Dramatic Scenes :: :: University of Virginia Library

As one who enters on a road
The end whereof no sight can reach;
Where they who bear Sin's heavy load
Are numberless (so sages teach)
As sands upon the wild sea-beach:
Where Showers and Sunshine, Night and Day,
Like Ghosts go glimmering on their way;
Where Friends and Foes, where Right and Wrong,
And all that doth to Life belong,—
The shadowy Past, the grim To-come,
Around our footsteps sink and soar;
Where Death goes beating on his drum;
And that great Sea without a shore
Gleams in the distance, while a Voice
Cries out, ‘Let no one here rejoice!’

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So I, now blind with hope and fear,
Enter upon thy paths, O year!
Thy paths, which all who breathe must tread,
Which lead the Living to the Dead,
I enter; for it is my doom
To tread thy labyrinthine gloom;
To note who 'round me watch and wait;
To love a few; perhaps to hate;
And do all duties of my fate.

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MARCH: APRIL: MAY.

March!—A cloudy stream is flowing,
And a hard steel blast is blowing;
Bitterer now than I remember
Ever to have felt or seen,

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In the depths of drear December,
When the white doth hide the green:
Not a trembling weed up-peereth
From its dark home under-ground;
Violet now nor primrose heareth
In her sleep a single sound;
All in wintry torpor bound!
Not a sparrow upon the spray!
Not a lark to greet the day!

Hush!—I hear the silver rain
Beating on the western pane,
Singing songs unto the snow;
Calling earth to wake below:
Ah, sweet April comes, who never comes in vain!

In the Orient—light! A haze
O'er the deep night-blackness strays:
Thro' the cloudy pall it poureth,
O'er the mountain scalp it soareth,
Over, through, afar, around,
(Warming all the heart of May,)
Runs the light without a sound,
From the black into the grey,
From the grey into the dawn,
Silvering all its folds of lawn,
Till it bursts upon the Day.
Gaze! From out the living gold

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Knowledge streameth as of old.
Gaze upon the sunny river;
Heaven is bright and bounteous ever.
All is beautiful.—I rise;
God is looking from the skies!

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THE PICTURE.

Underneath yon antique frame,
(Carved, observe, by dextrous hands,)
All apart from meaner things,
The thousand-guinea panel stands.

Once, in the great old Moro palace,
When the sunset evening bloom
Flushed the Adriatic waters,
It lit up the golden room.

Strangers, all who thronged to see it,
Vowed the soldier's coal-black eyes
Burned beneath the lady's beauty,
Glowing there with sweet surprise.

From his earnest gaze she looks;
Yet the passionate words she hears;
As when we fix our eyes on books
We hear a tender talker's tears:

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And, note well his tremulous mouth,
Her proud sweet smile, patrician skin;
And her eyes that front your eyes,
Reading every thought within.

What a light is on her forehead,
Shooting forwards from the dark!
How the hues of queenly crimson
All her swelling beauty mark!

And the streaks of rich Sienna
That embrown his visage dun;
And the gold upon her tresses,
Blazing like the western sun.

—Read and ponder, gentle Maiden:
And, within this circle, see
All that was, when Love was master,
All that is, and is to be;

Beauty, conquering and conquered;
Strength, all strength and fame forgot;
Pride subdued; Love, Truth triumphant:—
(Ah, what learner knows them not!)

And, besides these truths, 'tis whispered
That within this picture lies
The painter's story, when sublimed
He rose with Love into the skies.

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What names they had—these shapes we look on—
Whether, constrained, they fled of yore,
Far away, to Isle enchanted,
Idling on some faëry shore;

Or in dark and toilsome cities,
Or within some sparry cell,
In a sunset wilderness,
Loved their lives out,—none can tell.

But our dreams, which lift the Future
And the Present into light,
Give unto the Past a glory
That leaves the lovers' fortunes bright.

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THE PARISH DOCTOR.

I travel by day, I travel by night,
In the blistering sun, in the drenching rain;
And my only pleasure, in dark or light,
Is to help the poor, in pain.

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The Parish Magnificoes pay me—what?
Were it only the money, I would not roam,
But enjoy the little that I have got
By my own fireside, at home.

But hunger, and thirst, and pain, and woe
Entice me on; and they pay me well,
When I beat down the devil Disease, you know;
'Tis for that my old age I sell:

I give up my comfort, my crusty wine,
My slippers, my books, and my easy chair,
And go where the paupers starve and pine,
With help. But for this, I swear,

I would spit on the fat false bloated men
Who strut on the vestry floor,
And toss 'em their twenty pounds again,
That they squeeze from the parish poor.

Last night,—O God, what a night of cold,
With the wind and the stinging hail!
What a night for a lamb that had left the fold,
And had wandered, weak and pale!

Yet there she was,—on the midnight thrown
By the rascal that bars the gate,
And the lying relieving officer (known
For relieving—the parish rate!).

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These knaves, they are high in their masters' books,
Have a sum upon which they draw
To keep up their credit; tho' each one looks
To be sure he's within the law.

But gentleness, kindness, love—that lend
To the gifts of the heart a grace,
They reach not the pauper that has no friend,
They suit not the guardian's place.

Their duty is known;—to keep down the rate,
And the poor within proper bounds,
And to pay (that he may not be too elate)
The Doctor with—Twenty pounds!

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ABOVE AND BELOW.

Look forth, into the azure there!
Gaze your soul out upon the blue!
Now, tell me what you see so fair,
And what that fair reflects on you?

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Is Love there?—Joy?—is airy Hope?
Dwell they all there, amid the stars?
Or are they still beyond your scope,
Which some terrestrial error bars?

You see nought: but, you say, some dream
Inspires you to sublimer ends;
And that you rise up to a theme,
Which lifts you as itself ascends.

Well!—even here the lily blooms;
The rose is opening in the sun:
On every leaf are hung perfumes:
From every branch a wreath is won.

Beneath this rough rock, stained by Time,
The sparkling brooklet runs and sings;
And half-way up the brambles climb;
And from its top the acacia springs.

The daisy laughs upon the sward;
The violet sleeps within her nest:
Ah!—Nature ever yields reward
To him who seeks, and loves her best.

Now, for a moment, turn your sight,
To where this tiniest worm expands
His emerald armour in the light,
Like a dragon from the haunted lands.

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Look thro' this wizard glass, and own
How muscles swell; how pulses beat;
How Life, that wonder never known,
Dwells in this thing, from head to feet;

Dwells in those parts no eye can reach,
No touch—the tenderest—but must harm,
So infinitely small is each:
And yet, the heart's blood runneth warm,

And appetites pervade this shape,
And Love, and Joy, and Hope, and Fear,
(Such as your upward eyes escape,)
God's agents,—all are dwelling here.

Ah, friend!—Not always gaze above;
But cast your looks below,—around:
Beside you dwelleth Human Love,
And Heavenly Wonders on the ground.

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A GARDEN SCENE.

Sing me a soft love-laden song;
Tie up your hair in a tighter braid;
Here let us lie, in the cypress shade;
Here, where the feathery fountain sings,
And into the porphyry basin springs:

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Sparkling, flashing, along it goes,
Winding round by the sunny steep,
Whereon the quick green lizards creep;
Hush!—'tis gone to a deep repose,
There, where the rough rose-bramble blows.

Sing me a song, a sadder song;
All about her renowned in story,
Who died to consùmmate her lover's glory;
Took on her soul a grievous wrong;
Gave herself up, all, life and limb;
Trembled a little, and then grew dim;
Martyred alike in fame and pride;
Kissed the poison, and so she died.

Whisper another grief in song.
Where did Amalfi's daughter die?
Why do Moroni's turrets lie
Shattered by Time and the tempest strong?
Left to bare neglect so long?
Out in the wild Campagna, She
Wandered to save her soul from pain;
And there, where the poor and guilty flee,
Began the labour of life again.
Her tasks are over; life is done:
She fled with the light of the setting sun,
Into the azure, far away,
Till she met the dawn of another day.

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In the Negroni gardens, towers
Many a grave and princely pine,
Within whose spicy darkness shine
Lilies and creamy orange flowers,
And sculptured creatures, rare and fine,—
Marble Deities, each alone,
Born in heaven, and struck to stone:
Thither we'll hie in the dusky eve,
And hark to the measures that make us grieve;
Thou thyself shalt unloose thy tongue,
With the sweets of Archangelo's music hung.

Now let us end!—Yet, listen awhile,
With silent heart and a graver smile;
But back your hyacinth tresses fling,
That ravish the sweets that the summers bring.
Hush! the fountain upsprings again;
You may hear the words of the silver rain!
What do they tell off? Friendship long,
With seeds of the Love-flower sown among?
Of Fate the master? Life the slave?
Of Love that awaiteth beyond the grave?
So let it be:—My dear delight,
Now let us whisper the world “Good Night!”

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PROVERBIAL PHILOSOPHY.

How often deep wisdom, my Cosimo,
Lurks in a phrase,
Or a proverb,—you hear it and hoard it
To the end of your days.

I wish I could pour out my proverbs,
Like wine from a cask,
Such as Audit vocatus Apollo—
(Why it comes, as I ask!)

Let me try.—Do not smile, tho' I borrow
From Pagan or Turk:
'Tis the end (Finis opus coronat)
That crowneth the work.

Even though in my course I should stumble,
Remember the text,
Aliquando dormitat Homerus,
And do not be vexed.

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Were I young I might haply do better,
Do well; but alack!
Vestigia nulla retrorsum;
There's no going back.

I see now the rocks and the shallows,
And what to avoid;
Vitanda est improba Siren;
But the young are decoyed

By idleness; gentle and simple,
They bend to the rule;
Super et Garamantos et Indos,
Each playeth the fool;

He who labours when others are sporting
Is scorned by the rest,
Nigroque simillima cygno,
Thrust out from the nest;

So I sank, overborne by my fellows;
Yet wherefore complain?
Quis tulerit Gracchos querentes?
—I cried, but in vain,

Manus hæc inimica tyrannis!
When a blow on the head
Brought me down. It was thus my ambition
Was conquered, and fled.

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And now, as you see, in my verses
Few thoughts are afloat,
Rari nantes in gurgite vasto:
Yet men of some note,

Keep me sometimes in countenance, kindly,
With impotent rhymes.
(Indocti poemata scribent,
Is a phrase of old times.)

Well, well! He who spatters the absent
Deserves not a friend;
Semel his insanivimus omnes:
And so there's an end.

I said that I loved the wise proverb,
Brief, simple, and deep.
For it I'd exchange the great poem
That sends us to sleep.

I'd part with the talk of my neighbour,
That wearies the brain,
Like the Rondo that reaches an end, and
Beginneth again.

What books we might spare, my dear Cosimo,
Paper and print!

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That volume, for instance, with nothing save
Sentences in 't;

No meaning, no story, no sentiment;
All is a blank,
Save the title-page, showing 'twas writ by
“A person of rank.”

We might spare the too deep dissertations
Which nobody reads,
The Essays (on something or nothing,)
Which nobody needs.

We might spare,—ah, perhaps, our own volumes,—
The bookseller's grief,
Had we courage to spring from the limbo,
And dare to be brief.

“Absentem qui rodit amicum.”

CELATA VIRTUS.

You give me praise for what I do;
You blame me for what's left undone:
Alas, how little is piercèd through,—
How little known of the lost or won,
Under the Sun.

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My dear friend here, (would I possessed
His genius—subtle, deep, divine!)
You judge his motion by his rest:
You sound him without length of line,
And miss the mine.

For every common thought I print,
How many a better lurks unsaid,
That wants the stamp, and leaves the mint
Unhonoured by the monarch's head,
And good as dead.

How many a towering tree hath sprung
From seeds which wingèd wanderers spill;
How many a daily deed is sung
As good, which hath its source in ill,
Do what we will.

Our world opinions, half alloy,
Pass well: the rest aside are thrown:
And inmost deepest notes of joy
Move not; their own great meaning known
To the heart alone!

Let's live our life then as we may;
Let's think,—as oft we've thought, in sooth,
Careless what passers by may say;
Kind to our kind, in age, in youth,
And true to truth.

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AN ACQUAINTANCE.

I do not love you—I do not hate:
A something, 'tween hate and love, is thine.
I have given you—such as it is—a piece,
A little piece, of this heart of mine:

A morsel of gold,—but massed and mixed
With silver and iron, and clay beside;
It softens your own heart not a jot;
It pampers—a little, perhaps,—your pride.

You proffer me, now and then, words so kind!
Yet I think, for a purpose, you'd touch—just touch
My throat with your dagger,—then heal the gash;
Not glad—scarce sorry—you'd hurt me much.

You would strike me to death, when the ill blood flies
To your brain, and the riotous pulse begins
To beat; but that I have a Secret lies
Down in the dark, amidst all my sins;

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And with This I have always a master's power,
To keep within bounds your treacherous will;
And with this I shall conquer your evil hour,
And tame your heart,—till your heart be still.

Therefore, and because I must mix with men
Who are scarcely my friends (for a friend is rare),
I shall venture within your circle again,
And be seen with you, taking the noon-day air.

Thus far; no farther. I give my love
Where only my heart points out the man;
Then I give, as I give to my God above,
Love, intellect, friendship,—all I can.

No stint; no subterfuge. Time and thought,
Heart, fortune,—a river that knows no end,
All (gold from the mine and gold that's wrought,)
Belong to the man that I call my friend.

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EX FUMO.

I.

Far down in the depths of our city
There hideth a lane;
Dark, narrow; a twist like a syphon
Runs thro' it amain.

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Each house (once a palace) is blackened
By tempest and time,
And the o'erhanging stories seem watching
For underground crime.

Here reigns the dark Spirit of Silence,
Thro' evenings and nights,
Save where, from yon attic, there peereth
The smallest of lights;

Where blooms, on yon parapet, something
Half flower, half weed,
But tended as gently as love tendeth
Love in its need,

As mother her child when it pineth:
There dwelleth—ah! one
Who worketh and singeth and worketh
Till down of the sun.

Well,—there (where you see), I beheld her,
A summer ago,
From this garret here, quite on a level,
Where they crowd and they stow

The old pictures, and tables, and ledgers;
I had sought thro' the house
For some proof 'gainst a rècusant debtor;
Had startled the mouse,

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Had scared the blind bat from her slumbers,
The spider had slain,
When, lo! my glance shot thro' the window,
Where pattered the rain.

I started:—'twas now my turn, see you,
To tremble and start;
One look, and the fiercest of arrows
Went right thro' my heart.

But no figures!—they tarnish my story:
I loved her; I love,
As I worship the mother who bore me,
The heavens above!

My God! will she ever not scorn me?—
To ask her for more
Is to ask the sweet light from a planet!
I can but adore!

Yet,—perhaps,—if I gave (and I'd give her)
My life in return,
She would not quite scorn,—and she seemeth
Too gentle to spurn.

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II.

Fate has blessed me. Look! Would you believe
(I am such as you see,)
That fate should have granted the angel
That sits on my knee?

'Tis our child; yes, the child of the maiden
Who sewed as she sung;
My wife—my belovèd. She shut not
Her ear to my tongue;

But gave up the wealth of her beauty,
The grace of her youth,
To my prayer—to the pain of my passion,
The strength of my truth.

In the front of the attic she dwelt in
Still blooms the poor flower;
And within it my fancy still blossometh
Hour by hour!

Ay, often I swerve from the joys
Of my garden, with gleams
Of the sun, to go back to the blackened
Old houses;—and Dreams

Of the past, when my life was a struggle,
Fall thick on my brain,
But tempered, and turned to a pleasure
That springs from the pain.—

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How strange, that the time-smitten City
Should harbour a place,
Where crazy old age is a beauty,
And labour a grace!

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But it all must be right; and Love thrives
Most in sorrow, I'm told,
As the lily grows fairer and fresher
The blacker the mould.

PLATONIC.

What say you?—“I like yon' lady there;
She me; no further we intend,
But nurse this friendship-flower with care,
And live and die—just friend and friend.

I scarce know what her shape may be;
Her colour—is it dark or light?
Eyes she must have, for she can see;
Haply you'll tell me they are bright.

It is the mind which I admire,
The intellectual virtuous soul,
The pale pure splendour without fire,
That lightens up the perfect whole.

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In what fair guise the Soul is drest,
In rustic beauty, courtly grace,
What heed? I care not for the rest,
So Intellect hath its thronèd place.”

—Peace! Ignorant of the good and bright!
Blind scorner of the gifts of God,
Following whose footsteps came the Light,
While Beauty blossomed as he trod.

Learn, Virtue is not more his own
Than Beauty: both he gave combined,
Knowing each could not thrive alone,
So in the body bound the mind:

And from the body, and from its brain
And nerves come issuing (how who knows?)
Those pangs of thought, of joy, of pain,
That keep and crown it to the close,

When Life, (its duty done), the strange
Consolidated fabric leaves,
And soaring—elsewhere for a change,
Again bears evil pains, and grieves,
Again feels joy and hope, rejoices and believes.

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THE SEXES.

As the man beholds the woman,
As the woman sees the man,
Curiously they note each other,
As each other only can.

Never can the man divest her
Of that wondrous charm of sex;
Ever must she, dreaming of him,
The same mystic charm annex.

Strange, inborn, profound attraction!
Not the Poet's range of soul,
Learning, Science, sexless Virtue,
Can the gazer's thought control.

But, thro' every nerve and fancy
Which the inmost heart reveals,
Twined, ingrained, the Sense of difference,
Like the subtle serpent, steals.

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QUESTIONS TO A SPIRITUAL FRIEND.

When we met, do you remember,
In the lane?
When our murmuring school was over,
All its toils, its lessons vain,
All its pain?

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Since those half-forgotten hours,
You and I
Have trod our distant paths, asunder;
Meeting once,—you to die,
I to sigh.

In your home beyond Orion
Do you feel,—
Do you mark what stirs within us,
Strongest in the common weal?
Gold? or steel?

Love? or hate?—Alas, all passions
Make or mar!
Even my life's at best a struggle,
Gaining, whether in peace or war,
Many a scar.

But You!—you whose journey's over?
In my ear
Whisper,—are you happier? wiser?
Better? than when you dwelt here
Without a fear?

Does the Spirit disembodied
Think?—the Mind,
Dragged no longer down from Heaven,
Soar at will upon the wind,
Unconfined?

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Shine they now whose light on earth
Was quenched or hid?
What of those who dwelt in darkness?
What of those who only did
As they were bid?

What of men who had great virtues
And great sins?
Show me just the point and turning
Where no longer Virtue wins,
And Vice begins!

Do you love the hearts that loved you?
See and scan
Our poor world, which is so pleasant,
When unto his neighbour man
Does all he can.

Which of all our wants and passions
Cling to clay?
Tell me which you carry with you
To the realms of endless day,
Far away.

Divès, who so long oppressed you,
Do you hate?
Love you still our crumbling customs,
As when you argued, early and late,
For Church and State?

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Homer—Dante—world-wise Shakespere—
Sons of Light!
Do they stand in power as princes?
Or lose lustre, and take flight
To endless night?

Light and Dark, and Good and Evil,
Heat and Cold,
Pain and Pleasure, Poor and Wealthy,
Power of Virtue, Power of Gold,—
All unfold!

AN INTERIOR.

Unloose your heart, and let me see
What's hid within that ruby round;
Let every fold be now unbound.
What's here? Belief?—impiety?
Good—bad—indifferent? Let them be.

I see the crude half-finished thought;
The scrambling fancies, one by one,
Come out and stretch them in the sun.

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And what's that in the distance, wrought,
Clear, round, prismatic?—It is nought,—

A bubble, swollen to its best,
Its largest shape; yet overmuch.
'Twill shrink, I fancy, at a touch:
Yet, I'll not touch it:—Let it rest,
An egg within a viper's nest.

Hatched into life, I see it swell,
Burst, bare at once its poison fangs.
Alas, sir, on how little hangs
My life; your doing ill or well.
Who'd think that you would ring my knell?

I thought you were my friend, the flower
Of jolly, gamesome, rosy friends.
Well, here our ill-paired union ends.
I leave you: Should I have the power,
I'll sting you in your latest hour.

No,—let's jog on, from morn to night;
Less close than we were wont, indeed;
Why should I hate, because I read
The spots kept secret from my sight,
And force some unborn sins to light?

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All's mingled here, if keenly scanned;
No element is simple found;
But mixed and massed with other ground,—
Air,—water:—So, I'll keep my stand,
And march with you to the evening land.

SEEING.

These are the marble stairs (come on!) which lead
To the famous picture galleries; so, take heed!
On every side are wonders:—You will see
Gems to make rich a nation's treasury.
Our Duke who owns them—[Ah, would he could hear!
Impenetrably deaf! Well, we must steer
By sight.]—Observe now, where my finger points.
That is our Raffaelle's work. See who anoints
Christ's feet: How humbly the poor mourner kneels!
How the bowed head her gentle soul reveals!
[I'll write all on my tablets, as we walk.]
—There, by the barren rocks, again she lies,
Witching the admiration from our eyes:

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That is Correggio's desert Magdalen.
Above, you recognise the man whom men
Worship, old Michael. Those gaunt heads in chalk;
That sketch where two grim saints or sages stalk,

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Are his. Beyond, you see a blazing Thought
Of Titian, in his radiant morning wrought,
Ere kings bent down, and courtiers sought his ear:—
In front (Friuli's mountains in the rear)
Are white nymphs revelling in a summer pool;
Some, on the moist green grass, drink in the cool,
Not dreaming that the hunter hides so near.

You grasp my arm—you tremble?—Tush, no fear!
Ah, yes; I understand.—Gods, what a face!
What eyes, where Grief and Love thus interlace!
Around that brow what burning locks entwine!
The mouth—it speaks! Those mute words, (so divine,)
Have told the lady's story many years.
Her name is lost!—The painter? He appears
There, on the carvèd frame,—“Giorgione.” None
Now dip their pencil in the setting sun
Like him. Who else could shape a dream so bright,
Or crown it with that sad and thoughtful light?
Ere you pass on, note how the smile just dies
Upon her parted mouth, where Love still lies;
And all the world of sorrow in those eyes!
Good, good! I love to see those tears. They tell
You understand the graceful painter well.
Turn hither, now: And let your eyes be led
To Guido's angel,—his white wings outspread;
His hand suspended,—there,—as tho' he heard
(Gazing afar) some sweet seraphic word.

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—How the boy smiles, as though he heard the song!
Well, God is good, and human faith is strong.
Perhaps he feels the hymn enter his brain
Through some mysterious paths of joyful pain,
Which to our grosser sense are shut. Who knows
The hundred cells where lurk our neighbour's woes?
Who from what cause each graver pleasure springs
That soothes him when the raven Tempest sings?
To some the merry skylark's morning notes
Fall sad from out the skies wherein he floats:
And some delight in melancholy sounds;
And some hate music. In their golden rounds
The poets go, striking the vain sweet lyre!
How few they charm, alas! and none inspire.
Breathing amidst the deaf, who hear them not,
They sing, and toil, and die,—and are forgot!

Boy, thou shalt be a painter.—I give him Hope,
That fickle fairy, who will not elope,
So long as in his warm blood crimsons youth,
So long perhaps as he is true to Truth.
Yet,—as I gaze upon these pictures, drawn
Many in colours brighter than the dawn;
Some touched with humour, such as bees might sip
In summer-time from Ariosto's lip,
I think of all the baffled hopes and pains
That men endure, to reach some sordid gains!
Some gains?—am I not ignorantly wrong?

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My thought must err. The seed of Poet's song,
Of Artists' inspiration, when they reach
That rare expression, which is kin to speech,
Must spring from a deeper source,—some inward bliss,
Some airy ambitious hope,—

But, how is this?
The crowd descends. What, is the day so low?
Then we'll depart. In truth, 'tis better so,
Than wear his spirit down with too much pleasure.
To-morrow we will come again, and measure
Florence with Rome,—with Venice. That being done,
He shall go home and dream how Fame may still be won.

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HEARING.

Charming is it in a poem
That Refrain!
Never comes the sweet recurrence
Murmuring on the ear in vain:

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Sweetest is the song in leisure,
Linking pleasure unto pleasure,
Hiding all the pain.

Curious is the sense of hearing!
How it bears
You back into the dreams of distance,
Vanished joys, forgotten cares,
Through the starry ether, bringing
Down the orbèd angels' singing
From the upper airs.

What, unheard, were Love's own music?
Senseless, cold.
What would be the sweet confession?
It might—ah,—remain untold!
What the cannon's thunderous stories?
What our Australasian glories,
With their tales of gold?

Hearing! Sight! All-mystic powers!
What has e'er
Man, in his divinest hours,
Wrought that shall with these compare?
Gifts are they, from Him who giveth
Life to everything that liveth,
Patient Strength that ne'er repineth,
Hope that soareth, Love that shineth
Upon every care.

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PHRYNE.

Shall you love him? Oh, yes, love him,
While you live—until you die;
Wherefore ask the idle question?
Why your change deny?

When for me you left a lover,
How I loved you, kissed your brow,—
Lips; believed you; too much trusted:
Well,—he'll trust you now.

In the region of his fancy
He will seat you on a throne,
And fall down, a slave, before you,
Worshipping you alone.

All the good the Gods have given him,
All his wealth beneath the sun,
He will give you,—soul and body,
Give—as I have done!

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Will you then desert him? hate him?
Scorn him, as you me disdain?
Yes:—he'll leave the world behind him,
Burthened with his pain:

And you then will sail triumphant,
To “fresh fields and pastures new,”
Leaving in your wake a murmur
Of what Hell can do,

When the Serpent stings the woman.
—Oh, sweet Saints who watch above!
Why should harlot Folly reign,
Stinging tender hearts to pain,
Fettering with her slavish chain
The poor peasant, Love?

MAUVAISE HONTE.

I watch the house wherein she dwelleth,
Love-conquered quite:
I watch and wait, till some one telleth
That she is about to break the night
With her light;

327

And then—for I know the road she travelleth—
I steal away,
And meet her. Face to face unravelleth
All that I long have burned to say,
Night and day.

328

She moves; the conscious beauty crowning
Her queenly eyes;
I, with my face of fire, disowning
The coward heart that within me dies.
And so Time flies;

And Life, which is so short, will tremble
And fade in death,
Before the love, which I dissemble,
Will dare to tell, in faltering breath,
All my heart saith.

Still haunt I every path she treadeth,
The field, the lane;
And read—oh, every book she readeth:
And some who see my tortured brain,
Will soothe the pain,—

Will tell me how she ought to love me,
And that her heart
(Altho' her eyes look cold above me)
Feels, thro' her pride, the arrow dart,
But hides the smart.

And then, I hope!—At times a glory,
From some far clime,
Shoots thro' the darkness of my story,
And then I give my soul to rhyme,
As now;—and trust to time.

329

LOVE—

(Moderato).

She gave him her all, her heart and her fortune.
What did he do with the beautiful pack?
Gazed at 't a little, and gave it her back;
Negligent quite of a chance so oppòrtune.

330

Blushing for shame, did she call in her brother,
Or her fierce fighting cousin, to punish the wrong?
Ah, no, sir, she wisely broke into a song,
Felt her heart was all sound, and so gave it another.

“Well; she was wise not to pine for his scorning.
She lives?”—“With her husband, just over the way;
She sings him to sleep at the close of the day,
And laughs with her children, sir, all thro' the morning.

Yet has she a heart. She has squandered her beauty,
Long since: It fell off, like the bloom of the rose;
And now on life's road she contentedly goes,
And gives herself up, quite, to conjugal duty.

All love is not burning. 'Tis paler and colder
When hunger, or frost, or life's troubles give pain;
It subsides into calm when our life's on the wane,
And hides its small pangs from the laughing beholder.

331

LOVE—

(Tempestoso).

Press your palms upon my eyes:
Press your breast against my breast.
Nothing, save enormous pleasures,—
Nothing but the vastest,—best,
Now can give me rest.

From the extremities of earth
I come:—What read I on your brow?
Tell me not of forms or fancies:
Love me; as but you know how.
Your lips upon my lips,—now!

What! am I not he you loved?
Gave your heart to? why deny?
Am I changed? are you a traitress?
I'll not part with a kiss or sigh:
Who can love as I?

332

In your words there lives a music
That can soothe the soul of care;
In your eyes I see a beauty,
(Beauty airier than the air,)
None but you can wear.

All the tempests of the tropics,
Oceans, deserts, have I passed:
What do you think gave strength to conquer
Deadly ice and burning blast,
But to be loved by you,—chained fast
Ever while the world shall last?

TO A FOREIGN ACTRESS.

What shall I do to please you?
To flatter, to woo, to win?
Shall I buy your body with money?
Shall I tempt your soul with sin?

Shall I build up heroic poems,
And force your name on high?
Shall I rush in the Hell of battle,
With your name as a conquering cry?

333

Shall I shoot the untrodden desert?
Shall I twine with my own your name,
In some glory yet unascended?
In some terrible endless fame?

I see that your eyes are a serpent's:
I know that your heart is stone;
That your love is as false as deadly;
And yet—I am yours alone!

Witch—Serpent—pitiless—worthless—
Look down, where I writhe and sigh!
Speak! What must I do—or suffer?—
You hiss out an answer—“Die!”

PARTHIAN LOVE.

Thy figure I see in the bending grass;
Thy voice I hear in the song-sweet river:
I scent the rich flower, and sigh at thy power;
Wherever I be, thine image I see,
And flee—
Flee thee for ever, ever, ever.

334

Thou hast too much grace, in thy perfect face;
Thou hast too many darts in thine armèd quiver:
The pleasure I gain is o'erpowered by pain,
So I leave thee, and grieve thee
For ever,—ever.

What is it that lies in thine orient eyes?
What's hid in thy bosom, thou dangerous giver?
Thou givest in vain or joy or pain;
I shun thy perfume, for it is my doom
To see thee, and flee thee
For ever,—ever!

335

FAR NIENTE.

Pleasant it is, that doing nothing,
Never moving—thinking—scheming;
Idle only,—dozing,—dreaming
On a sward of quiet green,
By the rippling river seen;

336

Where the alders in a row,
When the morning breezes blow,
Whisper to the plumy boughs
Of an elm, that overhead
Doth a cooling shadow shed:
In the leaves, perhaps, a dove
Breathes her little note of love;
Else all silent.—On the wall
Let the summer sunshine fall,
On the meadow, on the mill,
Idle now, amid the sedge
Thickening at the water's edge,
And upon the far, soft, azure-curtained hill.
Far be every human ill!
Far be tears, far be sighing!
Nothing gloomy; let the Day
Run upon his cheerful way;
While over me and over all
Silver clouds are flying.

Much, indeed, I love to walk
With a friend, in easy talk,
On the downs, in June or May;
On the downs, that stretch away,
Far away,—far away,—
From the white-browed cliffs that keep
Watch above the toiling Deep,
Listening there night and day

337

What the troubled Waters say;
For they often writhe and moan,
From the mid Atlantic blown,
And will tell you ghastly tales,
Of what befalleth in the gales,
Till you steal unto your rest
With a pain upon your breast.

Yet, how pleasant nothing doing!
What is all the worth of wooing?
Loving?—when you may inspire
Warmth beside the winter fire,

338

Caring nought what may betide you,
With a book you love beside you,
(Landor's verse or Browning's rhyme,
Or some volume of old time
Loved when Fiction, nurse of youth,
Fed you with the milk of Truth,)—
All the while the rough storm rages,
As you doze above the pages,
Half-ashamed the charmer Sleep
Should take you to her deepest deep,
With such wealth before you.
Yet, till gentle Sleep restore you
To your merry morning fancies,
Pleasant is the dream that dances
Up and down before your eyes,
As the misty daylight dies;
Pleasant are the scraps and lines,
That no conscious sense divines,
Murmurs,—sounds,—that come and go
Just as lapsing waters flow;
Now a whisper, like the South
Breathing from a loving mouth,
Then the silence,—softest,—best,
Till you—fade away to rest!

Pleasant all! And yet there streams
Beyond it, like a light in dreams,
Something even the Idler seeth,

339

When his idle humour fleeth;
Something that the dull brain fireth,
And the ambitious Soul desireth;
Regions where the poet's vision
Openeth into fields Elysian;
Gardens, with their clustering gold;
Castles, rich with pictures old,
Done by famous painters dead,
Ere the Heroic Spirit fled,
Leaving Earth to later glories,
Fitted, each in turn, for stories
That would crown the Artist's fame,
Were he worthy of his name.

Idler!—Let his idling cease,
If he hope to dwell in peace,
Such a peace as Labour gives
Unto every one that lives;
Let him seek,—nor idly seek,
But wear his toil upon his cheek:
What he seeketh he shall find,
Food for every mood of mind;
Learning, culled from antique bowers;
Science, sweet in midnight hours;
Music, silvering down in showers;
All that Poets wise have brought
From the inner realms of Thought;
All that the master, Love, can teach, amidst a world of flowers.

340

TO JOHN FORSTER.

WITH SHAKESPERE'S WORKS.

I do not know a man who better reads
Or weighs the great thoughts of the book I send,—
Better than he whom I have called my friend
For twenty years and upwards. He who feeds
Upon Shakesperian pastures never needs
The humbler food which springs from plains below:
Yet may he love the little flowers that blow,
And him excuse who for their beauty pleads.

Take then my Shakespere to some sylvan nook;
And pray thee, in the name of Days of old,
Good-will and friendship, never bought or sold,
Give me assurance thou wilt always look
With kindness still on Spirits of humbler mould;
Kept firm by resting on that wondrous book,
Wherein the Dream of Life is all unrolled.

341

EPISTLE

FROM AN OBSCURE PHILOSOPHER.

Prone on my bed, I send these lines to thee,
O Hieros! Strange dreams of days gone by
Haunt 'round my brain: Delights, and Pains, and Scenes
Peopled with pleasant shapes (now lost!) like ghosts
Across some crystal mirror, come and go;
I helpless! These give leisure to my days,
And nights, (which are not all involved and dark);
And so I purpose to redeem my pledge,
And tell thee, briefly, my poor history.

Friend,—for thou art my friend, altho' we two
Have trod our different roads, from life to death;
Thou thro' the holy pastures, where the sheep,
Guided by croziered shepherds, feed at ease,
And drink the heavenly waters, and sleep safe;
I through the tangled wastes and briery depths,
Struggling, heart-sore, have found my way—by night!

342

Well,—Thou hast often called me, I confess,
And told me of thy pleasant paths on high,
Beckoning me upwards. I would go my way;
For I believed my road led upwards too,
And had its verdant nooks, and daisied spots
Pearling the meadows, somewhere,—afar off!
So I wore onwards. I was near the goal,
Felt the fresh air, and saw the sunny steeps,
When suddenly came—Death! Then, Hope being fled,
I sank and strove no more.

Yet have I had
Delight in labour, as thou hadst in ease.
'Twas pleasant to endure, and know that I
Must conquer in the end. 'Twas pleasant, too,
To free my thoughts from parsimonious tasks,
And bid them seek the liberal air, and fly
(The larks!) up to the sun. They brought me down
Wealth that you care not for, perhaps despise;
Siderean music from the Pleiades;
Vast truths which soaring Science never reached;
Dim intimations from majestic Souls
Who died long since, and fled, we know not where,
And messages from all the Orbs of Heaven.

Had I but studied all my father taught,
I should have mastered every science; plunged
Deep in geometry and numbers; piled

343

Million on million; bale on bale; until
My iron rooms and bags had burst with gold.
He had a lust for gold, such as we see
For travel, where men leave their friends and homes,
And seek for unknown seas and desert sands.
But from my mother's lessons roses sprang;
Poured out their fragrance: lilies opened wide
Their breasts all dropt with gold: the winds, unsought,
Gave out fine meanings in each murmuring sound;
And those star-eyes, that fill the face of Night,
Shed on me all their mystic influence.

Thus dowered, I left the world to dig for gold,
Waste its worn youth, and write, with wrinkled brow,
Its sordid history; whilst I, emerging
Into the unpeopled air, where freedom was,
From my pure height saw all that Nature hoards
In silence for her faithful worshippers.
And what I sought I sought with all my soul;
For to do less is to ensure a loss;
As he who lazily seeks, by some rope's length,
The dizzy height, and half-way loses hold,
Falls down destroyed, because his heart is weak.
I suffered?—I rejoiced! as few have done,
In all the great extremes of happiness;
Nay, all those notes and shades of difference
That lie between the two points of excess,
Have each an individual self distinct

344

Pregnant with pleasure. Do you think I stood
Half-struck to marble, by those faultless forms
Dug out of Roman earth, without a pang
Of wonderful delight? I entered, wrapt,
Into the circle of Art; beheld (dismayed
By power) each one of Titian's master-works;
And rare Giorgione's sunset pastoral scenes,
Gleaming with gold; the peerless perfect grace
That streams suffused thro' heavenly Raffaelle's forms,—
Child, virgin, matron, man, all near divine,
Half-earth, half-heaven; and last, those massive shapes
Which sprang from Michael's brain, and took their stand
Predominant, triumphant through all time;
Whereat still youthful painters gaze with pride,
To think that Art hath done so much for men.

Leaving awhile these rainbow-coloured paths,
I wandered through the flowery vales of sound,
Where Mozart wove, by night, his musk-rose airs;
And thro' harmonious turns and labyrinths,
Where Handel once (with Galatea) strayed,
And Purcell, when he linked his soul to song.
From every grace I caught new light, new strength:
From radiant Art I rose to Poesy,
Which spread its wings across the warring heavens,
When he who sang the strife was old and blind;
With Poesy, who upheld the Florentine,
When on his downward path he moved amazed;

345

And who—when Nature bared her breast, and fed
Her wondrous Avon child, and in his ear
Poured all her secrets—bore him upwards, till
He touched the eternal stars, and seemed to die!

At last, to Nature's self I turned, and read
Infinite marvels in her daily page.
I and all things on whom sweet life descends
Had intercourse. The insect that doth hold
His court upon a leaf, and dying yields
His generations to the sheltering grass,
Was my companion. In those April days,
Ere the rose opens, and when meadows burn
With flowers all coloured like the morning beams,
And every point, thro' winter months left bare,
Pours out its buds, I made me friends, and grew
Familiar with the worm, and with the bird
That breeds its young within the guardian thorn.
—I tell these things, that thou mayst know there live,
Beyond the pulpit's velvet, and beyond
Thy lordly abbey, filled with meats and wines,
Things that belong to God; who sends their hearts
Upwards in fine melodious gratitude,
Leaving sweet lessons for poor men like me,
And some that even thou mightst deign to teach.
Something thou know'st, past knowledge, past all forms,
Dwells in the living breast: For with the gift
Of life is given the priceless dream of love,

346

And gratitude, which pays to God who gives
Thanks beyond prayer. We, poor petitioners,
Too often content to ask, forget to pay
The debt we owe for good. Pardon us, Thou!
Infinite, Grand, Supreme Intelligence!
Teach us the lessons man was born to learn;
Lead us to loftier thoughts, to sunnier creeds;
For in the misty years of happiness,
Our hearts exhale with tenderest thoughts, which soar
Like dew from off the ground, and hallow us.

In the low hedge, hard by the open wilds,
The linnet builds her home; and in the roofs
Of populous towns the poor house-sparrow breeds:
Far from each other born, yet both alike
Become, by gentle usage, friends to those
Who seek and give them food and cherish them.
See where, aloft, upon the towering pine,
Broods the sea-eagle, and from year to year
Comes back unto her home of sedge and reeds,
And branches, interlaced with artist skill;
And hunts the seas by night, defends her young,
And, in all perils and all needs of life,
Shows strength beyond the strength of peasant minds.
In watchfulness, fidelity (beyond
Bribe or alarm), the household dog stands firm
In danger, when the faithless servant flies.
Wonderful knowledge, never learned from books!

347

Wonderful knowledge, from which man may learn
That he transcends not yet the bird or brute
In all things,—goodness, wisdom, gratitude.
Divinest Instinct, like the sun in air,
Thou reign'st unknown!—Unknown? Yet, as we talk,
The indefatigable Future comes,
Minute by minute, years by countless years;
These as they come, these legions, range about
The silent form of the Eternal Past,
Each with its scroll, from which all men may read.

My soul was calm; proud, haply, as I marked
Some finer lines, and truths half-hid that 'scape
The idler on the greensward; and when Time
Led me to grander truths, and I beheld
What seemed the confluence of the stars, take shapes,
Grow into worlds, saw world encircling world,
Borne through their orbits by diviner powers,
And laws, that far out-run the thoughts of men,
Leaving the ground, my thoughts advanced, and took
Their station near the sky, where angels dwell:
Thence—from this azure summit, built of air,
Descended suddenly an airier shape,
Swift as a sunbeam, tinged by hues of love.
Eyes that outshone the stars, and seemed to pierce
Beyond the secrets of remotest Time,
Looked down upon me,—me! Their luminous depths,—
Their grand sweet Silence, that surpassed all sound,

348

Held me like iron. I looked up, and wept,—
Wept, till soft words, bubbling through roses, rose
From inner fountains where the Soul abides,
And showered celestial balm. She stood disclosed,
A perfect soul within a perfect form;
Unparalleled, intelligent, divine.
Dreams of some inner Heaven then took my soul
Captive, and flushed the thrilling nerves with joy,
Commingling with my sleep and blessing it;
And, when she warmed with love, my eyes amazed
Met thrice the wonders I before had seen:
I drank in fragrance thousand times more sweet
Than ever lay upon the hyacinth's lip:
Music I heard, sphere-tuned, harmonious,
Ravishing earth and sky: Swarms of delight
Encompassed me, until my soul o'erwhelmed
Sank in the conflict; and I then poured forth
My heart in numbers, such as lovers use:—

O perfect Love, soft Joy, untinged with pain!
O Sky, kept cloudless by the sighs of Spring!
O Bird, that bear'st sweet sounds thro' sun and rain,
Give thy heart way, and sing!

Look down, dear Love, as Heaven looks down on earth!
Be near me, round me, like the enfolding air!
Impart some beauty from thy beauteous worth;
Or be thyself less fair.

349

As the hart panteth for the water brooks;
As the dove mourneth in the lone pine-tree;
So, left unsunned by thy care-charming looks,
I pant, I mourn for thee!

—She came unto my home; and with her came
Infinite love; content; divine repose.
Life rose above its height; and we beheld
Beauty in all things, everywhere delight!
The Sun that dwelt in our own hearts shed forth
Its beams upon the world, and brightened it;
And from that brightness, as the ground takes back
The dews it gently lends, we gathered light
That led us thro' the dim sweet paths of life,
Until our hearts bloomed forth in happiness.
—A home we had, not distant, yet removed
Somewhat aside from the laborious town,
Where friends (a few) would come when Spring had touched
The sward with daisies. In our garden rose
Imperial cedars, underneath whose shade
We shunned the summer heat, and heard content
The little brook which ran and talked below.
Here 'twas at eve, we lingered, and saw rise
Those golden-crownèd daughters of the Night,
Who, when the sun is slumbering, take their place
And watch the world till morn, with sleepless eyes.
Behind us, in the distance, hills aspired
To mountains, on whose brows the early snow

350

Came and dwelt long; too far for cold; so near
We counted all the purple streaks that hung
O'er every misty valley. Oh how bright,
How filled with joy was all we looked upon!
Why should it end? ...

... It ended. I am here,
Stripped of my wealth; alone. I am not shut
Out from the world like one that has no place,
But wander uncompanioned on my way.
Smit by a terrible doom, I yet look back
On things that charmed me once; that soothe me now.
The Day has faded: Evening still remains,
Wherein some deeds of good may yet be done.
I am not what I was:—that cannot be.
I could have lived without so fair a thing
To breathe beside me: But she came, and brought
That air which now is life: Without that air
I cannot live! I am a denizen
And dweller on an orb unknown before;
But now my natural soil; my only earth.
Ah! whilst I stood and gazed, out of the grass,
Out of the very flowers the serpent rose,
And in his labyrinthine sinewy coil
Strangled my earthly bliss!—

But I forget.
A cloud came o'er me; It has passed away.
There is a Morning somewhere: Somewhere still
The Sun ascends his pathway as of old,

351

And light, and warmth, and beauty breathe again.
There will I go, should pain once leave me free:
If not, and I must close my journey here,
Content at last I rest. No cruel creed
Has bade me fire the martyr's blazing pile:
I have not trampled on the poor; nor made
My friend a footstool for myself to rise:
No outrage of another's tender thoughts,
No bland deceit that leads weak souls astray,
Was mine. My hours passed onwards without harm.
A few have bent the knee and deemed me kind:
I followed but my nature; nothing more.
Perhaps 'twas this which forced my bosom heave
With gratitude to God for all he gave;
That thrust my hand out tow'rds my fellow men,
And proffer comfort.

What is done is done!
And what is left? The Past,—the grave wise Past!
Of that I write—these few last words—to thee.

352

LE SCÉLÉRAT.

Still are you here, a poisonous life
Outbreathing?
Still are you bands of deadly strife
Enwreathing?

Your friends, are they now foes? grown old
And stronger?
Your gold, is that all spent? Your gold
No longer?

Your thoughts that were so low, so blanched
By care,
Are they now buoyant, roselike, launched
In air?

No! On your shoulder still that freak
Of birth,
(The hump), still reigns, and bids you seek
The earth.

353

No! You help none, please none; nor love,
Nor give:
How is it, O slave, you dare to move?
To live?

Vile Shame! usurping still in space
A part,
Which else might own some earthly grace;
—Depart!

Thou, who ne'er earn'dst beneath Heaven's dome
A friend,
Into the black abyss, thy home,
Descend!

THE VICTOR.

He is dead,—whom I trusted and loved
In my innocent youth;
Gave my heart to,—in times when I knew not
A lie from a truth.

354

I gave him my all; the things hid
In the cells of my heart;
My wealth: would you know what he did
For my good, on his part?

He robbed me;—he might have had all:
He smote me,—in vain:
I arose from the shock of my fall,
From the depths of my pain;

And I cried—“You have wronged me:—My life,
Love, and friendship I gave.
When you trembled and shrieked in the strife,
I was near you, to save.

But you stole from my arms the one prize
(Of my soul) that I won;
You ravished the light from my eyes,
The warmth from my sun:

So I slew you. In open mid-day,
We met, on the shore,
Where we met when our spirits were gay,
And all life was before.

I slew you—in open fair fight:
I clove thro' the brain
That so long had bewildered my sight;
That had stung me to pain.

355

I saw you, still firm in my wrath,
Fall dead on the sand;
And the last bloody (white and red) froth
Bubbled warm on my hand.

And now? do you sleep? Are you yet
In the pangs of your guilt?
For me, I have found no regret
For the blood I have spilt.

I enjoy, on the sands where we fought,
The fresh songs of the sea;
And I laugh, that my heart feeleth nought
Of poor pity for thee.”

THE KING IS DEAD.

I.

Sound the great bell!
The King of all the land is cold and dead:
He whom ye knew so well—
Know he hath nought whereon to rest his head,
Now, but the barest stone,
Whereon he lies alone,
Far from all help; life, love, and friendship—fled!

356

II.

Sound the great bell!
He whom ye knew in all his radiant power,
The wonder and the pageant of an hour,
Has bade the world farewell;
Let slip his sceptre, doffed his crimson state;
And they, who at his pleasure used to wait,
Carp at his deeds, and tell
The wrongs he did to all,—his queenly mate,
Friends, foes, to Truth, to rank, and every ghost of state.

III.

Some future day, not far,
They'll build a column on the mountain near;
And, in some pander rhyme,
Shape out historian lies for aftertime.
Meanwhile, enlightened by a steadfast star,
I will set down,
In words that may be read by rich and poor,
By all who did his iron rule endure,
The truth (for once) of one who wore a crown.

357

TO A MYTH.

Judge of words without a meaning;
Arbiter 'tween black and white;
Fusing all the shades of difference
Into day or into night.

Cunning, cheating, grim magician;
Plunderer both of age and youth;
Slave of forms and senseless customs;
Laugher at the light of truth.

Has my life, then, all been wasted,
Threading thy bewildering ways?
Have I lost the hopeful morning?
Spoiled the evening of my days?

Down, thou Shape of hair and ermine!
Quit thy high disgracèd place.
Down, and meet thy nobler brother,
Simple Justice, face to face.

358

See, with what a brightening aspect,
He divides the right from wrong;
Mark, how swift his sentence follows;
Mark, how all content the throng.

But Thou—swollen and paltry figure,
Blown with vanity, stuffed with straw,
Pander now, and now a Tyrant,
Dar'st thou call thyself—“The Law?”

Where is all the heaped confusion,
Whereat shrinking Truth repines?
Wordy nonsense? leagues of charges,
With their sixes turned to nines?

Where the ruinous, rascal pleadings,
Drenched with spite, and lies, and ire?
Twaddling trash, delays, devices?
—Quick, let's heap the funeral pyre!

Quick! Send here the fusty parchments,
Smeared and spoiled a million ways;
All the senseless, worthless rubbish.
Now then,—set them all ablaze!

359

VANITY FAIR.

Who'll sell me a drum or a trumpet?
Who'll buy?—here are colours, a pair.
Here's drink for all those who'll be soldiers,
(And a shilling) at Vanity Fair.

360

Here's a glass for an eye that don't need it;
A mask for a face that can stare;
And a place in a Railway Direction,
(And so much a-year, you may swear).

Here's a virgin, rich, frightful, and fifty;
Here's a lord, with his pockets all bare,
(A young giant,)—if only he's thrifty,
He's sure of a sale at the fair.

Will you sell me some health, you physician?
You, sir, with your head full of hair,
(Not your own) will you puzzle the plaintiff,
And set right my wrongs, at the fair?

Here's a place for Sir Jeremy's cousin;
He swore (as you know he can swear)
That my enemies bribed right and left, when
I came in a member for—where?

Here's my lady's own maid:—Is it ready,
The pension, rewarding her care?
All secrets she knows, and is steady;
And is dumb—on a certain affair.

O father, why droopeth your daughter,
So young, yet so faded by care?
“She is come to be sold, my fine fellow,
Draw near! she's the prize of the fair.”

361

And she, neither bashful nor forward,
With something of ton in her air?
O widow, unbosom your beauty;
I would tender soft words, did I dare;

But I dare not;—and so, as the daylight
Is fading to eve, it is time
To cease, and be thinking of dinner,
And to change both our dress and the rhyme.

Come, good friends, take what's before you;
Meat and drink, and welcome warm:
Here's a health to them that bore you,
And a curse for him that means you harm.

Deeply dive into your pockets;
Count no silver, spare no gold;
Here is all the world of wonders,
Each thing to be bought and sold.

Friendship—who will bid for friendship?
Honour—look, it may be bought:
Love—a rare and curious specimen,
Found where it was never sought.

362

But no need to show each article.
Here's a figure for your grounds!
Spirit show, if you've a particle:
Shall I say “a thousand pounds?”

Look! She lives. Who bids? What beauty!
Mark the outline of her form!
Come, sirs, you have each a duty
Towards your country to perform.

Thank you, sir,—ten thousand—twenty—
Thirty—fifty—a hundred! There,
Gone!—Where shall the lot be sent t' you?
'Tis the prize, sir, of the fair!

JACK TURPIN.

Jack Turpin, I have known you long:
My serving man were you, of yore,
When I was young and you were strong:
But Age is knocking at your door,

363

And now your shanks are shrunk and thin;
And Time has forced your hands to shake;
(Or can't be—beer relieved by gin,
Which, “for a cold,” you used to take?)

Once you were villein, I the knight:
I paid you with some pence or pounds;
You served me, fairly whilst in sight;
Not well when you were “out of bounds.”

Dwarfed, doggèd, boastful, drunken, shrewd,
A mute by day, by night a sot,
How often would you come, imbrued
With drink, and do—you knew not what.

You blacked my shoes, you brushed my coat,
When sober, duly every morn;
But oft I heard your quavering note;
And when I lashed you with my scorn,

You shrank, resented, blushed with ire,
Would mostly argue, always lied.
Such lies as gin and beer inspire
You uttered with a proper pride.

O bragging knave! Thou hadst a head
Was round, and like a cannon-ball,
And some limp hairs above it spread;
And eyes that pierced one like an awl;

364

So firm, so daring was your look,
So unabashed by all reproof;
I read you, as one reads a book,
For knowledge, and my own behoof.

The glittering cunning in those eyes,
The oily, thick, slow, struggling word,
The helpless smile, the frown so wise,
All these I daily saw and heard.

How the grand funeral filled your head;
How well you wove the weaver's knot;
What projects rose, and failed, and fled;
My work, meanwhile, being all forgot!

Yet, Jack! I would I saw you here:
I think that I should hire you still;
And you at night might have your beer,
And, sometimes, even by day, your will.

For you were honest; dextrous too,
After a fashion; and I think
I might, in time, prevail on you
To—yes, perhaps—abstain from drink.

And then, I think some faults were mine;
That I in angry words was free,
Impatient,—loved my cup of wine,
Was idle, obstinate,—like thee.

365

So, let's cast up the long account,
And strike the balance. Does it lie
This way? or that?—Come, tell th' amount!
Alas! you know no more than I.

That double entry, strict and mean,
Jack Turpin, let him keep who can;
I cannot: nor have I ever seen
One fair account 'tween man and man.

OLD LOVE.

You left me: I left you: (trampled down).
Were we not wrenched, we two, apart,
When your father's rage and your mother's frown
Sent a sting and a spasm to either heart?

You married, to pamper a father's pride;
I sank to the furrow and ploughed the soil:
You were slandered and praised thro' the country wide;
I, quietly scorned, was forced to toil.

366

You floated, a cork on the topmost wave;
I fell, a stone on the rocks below:
You were driven about, too near your grave,
While I heard from my cavern the tempests blow.

But the tempest fell. It has left you—life:
It has freed you at last from a master stern.
No need to re-plunge in the stormy strife,
Or again the hard lesson of life to learn.

I am here who have loved you for twenty years.
You are poor: I am wealthy—in gold and land;
You have suffered your sorrow; I had my tears:
Peace cometh. I offer my horny hand,

My heart, and my fortune; all that's mine!
Life still has its evening;—but I have done:
If you love me, it is but to make a sign:
If not,—ah! you tremble, and—you make none!

No sign,—but a smile, like the spasm that ran
Thro' my bosom, now stingeth my heart with pain:
'Tis a pang!—but I rise up a wiser man,
And I turn to my brother, the plough, again.

367

A COMPLAINT.

The clouds are heavy: the night is flowing
Duskily over the Eastern sky;
Rains are falling; winds are moaning:
The river is echoing sigh for sigh.

368

Upon its banks is a maiden plaining;
A tale she telleth of grief and wrong;
And she utters, to lighten her sad love-burthen,
The words of a half-forgotten song.
“A false friend and a bitter foe
Is Love to all who love below:
Ah! what is the use of our summer dreaming,
If life must evermore end in woe?”

A single pause, and aside she turneth
And sendeth a thought to her father dead;
To her cottage home where her mother mourneth;
A thought to her childhood bright and fled.
Her voice it is sad and full of dread!
Hark!—It thrills over the darkening water,
Telling a tale of future slaughter,
Like the cry of the deer when the hound hath caught her.
“O Love! thou bitter foe
To all who too much love below:
Is death the end of our summer dreaming?
And life is it evermore filled with woe?”

369

A PETITION.

You who dwell in upper air,
Young and fair!
Here is one who loveth; take her to your care.
Beauty and the light of honour
Wears she like a crown upon her,
Grace around her whitest neck is hung:
Music, sadder now than came
When seraphs touched her lips with flame,
Sigheth from her tongue;
And her eyes that once were bright,
Dazzling on the aching sight,
Fading are, like summer evening fading into night.

Many love her, but her bosom
Warmeth unto one unknown;
Knows he what a wondrous treasure
Back upon her heart is thrown?
Or the pain beyond a measure
Borne for him alone?

370

Bid him come, where'er he linger;
Whisper in his charmèd ear,
What a sad sweet beauteous singer
Liveth,—dieth for him here.

You who dwell in upper air,
Fair and young, bright as fair,
Star-like,—lamp-like hung on high,
Angel stars that never die!
Disappearing, but returning,
In your constant season burning;
In the sightless ether hung,
Like to random jewels flung
On the forehead of the sky;
Look on her with all your brightness,
Bid her heart resume its lightness;
Tell her there are hopes above her,
Tell her of a world to love her,
Bind the sweet wreath Hope, that hath no thorn, around her;
So may joys arise
And light her happy eyes,
Till Love hath kissed the bride, and orange blooms have crowned her!

371

LIFE.

In our youth we learn; in our manhood act.
What more? Alas, what more
Is in all Life, Fiction, Fact,
Than to see and hear, toil and strive to soar,
For evermore!
What doth Life contain? what doth bind us here,
In its thorny round?
Is it Hope,—that fadeth? Is it wizard Fear
That enchains our spirits with its whispered sound?
In what cavern drear
Are Life's pleasures found,
When—strewn like leaves around—
Thousands pine and sigh
For a home on high,
Some for gentle rest, beneath the daisied ground?

372

A WORD ON BEHALF OF WATER.

SENT TO MISS JULIA ---.

The murmuring Water,—how it runs
Its seaward course, how pure and clear,
Past all the snows and all the suns
That lie within the Julian year.

Not dangerous, like the fiery wines;
Not turbid, like the drunken beer;
It lends its aid to all, and shines,
The glory of the Julian year.

Once, in my careless, thoughtless youth,
I sang of riotous vinous cheer;
But now I turn to simple Truth,
Taught—by two Julian stars—to steer.

By Julian stars I see the right,
By Julian stars I see the wrong,
And Julia, by her gentle might,
Now turns my humble prose—to song.

373

ON YORICK,

A LITTLE SPANIEL.

A little life has ended!
Our voices cease to call,
Our eyes to look, for one who was
A favourite with us all.

374

We miss his eager movements,
His eyes of tender light.
There's something wanting to the Day,
And something to the Night.

Six years we loved and cherished him,
Six years he was our friend;
And we tried to make his little life
Run smoothly to the end.

A great and terrible Power
Came down and checked his breath:
It comes to Sages, Heroes, Kings,
And then we call it “Death.”

It came without sound or warning.
A single, feeble cry
Told that the Shadow fell on him,
And time was come—to die!

For men unloved and meaner things
Let false vain boastings be;
This verse, my Yorick, shall remain
(An epitaph) for thee!

375

THE FISHER'S WIFE.

The clouds are heavy and dark,
The winds are abroad at sea,
And the thunder comes:—his minute-guns
Do they sound an alarm for me?

376

They say that the waves are still,
Are as calm as calm can be;
But I hear a shriek, as the waters break:
My God! does he die for me?

Oh, why would he leave us all,
And venture on such a sea!
It was still at home, but the boiling foam
Called out from afar, to me.

We have starved our whole life long:
Why not bear a little more?
'Twas better than send our one last friend
To die on the stormy shore.

If ever he come again,
Once safe from the murderous sea,
I will toil for aye, both night and day,
So he never need toil for me.

My bairns, they are clinging around:
They shout: Is it death they see?
What is it they mark in the coming dark?
I tremble—oh, Life! 'tis He.

377

SONG.

[“Tell me what hath bound thee]

“Tell me what hath bound thee
To a life of pain:
Lovers all surround thee
With an amorous chain:
Why dost thou refuse? Why dost thou complain?

Knights and nobles sue thee
To become a bride;
Wealth and power woo thee
To their golden side:
Why dost thou refuse? from modesty? from pride?”

“I am seeking treasures
Such as angels gain,—
Pure untainted pleasures,
Thro' the world, in vain:
So I still refuse,—so I still complain.”

378

SISTERS OF MUSIC.

“Who sings?” said the Spirit of Music,
And smiled on her peers:
“Sweet Sorrow, sing Thou!” Sorrow answered,
“I cannot—for tears.”

“Bright Hope, give a tongue to the poems
I read in thine eyes.”
Hope answered—“My thoughts are all clouded,
And lost in the skies.”

“Then Joy, put thy mouth to the bugle!
A note, for my sake.”
Calm creature, she sleeps in the sunshine,
And will not awake.

But hush! a soft sound stealeth onwards,
Like the flight of a dove;
Ah, I find that the Song that is sweetest
Comes ever from Love.

379

THE SPOT OF GREEN.

When the winter bloweth loud,
And the earth is in a shroud,
Bitter rain and blinding snow
Dimming every dream below;
Cheerily! cheerily!
There is ever a spot of green,
Whence the Heavens may be seen.

380

When our purse is shrinking fast,
And our friend is lost (the last!),
And the world doth pour its pain
Sharper than the frozen rain;
Cheerily! cheerily!
There is still a spot of green,
Whence the Heavens may be seen.

Let us never greet despair,
While the little spot is there:
For Winter brighteneth into May,
And sullen Night to sunny Day;
So cheerily, cheerily!
Let us seek the spot of green,
Hopeful, patient, and serene,
Whence the Heavens may be seen.

PRISON POETRY.

Over the prison bars,
Over the walls so high,
Away, unto the stars,
Flies the bird, Poesy!

381

No power can drown its notes;
No steel can clip its wings;
Beyond the mists it floats,
And soars, and sings;

Free, as the air is clear
From bar, or bond, or chain;
Its only prison here
In the Poet's brain!

AFTER DEATH.

Tread softly by this long, close-curtained room!
Within, reposing on her stateliest bed,
Lies one embowered in the velvet gloom;
A creature,—dead:
Lately how lovely, how beloved, how young!
Around her beauteous mouth, sweet eyes, and golden hair,
(Making the fair thrice fair,)
A poet's first and tenderest verse was flung.
Now she lies ghastly pale, stone-cold, quite hid
From balmy April and the fragrant air,
Upon the dark, green, silken coverlid;

382

Her limbs laid out to suit the coffin's shape;
Her palms upon her breast,—
At rest!

What cries escape,—
What sounds come moaning from the chamber near?
Small voices as of children smite the ear
With pity; and grave notes of deeper grief;
And sobs, that bring relief
To hearts which else might break with too much woe,—
With thoughts of long ago,
Loss of all earthly joy, and sweet Love's overthrow!

POVERTY.

O Poverty! O Poverty!
Children all of Poverty!
Thou who tak'st thy humble stand
Trading in the public way!
Thou, with needle in thy hand,
Toiling from the birth of morning
Till the death of day!
Thou who labourest in the harvest
For the wealthy farmer's gain!

383

Thou whose pen must run for ever,
(Ever in a merry vein,)
Thorough days and nights of pain!
Thou whom Hunger's talons clutch,
Or Palsy smiteth with her crutch!
Thou who seek'st the 'Spital's bed,
Stumbling o'er the quick and dead!
Beggar of the sightless eye,
Martyr of the wind and storm,
Brother of each passer-by,
Who doth bare his shrunken form
To the Winter's cruelty!
Thou,—whate'er thy shape or feature,
Or thy name unknown, or nature,
Natural child of Poverty!
Know—that there are they who give
Their pity to all things that live,
And suffer; that in every heart
There is still a better part;
That at last the winter yieldeth,
And the ice is conquered,—won
By the glory of the Sun;
That the evil of the earth
Dieth in a nobler birth;
That all sorrow and all pain
Are but travelling shadows vain,
Fading in the mists of Time,
Like the poet's passing rhyme!

384

THE ALL-SUFFICIENT.

You love the dark and I the fair.
You worship her, so dark and tall;
I love (how much I love) the small,
When all the shapely points are there,
Round and smooth, (kind Nature's care,)
And a walk that's like the waving air,
Or golden corn when winds are blowing,
And a voice like waters flowing;
An eye—what heed of blue or grey,
Or hazle, so all scorn's away,
And there's just a touch 'tween sad and gay?
Let the mouth be—Oh, a mouth
Such as when a rose looks South,
Gathering silver drops that fall
From the clouds, that over all
Swim, as swans swim in a lake,
With a glory in their wake.

You love; I love; then, what heed?—
If we love, and love indeed,
Nothing else, friend, do we need.

385

EVENING SONG.

Whisper low, whisper low!
Lovers now should come and go.

386

When the Evening star is nearest
Comes the kiss that's last and dearest:
Hush! The over-jealous moon
Will o'ertake us soon.

Whisper soft, whisper soft!
Like the air that stirs aloft.
Let thy murmuring softer be
Than the sighing of the tree.
Lovers now should come and go,
Gentlier than the water's flow.

Farewell! Farewell!
They who kiss must never tell.
In thine eyes I see a light
Breaks the darkness of the night:
Ah!—my lip is nearest thine;
Now is Life divine!

387

THE PAST.

Mourn for the Rose!
The Rose who left her vernal halls unblown;
And fronting all the winds with bosom bare,
Was overthrown!

Mourn for the Past!
The Past that was so pleasant once, so bright:
The Dawn, the Noon, before we felt the Eve
That brings the Night.

The temple falls,
And the bird buildeth in the ruined tower;
And we, who once were strong, are crumbling fast,
Power by Power!

No Life, no Love
Resumes its morning: What is past is past!
Ay even Time, if Hebrew songs be true,
Must die at last!

388

VAGUE WISHES.

I aspire!
Unto that which hath no shape;
Unto that which hath no sound;
High,—higher,—higher,
I ascend! I quit the ground,
The human earth where hearts abound;
Swifter than the Lightning's fire
I aspire!
Past the high clouds floating 'round,
Where the eagle is not found,
Past the million-starry choir
I aspire,
Unto some sublime Desire!

Wondrous Visions o'er me bend!
From the love of worth and beauty,
From the trust that marks a friend,
To the highest heights of Duty
I ascend!

389

Not for poor or selfish end,
Poet's crown, Pontiff's tiar,
I aspire!
Through the mist of foul opinions,
Flaming passions, sensual mire,
To the Mind's serene dominions
I aspire!

I aspire!
Dread or doubt shall never haunt
The music of my wingèd lyre;
Nothing shall my Spirit daunt,
Not the strength, not the ire,
Not the diabolic vaunt
Of the Phantom vague and gaunt,
Who with eyes of fatal fire,
And his quiver of arrows dire,
Scares the world: Death, avaunt!
Know that even beyond the strife
Of Love and Hate, of Death and Life,
Higher ever,—ever higher,
I aspire!

390

LOVE FOR LOVE.

Not because of Beauty,
Or thy golden dower,
Hast thou, Sweet one, over me
Such surpassing power.

Not thine eyes of April,
Not thy rose-fed youth,
Not thy gentle ways and words
Won my love and truth.

Not by all enchanted
Do I bend the knee:
Sweet Heart, I love thee—because
Thou so lovest me.

391

THE PHILOSOPHER'S SONG.

Tell me not that you forget
All our pleasant summer season,
When we had no dun or debt,
When we loved without a reason;
When the sky was sunny bright,
Music in the river flowing,
And the heart was ever light,
And the roses ever blowing.

Why should chance, or others' will,
Beggar-rags, or regal ermine,
Ever shape our good or ill,
Or our happy days determine?
We have hope within us, here,
Deep within the true heart's centre.
Why should envy, why should fear,
Why should poor ambition enter?

In his heart a man should reign,
King of all that stirs within it:

392

Idle pleasure, idler pain,
Should not have command a minute.
Drink, then, to the days of old;
Be it wine, or sober water:
Here's to thee, my friend of gold,
Thee, and—Ah! thy peerless daughter!

LOVE-BIRD.

Within the chambers of her breast
Love lives and makes his downy nest,
Midst opening blooms and fragrant flowers,
And there he dreams away the hours:—
There let him rest!
Sometime hence, when the cuckoo sings,
I'll come by night and bind his wings,
Bind him, that he shall not roam
From his warm white virgin home.

Maiden of the summer season,
Angel of the rosy time,
Come! unless some graver reason
Bid thee scorn my rhyme;

393

Come, from thy serener height
On a golden cloud descending,—
Come, ere Love hath taken flight!
And let thy stay be like the light,
When its glory hath no ending
In the Northern night!

HERMELIN.

Oh, Love is a sweet-winged thief,
Hermelin!
He stealeth the red from the rose's leaf,
My Hermelin.
He stealeth the light from the azure eye,
The heart from the bosom, and then we die,
Gentle, gentle Hermelin.

He seemed but a sweet-souled child,
Hermelin!
And we trusted his smile and his eyes so mild,
My Hermelin.
And we moulded his words to a daily song;
We trusted,—and ah, we have suffered wrong,
Gentle, gentle Hermelin!

394

So, bar out the sweet-winged thief,
Hermelin!
Or your days will be dark and wild and brief,
My Hermelin:
And your spirit will fade, and your tender eye
Will vanish in tears, and—so you'll die,
Gentle, gentle Hermelin!

SONG.

[Sick am I, sweet love, to-day]

Sick am I, sweet love, to-day;
Weary, wandering have I been,
Led astray by dreams and visions
Thro' the wild weird forest green.

Let thy white hand fall on me,
Gently, like the alighting dove,
Scarcely felt, yet bearing with it,
Oh!—a world of love!

Let thy smiles be mine,—and tears,
And kisses, crimsoning like the West,
When the sun and breezes tremble
In the rose's breast.

395

So shall I revive,—and sing,
As I sang when young and free,
All the tenderer notes dissolving
In a hymn to thee!

PAST AND PRESENT.

Hearts we had in our sunny youth,
Steps as light as the winds that flee;
She was fair as the angel Truth;
I—as fond as a boy could be.
Now,
Cloudy skies and the sullen showers
Have dimmed the pleasures that once were ours.

I had hope like a thought in June,
She had tears like an April rain;
When she spoke, 'twas a song in tune,
When she sighed, 'twas a rose in pain.
Now,
Wintry winds and the stormy showers
Have scattered the sweets from songs and flowers:
Come, let us fly
To a distant sky
And dwell where the summer may still be ours.

396

A COMMON CHARACTER.

I love him, that man so true:
You love this,—our friend so pleasant,
With his cordons red and blue.
T'other?—'Faith, he's but a peasant;

Yet I love him. In his eyes
Lying see I not, nor scorning,
But the lights within them rise,
Clear, and like an April morning:

Not too warm; nor yet too cold,
For, with but a little pressing,
He will show a heart of gold,
Past all Californian guessing.

Look! all virtues in him found
Pierce the outer surface glowing,
Truth, Love, Courage, Knowledge sound,
And—a few errors, worth your knowing.

397

SONG FOR ALL SEASONS.

When March tempests smite the pine,
Straight I dream of thee and thine,
And Spring so soon to be:

398

When the sweet bee, hour by hour,
Rifles in the red-rose flower,
Still I sigh for thee:

For thy voice, methinks, is ringing
'Midst the little labourer's singing.
Busy Insect-Song,
Delving deep for honey treasure,
Making very toil a pleasure,
Runs its life along.

When the black wild Winter throws
His icy gauntlet down, and blows
His trumpet to the Sea;
And the great Sea answers loud,
From his throne amid the cloud,
Still I think on thee.

In the departing Summer's night,
And when the swallow takes her flight
Over land and sea,
And, in Autumn storms and thunders,
Thro' the rain-dark misty wonders,
I look out for thee.

To every sound my Spirit wakes,
From every hue a colour takes,
That brings me back to thee:

399

Ah! when wilt thou, so deep in debt,
Thy scorn, and power, and pride forget,
And think, for once, of me?

A QUESTION ANSWERED.

“Why do you love?”

“You ask me why?
'Tis for a look, a smile, a sigh;
A little look that no one notes,
A little sigh that hither floats,
And alights upon a tender heart.
Never felt I pang or smart
From that soft melodious thrilling,
That so stealeth round and round
My bosom: Not a single sound,
Harsher than a wood-dove's billing,
Wakes me from the dreams that creep
Thorough all my golden sleep.
Half asleep, half awake,
In the slumberous joy I slake
Thirst for knowledge, thirst for power;
Yielding, like a bending flower,
To the influence of the hour.
—Wherefore ask me why I love?
There are reasons here,—above

400

All your mathematic reckoning,
Smiles and looks (I told you) beckoning
Me from every old annoy,
Into the summer land of joy.
I leave behind the storm, the strife:
I bear with me the sun of life:
Imagination's wealth is mine:
The human has become divine:
I bask upon a faery shore:
I love: I am happy. Well!—what more?”

FORSAKE ME NOT.

Forsake me not, forsake me not,
When I am dead!
Leave me not, tho' life be fled,
But tend me to the last:
And tell me, when my love is shed,
And my morn is overcast,
Shall I be by all forgot,
Like a flower whose stem is broken?
Ah, watch beside me, gentle maid,
Let me not in earth be laid,
Till a token
Be enwreathed around me,

401

Binding me to those who stay
Still beneath the sunny day;
Like the love that bound me
To your heart, so long ago;
When the phantom, Death, did call,
Whispering from beneath his pall,
With a voice 'tween joy and woe,
Long ago! long ago!

FROM THE LAMP.

Feed me with the fragrant oil,
Lest I fade; lest I die!
In my brazen home I toil
From the dusk till morn is nigh,
Lighting thee upon thy way,
So thou mayst not stop or stray,
As thou travellest alone
Through the starry lands unknown,
Or in regions where the streams
Of Poesy refine the brain
With sweet thoughts nectarean.
Often do I bring thee Dreams,—
Fairy Fancies, that in bands
Hither glide from haunted lands,
Where, in deepest forest shade,
Love is nearest Wisdom laid;

402

Dreams, that, at the midnight drear,
Thou mayst in the silence hear,—
Sounds of silver trumpets blown,
Or the Viol's richest tone,
Drawn to fine ecstatic length,
By a master-artist's strength.

As a grain, refreshed in need,
Riseth from the buried seed
Into sweet requiting flowers,
Pleasant in the sultry hours;
Feed me now, and in return
I will rise and I will burn,
And will bear thee pleasant light
Through the darkness of the night.

TO THE LAMP.

In my youth I fed thee
With a learnèd oil;
In my manhood bred thee
To a life of toil.

What has been thy glory,
Under star or sun?
Tell me all thy story;
All that thou hast won.

403

Nothing!—Thou didst slumber
Through the wastes of time,
Or but help to cumber
Leaves with idle rhyme.

All our poet-treasure,
Coin by coin, is strung.
Let us part:—The measure
Of the song is sung!

A FAREWELL TO VERSE.

Sweet Muse! my friend of many years,—Farewell!
Sweet Mistress, who did never do me wrong;
But still with me hast been content to dwell
Through summer days and winter evenings long;
Sweet Nurse, whose murmur soothed my soul, Farewell!
I part with thee at last,—and with thy song!

Never again, unless some Spirit of might,
That will not be denied, command my pen,
Never again shall I essay to write
What thou (I thought!) didst prompt: Never again
Lose me in dreams until the morning light,
Or soar with thee beyond the worlds of men.

404

Farewell!—The plumage drops from off my wing:
Life and its humbler tasks henceforth are mine!
The lark no longer down from Heaven doth bring
That music which, in youth, I deemed divine:
The winds are mute; the river dares not sing:—
Time lifts his hand,—and I obey the sing!