University of Virginia Library

2. SECOND VOLUME
POEMS AND EPIGRAMS.

GEBIR.

FIRST BOOK.

SECOND BOOK.

THIRD BOOK.

FOURTH BOOK.

FIFTH BOOK.

SIXTH BOOK.

SEVENTH BOOK.

FROM THE PHOCÆANS.

Heroes of old would I commemorate.
Those heroes, who obeyed the high decree
To leave Phocæa, and erect in Gaul
Empire, the fairest heaven had e'er design'd;
And, borne amidst them, I would dedicate
To thee O Liberty, the golden spoils.
For, Liberty, 'tis thou whose voice awakes
Their sons, from slumber in the setting beams
Of sceptred Power, and banishest from Earth,
Tho' tardier than hell's heaviest cloud she move,
And leave behind the wizard cup and sword—
Circæn soul-dissolving Monarchy.
Say, daughters of Mnemosyne and Jove,
Speak, hearts of harmony! what sacred cause
United, so long sever'd, in debate,
Pallas and Neptune? 'Twas when every god
Flew shuddering from the royal feast accurst,
With Ceres most offended, these ordain
Th' eternal terror of proud thrones to rise:
Such among eastern thrones Phocæa stood,
Such, amid Europe's oaken groves retired.
Now had Priené mourn'd her murder'd swains,
Who late ascending Mycalé, released
The pipe, and sitting on the wayside crag
Temper'd the tabor to their roundelays:
Of brittle ivy, from the living stone
Stript off with haste, before their partners came,
Chaplets to ward off envy they combined,
To ward off envy, not to ward off death,
Nor to survive themselves: now with amaze
Meander, rising slow from sedgey bed,
Sees soaring high the white-wing'd multitude
Of cranes and cycnets, like a sunny cloud,
Nor till they circle lower, distinguishes
The aerial blue between, and feeble cries
From thin protruded throat: Pactolus tore
His yellow hair with human blood defiled,
And spurn'd his treacherous waves and tempting sand.
Of cities built by heroes built by Gods,
Throughout the Ægæan, Asia now surveyed
None but Phocæa free: her bolder youth
The galling yoke of gifted peace disdain.
On far Iberia's friendly coast arrived,
Rich streamers, snatched from conquest they display;
And Persic spoils, in sportive mockery worn,
Flutter and rustle round the steeds, that rear'd
Amid the caverns of the genial winds,
On Tagrus' top, start sidelong from the tide.
All are advanced to manhood for the hour.
With sweet solicitude and fearful joy,
Each mother from the shaded ship descries
Her son amidst the contest, and her son
Or now excels each rival in the race,
Or if behind them will ere long excel.
Naarchus, whose attemper'd hand heaven-taught,
Directed thro' wide seas and wearying straits
To rich Tartessus the Phocæan sails,
Now, leaning back against a stranded skiff,
Drawn till half upright on the shelving beach,
Turns idly round the rudder in its rest,
And hardly thinks of land; warm youth attracts,
As amber sweet, the wither'd reed of age.
Such on the banks of Hermus, on the banks
Of that most pleasant of all sacred streams,
For 'twas the nearest to his native home,
And first that exercised his crooked oar,
Now distant, swelling forth with sweet regrets!—
Such was Naarchus! steadfastly he gazed,
And harmless envy heav'd one mindful sigh.
Meanwhile, with Euxenus, and Hyelus,
In council sage, but stricken sore by years,
And Cimos, firm in friendship, firm in fight,
And more, whose wisdom, and whose bravery,
The hallowed bosom of but few records,
Men, high in nature, high in sphere of souls
That burn in battle, or that shine in peace—
Protis, the son of Cyrnus, in the halls
Of Arganthonius, suppliant thus implores
His peace, and his protection. “Mighty king,
If ever thou injuriously hast borne
The rage of ruthless war, and surely war
Hath envied and hath visited, a realm
So flourishing, so prosperous, behold
The scattered ruins of no humble race.”
Amid these words, a little from the ground
He rais'd his aching eyes, and waved his hand
Where over citron bowers and light arcades
Hung the fresh garlands fluttering from the mast:
Then paused; the hoary monarch, stung with grief,
Sate silent, and observ'd the frequent tear
Flow bitterly from off each manly cheek,
Uninterrupted! for the hero's soul
Flew back upon his country's wrongs and grown
Impatient of the pity it required,
Sunk into sorrow: thus, his foes had said,
Had foes e'er seen him thus, the helpless child
Putting one arm against its mother's breast,
Holds out the other to a stranger's hand,
But, e'er receiv'd, it weeps: th' Iberian king
Then answer'd, “Just and holy are the tears
Of warriors; sweet as cassia to the Gods,
To man and misery they're the dew of heaven,
But wherefore thus disconsolate! this arm
Might heretofore have rescued and avenged,
And now perhaps may succour.” He embraced
The stranger, and embracing him, perceived
His heart beat heavy thro' his panting vest;
Then thus continued, “We too have endured
Insulting power, insatiate avarice,
But ere the wrongs we suffer'd half were told
The sun more rapid now his rays decline
Would leave the Atlantic wave.” The patriot chiefs
Around, burn each to hear his own exploits
And see the history open on his name.
Fain would they seize congenial glances, fain
Force attestation from the question'd eye:
So pants for Glory, Virtue nurst by war,
That, some amongst them to their neighbours turn
Not for their neighbour's notice but their king's.
Hymmeus was present, of Milesian race,
But he disdain'd his country, and preferr'd
One struggling hard with tyranny, to one
Where power o'er slaves was freedom and was rights,
Nor man degraded could but man degrade.
The harp, his sorrow's solace, he resumed,
Whose gently agitating liquid airs
Melted the wayward shadow of disgrace,
And, bearing highly up his well-stored heart
Above the vulgar, bade him cherish Pride.—
Mother of virtues to the virtuous man,
Her brilliant heavenly-temper'd ornaments
Tarnish to blackness at the touch of vice.
Sometimes the sadly quivering soul-struck wires
Threw a pale lustre on his native shore;
When suddenly the sound “Conspirator,”
How harsh from those we serve and those we love!—
Burst with insulting blow the enchanting strain,
And the fair vision vanish'd into air.
The pleasant solitude of sunny beach,
The yellow bank scoopt out with idle hands,
And near, white birds, and further naked boys,
That o'er the level of the lustrous sand,
Like kindred broods, seem ready to unite,
The tempest whirls away,—and where they stood
Up starts a monster, that, with hiss and howl,
Seizes the wretch who runs to loose its chains.
When Arganthonius saw him, he exclaim'd
“Hymneus! and thou too here! thy glowing words
Could once, arousing in the warrior's breast
Enthusiastic rage, sublime the soul
So far above the rocks where Danger broods,
That she and all her monstrous progeny
Groveling, and breathing fire, and shadow-winged,
Become invisible.—O thou of power
With magic tones Affliction to disarm!
Thou canst conjure up fury, call down hope,
Or whisper comfort, or inspire revenge.
Rise! trace the wanderings of thy comrades, shew
What men, relying on the Gods, can bear.”
He ended here, and Hymneus thus began.
Long has Tartessus left her fertile fields,
And but by forest beast or mountain bird,
Seen from afar her flocks lie unconsumed;
The maids of Sidon, and the maids of Tyre
To whom proud streams thro' marble arches bend,
Still bid the spindle urge its whirring flight
And waft to wealth the luxury of our woes.
Thus without lassitude barbaric kings
Shall midst their revels read our history;
And thou too, warm to fancy, warm to grief,
In hall and arbour, shade and solitude,
Whose bosom rises at the faintest breath
From dizzy tower, dark dungeon, stormy rock,
But rises not, nor moves, to public pangs—
Woman! our well-wrought anguish shalt admire!
And toy-taught children overtake our flight.
But we have conquer'd:—hear me valiant youth!
Untired and pressing for the course; O hear
Ye fires, whom stormy life's vicissitudes
At length have driven on no hostile shore,
O hear me, nor repine; but cherish hope,
And fortune will return and cherish you.
We utter'd soothing words from sickening hearts,
And with firm voice in flight and rout proclaim'd,
That we would never yield, would never fly:
While thus, revived by confidence, they rose,
Fortune gave weight to fancy's golden dreams,
And more than hope dare promise time perform'd.
Thus from some desert rock which every tide
Drenches and deluges, the mariner
Marks the uneven surges rolling, marks
The black pods rattling as the wave retires,—
And now another!—high he folds his arms,
He groans, looks earnest on, and is resign'd.
Danger and safety this dread interval
Brings close; the billow self-suspended hangs;
The tide had reach'd its highest, and has ebbed:
While distant, now appearing, now unseen,
His comrades struggle up the fluited surge,
Their strength, their voices, wreckt! the spring approach'd;
The fields and woods were vocal with the joy
Of birds that twittering from the thin-leav'd broom
Or close laurustin, or the sumach-tufts
Gay, nest-like, meditated nought but love.
Ah! happy far beyond man's happiness,
Who ever saw them wander o'er the waves
For guilty gold, or shiver on the shore
For life-wrung purple to array their breasts?
Theirs cherish, ours repudiate, chaste desire!
In vain was nature gay; in vain the flocks
With fond parental bleatings filled the fold;
In vain the brindled heifer lowed content
To crop the shining herbage, or to browze
The tender maple in the twilight dell.
Cold, O ye flocks and herds the hand will be
That fed ye, cold the hand that sweetly tuned
Its pipe to call ye to your nightly home,
Or gave the feebler dog encouragement
To drive the wolf away! vain care—the wretch
Who slew your shepherd, at the altar's horn
Slays you to celebrate his victory.
The Tyrians now approach; a thousand oars
Heave with impatient sweep the whitening surge
To seize Tartessus in the noon of peace.
The very zephyr now, that cool'd our coast,
Plays in the bosom of their sail, and smooths
Each rising billow; never more appall'd
The hand that cultivates Vesuvio's slope,
When with dull dash the fiery tide o'erflows
The pumice that surrounds his humble cot,
Than was Tartessus. Olpis first espied
The naval host advancing; now delay
Were death;—he loosen'd the relaying rope
From his left elbow, and the toils above
Dropt sounding on the surface of the waves.
He ran; nor enter'd he the city gate
Ere, interrupted oft, by haste, and fear,
In accents loud and shrill he thus began.
“Fly, fly, what madness holds you in your streets?
The Tyrians are behind; they climb the rocks
Light and unnumber'd as the brooding gulls.—
O fly, Tartessians! not a hope remains.”
Incontinent, the noisy streets are fill'd
With young alike and old; the mother runs
To save her children, playing in the court,
Improvident of ill, and grasps their wrist,
Hurrying them onward till they weep and ask
“For what?” and whining plead the promised hour,
Now threaten loud, and now again in tears.
No more the murmuring labour of the loom
Detains the virgin, who, with patient hand,
But fluttering heart, the whitest vesture wove
For him she loved so tenderly, for him
Who soon arising from the nuptial couch,
Would scatter mid the warbling wanton choir
The lavish nuts, would hear their bland adieu,
And seize the pleasures they were taught to sing.
Here were the fathers sitting; they were seen
To wave their tremulous hand, and bid them go
Whose life is green and vigorous, “for you
The sun will ripen many vintages,
But we are prone to tarry, cruel Tyre
Scarcely can drag the dying in her chains.”
The throbs of urgent terror now subside
In all, and every one his earnest arms
With pious anguish throws around them, prays
To lead them into refuge, prays to strow
The bed of age, and close the beamless eye.
Alas! too confident in hoary hairs
God's gift, but not God's blessing—they refuse
The proffer'd kindness; and their parted limbs
Hung upon hooks, with patriot gore distain'd
The walls they once defended! ah! thy day
Rolls on; a victim to the very sword
Thyself unsheathest, I behold thee fall;
Nor help in any near—that help, O Tyre!
Blind to the future, why hast thou destroyed?
Were it not better to extend the hand
T'ward rising states, than proudly crush them? realms
Which stand on ruins insecurely stand.
But wherefore turn our eyes to other climes
Which fate has frown'd on! tho' her frowns I dread,
I deem it first of human miseries
To be a tyrant, then to suffer one.
'Tis true we left our city, left our fields,
O'er naked flints we travell'd, and review'd
What once we held so dear: the eye of youth
Saw, tho' the tear would often intervene,
And shake their branches, and suspend their bowers,
The groves that echoed to his horn or waved
With gales that whilom whisper'd notes of love:
He saw; and linger'd long; for seldom fear
Invades a bosom harbouring regret.
But others hasten'd to the far-off heights
Of Calpè: there a hundred grottoes gleam
High-arct with massy spear; from hence descend
Columns of crystal, ranged from side to side
In equal order; there the freshest Nymphs
Bring water sweet and glide away unseen.
But hither few arrive, now darkness reigns
Around; but weary of the slow-paced hours
One lifts his eyes above, and, trembling, views
The moss and ivy shake with every wind
Against the yawning cavern; every wind
He deems a spectre's yell; and every beam
Shed from the clouded orbit stops his flight.
One, when molested from their lone abode
The birds of omen rise aloft in air,
Shrill-shrieking, and on whirring pinion borne
Sidelong, and circling o'er the pinnacles,
In turbid agitation thinks he hears
His infant faintly wailing, or his wife
From far, imploring help he cannot give;
And wishes he were dead, yet fears to die.
'Twere piteous now, had pity past ourselves,
To hear sometimes the long-drawn moan of dogs,
Sometimes their quick impatience, while they sought
Fond master, left behind, or headlong dash'd
Where faithless moonshine fill'd the abrupt abyss.
From waken'd nest, and pinion silence-pois'd,
Th' huge vulture drops rebounding;—first he fears;
Looks round; draws back; half lifts his cow'ring wing;
Stretches his ruffled neck and rolling eye,
Tastes the warm blood, and flickers for the foe.
Some, seated on the soft declivity,
Sink into weary slumber; others climb
The crumbling cliff, and craggy precipice,
To none accessible but him who fears.
Thus, to the mountain-brake that overhangs
A valley dark and narrow, flies the kid
Before a lion: he from far espies
The pensile fugitive, nor dares pursue;
But gazing often, with tremendous roar
Shakes from his thirsty throat the fretful foam.
Here, love, ambition, labor, victory,
Injustice, vengeance, Hercules forgot.
Forgot how proud Laomedon, from Troy's
High summits, knew the hero, knew the steeds
That paw'd the plain beneath, and all the king
Shrunk, and the perjurer alone remain'd.
Here mournful Thessaly no more occurr'd,
Deserted by her shepherds, while the neck
Of roving oxen soften'd from the yoke.
Here hospitable Scyros he forgot;
Here Tempé, fresh with springs, with woods embower'd;
Larissa too, whose glowing children vied
In pæans, vied in tracing where the throng
Around the quiver, markt the hand, of strength
To lift on high the shafts of Hercules.
While thro' the bulrushes the hero stept,
Slow, and intently looking round him, waved
His torch, and blue-eyed Lerna, lily-crowned,
Shook at the shadow of a future God.
'Twas there he started, matchless in the race;
The race was run; and Calpé was the goal.
'Twas here Tartessus, in distraction fled
Before the steel of Sidon; she with Tyre
Unfurl'd the sail of conquest, Oceans rose
To waft her, suns to strow the yielding way.
Hers were the realms of night—each star was hers.
But Venus far above the rest, whose orb's
Meek lustre, melting thro' the cedar-sprays
That spire around the lofty Lebanon,
Led forth their matrons all at evening's close
To celebrate the sad solemnity.
There they abided: here, ill-omen'd hour!
Aside Lacippo's stream, with boughs o'erhung,
Dark alder, pearly-blossom'd arbutus,
And myrtle, highest held of earthly flowers,
And mixt with amaranth at the feasts above—
Maids snowy-stoled, and purple-mitred boys,
Foregoing each young pleasure—mazy dance,
Where Love most but most slightly wounds,
Games, where Contention strives to look like Love,
Scatter anemones, and roses, torn
Ere daylight wakes them, from their mossy cell.
Not thus, Nebrissa, went thy mountaineers.
Mad with religious lust and solemn wine,
They panted for their orgies, at the fount
Accustom'd: part the mangled heifer tear;
Part, stamping on the neck, wrench off its brow
The horns, and blow them bubbling hoarse with blood:
Some gird themselves with adders: others yell
From pipe far-screeching—trill above their head
The tymbrel—clash the cymbal—others drum
The hollow deep-toned Corybantine brass.
Before them, Sycus and Amphyllion,
Glad to have mixt themselves with men, at hours
When fearful childhood is constrain'd to rest,
Ran tripping for Lacippo; but to see
Flowers that profusely floated down the stream,
Breaking the yellow moonshine as they passed,
Surprised and held them; fixt on this, they heard
No plaintive strain beyond: for childhood's mind
Sits on the eyeball; 'tis her boundary.
But, higher up, those who the orgies led
Hearken'd, at every pause, and each was fill'd
With clear responses winding thro' the vale.
Old Cheratægon chided this delay.
“Why stood they gaping? had the wrathful Moon
Struck them? had any Satyr from the heights,
Had he whom every Season stops to crown,
Whom Hellespontic Lampsacus adores,
Answered their carols, kind? if so—reply.”
Then placing to his lips the clarion,
He started, waved it round, and listening
Again, cried out “a female voice I hear,
“Proceed, proceed.” They hurry on; they view
The choir: the shrieking damsels cannot fly;
Their vesture baffles each attempt of fear.
In vain implore they Venus, and adjure
By all she suffer'd when Adonis died,
The rustics knew Adonis not by name
Nor Venus by a tear. They wring their hands
In agony, they clasp them in despair,
Or those restricted in the strong embrace,
Raise praying eyes to heaven, and bend the neck
Back till, its tapering column quite convulsed,
The breasts that from the marble sanctuary
Stood out inviting Chastity and Love,
By violence and passion are profaned.
While tumult rages there and wild affright,
Led by avenging deities, and warm'd
With patriot fire, the purest that ascends
Before the presence of those deities,
The caverns we had left, and many a plain
As desolate, where now the wolf, enraged,
Bit the deserted fences of the fold;
And now with plighted faith and pledging vows
Throughout invoke our murder'd countrymen:
For now at las the radiant host of heaven
Seem'd, going one by one, to delegate
Peace and repose behind; these oft enchant
The wicked; but whene'er the weary lids
Drop, either dreadful visions they enclose,
Tenacious, or the senseless breast imbibes
The poison'd balm of sweet security.
Seen through that porch's pillars, yonder wood
Tho' not far distant, yet from hence appears
More like a grassy slope—by Lybian blasts
Distorted—there in ambush, we surveyed
Our battlements, whose friendly shadow stretch'd
O'er half the ruins of old Geryon's tomb:
When silently and quick athwart the dale
Glide ranks of helmets; these alone are seen,
Darkness and distance occupy the rest.
They fade away, and eagerly we catch
The rumour of their march: the hunter, worn
With service dragging some ignoble weight,
Stops in the passing wind the well-known cry
Of hound that, after hard-run chase hath leapt
Up to his nostrils, or against his side
Rested one foot—the other gall'd with thorns—
Like him we, conscious of our former strength,
Quake with the impotence of wild desire.
Less dangerous now is our determined course
Toward Tartessus: we approach the walls;
We reach them; nor had halted, ere the gates
Fly open: staring at the prodigy,
Encouraged at the fact, the Iberian bands
Rush in, and with a dreadful shout proclaim
The vengeance of the Gods; afraid to strike
At first, lest any one of these, conceal'd
In human likeness, at the portal placed,
The force, himself inspired them with, bewail.
Astounded and aghast, the Tyrians rise
From slumber: these imagine it a dream,
Discrediting their senses' evidence;
Those in the portico cry out to arms,
Forgetful of their own, while many, driven
By desperation, reckless of their shield
Or buckler, rush amidst us, sword in hand,
Impetuous, covering with their prostrate corse
The spot they fought on: others, overthrown
By numbers pressing forward, under throngs
Of enemies, groan loud; a double pang
Such feel, in dying with no hostile wound.
Hundreds and fortunate are they, prolong
Sleep into death, nor ever know the change.
The remnant in their hollow ships confide
For refuge, close pursued; thrice happy few
Who now, the pitchy, hard, and slippery side
Surmounted, mindless yet of sail or oar,
Embrace their own Patæcus on the prow.
O'er their companions, in the crowded strand
Death, leading up night's rear, her banner waves,
Invisible, but rustling like the blast
That strips the fallen year: with arms outstretched,
Dismay, before her, pushes on; and Fear
Crouching unconscious close beside her casts
A murky paleness o'er her wing black-plumed.
Just liberated from their noisome cells,
Slavery's devoted, thirsting for revenge,
Drink deep; the fetter is at last become
An instrument of slaughter, and the feet
Swoln with it bathe themselves in hostile blood,
Till from the valleys deep the fogs arise
Perceptible; while on the summits Morn
Her saffron robe and golden sceptre lays.
Then of their lofty vessels we descry
Nought save the topmost sails, each nether part
By Gades, tho' behind them, was obscured;
These, distant yet, seem'd o'er the town displayed.
'Tis painful, O Phocæans, to unfold
The brazen gates of War, and find Revenge
Bursting her brittle manacles, while Rage
Strikes with impatient spear the sounding floor.
Here Sycus and Amphyllion I behold,
Shivering, and with the back of feeble wrist
Drawn frequently across their swollen eyes,
Wiping large tears away—poor harmless pair!
You, playing near life's threshold strown with flowers,
Common indeed, but sweet, and all your own,
Death snatcht away, and flapt her raven wing.
The Tyrians sally forth, to meet the hour
When woe and darkness yield to light and glee,
And reach Lacippo's fount ere earliest dawn.
No mortal meet they, nor the faintest noise
Hear, but of rustling leaves and tinkling rill.
They wonder; look around them; shudder, seize
Each zephyr, and each shadow which he makes
By nimbly lighting on the pliant boughs
Creep further on the grass: for every man
Imagines, tho' all others may have strayed,
Surely his own must near him still remain.
But all upon the distant hills were drag'd
Thro' wild and winding sheep-walks, into huts
Where with unsated eye Nebrissan wives,
Not yet suspicious of supplanting charms,
Survey their strange attire: one draws the veil
Aside, and fancies somewhat in the face
Tho' foreign like her countrywomen; lips
Rosy, but rather blighted; eyes full-orbed,
Ringlets that o'er pellucid temples wave,
As cedars o'er steep snow-drifts; blooming cheeks,
But, courted not by sun or sea-born gale,
Pallid and puny when compared with hers:
Another, hath some broken flower escaped
Mid the dishevel'd hair, with curious hand
Twists round, on tiptoe, its exotic stem,
Exulting high with ingenuity.
Uprooted smells the hazel underwood,
The verdant pile ascends; upon the top
Branches of pitch-tree are arranged, across,
And cover'd with their leaves: the cymbals ring;
The tymbrels rough, and doubling drums reply.
Music, when thunders arm her heavenly voice,
May rouse most other passions—she may rouse
The Furies from their deep Tartarian dens,
Or Wonder from her unseen orbit, fixt
The middlemost of endless myriads—
Terror she stops amid his wild career,
Engages and subdues. Amphyllion's heart
Flutter'd indeed but flutter'd less confined,
He trembled more, yet dreaded less: the boy
Would now with rapturous violence have rubbed
His palms to sparkling, were they but unbound,
His head he would have nestled in the lap
Of Fortune, when he found the budded spoils
Lie innocent, squared well, and garland-hung.
He laughed at their device; he look'd around,
And saw the knife, but sought the sacrifice.
Can yon ethereal Powers! if any rule
Above us or below, or if concern
For human sins and sorrows touches you—
Can you see, quivering, shrinking, shrivelling,
Lips without guile, and bosoms without gall,
Nor pity, succour, save! Alas, your will
Was pleaded, and your presence was invoked.
First, 'twas revenge—but, when 'twas done, 'twas heaven!
When others rise in anger, men exclaim
“Fierce Furies urge them:” but when they themselves,
“Righteous inflexible Eumenides.”
Even thou Venus! Goddess! even thou,
That leadest the Gætulian lioness
From caves and carnage, and on sunny sands
Makest to slumber with satiety—
Thou wreathest serpents as thou wreathest flowers,
Thou silencest the winds without a word,
Thou curbest the black Tempest; and the face
Of Ocean brightens at thy filial smile,
Yet, either art thou cruel or profaned.
When Cruelty and Youth together dwell
Nature may weep indeed! they also wept.
The sons of Tyre and Sidon also wept.
Returning to the gates, they only heard
A few last groans, only a few fond names
Given them long ago: by madness driven,
Like Atys, when he left his father's home,
Never to see it more, nor to admire
His face dim-shining from his olived thigh—
They run into the woods and are devour'd
By grief and famine, without friend or grave.

CHRYSAOR.

REGENERATION.

We are what suns and winds and waters make us;
The mountains are our sponsors, and the rills
Fashion and win their nursling with their smiles.
But where the land is dim from tyranny,
Their tiny pleasures occupy the place
Of glories and of duties; as the feet
Of fabled fairies when the sun goes down
Trip o'er the grass where wrestlers strove by day.
Then Justice, call'd the Eternal One above,
Is more inconstant than the buoyant form
That burst into existence from the froth
Of ever-varying ocean: what is best
Then becomes worst; what loveliest, most deformed.
The heart is hardest in the softest climes,
The passions flourish, the affections die.
O thou vast tablet of these awful truths,
That fillest all the space between the seas,
Spreading from Venice's deserted courts
To the Tarentine and Hydruntine mole,
What lifts thee up? what shakes thee? 'tis the breath
Of God. Awake, ye nations! spring to life!
Let the last work of his right hand appear
Fresh with his image, Man. Thou recreant slave
That sittest afar off and helpest not,
O thou degenerate Albion! with what shame
Do I survey thee, pushing forth the spunge
At thy spear's length, in mockery at the thirst
Of holy Freedom in his agony,
And prompt and keen to pierce the wounded side!
Must Italy then wholly rot away
Amid her slime, before she germinate
Into fresh vigour, into form again?
What thunder bursts upon mine ear! some isle
Hath surely risen from the gulphs profound,
Eager to suck the sunshine from the breast
Of beauteous Nature, and to catch the gale
From golden Hermus and Melena's brow.
A greater thing than isle, than continent,
Than earth itself, than ocean circling earth,
Hath risen there; regenerate Man hath risen.
Generous old bard of Chios! not that Jove
Deprived thee in thy latter days of sight
Would I complain, but that no higher theme
Than a disdainful youth, a lawless king,
A pestilence, a pyre, awoke thy song,
When on the Chian coast, one javelin's throw
From where thy tombstone, where thy cradle stood,
Twice twenty self-devoted Greeks assail'd
The naval host of Asia, at one blow
Scattered it into air . . . and Greece was free . . .
And ere these glories beam'd, thy day had closed.
Let all that Elis ever saw, give way,
All that Olympian Jove e'er smiled upon:
The Marathonian columns never told
A tale more glorious, never Salamis,
Nor, faithful in the centre of the false,
Platea, nor Anthela, from whose mount
Benignant Ceres wards the blessed Laws,
And sees the Amphictyon dip his weary foot
In the warm streamlet of the strait below.
Goddess! altho' thy brow was never rear'd
Among the powers that guarded or assail'd
Perfidious Ilion, parricidal Thebes,
Or other walls whose war-belt e'er inclosed
Man's congregated crimes and vengeful pain,
Yet hast thou toucht the extremes of grief and joy;
Grief upon Enna's mead and Hell's ascent,
A solitary mother; joy beyond,
Far beyond, that thy woe, in this thy fane:
The tears were human, but the bliss divine.
I, in the land of strangers, and deprest
With sad and certain presage for my own,
Exult at hope's fresh dayspring, tho' afar,
There where my youth was not unexercised
By chiefs in willing war and faithful song:
Shades as they were, they were not empty shades,
Whose bodies haunt our world and blear our sun,
Obstruction worse than swamp and shapeless sands.
Peace, praise, eternal gladness, to the souls
That, rising from the seas into the heavens,
Have ransom'd first their country with their blood!
O thou immortal Spartan! at whose name
The marble table sounds beneath my palms,
Leonidas! even thou wilt not disdain
To mingle names august as these with thine;
Nor thou, twin-star of glory, thou whose rays
Stream'd over Corinth on the double sea,
Achaian and Saronic; whom the sons
Of Syracuse, when Death removed thy light,
Wept more than slavery ever made them weep,
But shed (if gratitude is sweet) sweet tears . .
The hand that then pour'd ashes o'er their heads
Was loosen'd from its desperate chain by thee.
What now can press mankind into one mass,
For Tyranny to tread the more secure?
From gold alone is drawn the guilty wire
That Adulation trills: she mocks the tone
Of Duty, Courage, Virtue, Piety,
And under her sits Hope. O how unlike
That graceful form in azure vest array'd,
With brow serene, and eyes on heaven alone
In patience fixt, in fondness unobscured!
What monsters coil beneath the spreading tree
Of Despotism! what wastes extend around!
What poison floats upon the distant breeze!
But who are those that cull and deal its fruit?
Creatures that shun the light and fear the shade,
Bloated and fierce, Sleep's mien and Famine's cry.
Rise up again, rise in thy dignity,
Dejected Man! and scare this brood away.

TO CORINTH.

POEMS AND EPIGRAMS CHIEFLY FROM THE COLLECTION OF 1846.

[O friends! who have accompanied thus far]

I.

[She leads in solitude her youthful hours]

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

II.

[Come back, ye Smiles, that late forsook]

III. WITH PETRARCA'S SONNETS.

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

IV.

[The touch of Love dispels the gloom]

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

V. TWELFTH-NIGHT.

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

VI.

[She I love (alas in vain!)]

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

VII.

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

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

VIII.

[Darling shell, where hast thou been]

IX.

[Away my verse; and never fear]

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

X.

[Pleasure! why thus desert the heart]

XI.

[My hopes retire; my wishes as before]

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

XII.

[Lie, my fond heart at rest]

XIII.

[The heart you cherish can not change]

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

XIV.

[Clifton! in vain thy varied scenes invite]

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

XV.

[Ask me not, a voice severe]

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

XVI.

[O thou whose happy pencil strays]

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

XVII.

[All tender thoughts that e'er possest]

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

XVIII.

[Past ruin'd Ilion Helen lives]

XIX.

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

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

XX.

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

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

XXI.

[It often comes into my head]

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

XXII.

[Your pleasures spring like daisies in the grass]

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

XXIII.

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

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

XXIV.

[Mine fall, and yet a tear of hers]

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

XXV.

[Circe, who bore the diadem]

XXVI.

[If mutable is she I love]

XXVII.

[Could but the dream of night return by day]

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

XXVIII.

[I love to hear that men are bound]

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

XXIX.

[Soon as Ianthe's lip I prest]

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

XXX.

[Beloved the last! beloved the most!]

XXXI.

[Art thou afraid the adorer's prayer]

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

XXXII.

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

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

XXXIII.

[While the winds whistle round my cheerless room]

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

XXXIV.

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

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

XXXV.

[You tell me I must come again]

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

XXXVI.

[I often ask upon whose arm she leans]

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

XXXVII.

[I sadden while I view again]

XXXVIII.

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

XXXIX.

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

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

XL.

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

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

XLI.

[Ye walls! sole witnesses of happy sighs]

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

XLII. IANTHE'S LETTER.

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

XLIII.

[“Remember you the guilty night,”]

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

XLIV.

[On the smooth brow and clustering hair]

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

XLV.

[Along this coast I led the vacant Hours]

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

XLVI.

[Pursuits! alas, I now have none]

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

XLVII.

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

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

XLVIII.

[Where alders rise up dark and dense]

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

XLIX.

[From heaven descend two gifts alone]

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

L.

[Remain, ah not in youth alone]

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

LI.

[It is no dream that I am he]

LII.

[Here, ever since you went abroad]

LIII.

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

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

LIV.

[I held her hand, the pledge of bliss]

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

LV. TO LOVE.

LVI.

[You smiled, you spoke, and I believed]

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

LVII.

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

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

LVIII.

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

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

LIX.

[The Loves who many years held all my mind]

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

LX.

[As round the parting ray the busy motes]

LXI.

[So late removed from him she swore]

LXII.

[Mild is the parting year, and sweet]

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

LXIII.

[Dull is my verse: not even thou]

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

LXIV.

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

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

LXV.

[There are some wishes that may start]

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

LXVI.

[Youth is the virgin nurse of tender Hope]

LXVII.

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

LXVIII.

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

LXIX.

[I would invoke you once again]

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

LXX. THE PROGRESS OF EVENING.

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

LXXI.

[In Clementina's artless mien]

LXXII.

[Against the rocking mast I stand]

LXXIII.

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

LXXIV. WRITTEN IN WALES.

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

LXXV.

[Maria! I have said adieu]

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

LXXVI.

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

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

LXXVII.

[Let me sit here and muse by thee]

LXXVIII. FOR AN URN IN THORESBY PARK.

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

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

LXXX.

[Ah what avails the sceptred race]

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

LXXXI.

[Child of a day, thou knowest not]

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

LXXXII. ON A POET IN A WELSH CHURCHYARD.

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

LXXXIII.

[Thou in this wide cold church art laid]

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

LXXXIV.

[Tears driven back upon the fountain-head]

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

LXXXV.

[Not the last struggles of the Sun]

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

LXXXVI.

[The day returns, my natal day]

LXXXVII.

[When Helen first saw wrinkles in her face]

LXXXVIII.

[A provident and wakeful fear]

LXXXIX.

[Boastfully call we all the world our own]

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

XC.

[When the mimosas shall have made]

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

XCI.

[Everything tells me you are near]

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

XCII.

[November! thou art come again]

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

XCIII.

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

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

XCIV.

[To our past loves we oft return]

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

XCV.

[Smiles soon abate; the boisterous throe]

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

XCVI.

[I will not call her fair]

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

XCVII.

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

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

XCVIII.

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

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

XCIX.

[Neither the suns nor frosts of rolling years]

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

C.

[Why, why repine, my pensive friend]

CI.

[Thou whom the wandering comets guide]

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

CII.

[Humblest among the vernal train]

CIII.

[The burden of an ancient rhyme]

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

CIV.

[Will mortals never know each other's station]

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

CV.

[Tell me, perverse young year!]

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

CVI. ON RECEIVING A BOOK TO WRITE IN.

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

CVII. A SEA-SHELL SPEAKS.

CVIII.

[Often I have heard it said]

CIX.

[In spring and summer winds may blow]

CX. ON RECEIVING A PORTRAIT.

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

CXI.

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

CXII. SENT TO A LADY WITH FLOWERS.

CXIII.

[Very true, the linnets sing]

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

CXIV. ON HAIR FALLING OFF AFTER AN ILLNESS.

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

CXV.

[First bring me Raffael, who alone hath seen]

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

CXVI. FAREWELL TO ITALY.

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

CXVII.

[He who sees rising from some open down]

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

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

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

CXIX. ON AN ECLIPSE OF THE MOON.

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

CXX. ON SHAKESPEARE.

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

CXXI.

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

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

CXXII.

[Ternissa! you are fled!]

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

CXXIII.

[You love me; but if I confess]

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

CXXIV.

[One morning in the spring I sate]

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

CXXV. TO LADY CALDWELL.

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

CXXVI.

[To write as your sweet mother does]

CXXVII.

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

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

CXXVIII. CHRISTMAS HOLLY.

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

CXXIX.

[Various the roads of life; in one]

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

CXXX.

[Never may storm thy peaceful bosom vex]

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

CXXXI. FOR THE ALBUM OF THE DUCHESS DE GUICHE.

CXXXII.

[No, my own love of other years!]

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

CXXXIII. LINES TO A DRAGON-FLY.

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

CXXXIV.

[Absent is she thou lovest? be it so]

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

CXXXV.

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

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

CXXXVI.

[No charm can stay, no medicine can assuage]

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

CXXXVII.

[Many may yet recall the hours]

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

CXXXVIII. TO A SPANIEL.

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

CXXXIX.

[True, ah too true! the generous breast]

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

CXL. ON SEEING A HAIR OF LUCRETIA BORGIA.

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

CXLI. ON MIGNIONETTE.

CXLII.

[In his own image the Creator made]

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

CXLIII. WRITTEN ON THE RHINE.

CXLIV. MALVOLIO.

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

CXLV. WITH AN ALBUM.

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

CXLVI.

[My serious son! I see thee look]

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

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

CXLVIII.

[Give me the eyes that look on mine]

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

CXLIX.

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

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

CL.

[I leave with unreverted eye the towers]

CLI.

[Summer has doft his latest green]

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

CLII.

[Where Malvern's verdant ridges gleam]

CLIII. ON THE DECEASE OF MRS ROSENHAGEN.

CLIV.

[How many voices gaily sing]

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

CLV.

[Who smites the wounded on his bed]

CLVI.

[What, of house and home bereft]

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

CLVII.

[Under the hollies of thy breezy glade]

CLVIII.

[Where three huge dogs are ramping yonder]

CLIX. THE DEAD MARTEN.

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

CLX.

[Ye little household gods, that make]

CLXI.

[The leaves are falling; so am I]

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

CLXII.

[The place where soon I think to lie]

CLXIII.

[As he who baskt in sunshine loves to go]

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

CLXIV.

[Love is like Echo in the land of Tell]

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

CLXV. ON RECEIVING A MONTHLY ROSE.

CLXVI.

[Sweet was the song that Youth sang once]

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

CLXVII.

[Fate! I have askt few things of thee]

CLXVIII. TO A LADY ON COMING OF AGE.

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

CLXIX.

[Beauty! thou arbitress of weal or woe]

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

CLXX.

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

CLXXI.

[O'erfoaming with rage]

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

CLXXII. ON A QUAKER'S TANKARD.

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

CLXXIII. INVOCATION TO THE MUSE.

CLXXIV. EPITHALAMIUM.

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

CLXXV.

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

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

CLXXVI.

[Ten thousand flakes about my windows blow]

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

CLXXVII. OLD STYLE.

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

CLXXVIII. SUGGESTED BY HORACE.

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

CLXXIX.

[An English boy, whose travels lay]

CLXXX.

[Pleasant it is to wink and sniff the fumes]

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

CLXXXI. COTTAGE LEFT FOR LONDON.

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

CLXXXII.

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

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

CLXXXIII.

[Deep forests hide the stoutest oaks]

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

CLXXXIV.

[God's laws declare]

CLXXXV. FLOWERS SENT IN BAY-LEAVES.

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

CLXXXVI.

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

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

CLXXXVII.

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

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

CLXXXVIII.

[Two cackling mothers hatch two separate broods]

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

CLXXXIX.

[Does it become a girl so wise]

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

CXC.

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

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

CXCI.

[Each year bears something from us as it flies]

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

CXCII.

[Idle and light are many things you see]

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

CXCIII.

[In wrath a youth was heard to say]

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

CXCIV.

[I've never seen a book of late]

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

CXCV. A MASK ON A RING.

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

CXCVI.

[I would give something, O Apollo!]

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

CXCVII.

[Alas, how soon the hours are over]

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

CXCVIII.

[Is it not better at an early hour]

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

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

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

CC. TO SOUTHEY.

CCI. LINES ON THE DEATH OF CHARLES LAMB.

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

CCII. TO ANDREW JACKSON.

CCIII. TO WORDSWORTH.

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

CCV. TO THE COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON.

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

CCVI.

[Unjust are they who argue me unjust]

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

CCVII. TO LADY CHARLES BEAUCLERK.

CCVIII. TO MY DAUGHTER.

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

CCIX. TO ANDREW CROSSE.

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

CCX. TO A LADY.

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

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

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

CCXII. TO MY DAUGHTER IN ITALY, AT CHRISTMAS.

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

CCXIII. TO MISS ISABELLA PERCY.

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

CCXIV. TO CHARLES DICKENS.

CCXV. TO SOUTHEY, 1833.

CCXVI. TO BARRY CORNWALL.

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

CCXVII. TO MAJOR-GENERAL W. NAPIER.

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

CCXVIII. TO MATHEW AND WOLFF.

CCXIX. TO JOHN KENYON.

CCXX. TO ROBERT BROWNING.

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

CCXXI. TO THE SISTER OF ELIA.

CCXXII. TO JOSEPH ABLETT.

CCXXIII. TO EMMA ISOLA.

CCXXIV. TO A PAINTER.

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

CCXXV. FOR AN EPITAPH AT FIESOLE.

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

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

CCXXVII. TO JOHN FORSTER.

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

POEMS FROM PERICLES AND ASPASIA AND OTHER PROSE WORKS.

PERICLES TO ASPASIA.

Flower of Ionia's fertile plains,
Where Pleasure leagued with Virtue reigns,
Where the Pierian Maids of old,
Yea, long ere Ilion's tale was told,
Too pure, too sacred for our sight,
Descended with the silent night
To young Arctinus, and Mæander
Delay'd his course for Melesander!
If there be city on the earth
Proud in the children of her birth,
Wealth, science, beauty, story, song,
These to Miletus all belong.
To fix the diadem on his brow
For ever, one was wanting . . thou.

SOCRATES TO ASPASIA.

ASPASIA TO SOCRATES.

CORINNA TO TANAGRA.

From Athens.

FROM MIMNERMUS.

I wish not Thasos rich in mines,
Nor Naxos girt around with vines,
Nor Crete nor Samos, the abodes
Of those who govern men and gods,
Nor wider Lydia, where the sound
Of tymbrels shakes the thymy ground,
And with white feet and with hoofs cloven
The dedal dance is spun and woven:
Meanwhile each prying younger thing
Is sent for water to the spring,
Under where red Priapus rears
His club amid the junipers.
In this whole world enough for me
Is any spot the Gods decree;
Albeit the pious and the wise
Would tarry where, like mulberries,
In the first hour of ripeness fall
The tender creatures one and all.
To take what falls with even mind
Jove wills, and we must be resign'd.

HEGEMON TO PRAXINOE.

FROM MYRTIS.

TO EROS.

Tell me (if ever, Eros! are reveal'd
Thy secrets to the earth) have they been true
To any love who speak about the first?
What! shall these holier lights, like twinkling stars
In the few hours assign'd them, change their place,
And, when comes ampler splendour, disappear?
Idler I am, and pardon, not reply,
Implore from thee, thus questioned; well I know
Thou strikest, like Olympian Jove, but once.

THE DEATH OF ARTEMIDORA.

“Artemidora! Gods invisible,
While thou art lying faint along the couch,
Have tied the sandal to thy veined feet,
And stand beside thee, ready to convey
Thy weary steps where other rivers flow.
Refreshing shades will waft thy weariness
Away, and voices like thine own come nigh,
Soliciting, nor vainly, thy embrace.”
Artemidora sighed, and would have press'd
The hand now pressing hers, but was too weak.
Fate's shears were over her dark hair unseen
While thus Elpenor spake: he look'd into
Eyes that had given light and life erewhile
To those above them, those now dim with tears
And watchfulness. Again he spake of joy
Eternal. At that word, that sad word, joy,
Faithful and fond her bosom heav'd once more,
Her head fell back: one sob, one loud deep sob
Swell'd through the darken'd chamber; 'twas not hers:
With her that old boat incorruptible,
Unwearied, undiverted in its course,
Had plash'd the water up the farther strand.

ALETHEIA TO PHRAORTES.

TO ARDALIA.

WAR.

War is it, O grave heads! that ye
With stern and stately pomp decree?
Inviting all the Gods from far
To join you in the game of war!
Have ye then lived so many years
To find no purer joy than tears?
And seek ye now the highest good
In strife, in anguish, and in blood?
Your wisdom may be more than ours,
But you have spent your golden hours,
And have methinks but little right
To make the happier fret and fight.
Ah! when will come the calmer day
When these dark clouds shall pass away?
When (should two cities disagree)
The young, the beauteous, and the free,
Rushing with all their force, shall meet
And struggle with embraces sweet,
Till they who may have suffer'd most
Give in, and own the battle lost.

CUPID TEARING A ROSE-BUD.

Ah, Cupid! Cupid! let alone
That bud above the rest:
The Graces wear it in their zone,
Thy mother on her breast.
Does it not grieve thee to destroy
So beautiful a flower?
If thou must do it, cruel boy,
Far distant be the hour!
If the sweet bloom (so tinged with fire
From thy own torch) must die,
Let it, O generous Love! expire
Beneath a lover's sigh.

A FAUN TO ERIOPIS.

Tell me, Eriopis, why
Lies in shade that languid eye?
Hast thou caught the hunter's shout
Far from Dian, and without
Any sister nymph to say
Whither leads the downward way?
Trust me: never be afraid
Of thy Faun, my little maid!
He will never call thee Dear,
Press thy finger, pinch thy ear,
To admire it overspread
Swiftly with pellucid red,
Nor shall broad and slender feet
Under fruit-laid table meet.
Doth not he already know
All thy wandering, all thy woe.
Come! to weep is now in vain
I will lead thee back again.
Slight and harmless was the slip
That but soil'd the sadden'd lip.
Now the place is shown to me
Peace and safety shall there be.

CLEONE TO ASPASIA.

We mind not how the sun in the mid-sky
Is hastening on; but when the golden orb
Strikes the extreme of earth, and when the gulfs
Of air and ocean open to receive him,
Dampness and gloom invade us: then we think,
Ah! thus is it with Youth. Too fast his feet
Run on for sight; hour follows hour; fair maid
Succeeds fair maid; bright eyes bestar his couch;
The cheerful horn awakens him; the feast,
The revel, the entangling dance allure,
And voices mellower than the Muse's own
Heave up his buoyant bosom on their wave.
A little while and then . . Ah, Youth! dear Youth!
Listen not to my words . . but stay with me!
When thou art gone, Life may go too; the sigh
That follows is for thee, and not for Life.

THE IAMBICS OF HEPHÆSTION.

Speak not too ill of me, Athenian friends!
Nor ye, Athenian sages, speak too ill!
From others of all tribes am I secure.
I leave your confines: none whom you caress,
Finding me hungry and athirst, shall dip
Into Cephisus the grey bowl to quench
My thirst, or break the horny bread, and scoop
Stiffly around the scanty vase, wherewith
To gather the hard honey at the sides,
And give it me for having heard me sing.
Sages and friends! a better cause remains
For wishing no black sail upon my mast.
'Tis, friends and sages! lest, when other men
Say words a little gentler, ye repent,
Yet be forbidden by stern pride to share
The golden cup of kindness, pushing back
Your seats, and gasping for a draught of scorn.
Alas! shall this too, never lack'd before,
Be, when you most would crave it, out of reach!
Thus on the plank, now Neptune is invoked,
I warn you of your peril! I must live,
And ye, O friends! howe'er unwilling, may.

TO PERILLA.

FROM ALCAEUS.

ON AGE.

ODE TO MILETUS.

ERINNA TO LOVE.

SAPPHO TO HESPERUS.

TO HESPERUS.

TO PYRRHA.

TO MY CHILD CARLINO.

INVOCATION TO SLEEP.

POET AND LADY.

Poet.

Lady.

Poet.

FROM THE LAST FRUIT OFF AN OLD TREE.

[I strove with none; for none was worth my strife]

I strove with none; for none was worth my strife,
Nature I loved, and next to Nature, Art;
I warmed both hands before the fire of life,
It sinks and I am ready to depart.

I. ON CATULLUS.

Tell me not what too well I know
About the bard of Sirmio . .
Yes, in Thalia's son
Such stains there are . . as when a Grace
Sprinkles another's laughing face
With nectar, and runs on.

II.

[There falls with every wedding chime]

There falls with every wedding chime
A feather from the wing of Time.
You pick it up, and say “How fair
To look upon its colours are!”
Another drops day after day
Unheeded; not one word you say.
When bright and dusky are blown past,
Upon the hearse there nods the last.

III.

[I entreat you, Alfred Tennyson]

I entreat you, Alfred Tennyson,
Come and share my haunch of venison.
I have too a bin of claret,
Good, but better when you share it.
Tho' 'tis only a small bin,
There 's a stock of it within.
And as sure as I'm a rhymer,
Half a butt of Rudesheimer.
Come; among the sons of men is one
Welcomer than Alfred Tennyson?

IV.

[Fair Love! and fairer Hope! we play'd together]

Fair Love! and fairer Hope! we play'd together,
When we were little ones, for many a day,
Sometimes in fine, sometimes in gloomier weather:
Is it not hard to part so soon in May?

V.

[Love flies with bow unstrung when Time appears]

Love flies with bow unstrung when Time appears,
And trembles at the assault of heavy years;
A few bright feathers bear him on his flight
Quite beyond call, but not forgotten quite.

VI.

[Thou needst not pitch upon my hat]

VII.

[Stop, stop, friend Cogan! would you throw]

Stop, stop, friend Cogan! would you throw
That tooth away? You little know
Its future: that which now you see
A sinner's, an old saint's may be,
And popes may bless it in a ring
To charm the conscience of some king.

VIII. YOUNG.

Thou dreariest droll of puffy short-breath'd writers!
All thy night-thoughts and day-thoughts hung on mitres.

IX.

[Here lies our honest friend Sam Parr]

Here lies our honest friend Sam Parr,
A better man than most men are.
So learned, he could well dispense
Sometimes with merely common sense:
So voluble, so eloquent,
You little heeded what he meant:
So generous, he could spare a word
To throw at Warburton or Hurd:
So loving, every village-maid
Sought his caresses, tho' afraid.

X.

[Blythe bell, that calls to bridal halls]

Blythe bell, that calls to bridal halls,
Tolls deep a darker day;
The very shower that feeds the flower
Weeps also its decay.

XI. TO AN OLD MULBERRY TREE.

Old mulberry! with all thy moss around,
Thy arms are shatter'd, but thy heart is sound:
So then remember one for whom of yore
Thy tenderest boughs the crimson berry bore;
Remember one who, trusting in thy strength,
Lay on the low and level branch full length.
No strength has he, alas! to climb it now,
Nor strength to bear him, if he had, hast thou.

XII.

[In port, beyond the swell of winds and tides]

In port, beyond the swell of winds and tides,
My little skiff the Independence rides.
Scanty, tho' strong and hearty is her crew,
So, come aboard; she can find room for you.

XIII. THE DUKE OF YORK'S STATUE.

XIV.

[Ireland never was contented . .]

Ireland never was contented . .
Say you so? you are demented.
Ireland was contented when
All could use the sword and pen,
And when Tara rose so high
That her turrets split the sky,
And about her courts were seen
Liveried Angels robed in green,
Wearing, by St Patrick's bounty,
Emeralds big as half a county.

XV.

[There is a time when the romance of life]

There is a time when the romance of life
Should be shut up, and closed with double clasp:
Better that this be done before the dust
That none can blow away falls into it.

XVI.

[In summer when the sun's mad horses pass]

In summer when the sun's mad horses pass
Thro' more than half the heavens, we sink to rest
In Italy, nor tread the crackling grass,
But wait until they plunge into the west:
And could not you, Mazzini! wait awhile?
The grass is wither'd, but shall spring again;
The Gods, who frown on Italy, will smile
As in old times, and men once more be men.

XVII.

[God scatters beauty as he scatters flowers]

God scatters beauty as he scatters flowers
O'er the wide earth, and tells us all are ours.
A hundred lights in every temple burn,
And at each shrine I bend my knee in turn.

XVIII. THE DEATH OF MADAME ROLAND.

Genius and Virtue! dismal was the dearth
Ye saw throughout all France when ye lookt down.
In the wide waste of blood-besprinkled earth,
There was but one great soul, and that had flown.

XIX.

[Death stands above me, whispering low]

Death stands above me, whispering low
I know not what into my ear:
Of his strange language all I know
Is, there is not a word of fear.

XX. ROSE AYLMER'S HAIR, GIVEN BY HER SISTER.

Beautiful spoils! borne off from vanquisht death!
Upon my heart's high altar shall ye lie,
Moved but by only one adorer's breath,
Retaining youth, rewarding constancy.

XXI. THE ONE GRAVE.

Though other friends have died in other days,
One grave there is where memory sinks and stays.

XXII.

[Come forth, old lion, from thy den]

Come forth, old lion, from thy den,
Come, be the gaze of idle men,
Old lion, shake thy mane and growl,
Or they will take thee for an owl.

XXIII.

[Strike with Thor's hammer, strike again]

Strike with Thor's hammer, strike again
The skulking heads of half-form'd men,
And every northern God shall smile
Upon thy well-aim'd blow, Carlyle!

XXIV. ON SOUTHEY'S BIRTHDAY, NOV. 4.

No Angel borne on whiter wing
Hath visited the sons of men,
Teaching the song they ought to sing
And guiding right the unsteady pen.
Recorded not on earth alone,
O Southey! is thy natal day,
But there where stands the choral throne
Show us thy light and point the way.

XXV.

[O wretched despicable slaves]

O wretched despicable slaves,
Accomplices and dupes of knaves!
The cut-throat uncle laid ye low,
The cut-purse nephew gags ye now.
Behold at last due vengeance come
For the brave men ye slew at Rome.

XXVI.

[There are some tears that only brave men shed]

XXVII.

[The fault is not mine if I love you too much]

XXVIII. TO A CHILD.

XXIX.

[Rest of my heart! no verse can tell]

Rest of my heart! no verse can tell
My blissful pride, beloved by you;
Yet could I love you half so well
Unless you once had grieved me too?

XXX.

[The Wine is murmuring in the gloom]

The Wine is murmuring in the gloom,
Because he feels that Spring is come
To gladden everything outside . .
To wing the dove to meet his bride,
And not disdainfully to pass
Even the snail along the grass;
Because he feels that on the slope
Of his own hill the vine-flowers ope;
Because he feels that never more
Will earth or heaven his past restore.
He beats against the ribs of iron
Which him and all his strength environ;
He murmurs, swells, and beats again,
But murmurs, swells, and beats in vain.
“Why think about it?” Need I say,
Remembering one sweet hour last May?
We think and feel ('twas your remark)
Then most when all around is dark.

XXXI. NIL ADMIRARI, ETC.

XXXII. JUNE '51.

Versailles! Versailles! thou shalt not keep
Her whom this heart yet holds most dear:
In her own country she shall sleep;
Her epitaph be graven here.

XXXIII. TO THE COUNTESS DE MOLANDÈ.

I wonder not that Youth remains
With you, wherever else she flies:
Where could she find such fair domains,
Where bask beneath such sunny eyes?

XXXIV. YOUTH.

The days of our youth are not over while sadness
Chills never, and seldom o'ershadows, the heart;
While Friendship is crowning the banquet of Gladness
And bids us be seated and offers us part;
While the swift-spoken when? and the slowly-breath'd hush!
Make us half-love the maiden and half-hate the lover,
And feel too what is or what should be a blush . .
Believe me, the days of our youth are not over.

VARIOUS.

XXXV.

[It was a dream (ah! what is not a dream?)]

XXXVI. LOSS OF MEMORY.

Memory! thou hidest from me far,
Hidest behind some twinkling star
Which peers o'er Pindus, or whose beam
Crosses that broad and rapid stream
Where Zeus in wily whiteness shone
And Leda left her virgin zone.
Often I catch thy glimpses still
By that clear river, that lone hill,
But seldom dost thou softly glide
To take thy station at my side,
When later friends and forms are near;
From these thy traces disappear,
And scarce a name can I recall
Of those I value most of all.
At times thou hurriest me away,
And, pointing out an earlier day,
Biddest me listen to a song
I ought to have forgotten long:
Then, looking up, I see above
The plumage of departing Love,
And when I cry, Art thou too gone?
He laughs at me and passes on.
Some images (alas how few!)
Still sparkle in the evening dew
Along my path: and must they quite
Vanish before a deeper night?
Keep one, O Memory! yet awhile,
And let me think I see it smile.

XXXVII. TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

XXXVIII. ROLAND.

When she whose glory casts in shade
France and her best and bravest, was convey'd
Thither where all worth praise had bled,
An aged man in the same car was led
To the same end. The only way,
Roland! to soothe his fear didst thou essay.
“O sir! indeed you must not see
The blood that is about to flow from me.
Mount first these steps. A mother torn
From her one child worse pangs each day hath borne.”
He trembled . . but obey'd the word . .
Then sprang she up and met the reeking sword.

XXXIX. CORDAY.

XL. JANE OF ARC.

XLI. ON THE STATUE OF EBENEZER ELLIOTT BY NEVILLE BURNARD, ORDERED BY THE WORKING MEN OF SHEFFIELD.

XLII. ODE TO SICILY.

XLIII. GONFALIONIERI.

I.

The purest breast that breathes Ausonian air,
Utter'd these words. Hear them, all lands! repeat
All ages! on thy heart the record bear
Till the last tyrant gasp beneath thy feet,
Thou who hast seen in quiet death lie down
The skulking recreant of the changeling crown.

II.

III.

And shall those live who help with armed hand
The weak oppressor? Shall those live who clear
The path before him with their golden wand?
Tremble, vile slaves! your final hour draws near!
Purveyors of a panther's feast are ye,
Degenerate children of brave Maccabee!

IV.

And dare ye claim to sit where Hampden sate,
Where Pym and Eliot warn'd the men of blood;
Where on the wall Charles read his written fate,
And Cromwell sign'd what Milton saw was good?
Away, ye panders of assassin lust,
Nor ever hope to lick that holy dust.

XLIV. TO FRANCIS HARE, BURIED AT PALERMO, ON THE INSURRECTION OF SICILY AND NAPLES.

XLV. TO SAINT CHARLES BORROMEO, ON THE MASSACRE AT MILAN.

XLVI.

[Sleep, tho' to Age so needful, shuns my eyes]

Sleep, tho' to Age so needful, shuns my eyes,
And visions, brighter than Sleep brings, arise.
I hear the Norman arms before me ring,
I see them flash upon a prostrate king.
They conquer'd Britain as they conquer'd France . .
Far over Sicily was hurl'd the lance . .
The barking heads by Scylla all croucht low,
And fierce Charybdis wail'd beneath the blow.
Now Sparta-sprung Taranto hail'd again
More daring Spartans on this fertile plain;
Now Croton saw fresh Milos rise around;
And Sybaris, with recent roses crown'd,
Yielded to Valour her consenting charms
And felt the flush that Beauty feels from arms.

XLVII. DANTE.

Ere blasts from northern lands
Had cover'd Italy with barren sands,
Rome's Genius, smitten sore,
Wail'd on the Danube, and was heard no more.
Twelve centuries had past
And crusht Etruria rais'd her head at last.
A mightier Power she saw,
Poet and prophet, give three worlds the law.
When Dante's strength arose
Fraud met aghast the boldest of her foes;
Religion, sick to death,
Lookt doubtful up, and drew in pain her breath.
Both to one grave are gone;
Altars still smoke, still is the God unknown.
Haste, whoso from above
Comest with purer fire and larger love,
Quenchest the Stygian torch,
And leadest from the Garden and the Porch,
Where gales breathe fresh and free,
And where a Grace is call'd a Charity,
To Him, the God of peace,
Who bids all discord in his household cease . .
Bids it, and bids again,
But to the purple-vested speaks in vain.
Crying, “Can this be borne?”
The consecrated wine-skins creak with scorn;
While, leaving tumult there,
To quiet idols young and old repair,
In places where is light
To lighten day . . and dark to darken night.

XLVIII.

[I told ye, since the prophet Milton's day]

XLIX.

[Few poets beckon to the calmly good]

L. ON THE SLAUGHTER OF THE BROTHERS BANDIERI, BETRAYED TO THE KING OF NAPLES.

Borne on white horses, which the God of Thrace
Rein'd not for wanton Glory in the race
Of Elis, when from far
Ran forth the regal car,
Even from Syracuse, across the sea,
To roll its thunder thro' that fruitless lea;
No; but on steeds whose foam
Flew o'er the helm of Rome,
Came Castor and his brother; at which sight
A shout of victory drown'd the din of fight.
O Rome! O Italy!
Doom'd are ye, doom'd to see
Nor guides divine nor high-aspiring men,
Nor proudly tread the battle-field again?
Lo! who are they who land
Upon that southern strand?
Ingenuous are their faces, firm their gait . .
Ah! but what darkness follows them? . . 'tis Fate!
They turn their heads . . and blood
Alone shows where they stood!
Sons of Bandiera! heroes! by your name
Evoked shall inextinguishable flame
Rise, and o'er-run yon coast,
And animate the host
As did those Twins . . the murderers to pursue
Till the same sands their viler blood imbue.

LI. TO YOUTH.

LII. TO AGE.

LIII. TYRANNICIDE.

Danger is not in action, but in sloth;
By sloth alone we lose
Our strength, our substance, and, far more than both,
The guerdon of the Muse.
Men kill without compunction hawk and kite;
To save the folded flock
They chase the wily plunderer of the night
O'er thicket, marsh, and rock.
Sacred no longer is Our Lord the wolf
Nor crown'd is crocodile:
And shall ye worship on the Baltick Gulph
The refuse of the Nile?
Among the myriad men of murder'd sires
Is there not one still left
Whom wrongs and vengeance urge, whom virtue fires?
One conscious how bereft
Of all is he . . of country, kindred, home . .
He, doom'd to drag along
The dray of serfdom, or thro' lands to roam
That mock an unknown tongue?
A better faith was theirs than pulpits preach
Who struck the tyrant down,
Who taught the brave how patriot brands can reach
And crush the proudest crown.
No law for him who stands above the law,
Trampling on truth and trust;
But hangman's hook or courtier's “privy paw”
Shall drag him thro' the dust.
Most dear of all the Virtues to her Sire
Is Justice; and most dear
To Justice is Tyrannicide; the fire
That guides her flashes near.
See o'er the desert God's red pillar tower!
Follow, ye Nations! raise
The hymn to God! To God alone be power
And majesty and praise!

LIV. ON THE APPROACH OF A SISTER'S DEATH.

LV. ON SWIFT JOINING AVON NEAR RUGBY.

Silent and modest Brook! who dippest here
Thy foot in Avon as if childish fear
Withheld thee for a moment, wend along;
Go, follow'd by my song,
Sung in such easy numbers as they use
Who turn in fondness to the Tuscan Muse
And such as often have flow'd down on me
From my own Fiesole.
I watch thy placid smile, nor need to say
That Tasso wove one looser lay,
And Milton took it up to dry the tear
Dropping on Lycidas's bier.
In youth how often at thy side I wander'd!
What golden hours, hours numberless, were squander'd
Among thy sedges, while sometimes
I meditated native rhymes,
And sometimes stumbled upon Latian feet;
Then, where soft mole-built seat
Invited me, I noted down
What must full surely win the crown,
But first impatiently vain efforts made
On broken pencil with a broken blade.
Anon, of lighter heart, I threw
My hat where circling plover flew,
And once I shouted till, instead of plover,
There sprang up half a damsel, half a lover.
I would not twice be barbarous; on I went . .
And two heads sank amid the pillowing bent.
Pardon me, gentle Stream, if rhyme
Holds up these records in the face of Time:
Among the falling leaves some birds yet sing,
And Autumn hath his butterflies like Spring.
Thou canst not turn thee back, thou canst not see
Reflected what hath ceast to be:
Haply thou little knowest why
I check this levity, and sigh.
Thou never knewest her whose radiant morn
Lighted my path to Love; she bore thy name,
She whom no Grace was tardy to adorn,
Whom one low voice pleas'd more than louder fame:
She now is past my praises; from her urn
To thine, with reverence due, I turn.
O silver-braided Swift! no victim ever
Was sacrificed to thee,
Nor hast thou carried to that sacred River
Vases of myrrh, nor hast thou run to see
A band of Mænads toss their timbrels high
Mid io-evohes to their Deity.
But holy ashes have bestrewn thy stream
Under the mingled gleam
Of swords and torches, and the chaunt of Rome,
When Wiclif's lowly tomb
Thro' its thick briars was burst
By frantic priests accurst;
For he had enter'd and laid bare the lies
That pave the labyrinth of their mysteries.
We part . . but one more look!
Silent and modest Brook!

LVI.

[A voice in sleep hung over me, and said]

LVII. SHAKESPEARE AND MILTON.

LVIII. TO MIDSUMMER DAY.

Crown of the Year, how bright thou shinest!
How little, in thy pride, divinest
Inevitable fall! albeit
We who stand round about fore-see it.
Shine on; shine bravely. There are near
Other bright children of the Year,
Almost as high, and much like thee
In features and in festive glee:
Some happy to call forth the mower,
And hear his sharpen'd scythe sweep o'er
Rank after rank: then others wait
Before the grange's open gate,
And watch the nodding wane, or watch
The fretted domes beneath the thatch,
Till young and old at once take wing
And promise to return in spring.
Yet I am sorry, I must own,
Crown of the Year! when thou art gone.

LIX. TO SHELLEY.

Shelley! whose song so sweet was sweetest here,
We knew each other little; now I walk
Along the same green path, along the shore
Of Lerici, along the sandy plain
Trending from Lucca to the Pisan pines
Under whose shadow scatter'd camels lie,
The old and young, and rarer deer uplift
Their knotty branches o'er high-feather'd fern.
Regions of happiness! I greet ye well;
Your solitudes, and not your cities, stay'd
My steps among you; for with you alone
Converst I, and with those ye bore of old.
He who beholds the skies of Italy
Sees ancient Rome reflected, sees beyond,
Into more glorious Hellas, nurse of Gods
And godlike men: dwarfs people other lands.
Frown not, maternal England! thy weak child
Kneels at thy feet and owns in shame a lie.

LX. WRITTEN AT HURSTMONCEAUX.

ON READING A POEM OF WORDSWORTH'S.

Derwent! Winander! sweetest of all sounds
The British tongue e'er utter'd! lakes that Heaven
Reposes on, and finds his image there
In all its purity, in all its peace!
How are your ripples playing round my heart
From such a distance? while I gaze upon
The plain where William and where Cæsar led
From the same Gaulish strand each conquering host,
And one on the Briton, one the Saxon name,
Struck out with iron heel. Well may they play,
Those ripples, round my heart, buoyed up, entranced.
Derwent! Winander! your twin poets come
Star-crown'd along with you, nor stand apart.
Wordsworth comes hither, hither Southey comes,
His friend and mine, and every man's who lives,
Or who shall live when days far off have risen.
Here are they with me yet again, here dwell
Among the sages of Antiquity,
Under his hospitable roof whose life
Surpasses theirs in strong activity,
Whose Genius walks more humbly, stooping down
From the same highth to cheer the weak of soul
And guide the erring from the tortuous way.
Hail ye departed! hail thou later friend,
Julius! but never by my voice invoked
With such an invocation . . hail, and live!

LXI.

[Again, perhaps and only once again]

EPISTLES.

LXII. TO THE AUTHOR OF “FESTUS.”

ON THE CLASSICK AND ROMANTICK.

LXIII. TO A FRIEND'S REMONSTRANCE.

LXIV. TO THE REVEREND CUTHBERT SOUTHEY.

FROM DRY STICKS.

I. ON LAW.

What thousands, Law, thy handywork deplore!
Thou hangest many, but thou starvest more.

II. MACAULAY'S PEERAGE.

Macaulay is become a peer;
A coronet he well may wear;
But is there no one to malign?
None: then his merit wants the sign.

III. PLAYS.

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

IV. TO A CYCLAMEN.

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

V. TO THE CYCLAMEN.

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

VI. HEART'S-EASE.

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

VII. HOW TO READ ME.

To turn my volumes o'er nor find
(Sweet unsuspicious friend!)
Some vestige of an erring mind
To chide or discommend,
Believe that all were loved like you
With love from blame exempt,
Believe that all my griefs were true
And all my joys but dreamt.

VIII. APOLOGY FOR GEBIR.

IX. DEATH OF THE DAY.

X. ON SOUTHEY'S DEATH.

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

XI. GORE-HOUSE LEFT FOR PARIS.

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

XII. THE THREE ROSES.

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

XIII. THE LAST GIFT.

XIV. LA PENSIEROSA.

XV. THE FIG-TREES OF GHERARDESCA.

HEROIC IDYLS, WITH ADDITIONAL POEMS.

I. A FRIEND TO THEOCRITOS IN EGYPT.

II. PAN.

Pan led me to a wood the other day,
Then, bending both hoofs under him, where moss
Was softest and where highest was the tuft,
Said he, “Sit thou aside me; there is room
Just for us two; the tinklers are below
To catch the little birds and butterflies,
Nor see us nor would heed us if they saw.
I minded thee in Sicily with one
I dearly love; I heard thee tell my loss
Of Pitys; and he swore that none but thou
Could thus contend with him, or ever should.
Though others had loud lyres and struck them well,
Few could bring any harmony from reeds
By me held high, and higher since thou hast breath'd
Thy gentle breath o'er Pitys and her Pan.”

III. MEMORY.

The mother of the Muses, we are taught,
Is Memory: she has left me; they remain,
And shake my shoulder, urging me to sing
About the summer days, my loves of old.
Alas! alas! is all I can reply.
Memory has left with me that name alone,
Harmonious name, which other bards may sing,
But her bright image in my darkest hour
Comes back, in vain comes back, call'd or uncall'd.
Forgotten are the names of visitors
Ready to press my hand but yesterday;
Forgotten are the names of earlier friends
Whose genial converse and glad countenance
Are fresh as ever to mine ear and eye;
To these, when I have written, and besought
Remembrance of me, the word Dear alone
Hangs on the upper verge, and waits in vain.
A blessing wert thou, O oblivion.

IV. TO THE EMPEROR OF THE FRENCH.

V.

[Lyndhurst came up to me among]

Lyndhurst came up to me among
A titled and untitled throng,
And after a few words were said
About the living and the dead,
Whom we had known together more
Than half a century before,
He added: “Faith! your choice was best
Amid the woods to build a nest.
But why so seldom wing it down,
To look at us who toil in town?”
“Would you change place with me?” said I.
To this a laugh was a reply.

VI. ABERTAWY.

VII.

[Ye who have toil'd uphill to reach the haunt]

VIII.

[“Call me not forth,” said one who sate retired]

“Call me not forth,” said one who sate retired,
Whom Love had once, but Envy never, fired.
“I scorn the crowd: no clap of hands he seeks
Who walks among the stateliest of the Greeks.”

IX. A FOREIGN RULER.

He says, My reign is peace, so slays
A thousand in the dead of night.
Are you all happy now? he says,
And those he leaves behind cry quite.
He swears he will have no contention,
And sets all nations by the ears;
He shouts aloud, No intervention!
Invades, and drowns them all in tears.

X.

[To my ninth decad I have totter'd on]

To my ninth decad I have totter'd on,
And no soft arm bends now my steps to steady;
She, who once led me where she would, is gone,
So when he calls me, Death shall find me ready.

XI.

[They are sweet flowers that only blow by night]

They are sweet flowers that only blow by night,
And sweet tears are there that avoid the light;
No mortal sees them after day is born,
They, like the dew, drop trembling from their thorn.

XII.

[Well I remember how you smiled]

Well I remember how you smiled
To see me write your name upon
The soft sea-sand. . “O! what a child!
You think you're writing upon stone!”
I have since written what no tide
Shall ever wash away, what men
Unborn shall read o'er ocean wide
And find Ianthe's name again.

XIII.

['Twas far beyond the midnight hour]

XIV.

[Shelley and Keats, on earth unknown]

Shelley and Keats, on earth unknown
One to the other, now are gone
Where only such pure Spirits meet
And sing before them words as sweet.

XV.

[Lately our songsters loiter'd in green lanes]

Lately our songsters loiter'd in green lanes,
Content to catch the ballads of the plains;
I fancied I had strength enough to climb
A loftier station at no distant time,
And might securely from intrusion doze
Upon the flowers thro' which Ilissus flows.
In those pale olive grounds all voices cease,
And from afar dust fills the paths of Greece.
My slumber broken and my doublet torn,
I find the laurel also bears a thorn.

XVI.

[Never must my bones be laid]

Never must my bones be laid
Under the mimosa's shade.
He to whom I gave my all
Swept away her guardian wall,
And her green and level plot
Green or level now is not.

XVII. TO SIR RODERICK MURCHISON.

FROM THE HELLENICS.

[Come back, ye wandering Muses, come back home]

THRASYMEDES AND EUNÖE.

ICARIOS AND ERIGONÈ.

THE CHILDREN OF VENUS.

THE HAMADRYAD.

Hamadryad.
And wouldst thou too shed the most innocent
Of blood? no vow demands it; no God wills
The oak to bleed.

Rhaicos.
Who art thou? whence? why here?
And whither wouldst thou go? Among the robed
In white or saffron, or the hue that most
Resembles dawn or the clear sky, is none
Array'd as thou art. What so beautiful
As that gray robe which clings about thee close,
Like moss to stones adhering, leaves to trees,
Yet lets thy bosom rise and fall in turn,
As, toucht by zephyrs, fall and rise the boughs
Of graceful platane by the river-side.

Hamadryad.
Lovest thou well thy father's house?

Rhaicos.
Indeed
I love it, well I love it, yet would leave
For thine, where'er it be, my father's house,
With all the marks upon the door, that show
My growth at every birth-day since the third,
And all the charms, o'erpowering evil eyes,
My mother nail'd for me against my bed,
And the Cydonian bow (which thou shalt see)
Won in my race last spring from Eutychos.

Hamadryad.
Bethink thee what it is to leave a home
Thou never yet hast left, one night, one day.

Rhaicos.
No, 'tis not hard to leave it; 'tis not hard
To leave, O maiden, that paternal home,
If there be one on earth whom we may love
First, last, for ever; one who says that she
Will love for ever too. To say which word,
Only to say it, surely is enough . .
It shows such kindness . . if 'twere possible
We at the moment think she would indeed.

Hamadryad.
Who taught thee all this folly at thy age?

Rhaicos.
I have seen lovers and have learnt to love.

Hamadryad.
But wilt thou spare the tree?

Rhaicos.
My father wants
The bark; the tree may hold its place awhile.

Hamadryad.
Awhile! thy father numbers then my days?

Rhaicos.
Are there no others where the moss beneath
Is quite as tufty? Who would send thee forth
Or ask thee why thou tarriest? Is thy flock
Anywhere near?

Hamadryad.
I have no flock: I kill
Nothing that breathes, that stirs, that feels the air,
The sun, the dew. Why should the beautiful
(And thou art beautiful) disturb the source
Whence springs all beauty? Hast thou never heard
Of Hamadryads?

Rhaicos.
Heard of them I have:
Tell me some tale about them. May I sit
Beside thy feet? Art thou not tired? The herbs
Are very soft; I will not come too nigh;
Do but sit there, nor tremble so, nor doubt.
Stay, stay an instant: let me first explore
If any acorn of last year be left
Within it; thy thin robe too ill protects
Thy dainty limbs against the harm one small
Acorn may do. Here's none. Another day
Trust me; till then let me sit opposite.

Hamadryad.
I seat me; be thou seated, and content.

Rhaicos.
O sight for gods! Ye men below! adore
The Aphroditè. Is she there below?
Or sits she here before me? as she sate
Before the shepherd on those highths that shade
The Hellespont, and brought his kindred woe.

Hamadryad.
Reverence the higher Powers; nor deem amiss
Of her who pleads to thee, and would repay . .
Ask not how much . . but very much. Rise not:
No, Rhaicos, no! Without the nuptial vow
Love is unholy. Swear to me that none
Of mortal maids shall ever taste thy kiss,
Then take thou mine; then take it, not before.

Rhaicos.
Hearken, all gods above! O Aphroditè!
O Herè! let my vow be ratified!
But wilt thou come into my father's house?

Hamadryad.
Nay: and of mine I can not give thee part.

Rhaicos.
Where is it?

Hamadryad.
In this oak.

Rhaicos.
Ay; now begins
The tale of Hamadryad: tell it through.

Hamadryad.
Pray of thy father never to cut down
My tree; and promise him, as well thou mayst,
That every year he shall receive from me
More honey than will buy him nine fat sheep,
More wax than he will burn to all the gods.
Why fallest thou upon thy face? Some thorn
May scratch it, rash young man! Rise up; for shame!

Rhaicos.
For shame I can not rise. O pity me!
I dare not sue for love . . but do not hate!
Let me once more behold thee . . not once more,
But many days: let me love on . . unloved!
I aimed too high: on my head the bolt
Falls back, and pierces to the very brain.

Hamadryad.
Go . . rather go, than make me say I love.

Rhaicos.
If happiness is immortality,
(And whence enjoy it else the gods above?)
I am immortal too: my vow is heard:
Hark! on the left . . Nay, turn not from me now,
I claim my kiss.

Hamadryad.
Do men take first, then claim?
Do thus the seasons run their course with them?

Hence milk and honey wonder not, O guest,
To find set duly on the hollow stone.

ACON AND RHODOPE; OR, INCONSTANCY.

CATILLUS AND SALIA.

ENALLOS AND CYMODAMEIA.

PAN AND PITYS.

LEONTION, ON TERNISSA'S DEATH (EPICUROS ALSO DEPARTED).

CORYTHOS.

CORYTHOS.

(SECOND PART.)

PELEUS AND THETIS.

Thetis.
O Peleus! whom the Gods have given me
For all my happiness on earth, a bliss
I thought too great . .

Peleus.
Why sighest thou? why shed
Those tears? why sudden silence? our last tears
Should then have fallen when the Fates divided us,
Saying, earth is not thine; that he who rules
The waters call'd thee. Bitter those that flow
Between the loved and loving when they part,
And ought to be; woe to the inhuman wretch
Who wishes they were not: but such as fall
At the returning light of blessed feet
Should be refreshing and divine as morn.

Thetis.

Peleus.
Alas! alas! priests may foretell calamity
But not avert it: all that they can give
Are threats and promises and hopes and fears.
Despond not, long-lost Thetis! hath no God
Now sent thee back to me? why not believe
He will preserve our son? which of them all
Hath he offended?

Thetis.
Yet uncertainties,
Worse than uncertainties, oppress my heart,
And overwhelm me.

Peleus.
Thetis! in the midst
Of all uncertainties some comfort lies,
Save those which even perplex the Gods on high
And which confound men the most godlike . . love,
Despond not so. Long may Achilles live
Past our old-age . . ours? had I then forgot,
Dazed by thy beauty, thy divinity?

Thetis.
Immortal is thy love, immutable.

Peleus.
Time without grief might not have greatly changed me.

Thetis.

Peleus.
Smile thus, smile thus anew. Ages shall fly
Over my tomb while thou art flourishing
In youth eternal, the desire of Gods,
The light of Ocean to its lowest deep,
The inspirer and sustainer here on earth
Of ever-flowing song.

Thetis.
I bless thy words
And in my heart will hold them; Gods who see
Within it may desire me, but they know
I have loved Peleus. When we were so happy
They parted us, and, more unmerciful,
Again unite us in eternal woe.

Peleus.
Powerfuller than the elements their will,
And swifter than the light, they may relent,
For they are mutable, and thou mayest see
Achilles every day and every hour.

Thetis.
Alas! how few! . . I see him in the dust,
In agony, in death, I see his blood
Along the flints, his yellow hair I see
Darken'd, and flapping a red stream, his hand
Unable to remove it from the eyes.
I hear his voice . . his voice that calls on me.
I could not save him; and he would have left
The grots of Nereus, would have left the groves
And meadows of Elysium, bent on war.

Peleus.
Yet Mars may spare him. Troy hath once been won.

Thetis.
Perish he must, perish at Troy, and now.

Peleus.
The now of Gods is more than life's duration;
Other Gods, other worlds, are form'd within it.
If he indeed must perish, and at Troy,
His ashes will lie softly upon hers,
Thus fall our beauteous boy, thus fall Achilles.
Songs such as Keiron's harp could never reach
Shall sound his praises, and his spear shall shine
Over far lands, when even our Gods are mute.

Thetis.

Peleus.
Doth not my hand now, Thetis, clasp that foot
Which seen the Powers of ocean cease to rage,
Indignant when the brood of Æolos
Disturbs their rest? If that refreshing breath
Which now comes over my unquiet head
Be not the breath of immortality,
If Zeus hath any thunderbolt for it,
Let this, beloved Thetis, be the hour!

THE ESPOUSALS OF POLYXENA.

DEATH OF PARIS AND ŒNONE.

HOMER, LAERTES, AGATHA.

FIRST DAY.

Homer.
Is this Laertes who embraces me
Ere a word spoken? his the hand I grasp?

Laertes.
Zeus help thee, and restore to thee thy sight,
My guest of old! I am of years as many,
And of calamities, as thou thyself,
I, wretched man! who have outlived my son
Odysseus, him thou knewest in this house,
A stripling fond of quoits and archery,
Thence to be call'd for counsel mid the chiefs
Who storm'd that city past the farther sea,
Built by two Gods, by more than two defended.

Homer.
He rests, and to the many toils endur'd
There was not added the worse weight of age.

Laertes.
He would be growing old had he remain'd
Until this day, tho' scarcely three-score years
Had he completed; old I seem'd to him
For youth is fanciful, yet here am I,
Stout, a full twenty summers after him:
But one of the three sisters snapt that thread
Which was the shortest, and my boy went down
When no light shines upon the dreary way.

Homer.
Hither I came to visit thee, and sing
His wanderings and his wisdom, tho' my voice
Be not the voice it was; yet thoughts come up,
And words to thoughts, which others may recite
When I am mute, and deaf as in my grave,
If any grave in any land be mine.

Laertes.
Men will contend for it in after times,
And cities claim it as the ground whereon
A temple stood, and worshippers yet stand.
Long hast thou travell'd since we met, and far.

Homer.
I have seen many cities, and the best
And wisest of the men who dwelt therein,
The children and their children now adult,
Nor childless they. Some have I chided, some
Would soothe, who, mounted on the higher sod,
Wept as the pebbles tinkled, dropping o'er
A form outstretcht below; they would not hear
Story of mine, which told them there were fields
Fresher, and brighter skies, but slapping me,
Cried worse, and ran away.

Laertes.
Here sits aside thee
A child grey-headed who will hear thee out.
Here shalt thou arm my son again, in mail
No enemy, no time, can strip from him,
But first I counsel thee to try the strength
Of my old prisoner in the cave below:
The wine will sparkle at the sight of thee,
If there be any virtue left in it.
Bread there is, fitter for young teeth than ours,
But wine can soften its obduracy.
At hand is honey in the honeycomb,
And melon, and those blushing pouting buds
That fain would hide them under crisped leaves.
Soon the blue dove and particolor'd hen
Shall quit the stable-rafter, caught at roost,
And goat shall miss her suckling in the morn;
Supper will want them ere the day decline.

Homer.
So be it: I sing best when hearty cheer
Refreshes me, and hearty friend beside.

Laertes.
Voyagers, who have heard thee, carried home
Strange stories; whether all be thy device
I know not: surely thou hadst been afraid
Some God or Goddess would have twicht thine ear.

Homer.
They often came about me while I slept,
And brought me dreams, and never lookt morose.
They loved thy son and for his sake loved me.

Laertes.
Apollo, I well know, was much thy friend.

Homer.
He never harried me as Marsyas
Was harried by him; lest he should, I sang
His praise in my best hymn: the Gods love praise.

Laertes.
I should have thought the Gods would more approve
Good works than glossy words, for well they know
All we can tell them of themselves or us.
Have they enricht thee? for I see thy cloak
Is ragged.

Homer.
Ragged cloak is songster's garb.

Laertes.
I have two better; one of them for thee.
Penelope, who died five years ago,
Spun it; her husband wore it only once,
And 'twas upon the anniversary
Of their espousal.

Homer.
Wear it I will not,
But I will hang it on the brightest nail
Of the first temple where Apollo sits,
Golden hair'd, in his glory.

Laertes.
[Agatha enters with a cup of wine.]

Homer.
I sang to maidens in my prime; again,
But not before the morrow, will I sing;
Let me repose this noontide, since in sooth
Wine, a sweet solacer of weariness,
Helps to unload the burden.

Laertes.

Agatha.
And look well through all?

Laertes.
Aye, and look better than they lookt before.

Agatha.
I wish he could make me so, and without
My going for it anywhere below.
I am content to stay in Ithaca,
Where the dogs know me, and the ferryman
Asks nothing from me, and the rills are full
After the rain, and flowers grow everywhere,
And bees grudge not their honey, and the grape
Grows within reach, and figs, blue, yellow, green,
Without my climbing; boys, too, come at call;
And, if they hide the ripest, I know where
To find it, twist and struggle as they may;
Impudent boys! to make me bring it out,
Saying I shall not have it if I don't!

Laertes.
How the child babbles! pardon her! behold
Her strength and stature have outgrown her wits!
In fourteen years thou thyself wast not wise.

Homer.
My heart is freshen'd by a fount so pure
At its springhead; let it run on in light.
Most girls are wing'd with wishes, and can ill
Keep on their feet against the early gale
That blows impetuous on unguarded breast;
But this young maiden, I can prophesy,
Will be thy staff when other staff hath fail'd.

Agatha.
May the Gods grant it! but not grant it yet!
Blessings upon thy head!

Homer.
May they bestow
Their choicest upon thine! may they preserve
Thy comeliness of virtue many years
For him whose hand thy master joins to thine!

Agatha.
O might I smoothen that mild wrinkled brow
With but one kiss!

Laertes.
Take it. Now leave us, child,
And bid our good Metampos to prepare
That brazen bath wherein my rampant boy
Each morning lay full-length, struggling at first,
Then laughing as he splasht the water up
Against his mother's face bent over him.
Is this the Odysseus first at quoit and bar?
Is this the Odysseus call'd to counsel kings,
He whose name sounds beyond our narrow sea?

Agatha.
O how I always love to hear that name!

Laertes.
But linger not; pursue the task at hand:
Bethink thee 'tis for one who has the power
To give thee many days beyond old-age.

Agatha.
O! tell him not to do it if he can:
He cannot make youth stay: the swallows come
And go, youth goes, but never comes again.

Laertes.
He can make heroes greater than they were.

Agatha.
By making them lay by the wicked sword?
How I shall love him when he has done that!

Laertes.
No, but he gives them strength by magic song.

Agatha.
The strength of constancy to love but one?
As did Odysseus while he lived on earth,
And when he waited for her in the shades.

Laertes.
The little jay! go, chatterer.

Agatha.
(to Homer).
Do not think,
O stranger, he is wroth; he never is
With Agatha, albeit he stamps and frowns
And shakes three fingers at her, and forbears
To do the like to any one beside.
Hark! the brass sounds, the bath is now prepared.

Laertes.
More than the water shall her hand assuage
Thy weary feet, and lead thee back, now late.

SECOND DAY.

In the Morning.
Homer.
Whose is the soft and pulpy hand that lies
Athwart the ridges of my craggy one
Out of the bed? can it be Agatha's?

Agatha.
I come to bring thee, while yet warm and frothy,
A draught of milk. Rise now, rise just half-up,
And drink it. Hark! the birds, two at a time,
Are singing in the terebinth. Our king
Hath taken down his staff and gone afield
To see the men begin their daily work.

Homer.
Go thou to thine: I will arise. How sweet
Was that goat's milk!

Agatha.
We have eleven below,
All milchers. Wouldst thou now the tepid bath?

Homer.
Rather when thou hast laid on the left-hand
My sandals within reach; bring colder lymph
To freshen more the frame-work of mine eyes,
For eyes there are, altho' their orbs be dark.

Agatha.
'Tis here; let me apply it.

Homer.
Bravely done!
Why standest thou so still and taciturn?

Agatha.
The king my master hath forbidden me
Ever to ask a question: if I might,
And were not disobedience such a sin,
I would ask thee, so gentle and so wise,
Whether the story of that bad Calypso
Can be all true, for it would grieve me sorely
To think thou wouldst repeat it were it false,
And some ill-natured God (such Gods there are)
Would punish thee, already too afflicted.

Homer.
My child! the Muses sang the tale I told,
And they know more about that wanton Nymph
Than they have uttered into mortal ear.
I do rejoice to find thee fond of truth.

Agatha.
I was not always truthful. I have smarted
For falsehood, under Queen Penelope,
When I was little. I should hate to hear
More of that wicked creature who detain'd
Her lord from her, and tried to win his love.
I know 'twas very wrong in me to listen.

Homer.
A pardonable fault: we wish for listeners
Whether we speak or sing, the young and old
Alike are weak in this, unwise and wise,
Cheerful and sorrowful.

Agatha.
O! look up yonder!
Why dost thou smile? everything makes thee smile
At silly Agatha, but why just now?

Homer.
What was the sight?

Agatha.
O inconsiderate!
O worse than inconsiderate! cruel! cruel!

Homer.
Tell me, what was it? I can see thro' speech.

Agatha.

Homer.
Nay, men eat men.

Agatha.
Ye Gods!
But men hurt one another, nightingales
Console the weary with unwearied song,
Until soft slumber on the couch descends.
The king my master and Penelope
Forbade the slaughter or captivity
Of the poor innocents who trusted them,
Nor robbed them even of the tiniest grain.

Homer.
Generous and tender is thy master's heart,
Warm as the summer, open as the sky.

Agatha.

Homer.
The rains in their due season will descend,
And so will tears; they sink into the heart
To soften, not to hurt it. The best men
Have most to weep for, whether foreign lands
Receive them (or still worse!) a home estranged.

Agatha.
Listen. I hear the merry yelp of dogs,
And now the ferul'd staff drops in the hall,
And now the master's short and hurried step
Advances: here he is: turn round, turn round.

Laertes.
Hast thou slept well, Mæonides?

Homer.
I slept
Three hours ere sunrise, 'tis my wont, at night
I lie awake for nearly twice as long.

Laertes.
Ay; singing birds wake early, shake their plumes,
And carol ere they feed. Sound was thy sleep?

Homer.
I felt again, but felt it undisturb'd,
The pelting of the little curly waves,
The slow and heavy stretch of rising billows,
And the rapidity of their descent.
I thought I heard a Triton's shell, a song
Of sylvian Nymph, and laughter from behind
Trees not too close for voices to come thro',
Or beauty, if Nymph will'd it, to be seen;
And then a graver and a grander sound
Came from the sky, and last a long applause.

Laertes.
Marvellous things are dreams! methinks we live
An age in one of them, we traverse lands
A lifetime could not reach, bring from the grave
Inhabitants who never met before,
And vow we will not leave an absent friend
We long have left, and who leaves us ere morn.

Homer.
Dreams are among the blessings Heaven bestows
On weary mortals; nor are they least
Altho' they disappoint us and are gone
When we awake! 'Tis pleasant to have caught
The clap of hands below us from the many,
Amid the kisses of the envious few.
There is a pride thou knowest not, Laertes,
In carrying the best strung and loudest harp.

Laertes.
Apollo, who deprived thee of thy light
When youth was fresh and nature bloom'd around,
Bestowed on thee gifts never dim with age,
And rarely granted to impatient youth.
The crown thou wearest reddens not the brow
Of him who wears it worthily; but some
Are snatcht by violence, some purloin'd by fraud,
Some dripping blood, not by the Gods unseen.
To thee, O wise Mæonides, to thee
Worthless is all that glitters and attracts
The buzzing insects of a summer hour.
The Gods have given thee what themselves enjoy,
And they alone, glory through endless days.
The Lydian king Sarpedon never swayed
Such sceptre, nor did Glaucos his compeer,
Nor Priam. Priam was about my age,
He had more sorrows than I ever had;
I lost one son, some fifty Priam lost;
This is a comfort, I may rub my palms
Thinking of this, and bless the Powers above.

Homer.
One wicked son brought down their vengeance on him,
And his wide realms invited numerous foes.

Laertes.
Alas! alas! are there not cares enow
In ruling nearly those five thousand heads,
Men, women, children; arbitrating right
And wrong, and hearing maids and mothers wail;
For flax blown off the cliff when almost bleacht,
And curlew tamed in vain and fled away,
Albeit one wing was shortened; then approach
To royal ear the whisper that the bird
Might peradventure have alighted nigh,
And hist upon the charcoal, skinn'd and split.
Bounteous as are the Gods, where is the wealth
To stop these lamentations with a gift
Adequate to such losses? words are light,
And words come opposite, with heavy groans.

Homer.
The pastor of the people may keep watch,
Yet cares as wakeful creep into the fold.

Laertes.
Beside these city griefs, what mortal knows
The anxieties about my scattered sheep?
Some bleating for lost offspring, some for food,
Scanty in winter, scantier in the drought
Of Sirius; then again the shrubs in spring,
Cropt close, ere barely budded, by the goats.
Methinks these animals are over-nice
About their food, else might they pick sea-weeds,
But these forsooth they trample on, nor deign
To taste even samphire, which their betters cull.
There also are some less solicitudes
About those rocks, when plunderers from abroad
Would pilfer eggs and nestlings; my own folk
Are abstinent, without their king's decree.

Homer.
To help thee in such troubles, and in worse,
Where is thy brave Telemakos?

Laertes.
That youth
Is gone to rule Dulikion, where the soil
Tho' fitter than our Ithaca for tilth,
Bears only turbulence and idleness.
He with his gentle voice and his strong arm,
Will bring into due train the restive race.

Homer.
Few will contend with gentleness and youth,
Even of those who strive against the Laws,
But some subvert them who could best defend,
And in whose hands the Gods have placed the sword.
On the mainland there are, unless report
Belie them, princes who, possessing realms
Wider than sight from mountain-head can reach,
Would yet invade a neighbour's stony croft,
Pretending danger to their citadels
From fishermen ashore, and shepherd boys
Who work for daily and but scanty bread,
And wax the reeds to pipe at festivals,
Where the dogs snarl at them above the bones.

Laertes.
What! would the cloth'd in purple, as are some,
Rip off the selvage from a ragged coat?
Accursed be the wretch, and whosoe'er
Upholds him, or connives at his misdeeds.
Away with thoughts that sadden even this hour!

Homer.
I would indeed away with 'em, but wrath
Rings on the lyre and swells above the song.
It shall be heard by those who stand on high,
But shall not rouse the lowlier, long opprest,
Who might be madden'd at his broken sleep,
And wrenching out the timbers of his gate
Batter the prince's down.

Laertes.
Ye Gods forbid!
Thou makest the skin creep upon my flesh,
Albeit the danger lies from me afar.
Now surely this is but a songman's tale,
Yet songman never here discourst like thee,
Or whispered in low voice what thou hast sung,
Striking the lyre so that the strings all trembled.
Are people anywhere grown thus unruly?

Homer.
More are they who would rule than would be ruled,
Yet one must govern, else all run astray.
The strongest are the calm and equitable,
And kings at best are men, nor always that.

Laertes.

Homer.
I know it, and remotest men shall know.
If we must suffer wrong, 'tis from the vile
The least intolerable.

Laertes.
True, my son
Avenged me: more than one God aided him,
But one above the rest; the Deity
Of wisdom, stronger even than him of war,
Guided the wanderer back, and gave the arms
And will and prowess to subdue our foes,
And their own dogs lapt up the lustful blood
Of the proud suitors. Sweet, sweet is revenge;
Her very shadow, running on before,
Quickens our pace until we hold her fast.

Homer.
Rather would I sit quiet than pursue.

Laertes.
Now art thou not, from such long talk, athirst?
Split this pomegranate then, and stoop the jar.
Hold! I can stoop it: take this cup . . 'tis fill'd.

Homer.
Zeus! God of hospitality! vouchsafe
To hear my prayer, as thou hast often done,
That, when thy lightnings spring athwart the sea,
And when thy thunders shake from brow to base
The Acrokerauneans, thy right hand protect
This Ithaca, this people, and this king!

THIRD DAY.

Homer.
[Agatha enters.
(About the 500th verse Laertes falls asleep: awakening he finds Agatha in the same state, and chides her.)

Agatha
(in a whisper).
Hush! O my king and lord, or he may hear.
You were asleep the first: I kept my eyes
Wide open, opener than they ever were,
While I do think I could have counted more
Than half a thousand of those words divine,
Had both my hands not dropt upon my lap.

Laertes.
Another time beware of drowsiness
When reverend men discourse about the Gods.
Now lead him forth into the cooler porch,
Entreating him that he will soon renew
His praises of Apollo.

Agatha.
I will bear
Your words to him; he might care less for mine,
And, sooth to say, I would much rather hear
Some other story, where more men than Gods
Shine on the field.

Laertes.
Of men thou know'st enough.

Agatha.
Too much: then why show Gods almost as bad?
They can not be . . least of all Artemis;
'Twas she directed and preserved Odysseus.

Laertes.
Blessings upon thee! While thou wast a babe
He fondled thee, nor saw when thou couldst walk.
Few love so early or so long: We say
We love the Gods: we lie; the seen alone
We love, to those unseen we may be grateful.

Agatha.
But when they are no more before our eyes . . .

Laertes.
That never is, altho' earth come between.
Perplex not thou thy simple little head
With what the wise were wiser to let be.

Agatha.
[Aside.

Homer.
Such thou shalt have for her, but not to-day.

Agatha.
O, I can wait, so (I am sure) can she.

Homer.
Faint are the breezes here, less faint above;
Gladly then would I mount that central peak
Which overlooks the whole of Ithaca,
That peak I well remember I once clomb
(What few could do) without the help of beast.

Agatha.

Homer.

Agatha.

Homer.
(at the summit).
I think we must be near the highest point,
For now the creatures stop, who struggled hard,
And the boys neither cheer 'em, nor upbraid.
'Tis somewhat to have mounted up so high,
Profitless as it is, nor without toil.

Agatha.
Dost thou feel weary?

Homer.
Short as was the way
It shook my aged bones at every step;
My shoulders ache, my head whirls round and round.

Agatha.

Homer.
Child! hast thou ever seen an old man die?

Agatha.
The Gods defend me from so sad a sight!

Homer.
Sad if he die in agony, but blest
If friend be nigh him, only one true friend.

Agatha.
Tho' most of thine be absent, one remains;
Is not Laertes worthy of the name?

Homer.
And Agatha, who tends me to the last.

Agatha.
I will, I will indeed, when comes that hour.

Homer.

Agatha
(after a pause).