
Ah, what a radiant clearness of the brain!
Easy it seems to find and choose the best;
Thou know'st what thou must do, the path is plain;
And read'st the riddles that beset thy soul;
While to purged eyes the mysteries of the world unroll.

But O what quick relapse! the moment come
Unrealised departs: 'tis faded quite.
Only the garden greets thee of thy home;
Only the green trees wave in the still light.
Again with puzzling brow thou stand'st alone,
With the remembered dream of light and glory gone.

XXXVII.

[What shall I say to thee, my spirit, so soon dejected]

What shall I say to thee, my spirit, so soon dejected,
Unaccountably conquered, where thou seemed'st strong?
Life, that, yesterday, the sun's own glory reflected,
Darkened now, like a train of captives, crawls along.

Alas! 'tis an old trouble, vainly drugged to sleep.
Let it wake outright; be proved, confronted, known.
Desire however endless, love however deep
Still must search and hunger: thou art still alone.

Alone, alone! Ah, little avails with childish tears
In the night's silent darkness to struggle against thy pain;
With hands stretched out in a prayer that seems to reach no ears,
And desolate repetition of that forlorn refrain.

Alone into the world thou camest, and wast not afraid.
Out of it must thou go, with no hand to clasp thine.
Thou fear'st not death: why now need'st thou another's aid
To live thine own life out, nor falter and repine?

XXXVIII.

[Come back, sweet yesterdays!]

Come back, sweet yesterdays!
Sweet yesterdays, come back!
Ah! not in my dreams only
Vex me with joy, to wake
From dream to truth, twice lonely,
And with renewed heart-ache.
Let night be wholly black,
So day have some kind rays.
Come back, sweet yesterdays!
Sweet yesterdays, come back!

XL.

[How dark, how quiet sleeps the vale below!]

How dark, how quiet sleeps the vale below!
In the dim farms, look, not a window shines:
Distantly heard among the lonely pines,
How soft the languid autumn breezes flow
Past me, and kiss my hair, and cheek, and mouth!
Half-veiled is the calm sky:
Jupiter's kingly eye
Alone glows full in the unclouded South.

Alas! and can sweet Night avail to heal
Not one of the world's wounds? Must I, even here,
Still listen with the mind's too wakeful ear
To that sad sound, which in my flesh I feel;
Sound of unresting, unrejoicing feet,
With feverish steps or slow
For ever, to and fro,
Pacing the gay, thronged, friendless, stony street?

Nature is free; but Man the eternal slave
Of care and passion. Must I deem that true?

With fields and quiet have we nought to do,
Because our spirits for ever crave and crave,
And never found their satisfaction yet?
World, is thy heart so cold,
So deeply weary and old,
That thy sole business is but to forget?

No, no! these perfect trees, with whispering voice,
These flowers, that have to thee a solace been,
And yet an alien solace, so serene
They live, and in their life seem to rejoice;
Life how unlike to thine! These flowers, these trees,
Are children of one birth
With thee, O Man; as Earth,
Earth, still so fair, for all thy ravages,

Is sister to yon radiant Jupiter,
Who with such glorious and untroubled gaze
Upon his own course burning down Heaven's ways
Across deep seas of darkness looks at her!
Perchance in his vast bosom he, too, keeps
Like ferment, like distress;
Yet tranquil shines not less,
Lord of the night, that round his splendour sleeps.

XLVI.

[The shrines of old are broken down]

The shrines of old are broken down;
The faiths that knelt at them are dead.
Nothing's strange, and nought unknown:
All's been done and all been said.
Tired of knowledge, now we sigh
For a little mystery.

Yet, howsoever science delves,
A few things still unplumbed remain.
We know all things save ourselves,
Cannot will our joy or pain.
Mysteries our hearts enthral;
And love's the strangest of them all.

XLVII.

[Beautifully dies the year.]

Beautifully dies the year.
Silence sleeps upon the mere:
Yellow leaves float on it, stilly
As, in June, the opened lily.
Brushing o'er the frosty grass
I watch a moment, ere I pass,
From beeches that will soon be bare
Down the still November air
The lovely ways of gliding leaves.
Perhaps they budded on Spring eves
When we two walked and talked together!
Autumn thoughts for Autumn weather!
I wish some days that I remember
Could glide from me, this fair November.

XLVIII.

[The sun goes down, on other lands to shine.]

The sun goes down, on other lands to shine.
I long to keep him, but he will not stay.
Only in fancy can I wing my way
To overtake him, to recatch each ray,
Warmer and warmer, till at last is mine,
In fancy, that loved gaze, that light divine.

Now close the dewy flowers, that morn's first peep
To sunshine opened: and I too must close
My leaves up, and in silence and repose
Baptize my spirit. See, the last gleam goes:
Now is it time neither to joy nor weep;
Only to lay the head down, and to sleep.

XLIX. THE VICTORIA, LOST OFF TRIPOLI, June, 1893.

Heroes, whose days are told,
Above whose bodies brave
Presses the heavy, cold,
And quenching wave!

Ye sleep: but your bright fame,
Blown upon every breeze,
Touches with mournful flame
The Syrian seas.

Now all your English land
Trembles with tears, with pride;
Stretching toward you her hand,
O glorified!

There he that walks alone,
A vision goes with him;
In still field or thronged town,
A solemn dream!

He sees the placid, blue
Mediterranean shine;
The warships, two and two,
In ordered line.

He sees those consorts vast
On their doomed circle come.
With held breath, and aghast,
The Fleet is dumb.

For him the moments hang;
His ears the shock await:
On him, too, a strong pang
Fastens, like fate.

Transfixt, his eyes see then
The decks heave, lined with free,
Firm ranks; weaponless men,
Matched with the Sea.

Alas! the wound is deep.
Not even spirits so brave
Their vainly splendid ship
Keep from the wave.

On their last farewell cries
Shines the permitting sun;
With his men Tryon lies;
And all is done.

Yet through some hearts the prayer
Thrills, O that I had died,
Fallen in glory there
By comrades' side!