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

Dost thou not often gasp with longdrawn sighs,
Theocritos, recalling Sicily?
Glorious is Nile, but rather give me back
Our little rills which fain would run away
And hide themselves from persecuting suns
In summer, under oleander boughs,
And catch its roses as they flaunt above.
Here are no birds that sing, no sweeter flower
Than tiny fragile weak-eyed resida,
Which faints upon the bosom it would cool.
Altho' the royal lotos sits aloof
On his rich carpet, spread from wave to wave,
I throw myself more gladly where the pine
Protects me, loftier than the palace-roof,
Or where the linden and acacia meet
Across my path, in fragrance to contend.
Bring back the hour, Theocritos, when we
Shall sit together on a thymy knoll,
With few about us, and with none too nigh,
And when the song of shepherds and their glee
We may repeat, perchance and gaily mock,
Until one bolder than the rest springs up
And slaps us on the shoulder for our pains.
Take thou meanwhile these two papyrus-leaves,
Recording, one the loves and one the woes
Of Pan and Pitys, heretofore unsung.
Aside our rivers and within our groves

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The pastoral pipe hath dropt its mellow lay,
And shepherds in their contests only try
Who best can puzzle.

Come, Theocritos,
Come, let us lend a shoulder to the wheel
And help to lift it from this depth of sand.

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.

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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.

Pleas'd was I when you told me how
In hat that buffeted the brow
And mason's loose habiliment
With masons thro' Ham's gate you went.
Heartily glad was I to see
A prisoner, though a prince, set free.

“Prince!” said I, “you've escaped two worst
Of evils.”

“I have known a first,”
Said you, “but that is only one,
Tell me the other.”

“'Tis a throne.”

I could not add what now I might,
It keeps the worthy out of sight,
Nor lets the sitter sit upright.

Can there be pleasure to keep down
In rusty chains a struggling town?
Can there be any to hear boom
Your cannon o'er the walls of Rome?
Or shows it strength to break a word
As easily as girls a cord
Of flimsy cotton, when the bell
Calls them to dinner? . . to rebel
Against rebellion in your eyes
Is criminal, to crouch is wise.
Louis! your father thought not so;

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His sceptre he disdain'd to owe
To falsehood; all his cares he bent
To make the realm he ruled content.
He proved, what many people doubt
As often as they look about,
A wonderful unheard of thing . .
An honest man may be a king.

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.

It was no dull tho' lonely strand
Where thyme ran o'er the solid sand,
Where snap-dragons with yellow eyes
Lookt down on crowds that could not rise,
Where Spring had fill'd with dew the moss
In winding dells two strides across.
There tiniest thorniest roses grew
To their full size, nor shared the dew:
Acute and jealous, they took care
That none their softer seat should share;
A weary maid was not to stay
Without one for such churls as they.
I tugg'd and lugg'd with all my might

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To tear them from their roots outright;
At last I did it . . eight or ten . .
We both were snugly seated then;
But then she saw a half-round bead,
And cried, Good gracious! how you bleed!
Gently she wiped it off, and bound
With timorous touch that dreadful wound.
To lift it from its nurse's knee
I fear'd, and quite as much fear'd she,
For might it not increase the pain,
And make the wound burst out again?
She coaxt it to lie quiet there
With a low tune I bent to hear;
How close I bent I quite forget,
I only know I hear it yet.
Where is she now? Call'd far away,
By one she dared not disobey,
To those proud halls, for youth unfit,
Where princes stand and judges sit.

Where Ganges rolls his widest wave
She dropt her blossom in the grave;
Her noble name she never changed,
Nor was her nobler heart estranged.

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

Ye who have toil'd uphill to reach the haunt
Of other men who lived in other days,
Whether the ruins of a citadel
Raised on the summit by Pelasgic hands,
Or chamber of the distaff and the song . .
Ye will not tell what treasure there ye found,
But I will.

Ye found there the viper laid
Full-length, flat-headed, on a sunny slab,
Nor loth to hiss at ye while crawling down.
Ye saw the owl flap the loose ivy-leaves
And, hooting, shake the berries on your heads.

Now, was it worth your while to mount so high

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Merely to say you did it, and to ask
If those about you ever did the like?
Believe me, O my friends, 'twere better far
To stretch your limbs along the level sand
As they do, where small children scoop the drift,
Thinking it must be gold, where curlews soar
And scales drop glistening from the prey above.

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.

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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]

'Twas far beyond the midnight hour
And more than half the stars were falling,
And jovial friends, who lost the power
Of sitting, under chairs lay sprawling;

Not Porson so; his stronger pate
Could carry more of wine and Greek
Than Cambridge held; erect he sate;
He nodded, yet could somehow speak.

“'Tis well, O Bacchus! they are gone,
Unworthy to approach thy altar!
The pious man prays best alone,
Nor shall thy servant ever falter.”

Then Bacchus too, like Porson, nodded,
Shaking the ivy on his brow,
And graciously replied the godhead,
“I have no votary staunch as thou.”

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.

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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.

What see I through the mist of years? a friend,
If the most ignorant of mortal men
In every science, may pronounce his name
Whom every science raises above all.
Murchison! thou art he.

Upon the bank
Of Loire thou camest to me, brought by Hare
The witty and warm-hearted, passing through
That shady garden whose broad tower ascends
From chamber over chamber; there I dwelt,
The flowers my guests, the birds my pensioners,
Books my companions, and but few beside.

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After two years the world's devastator
Was driven forth, yet only to return
And stamp again upon a fallen race.
Back to old England flew my countrymen;
Even brave Bentham, whose inventive skill
Baffled at Chesmè and submerged the fleet
Of Ottoman, urged me to flight with him
Ere the infuriate enemy arrived.
I wrote to Carnot, I am here at Tours,
And will remain.

He praised my confidence
In the French honour; it was placed in his.
No house but mine was left unoccupied
In the whole city by the routed troops.
Ere winter came 'twas time to cross the Alps;
Como invited me; nor long ere came
Southey, a sorrowing guest, who lately lost
His only boy. We walkt aside the lake,
And mounted to the level downs above,
Where if we thought of Skiddaw, named it not.
I led him to Bellaggio, of earth's gems
The brightest.

We in England have as bright,
Said he, and turned his face toward the west.
I fancied in his eyes there was a tear,
I know there was in mine: we both stood still.
Gone is he now to join the son in bliss,
Innocent each alike, one longest spared
To show that all men have not lived in vain.
Gone too is Hare: afar from us he lies,
In sad Palermo, where the most accurst
Cover his bones with bones of free men slain.

Again I turn to thee, O Murchison!
Why hast thou lookt so deep into the earth
To find her treasures? Gold we thought had done
Its worst before: now fields are left untill'd,
And cheerful songs speed not the tardy woof.

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How dare I blame thee? 'twas not thy offence,
And good from evil springs, as day from night!
The covetous and vicious delve the mine
And sieve the dross that industry may work
For nobler uses: soon shall crops arise
More plenteous from it, soon the poor shall dwell
In their own houses, and their children throw
Unstinted fuel on the Christmas blaze
With shouts that shake the holly-branch above.