'..'t'l "i Vi 
 
Class E^\2.2A 
 
 Book P T) 
 
 Copyright}!^ 
 
 COFOUGHT DEJTOSm 
 
BRITISH POETS 
 
 NINETEENTH CENTURY 
 
 SEI,ECTlONS FROM 
 
 WORDSWORTH, COLERIDGE, SCOTT, BYRON, SHELLEY, KEATS, LANDOR, 
 
 TENNYSON, ELIZABETH BARRETT BR(^WNING, ROBERT BROWNING, 
 
 CLOUGH, ARNOLD, ROSS'ETTI^ MORRIS, SWINBURNE 
 
 EDITED, WITH REFERENCE LISTS AND NOTES 
 
 CURTIS HIDDEN PAGE, Ph.D. 
 
 COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY 
 
 oh -o/X a/.).a ~<iko 
 
 BENJAMIN H. SANBORN & CO., 
 
 BOSTON NEW YORK CHICAGO 
 
■9 
 
 
 LiBRawv of OONQRFSS 
 
 OCl 1 J 904 
 ^ 'ViovrfjTht Emrv / 
 
 C».ASS ^ KXo. Na 
 
 ' COPY B 
 
 Copyright, 1904, 
 By CURTIS HIDDEN PAGE. 
 
 A// rights 7-cserved. 
 
To M. E. H. 
 
 \}j 
 
 r 
 
 ^ 
 
PREFACE 
 
 This volume makes no attempt to do what has ah-eady been so excel- 
 lently done in Mr. Stedman's Victorian Anthology^ Ward's English Poets, 
 and other similar collections. It is not a new Anthology of nineteenth 
 century poetry. Instead of giving a few " gems," or " flowers " from each 
 one of several hundred authors, it includes only the fifteen chief poets of 
 the century. From each one of these, however, it attempts to give a full 
 and adequate selection, sufficient really to represent the man and his 
 work. 
 
 The book has been plamied, primarily, to give in one volume all the 
 material which should be in the hands of the student for a College or 
 University course on the British poets of the nineteenth century. I have 
 therefore tried to include, first, all the poems which would be given as 
 prescribed reading in such a course ; and, second, a thorough guide to the 
 use of a well-equipped college or public library, in connection with that 
 reading. I hope the book may also be found useful for more general 
 courses on English Literature, for which there is no other collection cov- 
 ering exactly this part of the field ; and for any reader who wishes to pos- 
 sess in one volume the best work of the chief nineteenth century poets — 
 " Infinite riches in a little room." 
 
 The selections are very full, and for the most part consist of complete 
 poems. They are designed both to give all the best of each poet's work, 
 and also (except for Mrs. Browning) to give some representation of each 
 important period and class of his work. Long poems are usually given 
 entire, and space has been found for Byron's Manfred, Shelley's Prome- 
 theus Unbound, Scott's Mannion, Coleridge's Ancient Mariner and Chris- 
 tahel, Keats' Hyperion, Tennyson's Guinevere and Morte d"" Arthur, 
 Bro^vning's Pippa Passes, Mrs. Browning's Sonnets from the Portuguese, 
 Arnold's Sohrab and Rustuyn, Morris's Atalantah Pace, etc., etc. In 
 general, extracts from long poems are not given, except in the case of 
 single cantos which are complete in themselves, like the last two cantos 
 of Childe Harold ; or lyrics, such as the songs from Tennyson's dramas, 
 or the Hymns to Pan and Diana in Keats' Endgmion, which, Avhen de- 
 tached, make perfect and independent poems. An exception has been 
 
 V 
 
vi PREFACE 
 
 made in the case of Byron's master- work, Boii Juan, which of course could 
 not be given in full, and which has been represented by long passages. 
 
 The amount of space given to an author does not necessarily correspond 
 with his relative importance or rank as a poet. Some authors can best 
 be rei^resented by their shorter poems, while others — Scott, for instance 
 and William Morris— could not be fairly represented at all unless one of 
 their longer poems were given. Browning and Byron could not be repre- 
 sented without some complete example of their poems in dramatic form, 
 while Tennyson's drama does not hold the same relative importance in 
 his Avork. Byron, in particular, cannot really be known except through 
 his longer poems ; some example must necessarily be given of the series 
 of Oriental Romances, which, with Childe Harold, won him his early 
 fame ; at least one Canto of Childe Harold must be given complete ; an 
 example of the great Satires must be known in the Vision of Judgment ; 
 and finally the Avhole man is summed up in the different aspects of Don 
 Juan. Wordsworth, on the other hand, has less space than poets of in- 
 ferior rank ; but he is represented by a hundred complete poems, the lar- 
 gest number given for any author. 
 
 The selection of shorter poems has been made generously inclusive. 
 For Browning, more than two-thirds of the Dramatic Lyrics, and more 
 than half of the Dramatic Romances and Men and Women, as well as 
 representative poems from the other collections, are given. For Keats, 
 the entire contents (except one poem) of the volume of 1820 is given, as 
 well as full representation of his earlier volumes and of the posthumous 
 poems. I have included nearly eighty poems from Landor, and hope that 
 this — I think the first — representative selection from his verse may serve 
 to make his work as a poet more familiarly known, in the sheer beauty of 
 its simplicity and condensation. No apology need be made, I hope, for 
 the extent of the Shelley selections, since his Alastor, Lines Written 
 among the Euganean Hills, Epipsuchidion, The Sensitive Plant, Adonais, 
 etc., as well as the Prometheus Unbound, make his work take a large 
 amount of space in proportion to the number of titles. For Rossetti, I 
 have given more than two-thirds of the sonnets from the House of Life, 
 as well as Sister Helen, The Streani's Secret, Love's Nocturn, The Bur- 
 den of Nineveh, The King's Tragedg, and some thirty or forty of the 
 shorter poems. 1 hope that the space devoted to him will be found to 
 represent a true judgment of his great permanent value as a poet ; and 
 that the same will be true of the still larger amount of space given to 
 the poet most dift'erent from him, Matthew Arnold. 
 
PREFACE vii 
 
 A principal feature of the \o\ume is the classified Jxefei-ence Lists. I 
 have tried to indicate, for each poet, the standard editions, other import- 
 ant editions, the best one- volume editions, the standard biography, the 
 best brief biography, and all the important essays. The critical essays 
 are usually classed in two paragraphs, and, throughout, the most import- 
 ant books or essays are indicated by asterisks. 
 
 The Notes have been made as few and brief as possible ; and critical 
 comment, except that of the poet himself, or, in a few cases, of other 
 poets, has been excluded from them. They give only essential fads re- 
 garding the poems, or comment and explanation added by the poet him- 
 self. 
 
 The poems are arranged in chronological order under each author, ac- 
 cording to the dates of writing when these are known, and in other cases 
 according to the dates of publication. The dates are given after each 
 poem, dates of writing being indicated by italic figures, and dates of pub- 
 lication by upright figures. 
 
 It is a pleasure to acknowledge the ready generosity with which critics 
 and teachers have given their help in making the selections. My thanks 
 are due, in particular, to Mr. Paul E. More of the JVeio YorJc Eoening 
 Post, to Professor Stoddard of New York University, Professor Trent 
 and Professor Odell of Columbia University, Professor Baker and Pro- 
 fessor Sykes of Teachers' College, Professor Van Dyke of Princeton, 
 and Professor Mott of the College of the City of New York. 
 
 It can hardly be hoped that such a book as this will be entirely free 
 from errors, especially in the reference lists and dates. Any corrections 
 will be gratefully received. Most of the proof has been carefully read 
 three timijs, but — as as my friend Ron sard hath it — Tit excuseras les f antes 
 de Vimprbneur, car tons les yeux cV Argus n't/ verraient assez dair. 
 
 CuKTis HiDDEjsr Page. 
 Columbia University, 
 
 September, 1904. 
 
TABLE OF CONTENTS^ 
 
 WORDSWORTH 
 
 PAGB 
 
 List of References 1 
 
 LINES LEFT UPON A SEAT IN A YEW- 
 TREE 4 
 
 THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN O 
 
 A NIGHT-PIECE 5 
 
 WE ARE SEVEN 6 
 
 SIMON LEE, THE OLD HUNTSMAN 6 
 
 LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING 7 
 
 TO MY SISTER 8 
 
 A WHIRL-BLAST FROM BEHIND THE 
 
 HILL ^. 8 
 
 THE TABLES TURNED 9 
 
 LINES COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE 
 
 TINTERN ABBEY 9 
 
 THE SIMPLON PASS. 12 
 
 INFLUENCE OF NATURAL OBJECTS. . . . 12 
 
 THERE WAS A BOY 13 
 
 NUTTING 13 
 
 STRANGE FITS OF PASSION HAVE I 
 
 KNOWN 14 
 
 SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTRODDEN 
 
 WAYS 14 
 
 I TRAVELLED AMONG UNKNOWN MEN.. 15 
 THREE YEARS SHE GREW IN SUN AND 
 
 SHOWER 15 
 
 A SLUMBER DID MY SPIRIT SEAL 15 
 
 A POET'S EPITAPH 15 
 
 MATTHEW 16 
 
 THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS 17 
 
 THE FOUNTAIN : A CONVERSATION. .. . 17 
 
 LUCY GRAY ; OR, SOLITUDE 18 
 
 MICHAEL : A PASTORAL POEM 19 
 
 THE SPARROW'S NEST .. 26 
 
 MY HEART LEAPS UP WHEN I BEHOLD. 26 
 
 WRITTEN IN MARCH 26 
 
 TO THE SMALL CELANDINE 27 
 
 TO THE SAME FLOWER 27 
 
 RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE 28 
 
 I GRIEVED FOR BUONAPARTE 80 
 
 COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE. 31 
 COMPOSED BY THE SEA-SIDE, NEAR 
 
 CALAIS 31 
 
 IT IS A BEAUTEOUS EVENING, CALM 
 
 AND FREE ; 31 
 
 ON THE EXTINCTION OP THE VENETIAN 
 
 REPUBLIC 31 
 
 * The poems of each author are arranged in 
 the end of each poem. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 TO TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE 32 
 
 NEAR DOVER, SEPTEMBER 1802 32 
 
 WRITTEN IN LONDON, SEPTEMBER 1802. 32 
 
 LONDON, 1802 33 
 
 GREAT MEN HAVE BEEN AMONG US 33 
 
 IT IS NOT TO BE THOUGHT OF 33 
 
 WHEN I HAVE BORNE IN MEMORY 33 
 
 TO HARTLEY COIiERIDGE, SIX YEARS 
 
 OLD 33 
 
 TO THE DAISY 34 
 
 TO THE SAME FLOWER 35 
 
 TO THE DAISY 35 
 
 THE GREEN LINNET 35 
 
 YEW-TREES 36 
 
 AT THE GRAVE OF BURNS 36 
 
 TO A HIGHLAND GIRL 37 
 
 STEPPING WESTWARD 38 
 
 THE SOLITARY REAPER • 38 
 
 YARROW UNVISITED 39 
 
 ODE: INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY.. 39 
 
 TO THE CUCKOO 42 
 
 SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT 42 
 
 I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD 43 
 
 THE AFFLICTION OP MARGARET 43 
 
 ODE TO DUTY 44 
 
 TO A SKYLARK 45 
 
 ELEGIAC STANZAS. SUGGESTED BY A 
 
 PICTURE OF PEELE CASTLE 45 
 
 TO A YOUNG LADY 46 
 
 FRENCH REVOLUTION, AS IT APPEARED 
 TO ENTHUSIASTS AT ITS COM- 
 MENCEMENT 46 
 
 CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY WARRIOR. 47 
 
 YES, IT WAS THE MOUNTAIN ECHO. ... 48 
 NUNS FRET NOT AT THEIR CONVENT'S 
 
 NARROW ROOM 48 
 
 PERSONAL TALK 49 
 
 THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US. ... 50 
 
 TO SLEEP 50 
 
 NOVEMBER, 1806 50 
 
 THOUGHT OF A BRITON ON THE SUB- 
 JUGATION OF SWITZERLAND 50 
 
 HERE PAUSE : THE POET CLAIJIS AT 
 
 LEAST THIS PRAISE 51 
 
 LAODAMIA 51 
 
 YARROW VISITED 54 
 
 TO B. R. HAYDON 55 
 
 NOVEMBER 1 55 
 
 chronological order. Exact dates will be found at 
 
 IX 
 
TABLE OF CONTENTS 
 
 SURPRISED BY JOY— IMPATIENT AS 
 
 THE WIND 55 
 
 HAST THOU SEEN WITH FLASH INCES- 
 SANT 55 
 
 COMPOSED UPON AN EVENING OF EX- 
 TRAORDINARY SPLENDOR AND 
 
 BEAUTY 55 
 
 SEPTEMBER. 1819 56 
 
 AFTER-THOUGHT 57 
 
 MUTABILITY 57 
 
 INSIDE OF KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL, 
 
 CAMBRIDGE 57 
 
 MEMORY 58 
 
 TO A SKYLARK 58 
 
 SCORN NOT THE SONNET 58 
 
 THE PRIMROSE OF THE ROCK 59 
 
 YARROW REVISITED 59 
 
 THE TROSACHS 60 
 
 IF THOU INDEED DERIVE THY LIGHT 
 
 FROM HEAVEN 61 
 
 IF THIS GREAT AVORLD OF JOY AND 
 
 PAIN 61 
 
 "there! " SAID A STRIPLING, POINT- 
 ING WITH MEET PRIDE 61 
 
 MOST SWEET IT IS WITH UNUPLIFTED 61 
 
 EYES 61 
 
 EXTEMPORE EFFUSION UPON THE 
 
 DEATH OF JAMES HOGG 61 
 
 A POET !— HE HATH PUT HIS HEART TO 
 
 SCHOOL 62 
 
 SO FAIR. SO SWEET, WITHAL SO SENSI- 
 TIVE 63 
 
 THE UNREMITTING VOICE OF NIGHTLY 
 
 STREAMS .. 63 
 
 SONNET : TO AN OCTOGENARIAN 63 
 
 COLERIDGE 
 
 List of References 64 
 
 LIFE 66 
 
 LINES ON AN AUTUMNAL EVENING 66 
 
 LEWTI, OR THE CIRCASSIAN LOVE 
 
 CHANT 68 
 
 LA FAYETTE 69 
 
 REFLECTIONS ON HAVING LEFT A PLACE 
 
 OF RETIREMENT 69 
 
 TIME, REAL AND IMAGINARY 70 
 
 _J:HIS LIME-TREE BOWER MY PRISON . . . ' 70 
 
 KUBLA KHAN 73 
 
 SONG FROM OSORIO 73 
 
 THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER . . 73 
 
 CHRIST ABEL 8\. 
 
 FRANCE : AN ODE 88 
 
 FROST AT MIDNIGHT 90 
 
 LOVE 91 
 
 THE BALLAD OF THE DARK LADIE 92 
 
 LINES WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM AT 
 
 ELBINGERODE 93 
 
 PAGE 
 
 ODE TO TRANQUILLITY . 94 
 
 DEJECTION : AN ODE 94 
 
 HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE, IN THE VALE 
 
 OF CHAMOUNI 96 
 
 THE GOOD GREAT MAN 98 
 
 THE PAINS OF SLEEP 98 
 
 TO WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 99 
 
 SONG, FROM ZAPOLYA 101 
 
 YOUTH AND AGE 101 
 
 WORK WITHOUT HOPE. . . 101 
 
 THE GARDEN OF BOCCACCIO 103 
 
 PHANTOM OR FACT 103 
 
 SCOTT 
 
 List of References 104 
 
 WILLIAM AND HELEN 1 05 
 
 THE VIOLET 108 
 
 TO A LADY 108 
 
 THE EVE OF SAINT JOHN 108 
 
 CADYpW CASTLE Ill 
 
 THE MAID OF NEIDPATH 113 
 
 HUNTING SONG 113 
 
 MARMION 114 
 
 SOLDIER, REST ! THY WARFARE 0"ER. 159 
 HAIL TO THE CHIEF WHO IN TRIUMPH 
 
 ADVANCES ! 159 
 
 CORONACH 160 
 
 HARP OF THE NORTH, FAREWELL ! 160 
 
 BRIGNALL BANKS 101 
 
 ALLEN-A-DALE 161 
 
 HIE AWAY, HIE AWAY 163 
 
 TWIST YE, TWINE YE ! EVEN SO 162 
 
 WASTED. WEARY. WHEREFORE STAY.. 162 
 
 JOCK O' HAZELDEAN. . . 162 
 
 PIBROCH OF DONALD DHU 163 
 
 TIME 163 
 
 CAVALIER SONG 163 
 
 CLARION 1 63 
 
 THE SUN UPON THE WEIRDLAW HILL.. 164 
 
 PROUD MAISIE 1 64 
 
 TRUE-LOVE, AN THOU BE TRUE 164 
 
 REBECCA'S HYMN 164 
 
 BORDER BALLAD . , 1 65 
 
 LIFE 1 65 
 
 COUNTY GUY 1 65 
 
 BONNY DUNDEE 165 
 
 here's a HEALTH TO KING CHARLES. . 166 
 
 BYRON 
 
 List of References 167 
 
 LACHIN Y GAIR 170 
 
 MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART 170 
 
 AND THOU ART DEAD, AS YOUNG AND 
 
 FAIR - 171 
 
 WHEN WE TWO PARTED 171 
 
 THE BRIDE OP ABYPOS < . 173 
 
TABLE OF CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 ODE TO NAPOLKON BUONAPARTE 184 
 
 SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY 186 
 
 OH ! SNATCHED AWAY IN BEAUTYS 
 
 BLOOM 186 
 
 ,THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. . 187 
 SONG OF SAUL BEFORE HIS LAST BAT- 
 TLE 187 
 
 STANZAS FOR MUSIC (THERE'S NOT A 
 
 JOY) 187 
 
 FARE THEE WELL 188 
 
 STANZAS FOR MUSIC (THERE BE NONE 
 
 OF beauty's DAUOHTERS) 189 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE, CANTO 
 
 m 189 
 
 SONNET ON CHILLON 206 
 
 THE PRISONER OF CHILLON 206 
 
 STANZAS TO AUGUSTA 209 
 
 EPISTLE TO AUGUSTA 210 
 
 STANZAS FOR MUSIC (THEY SAY THAT 
 
 HOPE) 212 
 
 DARKNESS 213 
 
 PROMETHEUS 213 
 
 SONNET TO LAKE LEMAN 2U 
 
 MANFRED 214 
 
 to thomas moore 234 
 
 from childe harold, canto iv 234 
 
 from don juan 
 
 dedication 240 
 
 from canto i 
 
 poetical commandments 242 
 
 labuntur anni 242 
 
 from canto ii 
 the shipwreck 243 
 
 HAIDEE . 244 
 
 FROM CANTO III 
 
 THE ISLES OF GREECE 249 
 
 CONCLUSION OF CANTO III 250 
 
 FROM CANTO I V 253 
 
 FROM CANTO XI : LONDON LITERA- 
 TURE AND SOCIETY 253 
 
 THE VISION OF JUDGMENT 257 
 
 IMPROMPTUS 270 
 
 STANZAS WRITTEN ON THE ROAD BE- 
 TWEEN FLORENCE AND PISA 271 
 
 ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY- 
 SIXTH YEAR 272 
 
 SHELLEY 
 
 List of References 273 
 
 STANZAS — APRIL 1814 275 
 
 TO COLERIDGE 275 
 
 TO WORDSWORTH 276 
 
 ALASTOR 276 
 
 HYMN TO INTELLECTUAL BEAUTY 287 
 
 MONT BLANC 288 
 
 TO MARY : DEDICATION OP 
 
 THE REVOLT OF ISLAM 391 
 
 PAGE 
 
 OZYMANDIAS 293 
 
 ON A FADED VIOLET 293 
 
 LINES WRITTEN AMONG THE EU- 
 
 GANEAN HILLS 293 
 
 STANZAS WRITTEN IN DEJECTION, NEAR 
 
 NAPLES 296 
 
 SONNET : ENGLAND IN 1819 297 
 
 ODE TO THE WEST WIND 297 
 
 THE INDIAN SERENADE 299 
 
 LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY 299 
 
 PROMETHEUS UNBOUND 299 
 
 THE SENSITIVE PLANT 338 
 
 THE CLOUD 343 
 
 TO A SKYLARK 344 
 
 TO (I FEAR THY KISSES) 345 
 
 ARETHUSA 346 
 
 HYMN OF PAN 346 
 
 THE QUESTION 346 
 
 SONG 347 
 
 TO THE MOON 348 
 
 THE world's WANDERERS 348 
 
 TIME LONG PAST 348 
 
 EPIPSYCHIDION 348 
 
 TO NIGHT 357 
 
 TIME 357 
 
 SONNET : POLITICAL GREATNESS 358 
 
 MUTABILITY 358 
 
 A LAMENT 358 
 
 TO (MUSIC, WHEN SOFT VOICES). . 358 
 
 ADONAIS 358 
 
 LIFE MAY CHANGE, BUT IT MAY FLY 
 
 NOT 366 
 
 WORLDS ON WORLDS ARE ROLLING 
 
 EVER 366 
 
 SONGS FROM HELLAS 367 
 
 THE world's GREAT AGE BEGINS 
 
 ANEW 367 
 
 TO-MORROW 368 
 
 TO (ONE WORD IS TOO OFTEN) .... 368 
 
 WITH A GUITAR. TO JANE 368 
 
 LINES : WHEN THE LAMP IS SHAT- 
 TERED 369 
 
 SONG FROM CHARLES THE FIRST 369 
 
 A DIRGE 369 
 
 KEATS 
 
 List of References 370 
 
 IMITATION OF SPENSER 372 
 
 TO SOLITUDE 372 
 
 HOW MANY BARDS GILD THE LAPSES OF 
 
 TIME 373 
 
 KEEN FITFUL GUSTS ARE WHISPERING 
 
 HERE AND THERE 373 
 
 TO ONE WHO HAS BEEN LONG IN CITY 
 
 PENT 373 
 
 ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S 
 
 HOMER 373 
 
TABLE OF CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 GREAT SPIRITS NOW ON EARTH ARE 
 
 SOJOURNING 373 
 
 ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET . . 374 
 
 SLEEP AND POETRY 374 
 
 AFTER DARK VAPORS HAVE OPPRESSED 
 
 OUR PLAINS 380 
 
 TO LEIGH HUNT, ESQ 380 
 
 ON SEEING THE ELGIN MARBLES 380 
 
 ON A PICTURE OF LEANDER 380 
 
 ON THE SEA 380 
 
 WHEN I HAVE FEARS THAT I MAY 
 
 CEASE TO BE 881 
 
 FROM ENDYMION : 
 
 PROEM 381 
 
 HYMN TO PAN 382 
 
 THE COMING OF DIAN 383 
 
 INVOCATION TO THE POWER OF LOVE. 385 
 
 ROUNDELAY 386 
 
 THE FEAST OF DIAN 387 
 
 ROBIN HOOD 388 
 
 IN A DREAR-NIGHTED DECEMBER 389 
 
 TO AILSA ROCK 389 
 
 THE HUMAN SEASONS 389 
 
 TO HOMER 389 
 
 LINES ON THE MERMAID TAVERN 390 
 
 FANCY 390 
 
 ISABELLA ; OR, THE POT OF BASIL 391 
 
 THE EVE OF ST. AGNES 398 
 
 THE EVE OF ST. MARK 404 
 
 ODE ON INDOLENCE . , 405 
 
 ODE (BARDS OF PASSION) 406 
 
 ODE TO PSYCHE 406 
 
 ODE ON A GRECIAN URN • 407 
 
 ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE 408 
 
 ODE ON MELANCHOLY 409 
 
 TO AUTUMN 409 
 
 HYPERION 410 
 
 LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI 423 
 
 ON FAME 423 
 
 TO SLEEP 423 
 
 BRIGHT STAR ! WOULD I WERE STEAD- 
 PAST AS THOU ART. 433 
 
 LANDOR 
 
 / List of References 424 
 
 ^-'GEBIR 425 
 
 ROSE AYLMER . 428 
 
 REGENERATION 429 
 
 CHILD OF A DAY, THOU KNOWEST NOT. 430 
 LYRICS, TO lANTHE : 
 
 AWAY MY VERSE ; AND NEVER FEAR. 430 
 WHEN HELEN FIRST SAW WRINKLES 
 
 IN HER FACE 430 
 
 lANTHE ! YOU ARE CALLED TO CROSS 
 
 THE SEA 431 
 
 I HELD HER HAND, THE PLEDGE OF 
 
 BLISS 431 
 
 PAQE 
 
 PLEASURE ! WHY THUS DESERT THE 
 
 HEART 431 
 
 MILD IS, THE PARTING YEAR, AND 
 
 SWEET 431 
 
 PAST RUINED ILION HELEN LIVES... 431 
 
 FIESOLAN IDYL 431 
 
 FOR AN EPITAPH AT FIESOLE 432 
 
 UPON A SWEET-BRIAR 432 
 
 THE MAID'S LAMENT 433 
 
 THE SHADES OF AGAMEMNON AND 
 
 IPHIGENEIA 433' 
 
 THE DEATH OF ARTEMIDORA 436 
 
 CORINNA TO TANAGRA, FROM ATHENS. 436 
 
 SAPPHO TO HESPERUS 437 
 
 LITTLE AGLAE 437 
 
 DIRGE 437 
 
 CLEONE TO ASPASIA 437 
 
 ON LUCRETIA BORGIA'S HAIR 438 
 
 TO WORDSWORTH 438 
 
 TO JOSEPH ABLETT 438 ' 
 
 TO MARY LAMB 440 
 
 ON HIS OWN IPHIGENEIA AND AGA- 
 MEMNON 440 
 
 FAREWELL TO ITALY 440 
 
 WHY. WHY REPINE 440 
 
 MOTHER, I CANNOT MIND MY WHEEL. . 440 
 
 TO A BRIDE , 441 
 
 LYRICS 
 
 DO YOU REMEMBER ME? OR ARE 
 
 YOU PROUD 441 
 
 NO, MY OWN LOVE OF OTHER 
 
 YEARS ! 441 
 
 ONE YEAR AGO MY PATH WAS 
 
 GREEN 441 
 
 YES ; I WRITE VERSES NOW AND 
 
 THEN 441 
 
 WITH ROSY HAND A LITTLE GIRL 
 
 PRESSED DOWN 443 
 
 YOU SMILED. YOU SPOKE, AND I 
 
 BELIEVED 443 
 
 REMAIN, AH NOT IN YOUTH ALONE.. 442 
 
 SOON, O lANTHE ! LIFE IS O'ER 442 
 
 TO A CYCLAMEN 443 
 
 GIVE ME THE EYES THAT LOOK ON 
 
 MINE 442 
 
 TWENTY YEARS HENCE 443 
 
 PROUD WORD YOU NEVER SPOKE . . . 443 
 ALAS, HOW SOON THE HOURS ARE 
 
 OVER 443 
 
 QUATRAINS 
 
 ON THE SMOOTH BROW AND CLUS- 
 TERING HAIR 443 
 
 MY HOPES RETIRE 443 
 
 VARIOUS THE ROADS OF LIFE 443 
 
 IS IT NOT BETTER AT AN EARLY 
 
 HOUR 443 
 
 I KNOW NOT WHETHER I AM PROUD. . . 443 
 THE DAY RETURNS, MY NATAl, DAY. . . 443 
 
TABLE OF CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 how many voices gaily sing 443 
 
 to robert browning 443 
 
 on the hellenics 444 
 
 Othrasymedes and eunoe 444 
 
 ^^.iphigeneia and agamemnon 445 
 
 x^THE HAMADRYAD 446 
 
 ACON AND RHODOPE 450 
 
 j>.MENELAUS AND HELEN AT TROY 452 
 
 "^AESCHYLOS AND SOPHOCLES 454 
 
 ^ SHAKESPEARE AND MILTON 454 
 
 TO YOUTH 454 
 
 TO AGE 455 
 
 THE CHRYSOLITES AND RUBIES BAC- 
 CHUS BRINGS 455 
 
 SO THEN I FEEL NOT DEEPLY 455 
 
 YEARS, MANY PARTI-COLORED YEARS. 455 
 I WONDER NOT THAT YOUTH REMAINS. 455 
 
 ON MUSIC 455 
 
 ROSE AYLMER'S HAIR, GIVEN BY HER 
 
 SISTER 456 
 
 DEATH STANDS ABOVE ME 456 
 
 ON HIS SEVENTY-FIFTH BIRTHDAY 456 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF SOUTHEY 456 
 
 ON SOUTHEY'S DEATH 457 
 
 heart's-ease 457 
 
 the three roses 457 
 
 lately our songsters loitered in 
 
 green lanes 457 
 
 ^theseus and hyppolyta 457 
 
 an aged man who loved to doze 
 
 AWAY 458 
 
 WELL I REMEMBER HOW YOU SMILED. 458 
 TO MY NINTH DECADE 458 
 
 TENNYSON 
 
 hist of References 459 
 
 CLARIBEL 461 
 
 THE POET 461 
 
 THE LADY OF SHALOTT 463 
 
 SONG : THE miller's DAUGHTER 463 
 
 OENONE 464 
 
 THE SISTERS 467 
 
 THE PALACE OF ART 468 
 
 THE LOTOS EATERS 472 
 
 CHORIC SONG. . 473 
 
 A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 474 
 
 ST. AGNES' EVE 479 
 
 YOU ASK ME WHY, THOUGH ILL AT 
 
 EASE 479 
 
 OF OLD SAT FREEDOM ON THE HEIGHTS. 479 
 
 LOVE THOU THY LAND 480 
 
 MORTE d'aRX'HUR 481 
 
 DORA ; ■ . 484 
 
 ULYSSES 487 
 
 LOCKSLEY HALL 488 
 
 GODIVA 493 
 
 SIR GALAHA D 493 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A FAREWELL 494 
 
 THE VISION OF SIN 494 
 
 BREAK, BREAK, BREAK 497 
 
 THE poet's song 497 
 
 LYRICS FROM THE PRINCESS 
 
 TEARS, IDLE TEARS 497 
 
 O SWALLOW, SWALLOW, FLYING, 
 
 FLYING SOUTH 498 
 
 AS THROUGH THE LAND AT EVE WE 
 
 WENT 498 
 
 SWEET AND LOW 498 
 
 THE SPLENDOR FALLS ON CASTLE 
 
 WALLS 498 
 
 THY VOICE IS HEARD THROUGH 
 
 ROLLING DRUMS 498 
 
 HOME THEY BROUGHT HER WAR- 
 RIOR DEAD 499 
 
 ASK ME NO MOKE 499 
 
 IN MEMORIAM 499 
 
 TO THE QUEEN 513 
 
 THE EAGLE 514 
 
 COME NOT, WHEN I AM DEAD 514 
 
 ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF 
 
 WELLINGTON 514 
 
 HANDS ALL ROUND 517 
 
 THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.. 518 
 
 THE BROOK 518 
 
 LYRICS FROM MAUD 
 
 PART I, V. A VOICE BY THE CEDAR 
 
 TREE 519 
 
 XI. O LET THE SOLID 
 
 GROUND 519 
 
 XII. BIRDS IN THE HIGH 
 
 HALL-GARDEN 519 
 
 XVII. GO NOT. HAPPY DAY . 520 
 
 XVIII. I HAVE LED HER 
 HOME 530 
 
 XXI. RIVULET CROSSING MY 
 GROUND 531 
 
 XXII. COME INTO THE GAR- 
 DEN, MAUD 531 
 
 PART II, II. SEE WHAT A LOVELY 
 
 SHELL 533 
 
 IV. O THAT 'TWERE POSSI- 
 BLE 533 
 
 WILL 534 
 
 ENID'S SONG (MARRIAGE OF GERAINT). 524 
 VIVIEN'S SONG (MERLIN AND VIVIEN) . 534 
 ELAINE'S SONG (LANCELOT AND 
 
 ELAINE) 525 
 
 GUINEVERE 525 / 
 
 TITHONUS 535 
 
 THE SAILOR BOY 536 
 
 MILTON 536 
 
 THE VOYAGE 537 
 
 NORTHERN FARMER (OLD STYLE) 538 
 
 THE FLOWER 539 
 
 IN THE VALLEY OF CAUTERETZ 539 
 
TABLE OF CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A DEDICATION 539 
 
 WAGES 540 
 
 from the coming of arthur 
 
 merlin's riddle 540 
 
 trumpet song 540 
 
 the higher pantheism 540 
 
 flower in the crannied wall. ... 541 
 
 northern farmer (new style) 541 
 
 england and america in 1782 542 
 
 the voice and the peak 543 
 
 lyrics from queen mary 
 
 milkmaid's song 543 
 
 low, lute, low 543 
 
 montenegro 543 
 
 the revenge 543 
 
 the defence of lucknow 540 
 
 RIZPAH 548 
 
 SONG FROM THE SISTERS 549 
 
 TO VIRGIL 550 
 
 FRATER AVE ATQUE VALE 550 
 
 EPILOGUE TO THE CHARGE OF THE 
 
 HEAVY BRIGADE 550 
 
 VASTNESS 550 
 
 MERLIN AND THE GLEAM 551 
 
 FAR-FAR-AWAY 553 
 
 THE THROSTLE 553 
 
 THE OAK 553 
 
 CROSSING THE BAR 553 
 
 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 
 
 Lint of References 554 
 
 SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE 555 
 
 ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 List of References 565 
 
 SONGS FROM PARACELSUS 
 
 HEAP CASSIA, SANDAL-BUDS 508 
 
 OVER THE SEA OUR GALLEYS WENT. . 508 
 
 PORPHYRIa'S LOVER. . ,/'. 509 
 
 PIPPA PASSES 570 
 
 CAVALIER TUNES. V 
 
 I. MARCHING ALONG 592 
 
 II. GIVE A ROUSE 593 
 
 III. BOOT AND SADDLE 593 
 
 THROUGH TH^ METIDJA TO ABD-EL- 
 
 KADR... .^7 593 
 
 CRISTINA. / // • • • '''^^ 
 
 INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP.T . . . 594 
 
 MY LAST DUCHES^. . /. 595 
 
 IN A GONDOLA . ./. ^ 596 
 
 THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN.Ji 598 
 
 RUDEL TO THE LADY OF TRIPOLI./. . . 602 
 there's a woman LIKE A DEWDROP.. 602 
 
 THE LOST LEADER. M. 603 
 
 HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS 
 
 FROM GHENT TO AIX U. 603 
 
 -^ PAGE 
 
 earth's immortalities. 9. 605 
 
 meeting at night. .^ 605 
 
 parting at morning. .?r: 605 
 
 SONG : NAY BUT YOU, WHO DO NOT 
 
 LOVE HER C?- 605 
 
 HOME-THOUGHTS FROM ABROAD, 'ri . . . 605 
 
 HOME-THOUGHTS FROM THE SEA..^. . . 605 
 
 TIME'S REVENGES. . .4 606 
 
 THE ITALIAN IN ENGLAND. ~/. 606 
 
 PICTOR IGNOTUS 3 608 
 
 THE BISHOP ORDERS HIS TOMB AT 
 
 SAINT PRAXED'S CHURCH.^. 609 
 
 SAUL.vS^. 611 
 
 A woman's last word a 617 
 
 EVELYN HOPE . . ./. ^ 618 
 
 LOVE AMONG THE RUINS , „-<•>. .618 
 
 UP AT A VILLA— DOWN IN TPIE QWY /. 619 
 
 A TOCCATA OF GALUPPl'S. .v..^. , 621 
 
 OLD PICTURES IN FLORENCE. .'^. 623 
 
 DE GUSTIBUS. ."f/ 626 
 
 MY STAR . .9— 626 
 
 ANY WIFE TO ANY HUSBAND. / 626 
 
 TWO IN THE CAMPAGNA . .'. 628 
 
 MISCONCEPTIONS. . . il-T. 629 
 
 ONE AVAY OF LOVE. /. 629 
 
 ANOTHER WAY OF LOVE . / 629 
 
 RESPECTABILITY. .'X 
 
 LOVE IN A LlFE.Tr::;; 
 
 / ■■ 
 
 LIFE IN A LOVE 
 IN THREE DAYS 
 THE GUARDIAN j^HOEL. 
 
 MEMORABILIA. . .•3' 
 
 POPULARITY \\^ . . 
 
 630 
 
 630 
 
 630 
 
 631 
 
 631 
 
 632 
 
 632 
 
 THE PATRTOT. ...>'>. 633 
 
 A LIGHT WOMAN. ...''. 633 
 
 THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER. . { . 634 
 
 A grammarian's funeral. . .'7 635 
 
 THE statue and THE BUST.'. . . / 637 
 
 CHILDE ROLAND^TO THE DARK TOWER 
 
 CAME . . .^. . ., 641 
 
 FRA LIPPO LIPPI. .v> . .^ 644 
 
 ANDREA DEL SARTO. . jiv* 650 
 
 ONE WORD MORE. ...... .^ 654 
 
 BEN KERSHOOK'S WISD6M. . . .'' 657 
 
 AMONG THE ROCKS \ 657 
 
 ABT VOGLER ,\\ 657 
 
 RABBI BEN EZRA ^ \. ,^ 659 
 
 CALIBAN UPON SETEBOS. . . \ 661 
 
 CONFESSIONS . . / '. 666 
 
 YOUTH AND ART \ 666 
 
 A FACE. :S 667 
 
 PROSPICE i. ,^ 667 
 
 EPILOGUE TO DRAMATIS PERSON AE .S*> . 668 
 FROM THE RING AND THE BOOK 
 
 DEDICATION , j 668 
 
 HERVE RIEL ."^ , 669 
 
 FIFINE AT THE FAIR 
 
 PROLOGUE— AMPHIBIAN. ."^ .', 671 
 
TABLE OF CONTENTS 
 
 XV 
 
 -"PAGE 
 
 EPILOGUE — THE HOUSEHOLDER. r*. . 67 1 
 
 HOUSE . . V? _^ 672 
 
 FEARS AND SCRUPLES., ^i 073 
 
 NATURAL MAGIC. . .'X-r 674 
 
 MAGICAL NATURE. -j^rT 674 
 
 APPEARANCES . . . .•-$T 674 
 
 EPILOGUE TO JHE PACCHIAROTTO 
 
 VOLUME CJ 674 
 
 LA SAISIAZ — 
 
 PROLOGUE ^ . . 677 
 
 THE TWO POETS OF CROISIC 0— 
 
 PROLOGUE 677 
 
 EPILOGUE . 678 
 
 TRAY -H 679 
 
 ECHETLOS ^. . . . 679 
 
 TOUCH HIM ne'er SO LIGHTLY. .Z? 680 
 
 AV ANTING IS — WHAT ? rr 680 
 
 ADAM. LILITH AND EVE. . . .Trt 680 
 
 NEVER THE TIME AND THE PLACE.. «. . G81 
 SONGS FROJI FERISHTAH'S FANCIES 
 
 ROUND US THE WILD CREATURES. >. 681 
 
 WISH NO WORD UNSPOKEN 681 
 
 FIRE IS IN THE FLINT 681 
 
 VERSE-MAKING WAS LEAST OF MY 
 
 VIRTUES 681 
 
 ASK NOT ONE LEAST WORD OF 
 
 PRAISE 682 
 
 WHY FROM THE AVORLD.. . ., 682 
 
 WHY I AM A LIBERAL "V. 682 
 
 ROSNY / 682 
 
 POETICS rV. ^^ . . 683 
 
 SUMMUM BONUM .•'.- 683 
 
 A PEARL, A GIRL / 683 
 
 MUCKLE-MOUTH ME(} .^ 683 
 
 DEVELOPMENT O- •••tf <'84 
 
 EPILOGUE TO ASOLANDO ^A. 686 
 
 CLOUGH 
 
 Li^t of References 687 
 
 IN A LECTURE-ROOM 688 
 
 BLANK MISGIVINGS 688 
 
 TO KU/MV 688 
 
 QUA CURSUM VENTUS 688 
 
 THE NEW SINAI 689 
 
 THE QUESTIONING SPIRIT 690 
 
 BETHESDA (A SEQUEL) ." 691 
 
 FROM AMOURS DE VOYAGE 
 
 EN ROUTE 691 
 
 ROME . 692 
 
 THE PANTHEON 692 
 
 ON MONTORIO"S HEIGHT 692 
 
 THE REAL QUESTION 693 
 
 SCEPTIC MOODS 693 
 
 ENVOI 693 
 
 PESCHIERA 693 
 
 ALTERAM PARTEM 694 
 
 IN THE DEPTHS 694 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE LATEST DECALOGUE 694 
 
 FROM DIPSYCHUS 
 
 "THERE IS NO GOD," THE WICKED 
 
 SAITH 694 
 
 OUR GAIETIF.S, OUR LUXURIES 695 
 
 THIS WORLD IS VERY ODD WE SEE. . 695 
 
 WHERE ARE THE GREAT 695 
 
 AVHEN THE ENEMY IS NEAR THEE. . . 695 
 SAY NOT THE STRUGGLE NOUGHT 
 
 AVAILETH 695 
 
 EASTER DAY, NAPLES, 1849 696 
 
 EASTER DAY, II 697 
 
 HOPE EVERMORE AND BELIEVE 698 
 
 QUI LABORAT ORAT 698 
 
 vnvoq avfivoq . . 699 
 
 THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY 699 
 
 AH ! YET CONSIDER IT AGAIN 700 
 
 SONGS IN ABSENCE 700 
 
 COME HOME, COME HOME 700 
 
 GREEN FIELDS OF ENGLAND 700 
 
 COME BACK, COME BACK 700 
 
 SOME FUTURE DAY 701 
 
 WHERE LIES THE LAND . . '. 701 
 
 WERE YOU WITH ME 702 
 
 O SHIP, SHIP, SHIP 702 
 
 THE STREAM OF LIFE 702 
 
 WITH WHOM IS NO VARIABLENESS 702 
 
 ITE DOMUM SATURJE, VENIT HESPERUS 702 
 
 CURRENTE CAL AMO 703 
 
 COME, POET, COME 704 
 
 THE HIDDEN LOVE 704 
 
 PERCHE PENSA? PENSANDO S' INVEC- 
 
 CHIA 704 
 
 LIFE IS STRUGGLE . "fOo 
 
 SONNETS ON THE THOUGHT OF DEATH. 705 
 
 IN A LONDON SQUARE 705 
 
 ALL IS WELL 705 
 
 ARNOLD 
 
 LiM of References 706 
 
 QUIET WORK 708 
 
 TO A FRIEND 708 
 
 SHAKESPEARE 708 
 
 THE FORSAKEN MERMAN. . . 708 
 
 THE STRAYED REVELLER 710 
 
 MEMORIAL VERSES 713 
 
 SELF-DECEPTION 714 
 
 THE SECOND BEST 714 
 
 LYRIC STANZAS OF EMPEDOCLES 715 
 
 CALLICLES' SONG 719 
 
 THE YOUTH OF NATURE 719 
 
 SELF-DEPENDENCE . 721 
 
 MORALITY 721 
 
 A SUMMER NIGHT 721 
 
 THE BURIED LIFE 723 
 
 LINES WRITTEN IN KENSINGTON (JAR- 
 DENS 724 
 
TABLE OF CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE FUTURE 734 
 
 STANZAS IN MEMORY OF THE AUTHOR 
 
 OF " OBERMANN " 725 
 
 REQUIESCAT 727 
 
 SOHRAB AND RUSTUM 728 
 
 PHILOMELA 741 
 
 THE SCHOLAR-GIPSY 741 
 
 BALDER DEAD (SECTION III) 745 
 
 STANZAS FROM THE GRANDE CHAR- 
 TREUSE 754 
 
 FROM SWITZERLAND 
 
 ISOLATION. TO MARGUERITE 756 
 
 TO MARGUERITE — CONTINUED 757 
 
 THYRSIS 757 
 
 YOUTH AND CALM 761 
 
 AUSTERITY OF POETRY 761 
 
 WORLDLY PLACE 761 
 
 EAST LONDON 761 
 
 WEST LONDON 762 
 
 EAST AND WEST 762 
 
 THE BETTER PART 762 
 
 IMMORTALITY. .^ 762 
 
 DOVER BEACH. .' 763 
 
 GROWING OLD 763 
 
 PIS-ALLER 764 
 
 THE LAST WORD.. . 764 
 
 BACCHANALIA ; OR, THE NEW AGE 764 
 
 PALLADIUM 765 
 
 A WISH 765 
 
 RUGBY CHAPEL 766 
 
 HEINE (FROM HEINE'S GRAVE) 768 
 
 OBERMANN ONCE MORE 768 
 
 ROSSETTI 
 
 List of References 773 
 
 MY sister's SLEEP 774 
 
 THE BLESSED DAMOZEL 774 
 
 AUTUMN SONG 776 
 
 THE PORTRAIT 776 
 
 THE CARD-DEALER 777 
 
 AT THE SUNRISE IN 1848 778 
 
 ON REFUSAL OF AID BETWEEN NA- 
 TIONS 778 
 
 MARY'S GIRLHOOD 778 
 
 FOR A VENETIAN PASTORAL 779 
 
 THE SEA-LIMITS 779 
 
 THE MIRROR 779 
 
 A YOUNG FIR- WOOD 779 
 
 PENUMBRA 780 
 
 SISTER HELEN 780 
 
 THE BURDEN OP NINEVEH 783 
 
 MARY" MAGDALENE AT THE DOOR OF 
 
 SIMON THE PHARISEE 785 
 
 ASPECTA MEDUSA 786 
 
 love's "iSfOCTURN 786 
 
 FIRST LOVE REMEMBERED 787 
 
 PLIGHTED PROMISE 788 
 
 SUDDEN LIGHT '. 
 
 THE WOODSPURGE 788 
 
 THE HONEYSUCKLE 788 
 
 A LITTLE WHILE 788 
 
 TROY TOWN 789 
 
 THE stream's secret 789 
 
 LOVE-LILY 792 
 
 THE HOUSE OF LIFE 
 
 THE SONNET 793 
 
 LOVE ENTHRONED 793 
 
 BRIDAL BIRTH 793 
 
 love's TESTAMENT 793 
 
 LOVESIGHT 794 
 
 HEART'S HOPE 794 
 
 love's LOVERS 794 
 
 passion and worship 794 
 
 the portrait 794 
 
 the love-letter 795 
 
 the lovers' walk 795 
 
 youth's antiphony 795 
 
 YOUTH'S spring-tribute 795 
 
 THE BIRTH-BOND 796 
 
 beauty's PAGEANT 796 
 
 GENIUS IN BEAUTY 796 
 
 SILENT NOON 796 
 
 LOVE-SWEETNESS 797 
 
 PRIDE OF YOUTH 797 
 
 MID-RAPTURE 797 
 
 heart's COMPASS 797 
 
 HER GIFTS 798 
 
 EQUAL TROTH 798 
 
 VENUS VICTRIX 798 
 
 THE DARK GLASS 798 
 
 SEVERED SELVES 799 
 
 THROUGH DEATH TO LOVE 799 
 
 DEATH-IN-LOVE 799 
 
 WILLOWWOOD, I-IV 799 
 
 AVITHOUT HER 800 
 
 STILLBORN LOVE 800 
 
 TRUE WOMAN 
 
 HERSELF 801 
 
 HER LOVE 801 
 
 HER HEAVEN 801 
 
 love's last gift 801 
 
 TRANSFIGURED LIFE 802 
 
 THE SONG-THROE 802 
 
 KNOWN IN VAIN 802 
 
 THE HEART OF THE NIGHT 802 
 
 THE LANDMARK 802 
 
 THE HILL SUMMIT 803 
 
 THE CHOICE, I-III 803 
 
 OLD AND NEW ART 
 
 ST. LUKE THE PAINTER 804 
 
 NOT AS THESE S04 
 
 THE HUSBANDMEN S04 
 
 soul's BEAUTY 804 
 
 body's BEAUTY 805 
 
 MEMORIAL THRESHOLDS 805 
 
TABLE OF CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 HOARDED JOY 805 
 
 BARREN SPRING 805 
 
 FAREWELL TO THE GLEN 806 
 
 LOST DAYS 806 
 
 THE TREES OF THE GARDEN 806 
 
 RETRO ME, SATH ANA 806 
 
 LOST ON BOTH SIDES 806 
 
 MICHELANGELO'S KISS 807 
 
 LIFE THE BELOVED 807 
 
 A SUPERSCRIPTION 807 
 
 NEWBORN DEATH, l-II 807 
 
 THE ONE HOPE 808 
 
 THE CLOUD CONFINES 808 
 
 THREE SHADOWS 809 
 
 INSOMNIA 809 
 
 CHIMES 809 
 
 SOOTHSAY 810 
 
 ON BURNS 811 
 
 FIVE ENGLISH POETS 
 
 THOMAS CHATTERTON 811 
 
 WILLIAM BLAKE 811 
 
 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 813 
 
 JOHN KEATS 812 
 
 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 812 
 
 THE KING'S TRAGEDY 812 
 
 MORRIS 
 
 List of References 823 
 
 WINTER WEATHER 824 
 
 RIDING TOGETHER 825 
 
 THE CHAPEL IN LYONESS 826 
 
 SUMMER DAWN 827 
 
 HANDS 827 
 
 GOLD HAIR 827 
 
 THE DEFENCE OP GUENEVERE 828 
 
 THE GILLIFLOWER OF GOLD 8.!2 
 
 SHAMEFUL DEATH 833 
 
 THE EVE OF CRECY 834 
 
 THE SAILING OF THE SWORD 834 
 
 THE BLUE CLOSET 835 
 
 THE HAYSTACK IN THE FLOODS. . ... 836 
 
 TWO RED ROSES ACROSS THE MOON. . . 838 
 
 SIR GILES' WAR-SONG 838 
 
 NEAR AVALON 838 
 
 IN PRISON 839 
 
 FROM THE LIFE AND DEATH OF JASON 
 
 TO THE SEA 839 
 
 THE nymph's SONG TO HYLAS 839 
 
 ORPHEUS' SONG OF TRIUMPH 840 
 
 SONGS OF ORPHEUS AND THE SIRENS. 840 
 
 INVOCATION TO CHAUCER 842 
 
 FROM THE EARTHLY PARADISE 
 
 AN APOLOGY 842 
 
 atalanta's race 843 
 
 SONG FROM THE STORY OF CUPID 
 
 AND PSYCHE 854 
 
 JUNE 854 
 
 PAGE 
 
 AUGUST 855 
 
 SONG FROM OGIER THE DANE 855 
 
 SONG FROM THE STORY OF ACON- 
 
 TIUS AND CYDIPPE 855 
 
 L'ENVOI 856 
 
 THE SEASONS 857 
 
 ERROR AND LOSS 857 
 
 FROM LOVE IS ENOUGH 
 
 THE DAY OF LOVE 858 
 
 FINAL CHORUS 859 
 
 THE VOICE OF TOIL 859 
 
 NO MASTER 860 
 
 THE DAY IS COMING 860 
 
 THE DAYS THAT WERE 861 
 
 THE DAY OF DAYS 861 
 
 THE BURGHERS' BATTLE 862 
 
 AGNES AND THE HILL-MAN 862 
 
 ICELAND FIRST SEEN 863 
 
 TO THE MUSE OF THE NORTH 864 
 
 DRAWING NEAR THE LIGHT 864 
 
 SWINBURNE 
 
 List of References 865 
 
 A SONG IN TIME OF ORDER 866 
 
 CHORUSES FROM ATALANTA IN CALY- 
 DON 
 
 THE YOUTH OF THE YEAR 866 
 
 THE LIFE OF MAN 867 
 
 LOVE AND LOVE'S MATES 868 
 
 NATURE 868 
 
 FATE 869 
 
 THE DEATH OF MELEAGER 869 
 
 PINAL CHORUS 871 
 
 SONGS FROM CHASTELARD 
 
 MARY BEATON'S SONG 871 
 
 LOVE AT EBB 872 
 
 THE queen's song 872 
 
 HYMN TO PROSERPINE 872 
 
 A MATCH 874 
 
 A BALLAD OF BURDENS 875 
 
 RONDEL 876 
 
 IN MEMORY OF WALTER SAVAGE LAN- 
 DOR 876 
 
 THE GARDEN OF PROSERPINE 877 
 
 LOVE AT SEA 878 
 
 SAPPHICS 878 
 
 DEDICATION (POEMS AND BALLADS, 
 
 FIRST SERIES) 879 
 
 AN APPEAL 881 
 
 HERTHA 882 
 
 THE PILGRIMS 884 
 
 TO WALT WHITMAN IN AMERICA 886 
 
 FROM MATER TRIUMPHALIS 887 
 
 COR CORDIUM 888 
 
 NON DOLET 889 
 
 THE OBLATION 889 
 
 A FORSAKEN GARDEN 889 
 
TABLE OF CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A BALLAD OF DREAMLAND cS90 
 
 A BALLAD OF FRANCOIS VILLON 8!) I 
 
 TO LOUIS KOSSUTH 891 
 
 child's SONG 892 
 
 TRIADS 892 
 
 ON THE CLIFFS 892 
 
 ON THE DEATHS OF THOMAS CARLYLE 
 
 AND GEORGE ELIOT 899 
 
 SONG FROM MARY STUART 899 
 
 HOPE AND FEAR 899 
 
 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 899 
 
 CHILDREN - 900 
 
 A child's LAUGHTER 900 
 
 THE SALT OF THE EARTH 900 
 
 CHILD AND POET 900 
 
 A child's future 901 
 
 ETUDE REALISTE 901 
 
 IN GUERNSEY 901 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A SINGING LESSON 902 
 
 THE ROUNDEL 902 
 
 A SOLITUDE 902 
 
 ON A COUNTRY ROAD 903 
 
 THE SEABOARD 90;i 
 
 THE CLIFFSIDE PATH 904 
 
 IN THE WATER 905 
 
 THE SUNBOWS 905 
 
 ON THE VERGE 906 
 
 ON THE MONUMENT ELECTED TO MAZ- 
 
 ZINI AT GENOA 907 
 
 THE INTERPRETERS 907 
 
 A WORD WITH THE WIND 908 
 
 IN TIME OF MOURNING 909 
 
 SEQUENCE OF SONNETS ON THE DEATH 
 
 OP ROBERT BROWNING 909 
 
 INDEXES 911 
 
WORDSWORTH 
 
 LIST OF REFERENCES 
 
 Editions 
 
 Tfir standard edition of Wordsworth is that edited by ** W. Knight, 
 1882-188G, Poetical Works, 8 volumes ; Prose Works, 2 volumes. 
 
 There is a good edition of the * Poetical Works, com])lete in 1 volume, 
 with Wordsworth's Prefaces, published by The Macmillan Co. at $1.75. 
 
 Biography 
 
 *Ki^iGiiT (W.), William Wordsworth, 3 volumes, 1889 (the standard 
 biography.) Wordsworth (Chr.), Memoirs of William Wordsworth, 2 
 volumes, 1851. Hood (E. P.), Wilham Wordsworth ; A Biography, 185G. 
 SvMi.vciTOx (A. J.), William Wordsworth ; A Biographical Sketch, with 
 Selections from his Writings in Poetry and I'rosc, 2 volumes, 1881. 
 
 * Myers (F. W. II.), William Wordsworth, English Men of Letters' A'e- 
 Wes, 1881 (the best brief biography, with adecjuate criticism). Suth- 
 erland (J. M.), William Wordsworth ; the Story of his Life, with criti- 
 cal remarks on his AVritings, 1887. Encyclopti^dia Britannica, Words- 
 worth, by Prof. W. Minto, Vol. XXIV, i)p. 668-676, 1888. Wordsavorth 
 (Elizabeth), William Wordsworth, 1891. Gothein (M.), Wordsworth, 
 sein Leben, seine Werke, llalle, 1898. Raleigh (W. A.), Wordsworth, 
 1903. See also Lee (Edmund), Dorothy Wordsworth. 
 
 Personal Reminiscences and Contemporary Criticism 
 
 * Wordsworth, The Prelude, the Preface to the Lyrical Ballads, etc. 
 
 * Wordsworth (Dorothy), Journal, and Recollections of a Tour made in 
 Scotland. * Coleridge (S. T.), Biographia Literaria ; Chap. 4, 5, 
 
 14, 17, 19, 20, and especially 22. Coleridge (S. T.), Poems ; To 
 William Wordsworth. Cottle (J.), Early Recollections of S. T. Coler- 
 idge. SouTHEY (R.), Life and Correspondence : Chap. 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 
 
 15, 19, 26, 32, 36. Talfourd (T. N.), Memorials of Lamb : especially 
 Chap. 6 and 7. Jeffrey (Lord Francis), Edinluirgh Review, No. 21, 
 art. 14, Wordsworth's Poems ; * No. 47, art. 1, Wordsworth's Excursion, 
 a Poem ; No. 50, art. 4, Wordsworth's White Doe of Rylstone : also in 
 his Critical Essays. IIazlitt, (William), * JMy First Acfjuaintance with 
 Poets ; The Spirit of the Age. Hunt (Leigh), The Seer, L, 204 : Words- 
 
WORDSWORTH 
 
 worth and Milton. De Quincey (Thomas), Works, edited by David 
 Masson ; Vols. II and III, Recollections of Wordsworth, etc. ; Vol. V, On 
 Wordswortli's Poetry ; and especially Vol. XI, Wordsworth (Essay of 
 1845) : Landor (W. S.), Imaginary Conversations ; Southey and Porson. 
 * Robinson (IT. C.), Diary, passim (see Index). Proctor (B. W.), Auto- 
 biographical Fragment. Mitfokd (M. R.), Recollections of a Literary 
 Life. Carlyle, Reminiscences. Duffy (C. Gavan), Conversations with 
 Carlyle. Mill (J. S.), Autobiography, Chapter V. Colerige (Sara), Me- 
 moirs and Letters. Wilson (John), Essays. TAyLOR (H), Critical 
 Essays on Poetry. 
 
 Later Criticism 
 
 Knight (W.), Wordsworthiana ; Selection from Papers read by The 
 Wordsworth Society. Knight (W.), Studies in Philosophy : Nature as 
 Interpreted by Wordsworth. Taine (H.), History of English Literature, 
 Vol. IV. ** Arnold (M.), Essays in Criticism, Second Series. * Stephen 
 (Leslie), Hours in a Library, Vol. II. =* Morley (John), Studies in Lit- 
 erature. * II utton' (R. IT.), Literary Essays. * Cairo (Edward), Litera- 
 ture and Philosophy, Vol.. I. * Pater (Walter), Appreciations. * Swin- 
 burne (A. C), Miscellanies : Wordsworth and Byron. Lowell (J. R.), 
 Prose Works, Vols. IV and VI. Woodberry (G. E.), Studies in Letters : 
 Sir George Beaumont, Coleridge and AVordsworth. Woodberry (G. E.), 
 Makers of Literature. Mabie (11. W.), Backgrounds of Literature: 
 Wordswortli and the Lake Country. * Legouis (Emile), La Jeunesse de 
 William Wordsworth, 1770-98: Etude sur le "Prelude." The same, 
 translated by J. W. Matthews, with prefatory note by Leslie Steplien. 
 Stephen (Leslie), Studies of a Biographer, Vol. I: Wordsworth's Youth 
 (on Legouis' book). Texte (Joseph), Etudes de Litterature europeene : 
 Wordsworth et la poesie lakiste en France. Dowden (Edward), Studies 
 in Literature : The French Revolution aiid Literature ; The Transcen- 
 dental Movement and Literature. Dowden (Edward), The French Rev- 
 olution and English Literature ; Essay V. Hancock (A. E.), The French 
 Revolution and the English Poets. Darmesteter (J.), English Studies : 
 Wordsworth and the French Revolution. Symons (A.), Fortnightly Re- 
 view, 1902. Church (R. W.), Dante and Other Essays. Macdonald (G.), 
 Imagination and Other Essays : Wordsworth's Poetry. Rossetti (W. M.), 
 Lives of Famous Poets. Scherer (Edmond), Etudes, Vol. VII ; the same 
 essay, translated, in his Essays on English Litei-ature. Shairp (J. C), 
 Aspects of Poetry : " The Three Yarrows ; " " White Doe of Rylstone." 
 Shairp (J. C), Studies in Poetry and Philosophy : Wordsworth, the Man 
 and the Poet. Clough (A. H.), Prose Remains. De Vere (Aubrey), 
 Essays, Chiefly on Poetry : The Genius and Passion of Wordsworth ; 
 The Wisdom and Truth of Wordsworth's Poetry ; Recollections of 
 Wordsworth. Hare (J. C. & A. W.), Guesses at Truth, Vol. II. Mas- 
 sox (1).), Wordsworth, Shelley, Keats, and Other Essays. Stanley 
 
LIST OF REFERENCES 
 
 (H. M.), Essays on Literary Art : Some Remarks on Wordsworth. Daw- 
 son (W. J.), Makers of Modern English. ** Bagehot (Walter), Literary 
 Studies, Vol. II : Wordsworth, Tennyson and Browning. 
 
 Algkr (W. R.), Solitudes. Bell (C. D.), Some of our English Poets. 
 Bkimley (G.), Essays. Brooke (Stopford A.), Theology in the English 
 Poets. Brooks (S. W.), Englisli Poetry and Poets. Burroughs (John), 
 Fresh Fields : Country of Wordsworth. Caine (T. H.), Cobwebs of 
 Criticism. Cheney (J. Y.), That Dome in Air. Chorlev (II. F.), Authors 
 of England. Courthope (Y. J.), Liberal Movement in English Literature : 
 Wordsworth's Theory of Poetry. Devey (J.), Comijarative Estimate of 
 Modern English Poets. Dixon (W. M.), English Poetry, Blake to Brown- 
 ing. Fields (J. T.), Yesterdays with Authors. Frothixgiiam (O. B.), 
 Transcendentalism in New England. Giles (IL), Illustrations of Genius. 
 Graves (R. P.), Afternoon Lectures : Wordsworth and the Lake Country. 
 Hamilton (Walter), Poets Laureate. Haweis (II. R.), Poets in the Pul- 
 pit. ITowiTT (W.), Plomes of the British Poets, Yol. II. Hudson (H. N.), 
 Studies in Wordsworth. Ingleby (C. M.), Essays. Johnson (C. F.), 
 Three Americans and Three Englishmen. Reed (H.), Lectures on British 
 Poets, Yol. II. McCoRMicK (W. S.), Three Lectures on English Litera- 
 ture. Macdonald (G.), England's Antiphon. Minto (W.), Literature of 
 the Georgian Era. Mitchell (D. G.), English Lands, Letters and Kings, 
 Yol. III. MoiR (D. M.), Lectures on Poetical Literature. Rawnsley 
 (II. D.), Literary Associations of the English Lakes, Yol. Y. Robertson 
 (F. W.), Lectures and Addresses. Rushton (W.), Afternoon Lectures, 
 Yol. I. Saunders (F.), Famous Books. Scudder (Y. D.), Life of the 
 Spirit in Modern English Poetry : Wordsworth and the new Democracy. 
 SwANwicK (A.), Poets the Interpreters of their Age. Tuckerman (II. T.), 
 Thoughts on the Poets. Winter (William), Gray Days and Gold: 
 Lakes and Fells of Wordsworth. Whipple (E. P.), Essays and Reviews. 
 Whipple (E. P.), Literature and Life. 
 
 Memorial Yerses, etc. 
 
 ** Watson (William), Wordsworth's Grave. * Arnold (M.), Memorial 
 Yerses, April 1850. Shelley, Poems: Sonnet to Wordsworth (arraign- 
 ment of Wordsworth for apostasy to the cause of liberty). Palgrave 
 (F. T.), William Wordsworth (in Stedman's Yictorian Anthology, p. 240). 
 * Whittier, Poems : Wordsworth. Lowell, Poetical Words, Yol. I. 
 Sainte-Beuve, Poesies : Trois sonnets iinites de Wordsworth. 
 
 * An asterisk marks the most important books and essays. 
 
WORDSWORTH 
 
 LINES 
 
 Left upon a Seat in a Yew-tree, which stands 
 near the lake of Esthvvaite, on a desolate part 
 of the shore, commanding a beautiful prospect. 
 
 Composed in part at school at Hawkshead. 
 The tree has disappeared, and the slip of Com- 
 mon on which it stood, that ran parallel to the 
 lake and lay open to it, has long been enclosed ; 
 so that the road has lost much of its attraction. 
 This spot was my favorite walk in the evenings 
 during the latter part of my school-time. 
 
 ( Wordsworth'' s note.) 
 
 Nay, Traveller ! rest. This lonely Yew- 
 tree stands 
 Far from all human dwelling : what if 
 
 liere 
 No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant 
 
 herb ? 
 What if the bee love not these barren 
 
 boughs ? 
 Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling 
 
 waves, 
 That break against the shore, shall lull 
 
 thy mind 
 By one soft impulse saved from vacancy. 
 
 Who he was 
 
 That piled these stones and with the 
 
 mossy sod 
 First covered, and here taught this aged 
 
 Tree 
 With its dark arms to form a circling 
 
 bower, 
 I well remember. — He was one who 
 
 owned 
 No common soul. In youth by science 
 
 nursed, 
 And led by nature into a wild scene 
 Of lofty hopes, he to the world went 
 
 forth 
 A favored Being, knowing no desire 
 Which genius did not hallow ; 'gainst 
 
 the taint 
 Of dis.solute tongues, and jealousy, and 
 
 hate, 
 And scorn, — against all enemies pre 
 
 pared. 
 
 All but neglect. The world, for so it 
 
 thought. 
 Owed him no service ; wherefore he at 
 
 once 
 With indignation turned himself away, 
 And with the food of pride sustained his 
 
 soul 
 In solitude. — Stranger! tliese gloomy 
 
 bouglis 
 Had charms for him ; and here he loved 
 
 to sit. 
 His only visitants a straggling sheep, 
 The stone-chat, or the glancing sand- 
 piper : 
 And on these barren rocks, with fern 
 
 and heath. 
 And juniper and thistle, sprinkled o'er, 
 Fixing his downcast e3'e, he many an 
 
 hour 
 A morbid pleasure nourislied, tracing 
 
 here 
 An emblem of liis own unfruitful life : 
 And, lifting up liis head, lie then would 
 
 gaze 
 On the more distant scene, — how lovelj^ 
 
 'tis 
 Thou seest, — and he would gaze till it 
 
 became 
 Far lovelier, and his heart could not sus- 
 tain 
 The beauty, still more beauteous ! Nor, 
 
 that time, 
 When nature had subdued him to her- 
 self, 
 Would he forget those Beings to whose 
 
 minds. 
 Warm from the labors of benevolence. 
 The world, and human life, appeared a 
 
 scene 
 Of kindred loveliness : then he would 
 
 sigh, 
 Inly disturbed, to think that others felt 
 What he must never feel : and st), lost 
 
 Man ! 
 On visionary views would fancy feed, 
 Till his eye streamed with tears. In this 
 
 deep vale 
 
WORDSWORTH 
 
 He died, — tliis seat his only monument. 
 If Thou be one. whose heart the holy 
 forms 
 
 Of j'oung imagination have kept pure. 
 
 Stranger ! lienceforth be warned ; and 
 know tliat pride. 
 
 Howe'er disguised in its own majesty, 
 
 Is littleness ; that he. who feels con- 
 tempt 
 
 For any living thing, hath faculties 
 
 Whicli lie has never used ; that tliought 
 with him 
 
 Is in its infancy. Tlie man whose eye 
 
 Is ever on liimself doth look on one, 
 
 The least of Natui'e's works, one who 
 might move 
 
 The wise man to that scorn which wis- 
 dom holds 
 
 Unlawful, ever. O be wiser. Thou ! 
 
 Instructed that true knowledge leads to 
 love ; 
 
 True dignity abides with him alone 
 
 Who, in the silent hour of inward 
 thought. 
 
 Can still sus^^ect, and still revere him- 
 self, 
 
 In lowliness of lieart. 1705. 1798.1 
 
 THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN 
 
 This arose out of my observation of the affect- 
 ing music of these birds hanging in this way in 
 the London streets during the freshness and 
 stillness of the Spring morning.— ( Wordstoorth.) 
 
 At the corner of Wood Street, when daj'- 
 
 light appears, 
 Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has 
 
 sung for three years ; 
 Poor Susan lias passed by the spot, and 
 
 lias heard 
 Iri the silence of morning the song of 
 
 the Bird. 
 
 'Tis a note of enchantment ; what ails 
 
 her ? She sees 
 A mountain ascending, a vision of trees ; 
 Bright volumes of vapor through Loth- 
 
 bury glide, 
 And a river flows on through the vale 
 
 of Cheapside. 
 
 Green pastures she views in the midst 
 of the dale. 
 
 1 Italic figures indicate the year of writing ; 
 upright figures the year of puljlication. The 
 dates for Wordsworth are taken from the biblio- 
 graphical tal)les in Vol. VIII of Knight's edition 
 of the Poems. 
 
 Down which she so often has tripped 
 
 with her pail : 
 And a single small cottage, a nest like a 
 
 dove's. 
 The one only dwelling on earth that she 
 
 loves. 
 
 She looks, and her heart is in heaven : 
 
 but they fade. 
 The mist and the river, the hill and the 
 
 shade : 
 The stream will not flow, and the hill 
 
 will not rise. 
 And the colors have all passed away 
 
 from her eyes ! 1707. 1800. 
 
 A NIGHT-PIECE 
 
 Composed on the road between Nether St owey 
 and Alfoxden, extempore. I distinctly recollect 
 tlie very moment when I was struck, as described 
 — '• He looks up — the clouds are split," etc. 
 {Wordsivorth) 
 
 " Wordsworth particularly recommended to 
 me among his Poems of Imagination, Yciij 
 Trees, waA a description of Night. These, ho 
 says, are amongst the best for tlie imaginative 
 power displayed in them." (Diary of Henry 
 Crabb Robinson, May 9, 1815.) 
 
 The sky is overcast 
 
 With a continuous cloud of texture close. 
 Heavy and wan, all whitened by the 
 
 Moon. 
 Which through that veil is indistinctly 
 
 seen, 
 A dull, contracted circle, yielding light 
 So feebly spread, that not a shadow falls. 
 Chequering the ground — from rock, 
 
 plant, tree, or tower. 
 At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam 
 Startles the pensive traveller while he 
 
 treads 
 His lonesome imth, with unobserving 
 
 eye 
 Bent earthward ; he looks up — the 
 
 clouds are .split 
 Asunder, — and above his head he sees 
 The clear Moon, and the glory of the 
 
 heavens. 
 There, in a black-blue vault she sails 
 
 along. 
 Followed by multitudes of stars, that, 
 
 small 
 And sharp, and bright, along the dark 
 
 abyss 
 Drive as she drives : how fast they 
 
 wheel away. 
 Yet vanish not ! — the wind is in the tree. 
 But they are silent ; — still they roll along 
 Immeasurably distant ; and the vault. 
 
ENGLISH POETS 
 
 Built round b}^ those white clouds, enor- 
 mous clouds, 
 Still deepens its unfathomable depth. 
 At length the Vision closes ; and the 
 
 mind. 
 Not undisturbed by the deliglit it feels, 
 Which slowly settles into peaceful cabn, 
 Is left to muse upon the solemn scene. 
 
 179S. 1815. 
 
 WE ARE SEVEN 
 
 —A SIMPLE Child, 
 That lightly draws its breath. 
 And feels its life in every limb, 
 What should it know of death ? 
 
 I met a little cottage Girl : 
 She was eight years old, she said ; 
 Her hair was thick with many a curl 
 That clustered round her head. 
 
 She had a rustic, woodland air, 
 And she was wildly clad : 
 Her eyes were fair, and very fair ; 
 — Her beauty made me glad. 
 
 " Sisters and brothers, little Maid, 
 How many may you be ? " 
 "How many? Seven in all," she said 
 And wondering looked at me. 
 
 " And wliere are they ? I pray you tell." 
 SJie answered, " Seven are we ; 
 And two of us at Conway dwell, 
 And two are gone to sea. 
 
 " Two of us in the church-j'^ard lie. 
 My sister and my brother ; 
 And in the cliurch-yard cottage, I 
 Dwell near them witli my mother." 
 
 " You say that two at Conway dwell, 
 And two are gone to sea. 
 Yet ye are seven ! — I praj^ you tell. 
 Sweet Maid, how this may be." 
 
 Then did the little Maid reply, 
 " Seven boys and girls are we ; 
 Two of VIS in tlie cliurch-yard lie. 
 Beneath the church-yard tree." 
 
 " You run about, my little Maid, 
 Your limbs they are alive ; 
 If two are in the church-yard laid. 
 Then ye are only five." 
 
 "Their graves are green, they may be 
 
 seen." 
 The little Maid replied. 
 
 " Twelve steps or more from my mother's 
 
 door. 
 And they are side by side. 
 
 " My stockings there I often knit, 
 I\[y kercliief there I hem ; 
 And there upon the ground I sit, 
 And sing a song to them. 
 
 " And often after sunset, Sir, 
 When it is light and fair, 
 I take my little porringer, 
 And eat my supper tliere. 
 
 ■' The first tliat died was sister Jane ; 
 In bed slie moaning la}'. 
 Till God released her of her pain ; 
 And then she went away. 
 
 " So in the church-yard she was laid ; 
 And, when the grass was dry, 
 Togetlier round her grave we played, 
 My brother John and I. 
 
 " And when the ground was white with 
 
 snow. 
 And I could run and slide. 
 My brother John was forced to go. 
 And he lies by her side." 
 
 " How many are j'ou, then," said I, 
 •• If they two arein lieaven ? " 
 Quick was tlie little Maid's reply, 
 '• O Master ! we are seven." 
 
 " But they are dead ; those two are 
 
 dead ! 
 Tlieir spirits are in heaven ! " 
 'Twas tlirowing words away ; for still 
 The little Maid would have her will. 
 And said, " Nay, we are seven ! " 
 
 I79S. 1798. 
 
 SIMON LEE 
 
 THE OLD HUNTSMAN ; 
 
 WITH AN INCIDENT IN WHICH HE WAS 
 CONCERNED. 
 
 This old man had been huntsman to the squires 
 of Alfoxdeu. . . . The fact was as nieniioned in 
 tlie poem ; and I have, after an interval of forty- 
 five years, the inmg'e of the old man as fresh 
 before my eyes as if I had seen him yesterday. 
 The expression when the hounds were out, "I 
 dearly love their voice," was word for word 
 fromhis own lips. (Wordsworth.) 
 
 In the sweet shire of Cardigan, 
 Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall, 
 
WORDSWORTH 
 
 An old Man dwells, a little man, — 
 'Tis said he once was tall. 
 Full five and thirty years he lived 
 A running huntsman merry ; 
 And still the centre of his cheek 
 Is red as a ripe cherry. 
 
 No man like him the horn could sound. 
 
 And hill and vallej' rang with glee 
 
 When Echo bandied, round and round, 
 
 The halloo of Simon Lee. 
 
 In those proud days, he little cai'ed 
 
 For husbandry or tillage ; 
 
 To blither tasks did Simon rouse 
 
 The sleepers of the village. 
 
 He all the country could outrun, 
 
 Could leave both man and horse behind : 
 
 And often, ere the chase was done. 
 
 He reeled and was stone-blind. 
 
 And still there's something in tlie world 
 
 At which his lieart rejoices ; 
 
 For when the chiming hounds are out, 
 
 He dearly loves their voices ! 
 
 But, oh the heavy change ! — bereft 
 
 Of health, strength, friends, and kindred, 
 
 see ! 
 Old Simon to the world is left 
 In liveried poverty. 
 His Master's dead. — and no one now 
 Dwells in the Hall of Ivor ; 
 Men. dogs, and horses, all are dead ; 
 He is the sole survivor. 
 
 And he is lean and he is sick ; 
 His body, dwindled and awry, 
 Rests upon ankles swoln and thick ; 
 His legs are thin and dry. 
 One prop he has. and only one, 
 His wife, an aged woman. 
 Lives with him. near the waterfall, 
 Upon the village Common. 
 
 Beside their moss-grown hut of clay, 
 Not twenty paces fi'om tiie door. 
 A scrap of land they have, but they 
 Are poorest of the poor. 
 This scrap of land he from the heath 
 Enclosed when he was stronger ; 
 But what to them avails the land 
 Which he can till no longer ? 
 
 Oft, working by her Husband's side, 
 Ruth does what Simon cannot do ; 
 For she, with scanty cause for pride, 
 Is stouter of the two. 
 And, though you with your utmost skill 
 From labor could not wean them, 
 
 'Tis little, very little— all 
 
 That they can do between them. 
 
 Few months of life has he in store 
 
 As he to you will tell. 
 
 For still, the more he works, the more 
 
 Do his weak ankles swell. 
 
 My gentle Reader. I perceive 
 
 How patiently you've waited, 
 
 And now I fear tiiat you expect 
 
 Some tale will be related. 
 
 O Reader ! had you in your mind 
 Such stores as silent thought can bring, 
 
 gentle Reader ! you would find 
 A tale in every thing. 
 
 What more I have to say is short, 
 And you must kindly take it : 
 It is no tale ; but, should you think, 
 Perhaps a tale you'll make it. 
 
 One summer-day I chanced to see 
 This old Man doing all he could 
 To unearth the root of an old tree, 
 A stump of rotten wood. 
 The mattock tottered in his hand ; 
 So vain was his endeavor. 
 That at the root of the old tree 
 He might have worked for ever. 
 
 " You're overtEtsked, good Simon Lee, 
 Give me your tool," to him I said ; 
 And at the word right gladly he 
 Received my profi^ered aid. 
 
 1 struck, and with a single blow 
 The tangled root I severed. 
 
 At which the poor old Man so long 
 And vainly had endeavored. 
 
 The tears into his eyes were brought. 
 And thanks and praises seemed to run 
 So fast out of his heart, I thouglit 
 They never would liave done. 
 — I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds 
 With coldness still returning ; 
 Alas ! tlie gratitude of men 
 Hath oftener left me mourning. 
 
 179S. 1798. 
 
 LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY 
 SPRING 
 
 I HEARD a thousand blended notes. 
 
 While in a grove I sate reclined. 
 
 In tliat sweet mood when pleasant 
 
 tlioughts 
 Bring sad thoughts to the mind. 
 
BRITISH POETS 
 
 To lier fair works did Nature link 
 Tlie human soul that through me ran ; 
 And much it grieved my heart to think 
 What man has made of man. 
 
 Through primrose tufts, in that green 
 
 l)ower, 
 The periwinkle trailed its wreaths ; 
 And 'tis my faith tliat every flower 
 Eujoj's the air it breathes. 
 
 The birds around me hopped and played, 
 Their thoughts I cannot measure : — 
 But the least motion which tliey made 
 It seemed a thrill of pleasure. 
 
 The budding twigs spread out their fan, 
 To catch the breez}' air ; 
 And I must think, do all I can, 
 That there was pleasure there. 
 
 If this belief from heaven be sent, 
 If such be Nature's holy plan, 
 Have I not reason to lament 
 What man has made of man ? 
 
 17'JS. 1798. 
 
 TO MY SISTER 
 
 It is the first mild day of March : 
 Each minute sweeter tlian before 
 The redbreast sings from the tall larch 
 That stands beside our door. 
 
 There is a blessing in the air. 
 Which seems a sense of joy to jaeld 
 To the bare trees, and mountains bare, 
 And grass in the green field. 
 
 My sister ! ('tis a wish of mine) 
 Now that our morning meal is done. 
 Make liaste, your morning task resign ; 
 Come forth and feel the sun. 
 
 Edward will come with you ; — and, pra^'. 
 Put on with speed your woodland dress ; 
 And bring no book : for tliis one day 
 We '11 give to idleness. 
 
 No joyless forms shall regulate 
 Our living calendar : 
 We from to-day, my Friend, will date 
 The opening of the year. 
 
 Love, now a universal birth, 
 From heart to heart is stealing. 
 From eartli to man, from man to earth : 
 — It is tlie hour of feeling. 
 
 One moment now may give us more 
 Than years of toiling reason : 
 Our minds shall drink at ever}- pore 
 The spirit of the season. 
 
 Some silent laws our hearts will make. 
 Which they shall long obey : 
 AVe for the j'ear to come may take 
 Our temper from to-day. 
 
 And from the blessed jiower that rolls 
 About, below, above. 
 We'll frame tlie measure of our souls : 
 They shall be tuned to love. 
 
 Tlien come, my Sister ! come, I pray, 
 AVitli si)eed put on your woodland dress ; 
 And bring no book : for this one day 
 We "11 give to idleness. 17'J8. 1798. 
 
 A WHIRL-BLAST FROM BEHIND 
 THE HILL 
 
 A WHIRL-BLAST from behind the hill 
 Rushed o'er the wood with startling 
 
 sound ; 
 Tlien — all at once the air was still. 
 And showers of liailstones pattered 
 
 round. 
 Where leafless oaks towered higli above, 
 I sat witliln an undergrove 
 Of tallest liollies, tall and green ; 
 A fairer bower was never seen. 
 From year to year the spacious floor 
 Witli withered leaves is covered o'er, 
 And all the year the bower is green. 
 But see ! where'er tlje hailstones drop 
 Tbe withered leaves all skip and hop ; 
 There's not a breeze— no breatli of air — 
 Yet here, and there, and everywliere 
 Along tlie floor, beneatli the sliade 
 By tliose embowering hollies made. 
 The leaves in myriads jump and spring. 
 As if witii pipes and music rare 
 Some Robin Good-fellow were tliere. 
 And all those leaves, in festive glee. 
 Were dancing to the mlnstrelsv. 
 
 1798. 1800. 
 
 EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY 
 
 " Why, William, on that old gray stone 
 Tims for the length of half a day, 
 Wliy, William, sit you thus alone, 
 And dream your time away 't 
 
WORDSWORTH 
 
 "Where are your books? — that light be- 
 queathed 
 To Beings else forlorn and blind ! 
 Up I up ! and drink the spirit breathed 
 From dead men to their kind. 
 
 " You look round on your Mother Earth, 
 As if she for no purpose bore you ; 
 As if you were her first-born birth, 
 And none luul lived before j'ovi ! " 
 
 One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake. 
 When life was sweet, I knew not why. 
 To me mj^ good friend Matthew spake, 
 And thus I made reply : 
 
 " The eye — it cannot choose but see ; 
 We cannot bid the ear be still ; 
 Our bodies feel, where'er they be, 
 Against or with our will. 
 
 " Nor less I deem that there are Powers 
 Whicli of themselves our minds impress ; 
 Tliat we can feed this mind of ours 
 In a wise passiveness. 
 
 "Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum 
 Of things for ever speaking. 
 That nothing of itself will come, 
 •But we must still be seeking? 
 
 " — Then ask not wherefore, here, alone, 
 
 Conversing as I may, 
 
 I sit upon this old gray stone, 
 
 And dream my time away." 
 
 1798. 1798. 
 
 THE TABLES TURNED 
 
 AN EVENING SCENE ON THE SAME 
 SUBJECT 
 
 Up !up ! my Friend, and quit your books ; 
 
 Or surely you'll grow double : 
 
 Up ! up ! my Friend, and clear your 
 
 looks ; 
 Why all this toil and trouble ? 
 
 The sun, above the mountain's head, 
 
 A freshening lustre mellow 
 
 Through all the long green fields lias 
 
 spread. 
 His first sweet evening yellow. 
 
 Books ! 'tis a dull and endless strife : 
 ( 'ome. hear the woodland linnet. 
 How sweet his music ! on my life, 
 Tliere's more of wisdom in it. 
 
 And hark ! how blithe the throstle sings ! 
 He, too, is no mean preacher : 
 Come forth into the light of things, 
 Let Nature be your teacher. 
 
 Slie has a world of ready wealth, 
 Our minds and hearts to bless — 
 Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, 
 Truth breathed by cheerfulness. 
 
 One impulse from a vernal wood 
 ]\Iay teach you more of man, 
 Of moral evil and of good, 
 Than all the sages can. 
 
 Sweet is the lore which Nature brings ; 
 
 Our meddling intellect 
 
 Mis-shapes the beauteous fornas of 
 
 things : 
 We murder to dissect. 
 
 Enough of Science and of Art ; 
 
 Close up those barren leaves ; 
 
 Come fortli, and bring with you a heart 
 
 That watches and receives. 179S. 1798. 
 
 LINES 
 
 COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN 
 ABBEY, ON REVISITING THE BANKS OF THE 
 WYE DURING A TOUR. JULY 13, 1798. 
 
 No poem of mine was composed under circum- 
 stances more pleasant for me to remember than 
 this. I began it upon leaving Tintern, after 
 crossing the Wye, and concluded it just as I was 
 entering Bristol in the evening, after a ramble 
 of four or five days, with my sister. Not a line 
 of it was altered, and not any part of it written 
 down till I reached Bristol. It was published 
 almost immediately after in the little volume of 
 which so uuich lias been said in these Notes. 
 (W<ir(!sinirth. The volume referred to is The 
 Lifi-iriU Iktllads, as first published at Bristol by 
 Cottle.) 
 
 Five years have past ; five summers, 
 
 with the length 
 Of five long winters ! and again I hear 
 These waters, rolling from their moun- 
 tain-springs 
 With a soft inland murmur.^ — Once 
 
 again 
 Do I behold these steep and lofty cliflfs, 
 That on a wild secluded scene impress 
 Thoughts of more deep seclusion ; and 
 
 connect 
 Tlie landscape with the quiet of the sky. 
 Tlie day is come when I again repose 
 
 ' The river is not affected by the tides a few 
 miles above Tiuteru. 
 
BRITISH POETS 
 
 Here, under this dark sycamore, and 
 
 view 
 These plots of cottage-ground, these 
 
 orchard-tufts, 
 Which at this season, with their unripe 
 
 fruits, 
 Are clad in one green hue, and lose 
 
 themselves 
 'Mid groves and copses. Once again I 
 
 see 
 These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, 
 
 little lines 
 Of sportive wood run wild : tliese pas- 
 toral farms. 
 Green to tlie very door ; and wreaths of 
 
 smoke 
 Sent up, in silence, from among the 
 
 trees ! 
 With some uncertain notice, as might 
 
 seem 
 Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless 
 
 woods. 
 Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his 
 
 fire 
 The Hermit sits alone. 
 
 These beauteous forms. 
 Through a long absence, have not been 
 
 to me 
 As is a landscape to a blind man's eye : 
 But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the 
 
 din 
 Of towns and cities. I have owed to them 
 In hours of weariness, sensations sweet. 
 Felt in tlie blood, and felt along the 
 
 heart ; 
 And passing even into my purer mind, 
 With trancpiil restoration : — feelings too 
 Of unremembered pleasure : such, per- 
 haps. 
 As have no slight or trivial influence 
 On that best portion of a good man's life, 
 His little, nameless, unremembered acts 
 Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I 
 
 trust. 
 To them I may have owed another gift. 
 Of aspect more sublime ; that blessed 
 
 mood. 
 In which the burthen of the mystery. 
 In whicli the heavy and the weary 
 
 weight 
 Of all this unintelligible world. 
 Is lightened : — that serene and blessed 
 
 mood. 
 In which the affections gently lead us 
 
 on, — 
 Until, the breath of this corporeal frame 
 And even the motion of our human 
 
 blood 
 Almost suspended, we are laid asleep 
 
 In body, and become a living soul : 
 While with an eye made quiet by the 
 
 power 
 Of harmony, and the deep power of J03', 
 We see into the life of things. 
 
 If this 
 Be but a vain belief, yet, oh ! how oft — 
 In darkness and ainid the many shapes 
 Of joyle-ss daylight ; when the fretful 
 
 stir 
 Unprofitable, and tlie fever of the world, 
 H^ave hung upon the beatings of my 
 
 heart — 
 How oft, in spirit, have I turned to 
 
 thee. 
 
 .sylvan Wye ! thou wanderer thro" the 
 
 woods. 
 How often lias my spirit turned to thee ! 
 And now, witli gleams of half-extin- 
 guished thouglit. 
 With many recognitions dim and faint, 
 And somewhat of a sad perplexity, 
 Tlie picture of the mind revives again : 
 While liere I stand, not only with the 
 
 sense 
 Of present pleasure, but with pleasing 
 
 thougiits 
 That in this moment there is life and 
 
 food 
 For future years. And so I dare to 
 
 hope. 
 Though changed.no doubt, from what I 
 
 was wlien first 
 
 1 came among these hills; when like a 
 
 roe 
 I bounded o'er the mountains, by the 
 
 sides 
 Of tlie deep rivers, and the lonely 
 
 streams. 
 Wherever nature led : more like a man 
 Flying from something that he dreads, 
 
 than one 
 Who sought the thing he loved. For 
 
 nature then 
 (The coarser pleasures of my boyish 
 
 days, 
 And their glad animal movements all 
 
 gone by) 
 To me was all in all. — I cannot paint 
 What then I was. The sounding cata- 
 ract 
 Haunted me like a passion : the tall 
 
 rock. 
 The moiuitain, and the deep and gloomy 
 
 wood, 
 Their colors and their forms, were then 
 
 to me 
 An appetite ; a feeling and a love. 
 That had no need of a remoter charm. 
 
WORDSWORTH 
 
 By thought supplied, nor any interest 
 Unborrowed from the eye. — That time 
 
 is past, 
 And all its aching joys are now no more, 
 And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this 
 Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur ; other 
 
 gifts 
 Have followed ; for such loss, I would 
 
 believe. 
 Abundant recompense. For I have 
 
 learned 
 To look on nature, not as in the hour 
 Of thoughtless youth ; but hearing often- 
 times 
 The still, sad music of humanity. 
 Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample 
 
 power 
 To chasten and subdue. And I have 
 
 felt 
 A presence that disturbs me with the 
 
 joy 
 Of elevated thoughts ; a sense sublime 
 Of something far more deeplj' inter- 
 fused. 
 Wliose dwelling is the light of setting 
 
 suns, 
 And the round ocean and the living air, 
 And the blue sky, and in the mind of 
 
 man ; 
 A motion and a spirit, that impels 
 All thinking things, all objects of all 
 
 thought. 
 And rolls througliall things. Therefore 
 
 am I still 
 A lover of the meadows and the woods. 
 And mountains ; and of all that we be- 
 hold 
 P'rom this green earth ; of all the mighty 
 
 world 
 Of eye, and ear, — botli what they half 
 
 create, 
 And what perceive ; well pleased to 
 
 recognize 
 In nature and the language of the sense. 
 The anchor of my purest thoughts, the 
 
 nurse. 
 The guide, the guardian of my heart, 
 
 and soul 
 Of all my moral being. 
 
 Nor perchance, 
 If I were not thus taught, should I the 
 
 more 
 Sviffer my genial spirits to decay : 
 For thou art with me here upon the 
 
 banks 
 Of this fair river ; thou my dearest 
 
 Friend, 
 My dear, dear Friend ; and in thy voice 
 
 I catch 
 
 The language of my former heart, and 
 
 read 
 My former pleasures in the shooting 
 
 lights 
 Of thy wild eyes. Oli ! yet a little 
 
 while 
 Miiy I behold in tliee what I was once. 
 My dear, dear Sister ! and this prayer I 
 
 make. 
 Knowing that Nature never did betray 
 Tlie heart that loved her ; 'tis her privi- 
 lege. 
 Through all the years of this our life, to 
 
 lead 
 From joy to joy : for she can so inform 
 The mind that is within us, so impress 
 With quietness and beauty, and so feed 
 With loftj^ thoughts, that neither evil 
 
 tongues. 
 Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish 
 
 men, 
 Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor 
 
 all 
 The dreary intercourse of dailj' life. 
 Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb 
 Our cheerful faith, that all which we 
 
 behold 
 Is full of blessings. Therefore let the 
 
 moon 
 Shine on thee in thy solitary walk ; 
 And let the misty mountain-winds be 
 
 free 
 To blow against thee : and , in after years. 
 When these wild ecstasies shall be 
 
 matured 
 Into a sober pleasure ; wlien thy mind 
 Siiall be a mansion for all lovely forms, 
 Thy memory be as a dwelling-place 
 For all sweet sounds and harmonies ; 
 
 oil ! then, 
 If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief. 
 Should be thy portion, with what heal- 
 ing thoughts 
 Of tender joy wilt tliou remember me. 
 And these my exhortations ! Nor, per- 
 
 cliance — 
 If I should be where I no more can hear 
 Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes 
 
 these gleams 
 Of past existence — wilt thou then forget 
 That on the banks of this delightful 
 
 stream 
 We stood together ; and that I, so long 
 A worshipper of Nature, hither came 
 Unwearied in that service : rather say 
 With warmer love — oh ! with far deeper 
 
 zeal 
 Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then for- 
 get, 
 
BRITISH POETS 
 
 That after many wanderings, many years 
 Of absence, these steep woods and lofty 
 
 cliffs, 
 And this green pastoral landscape, were 
 
 to nie 
 More dear, both for themselves and for 
 
 thy sake ! 17DS. 1798. 
 
 THE SIMPLON PASS 
 
 Brook and road 
 
 Were fellow-travellers in this gloomy 
 
 Pass, 
 And with them did we journey several 
 
 hours 
 At a slow step. The immeasurable 
 
 height 
 Of woods decaying, never to be decayed. 
 The stationary blasts of waterfalls. 
 And in the narrow rent, at every turn. 
 Winds thwarting winds bewildered and 
 
 forlorn , 
 The torrents shooting from the clear 
 
 blue sky. 
 The rocks that muttered close upoii our 
 
 ears, 
 Black drizzling crags that spake by tlie 
 
 wayside 
 As if a voice were in them, the sick sight 
 And giddy prospect of tlie raving stream. 
 The unfettered clouds and region of the 
 
 heavens, 
 Tumult and peace, the darkness and the 
 
 light- 
 Were all like workings of one mind, the 
 
 features 
 Of the same face, blossoms upon one 
 
 tree. 
 Characters of the great Apocahpse, 
 The types and symbols of Eternit}^ 
 Of first, and last, and midst, and with- 
 out end. 1700. 1«45. 
 
 INFLUENCE OF NATURAL 
 OBJECTS 
 
 IN CALLING FORTH AND STRENGTHENING 
 THE IMAGINATION IN BOYHOOD AND 
 EARLY YOUTH 
 
 Wisdom and Spirit of the universe ! 
 Thou Soul, that art the Eternity of 
 
 tliought ! 
 And giv'st to forms and images a breath 
 And everlasting motion ! not in vain. 
 By day or star-light, thus from my first 
 
 dawn 
 
 Of childhood didst thou intertwine for 
 
 nie 
 The passions that build up our human 
 
 soul ; 
 Not with the mean and vulgar works of 
 
 Man, 
 But with high objects, with enduring 
 
 things. 
 With life and nature ; purifjing thus 
 The elements of feeling and of thought, 
 And sanctifying by such discipline 
 Both pain and fear, — until we recognize 
 A grandeur in the beatings of the heart. 
 Nor was this fellowshiij vouchsafed to 
 
 me 
 With stinted kindness. In November 
 
 days. 
 When vapors rolling down the valleys 
 
 made 
 A lonely scene more lonesome ; among 
 
 v.oods 
 At noon ; and 'mid the calm of summer 
 
 nights. 
 When by the margin of the trembling 
 
 lake. 
 Beneath the gloomy hills, homeward I 
 
 went 
 In solitude, such intercourse was mine : 
 Mine was it in the fields botli day and 
 
 night. 
 And by the waters, all the summer long. 
 And in the frosty season, wlien the sun 
 Was set, and, visible for many a mile. 
 The cottage-windows through the twi- 
 light blazed. 
 I heeded not the summons : happj'' time 
 It was indeed for all of us : for me 
 It was a time of I'apture ! Clear and loud 
 Tlie village-clock tolled six — I wheeled 
 
 about. 
 Proud and exulting like an untired horse 
 Tliat cares not for his home. — All shod 
 
 with steel 
 We hissed along the polished ice, in 
 
 games 
 Confederate, imitative of the chase 
 And woodland pleasures, — the resound- 
 ing horn. 
 The pack loud-chiming, and the hunted 
 
 hare. 
 So through the darkness and the cold 
 
 "we flew. 
 And not a voice was idle : with the din 
 Smitten, the precipices rang aloud : 
 The leafless trees and every icy crag 
 Tinkled like iron ; while far-distant hills 
 Into the tumult sent an alien sound 
 Of melancholy, not unnoticed wliile the 
 
 stars, 
 
WORDSWORTH 
 
 13 
 
 Eastward, were sparkling clear, and in 
 
 tlie west 
 Tlie orange sky of evening died away. 
 
 Not seldom from tlie uproar I retired 
 Into a silent bay, or sportively 
 Glanced side way, leaving the tumult- 
 uous throng, 
 To cut across the reflex of a star ; 
 Image, that, flying still before me, 
 
 gleamed 
 Upon tlie glassy plain : and oftentimes. 
 When we had given our bodies to the 
 
 wind. 
 And all the sliadowy banks on either 
 
 side 
 Came sweeping through tlie darkness, 
 
 spinning still 
 The rapid line of motion, then at once 
 Have I, reclining back upon my lieels. 
 Stopped short ; yet still the solitary cliffs 
 Wheeled by me — even as if the earth 
 
 had rolled 
 With visible motion her diurnal round ! 
 Behind me did they stretch in solemn 
 
 tx'ain, 
 Feebler and feebler, and I stood and 
 
 watclied 
 Till all was tranquil as a summer sea. 
 1799. 1809. 
 
 THERE WAS A BOY 
 
 Written in Germany, This is an extract from 
 the poem on my own poetical education. ( Words- 
 worth. The poem referred to is Tlie Prelude.) 
 
 There was a Boy ; ye knew him well, j^e 
 
 cliffs 
 And islands of Winander ! — many a time. 
 At evening, wlien the earliest stars began 
 To move along the edges of the liills, 
 Rising or setting, would he stand alone, 
 Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering 
 
 lake ; 
 And there, with fingers interwoven, both 
 
 hands 
 Pressed closely palm to palm and to his 
 
 mouth 
 Uplifted, he, as through an instrument. 
 Blew mimic hootiiigs to the silent owls. 
 That they might answer him. — And they 
 
 would shout 
 Across the watery vale, and shout again, 
 Responsive to his call, — with quivering 
 
 peals, 
 And long halloos, and screams, and 
 
 e(^lioes loud 
 Redoubled and redoubled ; concourse 
 
 wild 
 
 Of jocund din ! And, when there came 
 
 a pause 
 Of silence such as baffled his best skill. 
 Then, sometimes, in that silence, while 
 
 he hung 
 Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise 
 Has carried far into his heart the voice 
 Of mountain-torrents ; or the visible 
 
 scene 
 Would enter unawares into his mind 
 With all its solemn imagery, its rocks. 
 Its woods, and that uncertain heaven 
 
 received 
 Into the bosom of the steady lake. 
 
 This boy was taken from his mates, 
 
 and died 
 In childhood, ere he was full twelve years 
 
 old. 
 Pie-eminent in beauty is the vale 
 Where he was born and bred : the church- 
 yard hangs 
 Upon a slope above the village-school : 
 And through tiiat church-yard when my 
 
 way has led 
 On summer-evenings, I believe, that 
 
 there 
 A long half-hour together I have stood 
 Mute — looking at the grave in which he 
 
 lies ! 1799. 1800. 
 
 NUTTING 
 
 Written in Germany ; intended as part of a 
 poem on my own life, but struck out as not 
 being wanted there (Wordawortli). 
 
 It seems a day 
 
 (I speak of one from many singled out) 
 One of those heavenly days that cannot 
 
 die ; 
 When, in the eagerness of b(>3ash hope, 
 I left our cottage-threshold, sallying 
 
 forth 
 With a huge wallet o'er my shoulders 
 
 slung, 
 A nutting-crook in hand ; and turned 
 
 my steps 
 Tow'rd some far-distant wood, a Figure 
 
 quaint. 
 Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-off 
 
 weeds 
 Which for that service had been hus- 
 banded, 
 Bjr exliortation of my frugal Dame — 
 Motley accoutrement, of power to smile 
 At thorns, and brakes, and brambles — 
 
 and, in truth. 
 More ragged than need was ! O'er 
 
 pathless rocks. 
 
14 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Througli beds of matted fern, and tan- 
 gled thickets, 
 Forcing my way, I came to one dear nook 
 Unvisited, where not a broken bougli 
 Drooped with its withered leaves, un- 
 gracious sign 
 Of devastation ; but the hazels rose 
 Tall and erect, with tempting clusters 
 
 hung, 
 A virgin scene ! — A little while I stood. 
 Breathing with such suppression of the 
 
 heart 
 As joy delights in ; and, with wise re- 
 straint 
 Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed 
 The banquet ; — or beneath the trees I 
 
 sate 
 Among the flowers, and with the flowers 
 
 I played ; 
 A temper known to those, who, after 
 
 long 
 And weary expectation, have been blest 
 Witli sudden happiness beyond all hope. 
 Perliaps it was a bower beneath whose 
 
 leaves 
 The violets of five seasons re-appear 
 And fade, unseen by any human eye ; 
 Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on 
 For ever ; and I saw the sparkling foam. 
 And — with my clieek on one of those 
 
 green stones 
 That, fleeced with moss, under the shad}' 
 
 trees, 
 Lay round me, scattered like a flock of 
 
 sheep — 
 I heard the murmur and the murmuring 
 
 sound, 
 In that sweet mood when pleasure loves 
 
 to pay 
 Tribute to ease ; and, of its joy secure. 
 The heart luxuriates with indifferent 
 
 things. 
 Wasting its kindliness on stocks and 
 
 stones 
 And on the vacant air. Then up I rose, 
 And dragged to earth both branch and 
 
 bough, with crash 
 And merciless ravage : and the shady 
 
 nook 
 Of hazels, and the green and mossy 
 
 bovver. 
 Deformed and sullied, patiently gave up 
 Their quiet being : and. unless I now 
 Confovmd mj' present feelings with the 
 
 past ; 
 Ere from the mutilated bower I turned 
 Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of 
 
 kings. 
 I felt a sense of pain when I beheld 
 
 The silent trees, and saw the intruding 
 
 sky.— 
 Tlien, dearest Maiden, move along these 
 
 shades 
 In gentleness of heart ; with gentle hand 
 Touch — for there is a spirit in the woods. 
 17i>iJ. 1800. 
 
 STRANGE FITS OF PASSION HAVE 
 I KNOWN 
 
 The next three poems were written in 
 Germany. {Wordsioorth.) 
 
 Strange fits of passion have I known : 
 
 And I will dare to tell. 
 
 But in the Lover's ear alone, 
 
 AVhat once to me befell. 
 
 Wlien she I loved looked every day 
 Fresh as a rose in June, 
 I to her cottage bent my way, 
 Beneath an evening-moon. 
 
 Upon the moon I fixed my e)^e, 
 
 All over the wide lea ; 
 
 Witli quickening pace mj' horse drew 
 
 nigh 
 Those paths so dear to me. 
 
 And now we reached tlie orchard-plot : 
 And, as we climbed the liill. 
 Tlie sinking moon to Lucy's cot 
 Came near, and nearer still. 
 
 In one of those sweet (beams I slept. 
 Kind Nature's gentlest boon ! 
 And all the while my eyes I kept 
 On tlie descending moon. 
 
 My horse moved on ; hoof after hoof 
 He raised, and never stopped : 
 When down behind tlie cottage roof, 
 At once, the bright moon dropped. 
 
 What fond and wayward thouglits will 
 
 slide 
 Into a Lover's head ! 
 '• O mercy ! " to myself I cried, 
 " If Lucy should be dead I " 
 
 1799. 1800. 
 
 SHE. DWELT AMONG THE UNTROD- 
 DEN WAYS 
 
 She dwelt among the untrodden ways 
 
 Beside tlie springs of Dove, 
 A Maid whom there were none to praise 
 
 And very few to love : 
 
WORDSWORTH 
 
 15 
 
 A violet by a mossy stpne 
 Half hidden from the eye ! 
 I — Fair as a star, when only one 
 Is shining in the sky. 
 
 She lived unknown, and few could know 
 
 Wlien Lucy ceased to be ; 
 But slie is in her grave, and, oli, 
 
 The difference to me ! 1799. 1800. 
 
 I TRAVELLED AMONG UNKNOWN 
 MEN 
 
 I TRAVELLED among unknown men, 
 
 In lands beyond the sea : 
 Nor. England ! did I know till then ' 
 
 What love I bore to thee. 
 
 'Tis past, that melancholy dream ! 
 
 Nor will I quit thy shore 
 A second time ; for still I seem 
 
 To love thee more and more. 
 
 Among the mountains did I feel 
 
 The joy of my desire ; 
 And she I cherished turned her wheel 
 
 Beside an English fire. 
 
 Thy mornings showed, tliy niglits con- 
 cealed 
 The bowers where Lucy played ; 
 And tliine too is the last green field 
 That Lucy's eyes surveyed. 
 -v- 1799. 1807. 
 
 THREE YEARS SHE GREW IN SUN 
 AND SHOWER 
 
 Three years she grew in sun and shower, 
 Then Nature said, " A lovelier flower 
 On earth was never .sown ; 
 This Cliild I to myself will take ; 
 She sliall be mine, and I will make 
 A Lady of my own. 
 
 *' My.self will to my darling be 
 Both law and impulse : and with me 
 The Girl, in rock and plain, 
 
 !In earth and heaven, in glade and 
 bower, 
 Shall feel an overseeing power 
 To kindle or restrain. 
 
 " She shall be sportive as the fawn 
 That wild witli glee across tlie lawn, 
 Or up tlie mountain springs ; 
 And liers sliall be the breatliing balm, 
 And hers the silence and the calm 
 Of mute insensate things. 
 
 " The floating clouds their state shall 
 
 lend 
 To her ; for her the willow bend ; 
 Nor shall she fail to see 
 Even in the motions of the Storm 
 Grace that shall mould the Maiden's 
 
 form 
 By silent sympatliy. 
 
 " The stars of midnight shall be dear 
 To her ; and she shall lean her ear 
 In many a secret place 
 Wliere rivulets dance their wayward 
 
 round. 
 And beavity boi*n of murmuring sound 
 Sliall pass into her face. 
 
 " And vital feelings of delight 
 Shall rear lier form to stately height, 
 Her virgin bosom swell ; 
 Such thoughts to Lucy I will give 
 Wliile she and I together live 
 Here in this happ_v dell." 
 
 Thus Nature spake. — The work was 
 
 done — 
 How soon my Lucy's race was run ! 
 She died, and left to me 
 This heath, this calm and quiet scene ; 
 The memory of what has been, 
 And never more will be. 1799. 1800. 
 
 A SLUMBER DID MY SPIRIT SEAL 
 
 A SLUMBER did my spirit seal ; 
 
 I had no human fears : 
 She seemed a thing that could not feel 
 
 The touch of earthly years. 
 
 No motion lias she now, no force ; 
 
 She neither liears nor sees ; 
 Roiled round in earth's diurnal course. 
 
 With rocks, and stones, and trees. 
 1799. 1800. 
 
 A POET'S EPITAPH 
 
 Art thou a Statist in the van 
 Of public conflicts trained and bred ? 
 — First learn to love one living man ; 
 Then may'st thou think upon the dead. 
 
 A Lawyer art thou ? — draw not nigh ! 
 Go, carry to some fitter place 
 The keenness of that jiractiseil eye, 
 The hardness of that .sallow face. 
 
BRITISH POETS 
 
 Art thou a Man of purple cheer ? 
 A rosy Man, right pUinip to see? 
 Approach ; yet, Doctor, not too near, 
 Tliis grave no cushion is for thee. 
 
 Or art thou one of gallant pride, 
 A Soldier and no man of chaff ? 
 Welcome I — but lay tlij' sword aside, 
 And lean upon a peasant's staff. 
 
 Physician art thou ? one all eyes, 
 Philosopher ! a fingei'ing slave, 
 One that would peep and botanize 
 Upon his mother's grave ? 
 
 Wrapt closely in thy sensual fleece, 
 O turn aside, — and take, I pray. 
 That he below may rest in peace, 
 Thy ever-dwindling soul away ! 
 
 A Moralist perchance appears ; 
 
 Led, Heaven knows how ! to tliis poor 
 
 sod : 
 And he has neither eyes nor ears ; 
 Himself his world, and his own God ; 
 
 One to whose smooth-rubbed soul can 
 
 cling 
 Nor form, nor feeling, great or small ! 
 A reasoning, self-sufficing thing. 
 An intellectual All-in-all ! 
 
 Shut close the door ; press down the 
 
 latch ; 
 Sleep in thj'^ intellectual crust ; 
 Nor lose ten tickings of thy watch 
 Near this unpi-ofitable dust. 
 
 But who is he, with modest looks. 
 And clad in homely russet brown ? 
 He murmurs near the running brooks 
 A music sweeter than their own. 
 
 He is retired as noontide dew. 
 Or fountain in a noon-da}' grove ; 
 And you must love him. ere to 3H)u 
 He will seem worthy of your love. 
 
 The outward shows of sky and earth. 
 Of hill and valle3% he has viewed ; 
 And impulses of deeper birth 
 Have come to him in solitude. 
 
 In common things that round us lie 
 Some random truths he can impart, — 
 The harvest of a (juiet eye 
 That broods and sleeps on his own heart. 
 
 But he is weak ; both Man and Bo}', 
 Hath been an idler in the land ; 
 Contented if he might enjoy 
 The things which others understand. 
 
 — Come hither in thy hour of strength 
 Come, weak as is a breaking wave ! 
 Here stretch thy body at full length ; 
 Or build thy house upon this grave. 
 
 17D9. 1800. 
 
 MATTHEW 
 
 In the School of is a tablet, on which are' 
 
 inscribed in gilt letters, the Names of tlie sev- 
 eral persons who have been Schoolmasters there 
 since the foundation of the School, with the 
 time at which they entered upon and quitted 
 their office. Opposite to one of those names the 
 Author wrote the following lines. 
 
 Such a Tablet as is here spoken of continued 
 to be preserved in Hawkshead School, tliough 
 the inscriptions were not brought down to our 
 time. This and other poems connected with 
 Matthew would not gain by a literal detail of 
 facts. Like the Wanderer in " The Excursion," 
 tliis Schoolmaster was made up of .several both 
 of his class and men of other occupations. I do 
 not ask pardon for what there is of untruth in 
 such verses, considered strictly as matters of 
 fact. It is enough if, being true and consistent 
 in spirit, they move antl teach in a manner not 
 unworthy of a Poet's calling. ( Wurdsivorih.) 
 
 If Nature, for a favorite child. 
 In thee hath tempered so her clay. 
 Tliat every hour thy heart runs wild, 
 Yet never once doth go astray. 
 
 Read o'er these lines ; and then review 
 Tliis tablet, tiiat thus Inimbly rears 
 In such diversity of hue 
 Its history of two hundred years. 
 
 — When through this little wreck of 
 
 fame. 
 Cipher and syllable ! thine ej'e 
 Has travelled down to Matthew's name. 
 Patise with no common sympathy. 
 
 And, if a sleeping tear should wake. 
 Then be it neither checked nor stayed : 
 For Matthew a request I make 
 Which for himself he liath not made. 
 
 Poor Matthew, all his frolics o'er, 
 Is silent as a standing pool ; 
 Far from the chimney's merry roar. 
 And miu'mur of the village school. 
 
 The sighs which Matthew heaved wei'e 
 
 sighs 
 Of one tired out with fun and madness ; 
 
WORDSWORTH 
 
 17 
 
 The tears which came to Matthew's 
 
 eyes 
 Were tears of hght, the dew of gladness. 
 
 Yet. sometimes, when the secret cup 
 Of still and serious thought went round, 
 It seemed as if he drank it up — 
 He felt with spirit so profound. 
 
 — Thou soul of God's best earthly mould ! 
 Thou happy Soul ! and can it be 
 That these two words of glittering gold 
 Are all tliat must remain of thee ? 
 
 1799. 1800. 
 
 THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS 
 
 We walked along, wliile bright and red 
 
 Uprose the morning sun ; 
 
 And Matthew stopped, he looked, and 
 
 said , 
 " The will of God be doiie ! " 
 
 A village schoolmaster was he, 
 With hair of glittering gray ; 
 As blitlie a man as you could see 
 On a spring lioliday. 
 
 And on that morning, through the grass. 
 And \'>y the steaming rills. 
 We travelled merrily, to pass 
 A day among the lulls. 
 
 " Our work," said I, " was well begun, 
 Tlien, from thy breast wliat thought, 
 Beneath so beautiful a sun. 
 So sad a sigh has brought ? " 
 
 A second time did Matthew stop ; 
 And fixing still his eye 
 Upon the eastern mountain-top, - 
 To me he made reply : 
 
 " Yon cloud with that long purple cleft 
 Brings fresh into my mind | 
 
 A day like this which I have left 
 Full tliirty years behind. 
 
 " And just above yon slope of corn 
 Sucli colors, and no other. 
 Were in tlie sky, that April morn, 
 Of this tlie very brother. 
 
 " NVith rod and line I sued the sport 
 
 Which that sweet season gave. 
 
 And, to the church-yard come, stopped 
 
 short 
 Beside my daughter's grave. 
 
 " Nine summers had she scarcely seen, 
 
 The pride of all the vale ; 
 
 And then she sang ; — she would have 
 
 been 
 A very nightingale. 
 
 ' ' Six feet in earth my Emma lay ; 
 And yet I loved her more. 
 For so it seemed, than till that day 
 I e'er had loved before. 
 
 " And, turning from her grave, I met. 
 Beside the church-yard yew, 
 A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet 
 With points of moi'ning dew, 
 
 ' ' A basket on her head she bare ; 
 Her brow was smooth and white : 
 To see a child so very fair, 
 It was a pure delight ! 
 
 •' No fountain from its rocky cave 
 E'er tripped with foot so free ; 
 She seemed as happy as a wave 
 That dances on the sea; 
 
 " There came from me a sigh of pain 
 Which I could ill confine ; 
 I looked at lier, and looked again : 
 And did not wish her mine ! " 
 
 Matthew is in his grave, yet now, 
 Methinks, I see liim stand. 
 As at that moment, with a bough 
 Of wilding in his hand. 1799. 1800. 
 
 THE FOUNTAIN 
 
 A CONVERSATION 
 
 We talked with open heart, and tongue 
 Affectionate and true. 
 A pair of friends, tliough I was young, 
 And Matthew seventy-two, 
 
 We lay beneath a spreading oak. 
 Beside a mossy seat ; 
 And from the turf a fountain broke, 
 And gurgled at our feet. 
 
 " Now, Matthew ! " said I, " let us 
 
 match 
 This water's pleasant tune 
 With some old border-song, or catch 
 That suits a summer's noon ; 
 
 " Or of the church-clock and the chimes 
 Sing here beneath the shade. 
 
BRITISH POETS 
 
 Tliat lialf-iuad thing of witty rliyiues 
 Whicli you last April made ! " 
 
 In silence Matthew laj^ and eyed 
 The spring beneatli the tree ; 
 And thus tlie dear old Man replied, 
 The gray haired man of glee : 
 
 " No check, no stay, this Streamlet 
 
 fears ; 
 How merrily it goes ! 
 'Twill murmur on a thousand years, 
 And flow as now it flows. 
 
 " And here, on tliis delightful day, 
 I cannot elioose but think 
 How oft, a vigorous man, I lay 
 Beside this fountain's brink. 
 
 " My eyes are dim witli childish tears, 
 My heart is idly stirred, 
 For the same sound is in my ears 
 Whicli in those days I lieard, 
 
 "Tiius fares it still in our decay : 
 And yet the wiser mind 
 Mourns less for what age takes away 
 Tlian what it leaves behind. 
 
 "The blackbird amid leafy trees, 
 Tlie lark above the hill, 
 Let loose their carols when they please 
 Are quiet when they will. 
 
 " With Nature never do they wage 
 A foolish strife ; they see 
 A happy youth, and their old age 
 Is beautiful and free : 
 
 *' But we are pressed by heavy laws ; 
 And often, glad no more. 
 We wear a face of joy, because 
 We have been glad of yore. 
 
 " If there be one who need bemoan 
 His kindred laid in earth. 
 The household hearts that were his own ; 
 It is the man of mirth. 
 
 " My days, my Friend, are almost gone, 
 My life has been approved. 
 And many love me ; but by none 
 Am I enough beloved." 
 
 " Now both himself and me he wrongs, 
 The man who thus complains ; 
 I live and sing my idle songs 
 Upon these happy plains ; 
 
 " And, Matthew, for thy children dead 
 I'll be a son to thee ! " 
 At this he grasped my hand, and said, 
 " Alas ! that cannot be." 
 
 We rose up from the fountain-side ; 
 And down the smooth descent 
 Of the green sheep-track did we glide ; 
 And through the wood we went ; 
 
 And, ere we came to Leonard's rock, 
 He sang those witty rhymes 
 About the crazy old church-clock. 
 And the bewildered chimes. 
 
 1799. 1800. 
 
 \ LUCY GRAY 
 
 OR, SOLITUDE 
 
 Written at Goslar in Germany. It was founded 
 on a circumstance told me by my Sister, of a 
 little girl who, not far from Halifax in Yorkshire, 
 was bewildered in a snow-storm. Her footsteps 
 were traced by her parents to the middle of the 
 lock of a canal, and no other vestig:e of her, 
 backward or forward, could be traced. The 
 body however was found in the canal. The way 
 in which the incident was treated and the spirit- 
 ualizing of the character might furnish hints for 
 contrasting the imaginative influences which I 
 have endeavored to throw over common life 
 with Crabbe's matter of fact style of treating 
 subjects of the same kind. This is not spoken 
 to his disparagement, far from it, but to direct 
 tlie attention of thoughtful readers, into whose 
 hands these notes may fall, to a comparison that 
 may both enlarge the circle of their sensibilities, 
 and tend to produce in them a catholic judg- 
 ment. (Wordsivorth.) 
 
 See also Henry Crabb Robinson's Diary, Sept. 
 11,1816. 
 
 Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray : 
 And, when I crossed the wild, 
 I chanced to see at break of day 
 The solitary child. 
 
 No mate, no comrade Lucy knew ; 
 She dwelt on a wide moor, 
 — The sweetest thing that ever grew 
 Beside a luiman door ! 
 
 You yet may spy the fawn at play, 
 The hare upon the green ; 
 But the sweet face of Lucy Gray 
 Will never more be seen. 
 
 " To-night will be a stormy night — 
 You to the town must go ; 
 And take a lantern. Child, to light 
 Your mother through the snow." 
 
 " That, Father ! will I gladly do : 
 'Tis scarcely afternoon — 
 The minster-clock has just struck two. 
 And yonder is the moon ! " 
 
WORDSWORTH 
 
 19 
 
 At this the Father raised liis liook. 
 And snapped a fagot band ; 
 He plied his work ; — and Lucy took 
 The lantern in her hand. 
 
 Not blither is the mountain roe : 
 Witli many a wanton strok(» 
 Her feet disperse tlie |)0\vdery snow, 
 That rises up like smoke. 
 
 The storm came on before its time : 
 Slie wandered iij) and dowTi ; 
 And many a hill did Lucy climb : 
 But never readied the town. 
 
 The wretched parents all that night 
 Went shouting far and wide ; 
 But there was neither sound nor siglit 
 To serve them for a guide. 
 
 At daybreak on the hill they stood 
 That overlooked the moor ; 
 And thence tliey saw the bridge of wood, 
 A furlong from their door. 
 
 They wept — and, turning homeward, 
 
 cried, 
 " In lieaven we all shall meet ; " 
 — Wlien in the snow the mother spied 
 Tlie print of Lucy's feet. 
 
 Then downwards from the steep hill's 
 
 edge 
 Tliey tracked the footmarks small ; 
 And through the broken hawthorn 
 
 hedge. 
 And by the long stone-wall ; 
 
 And then an open field they crossed: 
 The marks were still the same ; 
 They tracked tlieni on, nor ever lost ; 
 And to the bridge they came. 
 
 Tliey followed from the snowy bank 
 Those footmarks, one by one, 
 Into the middle of the plank ; 
 And further there were none ! 
 
 — Yet some maintain that to this day 
 She is a living child ; 
 That you may see sweet Lucy Gray 
 Upon the lonesome wild. 
 
 O'er rougli and smooth she trips along, 
 And never looks behind ; 
 And sings a solitary song 
 That whistles in the wind. 
 
 1799. 1800. 
 
 \ MICHAEL 
 
 A PASTORAI. POEM 
 
 Written at Town-end, Grasnier«, about the 
 same time as " Tlie Brotliers." The Sheepfold, 
 on wliioli so much of tlie poem turns, remains, or 
 rather the ruins of it. The cliaracter and cir- 
 cumstances of Lulve were taken from a family 
 to whom had belongjed, many years before, the 
 house we lived in at Town-end, along with some 
 fields and woodlands on the eastern shore of 
 Grasmere. The name of the Evening Star was not 
 in fact given to this house, but to another on 
 the same side of the valley, more to the north. 
 ( Wordsworth.) 
 
 If from the public way you turn your 
 steps 
 
 Up the tumultuous brook of Greenhead 
 Ghyll, 
 
 You will suppose that with an upright 
 path 
 
 Your feet must struggle ; in such bold 
 ascent 
 
 The pastoral mountains front you, face 
 to face. 
 
 But, coui-age ! for around that boister- 
 ous brook 
 
 The mountains have all opened out them- 
 selves, 
 
 And made a hidden valley of their own. 
 
 No habitation can be seen ; but they 
 
 Wlio journey thither find themselves 
 alone 
 
 With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, 
 and kites 
 
 That overhead are sailing in the sky. 
 
 It is in truth an utter solitude ; 
 
 Nor should I have made mention of this 
 Dell 
 
 But for one object which you might pass 
 
 Might see and notice not. Beside the 
 
 brook 
 Appears a straggling heap of unhewn 
 
 stones ! 
 And to that simple object appertains 
 A story — unenriched with strange 
 
 events, 
 Yet not unfit, I deem, for the fireside, 
 Or for the summer shade. It was the first 
 Of those domestic tales tliat spake to me 
 Of shepherds, dwellers in the valleys, 
 
 men 
 Whom I already loved ; not verily 
 For their own sakes, but for the fields 
 
 and hills 
 Where was their occupation and abode. 
 And hence this Tale, while I was yet a 
 
 Boy 
 Careless of books, yet having felt the 
 
 power 
 
20 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Of Nature, by the gentle agency 
 Of natural objects, led me on to feel 
 For passions that were not my own, and 
 
 think 
 (At random and imperfectly indeed) 
 On man, the heart of man, and human 
 
 life. 
 Therefore, altliough it be a history 
 Homely and rude, I will relate tlie same 
 For the delight of a few natural hearts ; 
 And, with yet fonder feeling, for the 
 
 sake 
 
 Of youthful Poets, who among these hills 
 
 Will be my second self when I am gone. 
 
 Upon the forest-side in Grasmere Vale 
 
 There dwelt a Shepherd, Michael was his 
 
 name ; 
 An old man, stout of heart, and strong 
 
 of limb. 
 His bodily frame had been from youth 
 
 to age 
 Of an unusual strength : his mind was 
 
 keen. 
 Intense, and frugal, apt for all affairs, 
 And in his shepherd's calling he was 
 
 prompt 
 And watchful more than ordinary men. 
 Hence had he learned the meaning of all 
 
 winds, 
 Of blasts of every tone ; and, oftentimes. 
 When others heeded not. He heard tlie 
 
 South 
 Make subterraneous music, like the noise 
 Of bagpipers on distant Hi^diland hills. 
 The Shepherd, at such warning, of his 
 
 flock 
 Bethought him, and he to himself would 
 
 •say, 
 " The winds are now devising work for 
 
 me! " 
 And, truly, at all times, the storm that 
 
 drives 
 The traveller to slielter, summoned him 
 Up to the mountains : lie liail l)een alone 
 Amid the heart of many tliousand mists. 
 That came to him, and left Imn, on the 
 
 heights. 
 So lived he till his eightieth year was 
 
 past. 
 And grossly that man errs, who should 
 
 suppose 
 That the green valleys, and the streams 
 
 and rocks, 
 AVere things indifferent to the Shep- 
 herd's thoughts. 
 Fields, where with cheerful spirits he had 
 
 breathed 
 The common air ; hills, which with vig- 
 orous step 
 
 He had so often cliiubed ; wliich Jiad 
 
 impressed 
 So many incidents upon his mind 
 Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or 
 
 fear ; 
 Which, like a book, preserved the mem- 
 ory 
 Of the dumb animals, whom he had 
 
 saved. 
 Had fed or sheltered, linking to such 
 
 acts 
 The certaint}^ of honorable gain ; 
 Those fields, tho.se hills — what could they 
 
 less ? had laid 
 Strong hold on his affections, were to 
 
 him 
 A pleasurable feeling of blind love. 
 The pleasure which there is in life itself. 
 His days had not been passed in sin- 
 gleness. 
 His Helpmate was a comely matron, 
 
 old— 
 Though younger than himself full twenty 
 
 years. 
 Slie was a woman of a stirring life, 
 AYho.se heart was in her house: two 
 
 wheels she had 
 Of antique form : tliis large, for spinning 
 
 wool ; 
 That small, for flax ; and if one wheel 
 
 had rest 
 It was because the other was at work. 
 The Pair had but one inmate in their 
 
 house. 
 An only Child, who had been born to 
 
 tliem 
 Wlien Michael, telling o'er his years, 
 
 began 
 To deem that he was old. — in shep- 
 herd's phrase, 
 With one foot in the grave. This only 
 
 Son, 
 With two brave sheep-dogs tried in many 
 
 a storm, 
 The one of an inestimable worth, 
 Made all their household. I may trulj' 
 
 say, 
 That they were as a proverb in the vale 
 For endless industry. When day was 
 
 gone. 
 And from their occupations out of doors 
 The Son and Father were come liome, 
 
 even then, 
 Their labor did not cease ; unless when 
 
 all 
 Turned to the cleanly supper-board, and 
 
 there. 
 Each with a mess of potfsige and 
 
 skimmed milk. 
 
WORDSWORTH 
 
 21 
 
 Sat round the basket piled with oaten 
 cakes, 
 
 And their plain home-made cheese. Yet 
 when the meal 
 
 Was ended, Luke (for so the Son was 
 named) 
 
 And his old Father both betook them- 
 selves 
 
 To such convenient work as might em- 
 ploy 
 
 Their hands by the fireside ; perhaps to 
 card 
 
 Wool for the Housewife's spindle, or 
 repair 
 
 Some injury done to sickle, flail, or 
 scythe, 
 
 Or otlier implement of house or field. 
 Down from the ceiling, by the chim- 
 ney's edge, 
 
 That in our ancient uncouth country 
 style 
 
 With huge and black projection over- 
 browed 
 
 Large space beneatli, a? duly as tlie light 
 
 Of day grew dim the Housewife hung a 
 lamp ; 
 
 An aged utensil, wliich had performed 
 
 Service beyond all others of its kind. 
 
 Early at evening did it burn — and late. 
 
 Surviving comrade of uncounted hours. 
 
 Which, going by from year to year, had 
 found, 
 
 And left, the couple neither gay perhaps 
 
 Nor cheerful, yet with objects and with 
 hopes. 
 
 Living a life of eager industry. 
 
 And now, when Luke had readied his 
 eighteentli year. 
 
 There by the light of this old lamp thej" 
 sate, 
 
 Father and Son, while far into the night 
 
 The Housewife jjlied her own peculiar 
 work, 
 
 Making the cottage througli the silent 
 hours 
 
 Murmur as with the sound of summer 
 flies. 
 
 This light was famous in its neighbor- 
 hood, 
 
 And was a public symbol of the life 
 
 Tliat thrifty Pair had lived. For, as it 
 chanced. 
 
 Their cottage on a plot of rising ground 
 
 Stood single, with large prospect, north 
 and soutli. 
 
 High into Easedale, up to Dunmail- 
 Raise, 
 
 And westward to the village near the 
 lake ; 
 
 And from this constant light, so regular 
 And so far seen, the House itself, by all 
 Who dwelt witliin the limits of the vale. 
 Both old and young, was named The 
 
 Evening Star. 
 Thus living on through such a length 
 
 of years. 
 The Sliepherd, if he loved himself, must 
 
 needs 
 Have loved his Helpmate ; but to Mi- 
 
 chael's heart 
 This son of his old age was yet more 
 
 dear — 
 Less from instinctive tenderness, the 
 
 same 
 Fond spirit that blindly works in tlie 
 
 blood of all — 
 Tlian that a child, more than all other 
 
 gifts 
 That earth can offer to declining man. 
 Brings hope witli it, and forward-look- 
 ing thouglits. 
 And stirrings of inquietude, when they 
 By tendency of nature needs must fail. 
 Exceeding was tlie love he bare to him. 
 His heart and his heart's joy ! For 
 
 oftentimes 
 Old Michael, while he was a babe in 
 
 arms. 
 Had done Inm female service, not alone 
 For pastime and delight, as is the use 
 Of fathers, but with patient mind en- 
 forced 
 To acts of tenderness ; and he had 
 
 rocked 
 His cradle, as with a woman's gentle 
 
 hand. 
 And, in a later time, ere yet the Boy 
 Had put on boy's attire, did Michael 
 
 love, 
 Albeit of a stern unbending mind. 
 To have the Young-one in his sight, 
 
 when he 
 Wrought in the field, or on his shep- 
 herd's stool 
 Sate with a fettered sheep before him 
 
 stretclied 
 Under the large old oak, that near his 
 
 door 
 Stood single, and, from matchless depth 
 
 of shade, 
 Chosen for the Shearer's covert from the 
 
 sun. 
 Thence in our rustic dialect was called 
 The Clipping Tkee,i a name which yet 
 
 it bears. 
 
 ' Clipping is the word used in the North of 
 Euglaud for shearing. (VVoi-dsworth.) 
 
BRITISH POETS 
 
 There, while they two were sitting in 
 
 the sliade, 
 With others round them, earnest all and 
 
 blithe. 
 Would Michael exercise his heart witli 
 
 looks 
 Of fond correction and reproof bestowed 
 Upon tlie Child, if he disturbed the 
 
 sheep 
 By catching at their legs, or Avith his 
 
 shouts 
 Scared them, while tliey lay still be- 
 neath tlie shears. 
 And when by Heaven's good grace the 
 
 boy grew up 
 A healthy Lad, and carried in his cheek 
 Two steady roses that were five years 
 
 old ; 
 Tlien Michael from a winter coppice cut 
 With his own hand a sapling, which he 
 
 hooi)ed 
 With iron, making it throughovit in all 
 Due requisites a perfect shepherd's staff , 
 And gave it to the Boy ; wherewith 
 
 equipt 
 He as a watchman oftentimes was 
 
 placed 
 At gate or gap, to stem or turn the 
 
 flock; 
 And. to his office prematurely called, 
 There stood the urchin, as you will di- 
 vine. 
 Something between a hindrance and a 
 
 help ; 
 And for this cause not alwaj^s, I believe. 
 Receiving from his Fatlier hire of praise ; 
 Though nought was left undone which 
 
 staff, or voice. 
 Or looks, or threatening gestures, could 
 
 perform. 
 But soon as Luke, full ten years old, 
 
 could stand 
 Against the mountain blasts ; and to the 
 
 heights. 
 Not fearing toil, nor length of weary 
 
 ways, 
 He with his Father daily went, and they 
 Were as companions, why should I relate 
 That objects which the Shepherd loved 
 
 before 
 Were dearer now ? that from the Boy 
 
 there came 
 Feelings and emanations — things which 
 
 were 
 Light to the sun and music to the wind ; 
 And that the old Man's heart seemed born 
 
 again ? 
 Thus in liis Father's sight the Boy grew 
 
 up: 
 
 And now, wlien he had reached his eigh- 
 teenth year. 
 
 He was his comfort and his daily hope. 
 While in this sort the simple house- 
 hold lived 
 
 From day to day, to Michael's ear there 
 came 
 
 Distressful tidings. Long before the 
 time 
 
 Of which I speak, the Shepherd had been 
 bound 
 
 In surety for his brotlier's son, a man 
 
 Of an industrious life, and anii^le means ; 
 
 But unforeseen misfortunes suddenly 
 
 Had prest upon him ; and old Michael 
 now 
 
 Was summoned to discharge the forfeit- 
 uie, 
 
 A grievous penalty, but little less 
 
 Than Iialf his substance. This unlooked- 
 for claim, 
 
 At the first hearing, for a moment took 
 
 More hope out of his life tlian he sup- 
 posed 
 
 That any old man ever covild have 
 lost. 
 
 As soon as he liad armed himself with 
 strength 
 
 To look his trouble in the face, it seemed 
 
 The Sheplierd's sole resource to sell at 
 once 
 
 A portion of his ])atrimonial fields. 
 
 Such was his first resolve ; he thought 
 again. 
 
 And liis heart failed him. " Isabel," said 
 he. 
 
 Two evenings after he had heard the 
 news, 
 
 " I have been toiling more than seventy 
 years. 
 
 And in the open sunshine of God's love 
 
 Have we all lived ; yet if these fields of 
 ours 
 
 Should pass into a stranger's hand, I 
 tliink 
 
 That I could not lie quiet in my grave. 
 
 Our lot is a hard lot ; the sun himself 
 
 Has scarcely been more diligent than I ; 
 
 And I liave lived to be a fool at last 
 
 To my own family. An evil man 
 
 Tliat was, and made an evil choice, if he 
 
 Were false to us ; and if he were not 
 f;ilse. 
 
 There are ten thousand to whom loss like 
 this 
 
 Had been no sorrow. I forgive liim ; — 
 but 
 
 "Twere better to be dumb than to talk 
 thus. 
 
WORDSWORTH 
 
 23 
 
 " When I began, my purpose was to 
 
 speak 
 Of remedies and of a cheerful hope. 
 Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel ; the land 
 Shall not go from us, aTid it shall be free ; 
 He shall possess it, free as is the wind 
 That passes over it. We have, thou 
 
 know'st. 
 Another kinsman — lie will be our friend 
 In this distress. He is a prosperous man. 
 Thriving in trade — and Luke to him 
 
 shall go. 
 And with his kinsman's helj) and his own 
 
 thrift 
 He quickly will repair this loss, and then 
 He may return to us. If here he stay, 
 What can be done 'i Where every one is 
 
 poor. 
 What can be gained ? " 
 
 At this the old Man paused. 
 And Isabel sat silent, for her mind 
 Was busy, looking back into past times. 
 There's Richard Bateman, thought she to 
 
 herself. 
 He was a parish-boy — at the church-door 
 They made a gathering for him, shil- 
 lings, pence 
 And halfpennies, wherewith the neigh- 
 bors bought 
 A basket, which they filled with pedlar's 
 
 wares ; 
 And. with this basket on his arm, tlie lad 
 Went up to London, found a master 
 
 til ere, 
 Who. out of many, chose the trusty boy 
 To go and overlook his merciiandise 
 Beyond the seas ; where he grew won- 
 drous rich, 
 And left estates and monies to the poor 
 And, at his birthplace, built a chapel, 
 
 floored 
 With marble which he sent from foreign 
 
 lands. 
 Thes'e thoughts, and many others of like 
 
 sort. 
 Passed quickly through the mind of 
 
 Isabel, 
 And her face brightened. Tiie old Man 
 
 was glad. 
 And thus resumed: — "Well, Isabel! 
 
 this scheme 
 These two days, has been meat and 
 
 drink to me. 
 Far more than we have lost is left vis yet. 
 — We have enough — I wish indeed that I 
 Were j^ounger : — but tliis hope is a good 
 
 hope. 
 — IMake ready Luke's best garments, of 
 
 the best 
 
 Buy for him more, and let us send him 
 
 forth 
 To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night : 
 — If he could go, the boy should go to- 
 night." 
 Here Miciiael ceased, and to the fields 
 
 went forth 
 With a light heart. The Housewife for 
 
 five days 
 Was restless morn and night, and all day 
 
 long 
 Wrought on with her best fingers to pre- 
 pare 
 Things needful for the journey of her 
 
 son. 
 But Isabel was glad when Sunday came 
 To stop her in her work : for, when she lay 
 By Michael's side, she through the last 
 
 two nights 
 Heard him, how he was troubled in his 
 
 sleep : 
 And when they rose at morning she 
 
 could see 
 That all his hopes were gone. That day 
 
 at noon 
 She said to Lvike, while tiiey two by 
 
 themselves 
 Were sitting at the door, "Thou must 
 
 not go : 
 We have no other child but thee to lose, 
 None to remember — do not go away. 
 For if thou leave thy Father he will die." 
 The Youth made answer with a jocund 
 
 voice ; 
 And Isabel, when she had told her fears. 
 Recovered heart. That evening her 
 
 best fare 
 Did she bring forth, and all together .sat 
 Like happy people round a Christmas 
 
 fire. 
 With daylight Isabel resumed her 
 
 work ; 
 And all the ensuing week the house 
 
 appeared 
 As cheerful as a grove in Spring : at 
 
 length 
 The expected letter from their kinsman 
 
 came. 
 With kind assurances that he would do 
 His vitmost for the welfare of the Boy ; 
 To wliich, requests were added, that 
 
 fortliwith 
 He miglit be sent to liim. Ten times or 
 
 more 
 The letter was read over ; Isabel 
 Went forth to show it to the neighbors 
 
 round ; 
 Nor was there at that time on English 
 
 land 
 
24 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 A prouder heart than Luke's. When 
 
 Isabel 
 Had to her house returned, the old Man 
 
 said, 
 '• He shall depart to-morrow.'' To this 
 
 word 
 The Housewife answered, talking much 
 
 of things 
 Which, if at such short notice he should 
 
 go, 
 
 Would surely be forgotten. But at 
 length 
 
 She gave consent, and Michael was at 
 ease. 
 Near the tumultuous brook of Green- 
 head Ghyll, 
 
 In that deep valley, Michael had de- 
 signed 
 
 To build a Sheepfold ; and, before he 
 heard 
 
 The tidings of his melancholy loss, 
 
 For this same purpose he had gathered 
 up 
 
 A heap of stones, which by the stream- 
 let's edge 
 
 Lay thrown together, ready for the work. 
 
 With Luke that evening thitherward he 
 walked : 
 
 And soon as they had readied the place 
 he stopped. 
 
 And thus the old Man spake to him : — 
 "My Son, 
 
 To-morrow thou wilt leave me : with 
 full heart 
 
 I look upon thee, for thou art the same 
 
 That wert a promise to me ere thy birth. 
 
 And all tliy life liast been my dail}' joy. 
 
 I will relate to thee some little part 
 
 Of our two histories ; 'twill do thee good 
 
 When thou art from me, even if I should 
 touch 
 
 On things thou canst not know of. 
 
 After thou 
 
 First cam'st into the world — as oft befalls 
 
 To new-born infants — thou didst sleep 
 away 
 
 Two days, and blessings from thy 
 Father's tongue 
 
 Then fell upon thee. Day by day passed 
 on. 
 
 And still I loved thee with increasing 
 love. 
 
 Never to living ear came sweeter sounds 
 
 Than when I heard thee by our own fire- 
 side 
 
 First uttering, without words, a natural 
 tune ; 
 
 While thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy 
 
 joy 
 
 Sing at tliy Mother's breast. Month fol- 
 lowed montli. 
 And in the open fields my life was passed 
 And on the mountains ; else I think that 
 
 thou 
 Hadst been brought up upon thy Father's 
 
 knees. 
 But we were playmates, Luke : among 
 
 these liills. 
 As well thou knowest, in us the old and 
 
 young 
 Have played together, nor with me didst 
 
 thou 
 Lack any pleasui'e which a boj' can 
 
 know." 
 Luke had a manly heart ; but at these 
 
 words 
 He sobbed aloud. The old Man grasped 
 
 his hand. 
 And said, " Naj', do not take it so — I see 
 That these are things of which I need 
 
 not speak. 
 — Even to the utmost I have been to thee 
 A kind and a good Father : and herein 
 I l)ut repa}^ a gift whicli I myself 
 Received at others' hands ; for, though 
 
 now old 
 Beyond the common life of man, I still 
 Remember tlieni who loved me in my 
 
 j'outh. 
 Both of tliem sleep together : here they 
 
 lived. 
 As all their Forefathers had done ; and 
 
 when 
 At length their time was come, they 
 
 were not loth 
 To give tlieir bodies to the family mould. 
 I wished that thou should'st live the life 
 
 they lived : 
 But, 'tis a long time to look back, my 
 
 Son, 
 And see so little gain from threescore 
 
 years. 
 These fields were burthened when they 
 
 (uime to me : 
 Till I was forty years of age, not more 
 Than half of my inheritance was mine. 
 I toiled and toiled ; God blessed me in 
 
 my work. 
 And till these three weeks past the land 
 
 was free. 
 — It looks as if it never could endure 
 Another Master. Heaven forgive me, 
 
 Luke. 
 If I judge ill for tliee. but it seems good 
 That thou should'st go." 
 
 At this the old Man paused : 
 Then, pointing to the stones near whicli 
 
 they stood, 
 
WORDSWORTH 
 
 25 
 
 Thus, after a sliort silence, he resumed : 
 " This was a work for us ; and now, my 
 
 Son, 
 It is a work for nie. But, lay one stone — 
 Here, lay it for me, Luke, with thine 
 
 own liands. 
 Nay, Boy, be of good hope ; — we botli 
 
 may live 
 To see a better day. At eighty-four 
 I still am strong and hale ; — do thou thy 
 
 part ; 
 I will do mine. — I will begin again 
 With many tasks tliat were resigned to 
 
 thee : 
 Up to the heights, and in among the 
 
 storms. 
 Will I without thee go again, and do 
 All works which I was wont to do alone. 
 Before I knew thy face. — ^Heaven bless 
 
 thee. Boy ! 
 Tliy heart these two weeks has been 
 
 beating fast 
 With many hopes ; it should be so — }'es — 
 
 yes— 
 I knew that thou could'st never have a 
 
 wish 
 To leave me, Luke : thou hast been 
 
 bound to me 
 Only b}^ links of love : when thou art 
 
 gone. 
 What svill be left to us !— But, I forget 
 My purposes. Lay now the corner-stone. 
 As I re([uested ; and hereafter, Lvike, 
 When thou art gone away, should evil 
 
 men 
 Be thy companions, think of me. my Son, 
 And of this moment : hither turn thy" 
 
 thoughts. 
 And God will strengthen tliee : amid all 
 
 fear 
 And all temptation, Luke, I pray that 
 
 thou 
 May'st bear in mind the life thy Fathers 
 
 lived. 
 Who, being innocent, did for that cau.se 
 Bestir them in good deeds. Now, fare 
 
 thee well — 
 When thou return'st, thou in this place 
 
 wilt see 
 A work which is not here : a covenant 
 'Twill be between us ; but. whatever fate 
 Befall thee, I shall love tliee to the last. 
 And bear thy memory witii me to the 
 
 grave."' 
 The Shepherd ended here ; and Luke 
 
 stooped down. 
 And, as his Fathei- had requested, laid 
 The first stone of the Siieepfold. At the 
 
 sight 
 
 The old Man's grief broke from him ; to 
 
 his heart 
 He pressed his Son, he kissed him and 
 
 wept ; 
 And to the house together they returned. 
 — Huslied was that House in peace, or 
 
 seeming peace, 
 Ere the night fell : — with morrow's dawn 
 
 the Bo}" 
 Began his journey, and when he had 
 
 reached 
 The public wny, he put on a bold face ; 
 And all the neighbors, as he passed tlieir 
 
 doors. 
 Game forth with wishes and with fare- 
 well praters, 
 That followed him till he was out of 
 
 sight. 
 A good report did from their Kinsman 
 
 come. 
 Of Luke and his well-doing : and the Boy 
 Wrote loving letters, full of wondrous 
 
 news. 
 Which, as the Housewife phrased it, 
 
 were throughout 
 '• The prettiest letters that were ever 
 
 seen." 
 Both parents read them with rejoicing 
 
 hearts. 
 So, many months passed on : and once 
 
 again 
 The Shepherd went about his daily work 
 With confident and cheerful thoughts ; 
 
 and now 
 Sometimes when he could find a leisure 
 
 hour 
 He to that valley took his way, and there 
 Wrought at the Sheepfold. Meantime 
 
 Luke began 
 To slacken in his duty ; and, at length, 
 He in the di.ssolute citj^ gave himself 
 To evil courses : ignominy and shame 
 Fell on him. so that he was driven at last 
 To seek a hiding-]ilace beyond the seas. 
 There is a comfort in the sti'ength of 
 
 love ; 
 'Twill make a thing endurable, which 
 
 else 
 Would overset the brain, or break tlie 
 
 heart : 
 I have conversed with more than one 
 
 who well 
 Remember the old Man, and what he was 
 Years after he had heard this heavy 
 
 news. 
 His bodily frame had been from youth 
 
 to ;ige 
 Of an unusual strength. Among the 
 
 rocks 
 
26 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 He went, and still looked up to sun and 
 
 cloud, 
 And listened to the wind ; and, as before, 
 Performed all kinds of labor for his 
 
 sheep, 
 And for tlie land, his small inheritance. 
 And to that hollow dell from time to time 
 Did lie repair, to build the Fold of which 
 His flock had need. 'Tis not forgotten vet 
 The pity which was then in ever}' heart 
 For the old Man — and 'tis believed by all 
 TJiat man}' and many a day he thither 
 
 went. 
 And never lifted up a single stone. 
 There, by the Sheepfold, sometimes 
 
 was be seen 
 Sitting alone, or with his faithful Dog, 
 Then old, beside him. lying at iiis feet. 
 The length of full seven years, from 
 
 time to time. 
 He at the building of this Sheepfold 
 
 wrought, 
 And left the work unfinished when he 
 
 died. 
 Three years, or little more, did Isabel 
 Survive her Husband : at her deatii the 
 
 estate 
 Was sold, and went into a stranger's 
 
 liand. 
 The Cottage which was named the Even- 
 ing Star 
 Is gone— the ploughshare has been 
 
 through tlie ground 
 On which it stood ; great changes have 
 
 been wrought 
 In all the neighborhood : — yet tiie oak is 
 
 left 
 That gi'ew beside their door ; and the 
 
 remains 
 Of the unfinished Sheepfold may be seen 
 Beside the boisterous brook of Green- 
 head Ghyll. ISOn. 18U0. 
 
 THE SPARROWS' NEST 
 
 "Written in the Oreliard, Town-end, Grasmere. 
 At tlie end of the garden of my father's house 
 at Cockernioutli was a high terrace tliat com- 
 manded a fine view of the river Derwent and 
 Cocl^ermouth Castle. This was our favorite 
 play-ground. The terrace-wall, a low one, was 
 covered with closely-elipt privet and roses, 
 which gave an almost impervious shelter to 
 birds that built their nests there. The latter of 
 these stanzas alludes to one of those nests. 
 ( Wordsworth.) 
 
 Behold, witliin the leafy shade, 
 Tliose bright blue eggs together laid ! 
 On me the cliance-discovered sight 
 Gleamed like a vision of delight. 
 I started — seeming to espy 
 The home and sheltered bed, 
 
 The Sparrow's dwelling, which, hard by 
 My Father's house, in wet or dry 
 M}' sister Emmeline ^ and I 
 
 Together visited. 
 She looked at it and seemed to fear it ; 
 Dreading, tho' wishing, to be near it : 
 Such heart was in her, being then 
 A little Prattler among men. 
 The Blessing of my later years 
 Was with me when a boy : 
 She gave me eyes, she gave me ears ; 
 And humble cares, and delicate fears ; 
 A heart, the fountain of sweet tears ; 
 
 And love, and thought, and \o\ . 
 
 1501. 1807. 
 
 ; MY HEART LEAPS UP WHEN I 
 ^ BEHOLD 
 
 My heart leaps up when I behold 
 
 A rainbow in the sky : 
 So was it when my life began ; 
 So is it now I am a ma)i ; 
 So be it when I shall grow old, 
 
 Or let me die ! 
 The Child is father of the Man ; 
 And I could wish my days to be 
 Bound each to each by natural piety. 
 
 1502. 1807. 
 
 WRITTEN IN MARCH 
 
 WHILE RESTING ON THE BRIDGE AT THE 
 FOOT OF BROTHER'S WATER 
 
 Extempore. This little poem was a favorite 
 with Joanna Baillie. ( Wordsworth ) 
 
 Compare the description of the same scene by 
 Wordsworth's sister : " There was the gentle 
 flowing of the stream, the glittering, lively lake, 
 green fields without a living creature to be seen 
 on them ; behind us, a flat pasture with forty ■ 
 two cattle feeding ; to our left, the road leading 
 to the hamlet. No smoke there, the sun shone 
 on the bare roofs. The people were at work 
 ploughing, harrowing, and sowing : . . . a dog 
 barking now and then, cocks crowing, birds 
 twittering, the snow in patches at the top of the 
 highest hills, yellow palms, purple and green 
 twigs on the birches, ashes with their glittering 
 spikes, stems quite bare. The hawthorn a 
 bright green, with black stems under the oak. 
 The moss of the oak glossy. AVe went on . . . 
 William finished his poem before we got to the 
 foot of Kirkstone." (Dorothy Wordsworth^s Jotir- 
 nal, April 16, 1803.) 
 
 The Cock is crowing, 
 The stream is flowing. 
 The small birds twitter. 
 The lake doth glitter, 
 
 ' Dorothy AVordsworth, called Emmeline alsa 
 in the poem To a Butterfly. See the beautiful 
 lines To my Sister, p. 8, the last lines of the 
 Sonnet p. 31^ and notes on the Sonnets of 1803. 
 
WORDSWORTH 
 
 27 
 
 The green field sleeps in tiie sun ; 
 
 The oldest and youngest 
 
 Are at work with the strongest ; 
 
 The cattle are grazing, 
 
 Their heads never raising ; 
 There are forty feeding like one ! 
 
 Like an army defeated 
 
 The snow hath retreated, 
 
 And now doth fare ill 
 
 On the top of the bare hill : 
 Tlie ploughboy is whooping— anon — 
 anon : 
 
 There's joy in the mountains ; 
 
 There's life in tlie fountains ; 
 
 Small clouds are sailing, 
 
 Blue sky prevailing : 
 The rain is over and gone ! 
 
 1S03. 1807. 
 
 TO THE SMALL CELANDINE 
 
 Written at Town-end, Grasmere. It is re- 
 markaijle that this flower, coming out so early 
 in the spring as it does, and so bright and beauti- 
 ful, and in such profusion, should not have been 
 noticed earlier in English verse. What adds 
 much to the interest that attends it is its habit 
 of shutting itself up and opening out according 
 to the degree of light and temperature of the 
 air. {Wordsworth.) 
 
 Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies, 
 Let them live upon their praises ; 
 Long as there's a sun that sets, - 
 Primroses will have tlieir glory ; 
 Long as there are violets, 
 They will iiave a place in storj^ : 
 There's a flower thnt sliall be mine, 
 'Tis the little Celandine. 
 
 Eyes of some men travel far 
 For the finding of a star ; 
 Up and down the heavens thej' go, 
 Men that keep a mighty rout ! 
 I'm as great as they. I trow. 
 Since tlie day I found thee out. 
 Little Flower ! — I'll make a stir, 
 Like a sage astronomer. 
 
 Modest, yet withal an Elf 
 Bold, and lavish of thyself ; 
 Since we needs must first have met 
 I have seen thee, high and low, 
 Tliii-t}' years or more, and yet 
 'Twas a face I did not know ; 
 Thou hast now, go where I may, 
 Fifty greetings in a day. 
 
 Ere a leaf is on a bush. 
 
 In the time before the tiirush 
 
 Has a thought about her nest. 
 Thou wilt come with half a call, 
 Spreading out thy glossy breast 
 Like a careless Prodigal ; 
 Telling tales about the sun, 
 When we've little warmth, or none. 
 
 PoetSi vain men in their mood ! 
 Travel with the multitude : 
 Never heed them ; I aver 
 That tiie}' all are wanton wooer.s ; 
 But the thrifty cottager. 
 Who stirs little out of doors, 
 Joys to spy thee near her home ; 
 Spring is coming. Thou art come ! 
 
 Comfort have thou of thy merit. 
 Kindly, unassuming Spirit ! 
 Careless of thy neighborhood. 
 Thou dost show thy pleasant face 
 On the moor, and in the wood. 
 In the lane ; there's not a place. 
 Howsoever mean it be. 
 But 'tis good enough for thee. 
 
 Ill befall the yellow flowers. 
 Children of the flarnig hours ! 
 Buttercups, that will be seen, 
 Whether we will see or no ; 
 Others, too, of loftj' mien ; 
 They have done as worldlings do. 
 Taken praise that should be thine. 
 Little, humble Celandine I 
 
 Prophet of delight and mirth. 
 Ill-requited upon earth ; 
 Herald of a mighty band. 
 Of a joyous train ensuing. 
 Serving at my heart's command, 
 Tasks that are no tasks renewing, 
 I will sing, as doth behove. 
 Hymns in praise of what I love ! 
 
 1S03. 1807. 
 
 TO THE SAME FLOW^ER 
 
 Pleasures newly found are sweet 
 
 When they lie about our feet : 
 
 February last, my heart 
 
 First at sight of thee was glad ; 
 
 All unheard of as thou art. 
 
 Thou must needs, I think, have had. 
 
 Celandine ! and long ago. 
 
 Praise of which I nothing know. 
 
 I have not a doubt but he, 
 Whosoe'ei" the man might be. 
 Who the first with pointed rays 
 (Workman worthy to be sainted) 
 
28 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Set the sign-boai"d in a blaze. 
 When tlie rising sun he painted, 
 Took tlie fancy from a glance 
 At thy glittering countenance. 
 
 Soon as gentle breezes bring 
 News of winter's vanishing, 
 And the cliildren build tlieir bcjwers, 
 Sticking 'kerchief-plots of mould 
 All about with full-blown flowers. 
 Thick as sheep in shepherd's fold ! 
 With the proudest thou art there, 
 Mantling in the tiny square. 
 
 Often have I sighed to measure 
 By myself a lonely pleasure. 
 Sighed to think I read a book 
 Only reail, perliaps, by me ; 
 Yet I long could overlook 
 Thy bright coronet and Thee, 
 And thy arch and wily ways, 
 And thy store of other praise. 
 
 Blithe of heart, from week to week 
 Thou dost play at hide-and-seek ; 
 While the patient primrose sits 
 Like a beggar in the cold, 
 Thou, a flower of wiser wits. 
 Slipp'st into thy sheltering hold ; 
 Liveliest of the vernal train 
 When ye all are out again. 
 
 Drawn by what peculiar spell. 
 By what charm of sight or smell. 
 Does the dim-eyed curious Bee, 
 Laboring for her waxen cells. 
 Fondly settle upon Thee 
 Prized above all buds and bells 
 Opening daily at thy side. 
 By the season multiplied ? 
 
 Thou ai'e not beyond the moon. 
 But a thing " l)eneath our shoon : " 
 Let the bold Discoverer tlirid 
 In his bark the polar sea ; 
 Rear who will a pyramid ; 
 Praise it is enough for me. 
 If there be Isut tiu-ee or four 
 Who will love my little Flower. 
 
 1S0:2. 1807. 
 
 RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE 
 
 This poem was originally known as The Leech 
 (?rti/ie)-pr, and is still often called by that title. 
 Compare the account of its origin, in Dorothy 
 Wordsworth's Jounuil : 
 
 ■' When William and I returned, we met an old 
 man almost double. He had on a coat, thrown 
 over his shoulders, above his waistcoat and coat. 
 
 Under this he carried a bundle, and had an apron 
 on and a night-cap. His face was interesting. 
 He had dark eyes and a long nose. John, who 
 afterwards met him at Wytheburn, took him for 
 a Jew. H« was of Scotch parents, but had been 
 born in the army. He had iiad a wife, and ' she 
 was a good woman, and it pleased God to bless us 
 with ten children.' All these were dead but one, 
 of whom he had not heard for many years, a 
 sailor. His trade was to gather leeches, but now 
 leeches were scarce, and he had not strength for 
 it. He lived by begging, and was making his way 
 to Carlisle, where he should buy a few godly 
 books to sell. He said leeches were very scarce, 
 partly owing to this dry season, but many years 
 they have been scarce. He supposed it owing to 
 their being much sought after, that they did not 
 breed fast, and were of slow growth. Leeches 
 were formerly 2s. 6d. per 100; they are now 30s. 
 He had been hurt in driving a cart, his leg broken, 
 his body driven over, his skull fractured. He 
 felt no pain till he recovered from his first insen- 
 sibility. ... It was then late in the evening, 
 when the light was just going away." (Dorothy 
 Wordsworth's Journal, Octobers, 1800.) 
 
 There was a roaring in the wind all 
 
 night : 
 The rain came heavilj- and fell in floods ; 
 But now the sun is rising calm and 
 
 bright : 
 The birds are singing in the distant 
 
 woods ; 
 Over his own sweet voice the Stock-dove 
 
 broods ; 
 The Jay malces answer as the Magpie 
 
 chatters ; 
 And all the air is filled with pleasant 
 
 noise of waters. 
 
 All things that love the sun are out of 
 
 doors ; 
 The sky rejoices in the morning's birth ; 
 The grass is bright with rain-drops ; — on 
 
 the moors 
 The hare is running races in her mirth ; 
 And witli her feet she from the plashy 
 
 earth 
 Rai.ses a mist, that, glittering in the sun. 
 Runs with lier all the way, wherever she 
 
 doth run. 
 
 I was a Traveller then upon the moor, 
 
 I saw the hare that raced about with 
 joy : 
 
 I heard the woods and distant w aters 
 roar ; 
 
 Or heard them not, as happy as a boy : 
 
 The V'lt'itsant season did my heart em- 
 ploy : 
 
 My old remembrances went from me 
 wholly ; 
 
 And all the ways of men, so vain and 
 melancholy. 
 
WORDSWORTH 
 
 ^9 
 
 But, as it sometimes chanceth, from tlie 
 
 iniglit 
 Of joy in minds that can no fui'ther go. 
 As liigh as we liave mounted in deligiit 
 In our dejection do we sink as low ; 
 To me that morning did it liappen so ; 
 And fears and fancies tiiick upon me 
 
 came ; 
 Dim sadness — and blind thoughts, I 
 
 knew not, nor could name. 
 
 I lieard the skylark warbling in the sky ; 
 And I bethought me of the playful hare : 
 Even such a liappy Cliild of earth am I ; 
 Even as these blissful creatures do I fare ; 
 Far from the world I walk, and from all 
 
 c;ire ; 
 But there may come another day to me — 
 Solitude, pain of heart, distress, and 
 
 poverty. 
 
 My whole life I have lived in pleasant 
 tliought. 
 
 As if life's business were a summer 
 mood ; 
 
 As if all needful things would come un- 
 sought 
 
 To genial faith, still rich in genial good ; 
 
 But how can he expect tliat others 
 should 
 
 Build for him, sow for him, and at his 
 call 
 
 Love liim, who for himself will take no 
 heed at all ? 
 
 I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous 
 Boy. 
 
 The sleepless Soul that perished in his 
 pride ; 
 
 Of him wlio walked in glory and in joy 
 
 Following his plough, along the moun- 
 tain-side : 
 
 By our own spirits are we deified : 
 
 We Poets in our j^outh begin in glad- 
 ness ; 
 
 But thereof come in the end desponden- 
 cy and madness. 
 
 Now, whether it were by peculiar grace, 
 A leading from above, a something 
 
 given. 
 Yet it befell, that, in this lonely jdace. 
 When I witli these untoward thoughts 
 
 liad striven. 
 Beside a pool bare to the eye of heaven 
 I saw a JIan before me unawares : 
 The oldest man he seemed that ever wore 
 
 gray hairs. 
 
 As a huge stone is sometimes seen to lie 
 Couched on the bald top of an eminence ; 
 Wonder to all who do the same espy. 
 By what means it could thither come, 
 
 and whence ; 
 So that it seems a thing endued with 
 
 sense : 
 Like a sea-beast crawled forth, that on a 
 
 shelf 
 Of rock or sand reposeth, tliere to sun 
 
 itself ; 
 
 Such seemed this Man, not all alive nor 
 
 dead , 
 Nor all asleep, in liis extreme old age : 
 His body was bent double, feet and head 
 Coming together in life's pilgrimage ; 
 As if some dire constraint of pain, or rage 
 Of sickness felt by him in times long 
 
 past, 
 A more than human weight upon his 
 
 frame had cast. 
 
 Himself he propped, limbs, body, and 
 
 pale face. 
 Upon a long gray staff of shaven wood : 
 And, still as I drew near witii gentle 
 
 pace. 
 Upon the margin of that moorish flood 
 Motionless as a cloud tlie old Man stc^od, 
 That heareth not the loud winds wlien 
 
 they call 
 And moveth all together, if it move at 
 
 all. 
 
 At length, himself unsettling, he the 
 
 pond 
 Stirred with his staff, and fixedly did look 
 Upon the muddy watei', which he 
 
 conned. 
 As if he had been reading in a book : 
 A nd now a stranger's privilege I took ; 
 And, drawing to his side, to liim did say, 
 "This morning gives us promise of a 
 
 glorious day." 
 
 A gentle answer did the old Man make. 
 In ctmrteous speech which fortii he 
 
 slowly drew : 
 And him with further words I thus be- 
 spake, 
 " What occupation do you there pursue ? 
 Tills is a lonesome place for one like j'ou." 
 Ere he replied, a flasli of mild surprise 
 Broke from the sable orbs of his j^et- 
 vivid eyes, 
 
 His words came feebly, from a feeble 
 
 cliest. 
 But each in solemn order followed each, 
 
30 
 
 i^RITISH POETS 
 
 Witli something of a lofty utterance 
 
 drest — 
 Choice word and measured phrase, 
 
 above the reach 
 Of ordinary men ; a stately speech ; 
 Such as grave Livers do in Scotland use. 
 Religious men, who give to God and 
 
 man tlieir dues. 
 
 He told, that to these waters he had 
 
 come 
 To gather leeches, being old and poor : 
 Employment hazardous and wearisome ! 
 And lie had many hardsliips to endure : 
 From pond to pond he roamed, from 
 
 moor to moor ; 
 Housing, with God's good help, by choice 
 
 or chance, 
 And in this way he gained an honest 
 
 maintenance. 
 
 The old Man still stood talking by mj^ 
 side ; 
 
 But now his voice to me was like a 
 stream 
 
 Scarce heard ; nor word from word 
 could 1 divide ; 
 
 And the whole body of the Man did seem 
 
 Like one whom I had met with in a 
 dream ; 
 
 Or like a man from some far region sent, 
 
 To give me human strength, by apt ad- 
 monishment. 
 
 My former thoughts returned : the fear 
 tliat kills ; 
 
 And hope that is unwilling to be fed ; 
 
 Cold, pain, and labor, and all fleshly ills ; 
 
 And mighty Poets in their misery dead. 
 
 — Perplexed, and longing to be com- 
 forted, 
 
 My question eagerly did I renew, 
 
 " How is it that you live, and what is it 
 you do ? " 
 
 He with a smile did then his words 
 
 repeat ; 
 And said, that, gathering leeches, far 
 
 and wide 
 He travelled ; stirring thus about his 
 
 feet 
 The waters of the pools where they 
 
 abide. 
 " Once I could meet with them on every 
 
 side ; 
 But they have dwindled long by slow 
 
 decay ; 
 Yet still I persevere, and find them 
 
 where I may." 
 
 While he was talking thus, the lonely 
 place, 
 
 Tlie old Man's shape, and speech — all 
 troubled me-: 
 
 In my mind's eye I seemed to see him 
 pace 
 
 About the weary moors continuallj', 
 
 Wandering about alone and silently. 
 
 While I tliese thoughts within myself 
 pursued, 
 
 He, having made a pause, the same dis- 
 course renewed. 
 
 And soon with this he other matter 
 
 blended, 
 ClieerfuUy uttered, with demeanor kind, 
 But statel)' in the main ; and when he 
 
 ended, 
 I could have laughed myself to scorn, to 
 
 find 
 In that decrepit Man so firm a mind. 
 "God," said I, "be my help and stay 
 
 secure ; 
 I'll think of the Leech-gatherer on the 
 
 lonely moor ! " 1S02. 1807. 
 
 I GRIEVED FOR BUONAPARTE ' 
 
 The direct influence of Milton seems evident 
 in many of tlie following^ sonnets, and is con- 
 firmed by tlie entry in l)orotiiy Wordsworth's 
 Journal, May 21, 1803: "William wrote two 
 sonnets of Buonaparte, after I had read Milton's 
 sonnets to him." See also Wordsworth's note on 
 " Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room," 
 p. 48. 
 
 I GRIEVED for Buonaparte, with a vain 
 And an unthinking grief ! The tenderest 
 
 mood 
 Of that Man's mind — what can it be? 
 
 what food 
 Fed his first hopes ? what knowledge 
 
 could he gain ? 
 'Tis not in battles that from youth we 
 
 train 
 The Governor who must be wise and 
 
 good. 
 And temper with the sternness of the 
 
 brain 
 Thoughts motherly, and meek as woman- 
 hood. 
 Wisdom doth live with children round 
 
 her knees : 
 Books, leisure, perfect freedom, and the 
 
 talk 
 Man holds with week-day man in the 
 
 hourly walk 
 Of the niind's business : these are the 
 
 degrees 
 
WORDSWORTH 
 
 31 
 
 By which true Sway doth mount ; this 
 
 is tiie stalk 
 True Power doth grow ou ; and her rights 
 
 are these. 1SU2. 1807. 
 
 J COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER 
 BRIDGE, September S, 1802 
 
 "We left London on Saturday morning at 
 half-past five or six, the .30tli of July. We 
 mounted the Dover coach at Charing Cross. It 
 was a beautiful morning. The city, St. Paul's, 
 with the river, and a multitude of little boats, 
 made a most Ijeautiful sight as we crossed 
 Westminster Bridge. The houses were not over- 
 hung by their cloud of smoke, and they were 
 spread out endlessly ; yet the sun shone so 
 brightly, with such a fierce light, that there was 
 even something like the purity of one of nature's 
 own grand spectacles." (Dorothy Wordsirorth s 
 Journal, July, 1802.) 
 
 E.\RTH has not anything to show more 
 
 fair : 
 Dull would he be of soul who could pass 
 
 by 
 
 A sight so touching in its majesty : 
 This City now doth, like a garment, 
 
 wear 
 The beauty of the morning ; silent, bare, 
 Sliips, towers, domes, theatres and tem- 
 ples lie 
 Open unto the fields, and to the sky ; 
 All brigltt and glittering in the smoke- 
 less air. 
 Never did sun more beautifully steep 
 In his first splendor, valley, i-ock, or 
 
 hill ; 
 Ne'er saw I. never felt, a calm so deep ! 
 The river glideth at his own sweet will : 
 Dear God ! the very houses seem asleep : 
 And all that mighty heart is Iving still ! 
 i5ft>. 1807. 
 
 \ COMPOSED BY THE SEA-SIDE, 
 NEAR CALAIS, August, 1802 
 
 " We had delightful walks after the heat of the 
 day was passed — seeing far off in the west the 
 coast of England like a cloud crested with Dover 
 Castle, which was but like the summit of the 
 cloud— the evening star and the glory of the sky, 
 the reflections in the water were more beautiful 
 than the sky itself, purple waves brighter than 
 precious stones, for ever melting away upon the 
 
 sands Nothing in romance was ever half so 
 
 beautiful. Now came in view, as the evening 
 star sunk down, and the colors of the west 
 faded away, the two lights of England." (Doro- 
 thy Wordsicoi-th^s Journal, August, 1803.) 
 
 Fair Star of evening. Splendor of tlie 
 
 west, 
 Star of my Counti'y ! — on the horizon's 
 
 brink 
 
 Thou hangest, stooping, as might seem, 
 
 to sink 
 On England's bosom ; j'et well pleased 
 
 to rest. 
 Meanwhile, and be to her a glorious crest 
 Conspicuous to tlie Nations. Thou, I 
 
 tliink, 
 Should'st be my Country's emblem ; and 
 
 should'st wink, 
 Briglit Star ! with laughter on her ban- 
 ners, drest 
 In tliy fresh beauty. There! that dusky 
 
 spot 
 Beneath thee, that is England ; there slie 
 
 lies. 
 Blessings be on you both ! one hope, one 
 
 lot. 
 One life, one glory ! — I, with many a fear 
 For my dear Country, manj'^ heartfelt 
 
 sigiis, 
 Among men who do not love her, linger 
 
 here. 1S0:.\ 1807. 
 
 IT IS A BEAUTEOUS EVENING, 
 CALM AND FREE 
 
 This was composed on the beacii near Calais, 
 in the autunui of 1803. (\\'i>r(l^:irorfh.) 
 
 The last six lines are addressed to Words- 
 worth's sister Dorothy. See note to the preced- 
 ing Sonnet. 
 
 It is a beauteous evening, calni and free, 
 The holy time is qvuet as a Nun 
 Breathless with adoration ; the broad .sun 
 Is sinking down in its tranquillity ; 
 The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the 
 
 Sea : 
 Li.sten ! the mightj^ Being is awake, 
 And doth witli liis eternal motion make 
 A sound like thunder — everlastingly. 
 Dear Ciiild ! dear Girl ! that walkest 
 
 with ine here, 
 If thou appear untouched by solemn 
 
 thouglit. 
 Thy nature is not therefore less divine : 
 Thou lie.st in Abraliam's bosom all the 
 
 year : 
 And worsliip'st at tlie Temple's inner 
 
 shrine, 
 God being with thee when we know it 
 
 not. ISO:?. 1807. 
 
 *0N THE EXTINCTION OF THE 
 VENETIAN REPUBLIC 
 
 Once did She hold the gorgeous east in 
 
 fee ; 
 And was the safeguard of the west : the 
 
 worth 
 
3^ 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Of Venice did not fall below her birth. 
 Venice, the eldest Child of Liberty. 
 She was a maiden City, bright and free ; 
 No guile seduced, no force could violate ; 
 And when she took unto herself a Mate, 
 She must espouse the everlasting Sea. 
 And what if she had seen those glories 
 
 fade, 
 Those titles vanish, and that strength 
 
 decay ; 
 Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid 
 When her long life hath reached its final 
 
 day: 
 Men are we, and must grieve when even 
 
 the Shade 
 Of that which once was great, is passed 
 
 away. 1S02. 1807. 
 
 TO TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE 
 
 ToussAiNT, the most unliappy man of 
 
 men ! 
 Whether the whistling Rustic tend his 
 
 plough 
 Within thy hearing, or thy head be now 
 Pillowed in some deep dungeon's earless 
 
 den ; — 
 
 mi.serable Chieftain ! Avhere and when 
 Wilt thou find patience ? Yet die not ; 
 
 do thou 
 Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful 
 
 brow : 
 Though fallen thyself, never to rise 
 
 again, 
 Live, and take comfort. Thou hast 
 
 left behind 
 Powers that will work for thee ; air, 
 
 earth, and skies ; 
 There's not a breatliing of the common 
 
 wind 
 That will forget thee ; thou hast great 
 
 allies ; 
 Thy friends are exultations, agonies. 
 And love, and man's unconquerable 
 
 mind. 1803. 1807. 
 
 NEAR DOVER, September, 1803 
 
 Inland, within a hollow vale, I stood ; 
 And saw, while sea was calm and air 
 
 was clear, 
 The coast of France — the coast of France 
 
 how near ! 
 Drawn almost into frightful neiglibor- 
 
 hood. 
 
 1 shrunk ; for verily the barrier flood 
 Was like a lake, or river bright and 
 
 fair, 
 
 A span of waters ; yet what power is 
 
 there ! 
 What mightiness for evil and for good I 
 Even so doth God protect us if we be 
 Virtuous and wise. AVinds blow, and 
 
 waters roll. 
 Strength to the brave, and Power, and 
 
 Deity ; 
 Yet in themselves are nothing ! One 
 
 decree 
 Spake laws to them, and said that by tlie 
 
 soul 
 Onlv, the Nations shall be great and free. 
 mJ:2. 1807. 
 
 WRITTEN IN LONDON, September. 
 
 1802 
 
 This was written immediately after my return 
 from France to London, when I could not but 
 be struck, as here described, with the vanity 
 and parade of our own country, especially iii 
 great towns and cities, as contrasted witli the 
 quiet, and I may say the desolation, that the 
 revolution had produced in France. This must 
 be borne in mind, or else the reader may think 
 that in this and the succeeding Sonnets I have 
 exaggerated the mischief engendered and fos- 
 tered among us by undisturbed wealth. It would 
 not be easy to conceive with what a depth of feel- 
 ing I entered into the struggle carried on by the 
 Spaniards for their deliverance from the usiu'ped 
 power of the French. Many times have 1 gone 
 from Allan Bank in Grasmere vale, where we 
 were then residing, to the top of the Raise-gap 
 as it is called, so late as two o'clock in the morn- 
 ing, to meet the carrier bringing the newspaper 
 from Keswick. Imperfect traces of the state of 
 mind iu which I then was may be found in my 
 Tract on the Convention of Cintra, as well as in 
 tliese Sonnets. ( Worcls7vorth. ) 
 
 O Friend ! I know not which way I must 
 
 look 
 For comfort, being, as I am, opprest. 
 To tliink that now our life is onlj' drest 
 For show ; mean handy-work of crafts- 
 man, cook, 
 Or groom ! — We must run glittering like 
 
 a brook 
 In the open sunshine, or we are unblesfc : 
 The wealthiest man among us is the 
 
 best : 
 No grandeur now in natin-e or in book 
 Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense, 
 This is idolatry : and these we adore : 
 Plain living and higli thinking are no 
 
 more : 
 The homelj' beauty of the good old 
 
 cause 
 Is gone ; our peace, our fearful inno- 
 cence. 
 And pure religion breathing household 
 laws. ISU^J. 1807. 
 
WORDSWORTH 
 
 33 
 
 LONDON, 1803 
 
 Milton ! thou shouldst be living at this 
 
 hour : 
 England hath need of thee ; she is a fen 
 Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and 
 
 pen, 
 Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and 
 
 bower. 
 Have forfeited their ancient English 
 
 dower 
 Of inward happiness. We are selfish 
 
 men ; 
 Oh ! raise us up, return to us again ; 
 And give us manners, virtue, freedom, 
 
 power. 
 Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt 
 
 apart : 
 Thou hadst a voice whose sound was 
 
 like tlie sea: 
 Pui'e as the naked heavens, majestic, 
 
 free. 
 So didst thou travel on life's common 
 
 waJ^ 
 In olieerf ul godliness ; and yet thy heart 
 The lowliest duties on herself did lav. 
 18U:2. 1807. 
 
 GREAT MEN HAVE BEEN 
 AMONG US 
 
 Great men have been among us; hands 
 tliat penned 
 
 And tongues that uttered wisdom^ — bet- 
 ter none : 
 
 The later Sidney, Marvel, Harrington. 
 
 Young Vane, and others who called 
 Milton friend. 
 
 Tliese moralists could act and compre- 
 hend : 
 
 They knew how genuine glory was put 
 on ; 
 
 Taught us how I'ightfullya nation shone 
 
 In splendor : wliat strengtli was, tliat 
 would not bend 
 
 But in magnanimous meekness. France, 
 'tis strange, 
 
 Hath brought forth no such souls as we 
 had then. 
 
 Perpetual emptiness ! unceasing change ! 
 
 No single volume paramount, no code. 
 
 No master spirit, no determined road ; 
 
 But equally a want of books and men ! 
 1S02. 1807. 
 
 IT IS NOT TO BE THOUGHT OF 
 
 It is not to be thouglit of that tlie 
 
 Flood 
 Of British freedom, which, to the open sea 
 3 
 
 Of the world's praise, from dark an- 
 tiquity 
 
 Hath flowed, " with ponqjof waters, un- 
 withstood," 
 
 Roused tliougli it be full often to a mood 
 
 Which spvirns the check of salutary 
 bands, 
 
 That this most famous stream in bogs 
 and sands 
 
 Should perish ; and to evil and to good 
 
 Be lost for ever. In our halls is hung 
 
 Armoiy of the invincible Kniglits of 
 old: 
 
 We must be free or die, who speak tlie 
 tongue 
 
 That Shakspeai'e spake; tlie faith and 
 morals hold 
 
 Which Milton held. — In everything we 
 are sprung 
 
 Of Earth's first blood, have titles mani- 
 fold. 1S02. 1807. 
 
 WHEN I HAVE BORNE IN 
 MEMORY 
 
 When I have borne in memory what has 
 
 tamed 
 Great Nations, how ennobling thoughts 
 
 depart 
 When men change swords for ledgers, 
 
 and desert 
 The student's bower for gold, some fears 
 
 unnamed 
 I had. my Country ! — am I to be 
 
 blamed ? 
 Now, when I think of thee, and what 
 
 thou art. 
 Verily, in the bottom of my heart. 
 Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed. 
 For dearly must we prize thee ; we who 
 
 find 
 In tliee a bulwark for the cause of men : 
 And I hy my affection was beguiled : 
 What wonder if a Poet now and then. 
 Among the many movements of his 
 
 mind, 
 Felt for thee as a lover or a child ! 
 
 1S02. 1807. 
 
 TO HARTLEY COLERIDGE 
 
 SIX YEARS OLD 
 
 O THOU ! whose fancies from afar are 
 brovight ; 
 
 Who of thy words dost make a mock 
 apparel, 
 
 And fittest to unutterable thought 
 
 The breeze-like motion and the self- 
 born carol ; 
 
34 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Thou faery voyager ! that dost float 
 In such clear water, that thj^ boat 
 May rather seem 
 To brood on air than on an earthly 
 
 stream ; 
 Suspended in a stream as clear as sky, 
 Where earth and heaven do make one 
 
 imagery ; 
 
 blessed vision ! happy child ! 
 Thou art so exquisitely wild. 
 
 1 think of thee with many fears 
 
 For what may be thy lot in future years. 
 I thought of times when Pain might 
 be tliy guest. 
 
 Lord of thy house and hospitality ; 
 
 And Grief, uneasy lover ! never rest 
 
 But when she sate within tlie touch of 
 thee. 
 
 O too industrious folly ! 
 
 O vain and causeless melancholy ! 
 
 Nature will either end thee quite ; 
 
 Or. lengthening out thy season of delight, 
 
 Preserve for thee, by individual right. 
 
 A young lamb's heart among the full- 
 grown flocks. 
 
 What hast thou to do with sorrow, 
 
 Or the injuries of to-morrow ? 
 
 Thou art a dew-drop, whicli the morn 
 brings fortli, 
 
 111 fitted to sustain unkindly shocks, 
 
 Or to be trailed along the soiling earth ; 
 
 A gem that glitters while it lives. 
 
 And no forewarning gives ; 
 
 But, at the touch of wrong, without a 
 strife 
 
 Slips in a moment out of life. 
 
 1802. 1807. 
 
 TO THE DAISY 
 
 In youth from rock to rock I went, 
 From hill to hill in discontent 
 Of pleasure high and turbulent. 
 
 Most pleased when most uneasy ; 
 But now my own delights I make, — 
 ]\Iy thirst at every rill can slake. 
 And gladly Nature's love partake, 
 
 Of Thee, sweet Daisy ! 
 
 Thee Winter in the garland wears 
 That thinly decks his few gray hairs ; 
 Spring parts the clouds with softest airs, 
 
 That she may sun thee ; 
 Whole Summer-fields are thine by I'ight ; 
 And Autumn, melancholy Wight ! 
 Doth in thy crimson head delight 
 When rains are on thee. 
 
 In shoals and bands, a morrice train, 
 Thou greet'st the traveller in the lane ; 
 
 Pleased at his greeting thee again ; 
 
 Yet nothing davmted. 
 Nor grieved if thou be set at nought : 
 And oft alone in nooks remote 
 We meet thee, like a pleasant thought. 
 
 When such are wanted. 
 
 Be violets in their secret mews 
 
 The flowers the wanton Zepliyrs choose ; 
 
 Proud be the rose, with rains and dews 
 
 Her head im pearling ; 
 Thou liv'st witli less ambitious aim. 
 Yet hast not gone without thy fame ; 
 Thou art indeed bj' manj- a claim 
 
 The Poet's darling. 
 
 If to a rock from rains he fly. 
 Or, some bright daj' of April sky, 
 Imprisoned by hot sunshine lie 
 
 Near the green holl}'. 
 And wearily at length should fare ; 
 He needs but look about, and there 
 Thou art ! — a friend at hand, to scare 
 
 His melanchol\^ 
 
 A hundred tinres, by rock or bower, 
 Ere thus I have lain couched an liour, 
 Have I derived from thy sweet power 
 
 Some apprehension ; 
 Some steady love ; some brief deliglit ; 
 Some memory that liad taken flight ; 
 Some cliime of fancy wrong or right ; 
 
 Or stray invention. 
 
 If stately passions in me burn. 
 
 And one chance look to Thee should turn, 
 
 I drink out of an humbler urn 
 
 A lowlier pleasure : 
 The homely sympathy that heeds 
 Tlie common life our nature breeds ; 
 A wisdom fitted to the needs 
 
 Of hearts at leisure. 
 
 Fresh-smitten by the morning ray. 
 When tliou art up, alert and gay. 
 Then, cheerful Flower ! nij^ spirits play 
 
 With kindred gladness : 
 And when, at dusk, by dews opprest 
 Tliou sink'st, the image of thy rest 
 Hatli often eased my pensive breast 
 
 Of careful sadness. 
 
 And all day long I number yet. 
 All seasons through, another debt. 
 Which I, wlierever thou art met, 
 
 To thee am owing ; 
 An instinct call it, a blind sense ; 
 A happy, genial influenr^e. 
 Coming one knows not how, nor wlience, 
 
 Nor whither going. 
 
WORDSWORTH 
 
 35 
 
 Cliild of the Year ! that round dost run 
 Thy pleasant course, — when day's begun 
 As ready to salute tlie sun 
 
 As lark or leveret, 
 Tliy long-lost praise tliou shalt regain ; 
 Nor be less dear to future men 
 Tlian in old time : tliou not in vain 
 
 Art Nature's favorite. ^ l^u,:!. 1807. 
 
 TO THE SAME FLOWER 
 
 With little here to do or see 
 
 Of things that in the great world be, 
 
 Daisy ! again I talk to thee. 
 
 For tliou art worthy. 
 Thou unassuming Common-place 
 Of Nature, with tliat homel.y face. 
 And yet with something of a grace, 
 
 Which Love makes for thee.! 
 
 Oft on the dappled turf at ease 
 I sit, and [ilay witli similes. 
 Loose types of things through all de- 
 grees. 
 
 Thoughts of thy raising : 
 And many a fond and idle name 
 I give to tliee, for praise or blame, 
 As is the humor of the game, 
 
 While I am gazing. 
 
 A nun demure of lowly port ; 
 
 Or sprightly maiden, of Love's court. 
 
 In thy simplicity the sport 
 
 Of all temptations ; 
 A queen in crown of rubies drest ; 
 A starveling in a scanty vest ; 
 Are all, as seems to suit thee best, 
 
 Thy appellations. 
 
 A little Cyclops, with one eye 
 Staring to threaten and defy. 
 That thought comes next — and instantly 
 
 The freak is over. 
 The shape will vanish — and behold 
 A silver shield with boss of gold. 
 That sj^reads itself, some faery bold 
 
 In fight to cover ! 
 
 I see thee glittering from afar — 
 And then thou art a pretty star ; 
 Not quite so fair as many are 
 
 In heaven above thee ! 
 Yet like a star, with glittering crest. 
 Self-poised m air thou seem'st to rest ; — 
 May peace come never to his nest. 
 
 Who shall reprove thee ! 
 
 ' St^e, ill Chaucer and the elfler Poets, the 
 honors formerly paid to this flower. 
 
 C iy<ji:dsiUijrtlt..) 
 
 Bright Flower ! for by that name at last, 
 When all my reveries are past, 
 I call thee, and to that cleave fast. 
 
 Sweet silent creature ! 
 That breath'st with me in sun and air, 
 Do thou, as thou art wont, repair 
 My heart witli gladness, and a share 
 
 Of thy meek nature ! 1S02. 1807. 
 
 TO THE DAISY 
 
 Bright Flower ! whose home is every- 
 where. 
 Bold in maternal Nature's care. 
 And all the long year through, the heir 
 
 Of joy or sorrow ; 
 Jlethinks that there abides in thee 
 Some concord with humanity. 
 Given to no other tiower I see 
 
 The forest tiiorough ! 
 
 Is it that Man is soon deprest? 
 
 A thoughtless Thing ! who, once un- 
 
 blest. 
 Does little on his memory rest, 
 
 Or on his reason. 
 And Thou would'st teach him how to 
 
 find 
 A shelter under every wind. 
 A hope for times that are unkind 
 
 And every season ? 
 
 Thou wander'st the wide world about, 
 Unchecked by pride or scrupulous doubt. 
 With friends to greet tiiee, or without. 
 
 Yet pleased and willing ; 
 Meek, yielding to the occasion's call, 
 And all things suffering from all, 
 Thy function apostolical 
 
 In peace fulfilling. ISi).?. 1807. 
 
 THE GREEN LINNET 
 
 Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that 
 
 shed 
 Their snow-white blossoms on my head. 
 With brightest sunshine round me 
 
 spread 
 Of spring's vmclouded weatlier. 
 In this sequestered nook how sweet 
 To sit upon my orchard-seat ! 
 And birds and flowers once more to 
 
 greet, 
 My last year's friends together. 
 
 One have I marked, the happiest guest 
 In all this covert of tlie blest : 
 Hail to Thee, far above the rest 
 In joy of voice and pinion ! 
 
36 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Thou, Linnet ! in thy green array, 
 Presiding Spirit here to-day. 
 Dost lead the revels of the May ; 
 And this is thy dominion. 
 
 While birds, and butterflies, and flow- 
 ers. 
 Make all one band of paramours, 
 Thou, ranging up and down tlie bovvers. 
 
 Art sole in thy employment : 
 A Life, a Presence like tlie Air. 
 Scattering thy gladness without cai'e, 
 Too blest witii any one to pair ; 
 
 Thj'self tlip own enjoyment. 
 
 Amid yon tuft of hazel trees. 
 That twinkle to the gusty breeze. 
 Behold him perched in ecstasies, 
 
 Yet seeming still to hover ; 
 There ! wliere the flutter of his wings 
 Upon his back and body flings 
 Shadows and sunny glimmerings. 
 
 That cover him all over. 
 
 My dazzled sight he oft deceives, 
 A Brotlier of the dancing leaves ; 
 Tlien flits, and from tlie cottage-eaves 
 
 Pours forth his song in gushes ; 
 As if by tliat exulting strain 
 He mocked and treated with disdain 
 The voiceless Form lie chose to feign, 
 
 While fluttering in the busiies. 
 
 1S03. 1807. 
 
 YEW-TREES 
 Compare the note on A Night-Piece. 
 
 There is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton 
 
 Vale, 
 Which to this day stands single, in the 
 
 midst 
 Of its own darkness, as it stood of 
 
 yore ; 
 Not loth to furnish weapons for the 
 
 bands 
 Of Umfraville or Percy ere they marched 
 To Scotland's heaths ; or those that 
 
 crossed the sea 
 And drew their sounding bows at Azin- 
 
 cour. 
 Perhaps at earlier Crecy, or Poictiers. 
 Of vast circumference and gloom pro- 
 found 
 This solitai-y Tree ! a living thing 
 Produced too slowly ever to decay ; 
 Of form and aspect too magnificent 
 To be destroyed. But worthier still of 
 
 note 
 
 Are those fraternal Four of Borrow dale, 
 Joined in one solemn and capacious 
 
 grove ; 
 Huge trunks; and each particular trunk 
 
 a growth 
 Of intertwisted fibres serpentine 
 Up-coiling, and inveterately convolved ; 
 Nor uninformed with Phantasy, and 
 
 looks 
 That threaten the profane ; — a pillared 
 
 shade. 
 Upon whose grassless floor of red-brown 
 
 hue. 
 By sheddings from the jjining umbrage 
 
 tinged 
 Perennially — beneath whose sable roof 
 Of boughs, as if for festal purpose, 
 
 decked 
 With unrejoicing berries — ghostly 
 
 Shapes 
 May meet at noontide ; Fear and trem- 
 bling Hope. 
 vSilence and Foresight ; Death the Skele- 
 ton 
 And Time the Shadow ; — there to cele- 
 brate, 
 As in a natural tem])le scattered o'er 
 With altars undisturbed of mossy stone. 
 United worship : or in mute repose 
 To lie, and listen to the mountain flood 
 Murmuring from Glaramara's inmost 
 caves. 1S03. 1.S07. 
 
 AT THE GRAVE OF BURNS 
 
 1803 
 
 SEVEN YEARS AFTER HIS DEATH 
 
 For illustration, see my Sister's Journal. 
 ( Wordsworth). 
 
 I SHIVER. Spirit fierce and bold. 
 At thought of what I now V>eliold : 
 As vapors breathed fiom dvmgeons 
 cold. 
 
 Strike pleasure dead. 
 So sadness comes from out the mould 
 
 Where Burns is laid. 
 
 And have I then thy bones so near. 
 And thou forbidden to appear ? 
 As if it were thyself that's here 
 
 I shrink with pain ; 
 And both my wishes and my fear 
 
 Alike are vain. 
 
 Off weight — nor press on weight ! — 
 
 away 
 Dark thoughts ! — they came, but not to 
 
 stay ; 
 
WORDSWORTH 
 
 37 
 
 With chastened feelings would I pay 
 
 Tile tribute due 
 To liim, and auglit that liides his clay 
 
 From mortal view. 
 
 Fresh as the flower, whose modest worth 
 He sang, his genius " glinted " forth. 
 Rose like a star that touching earth, 
 
 For so it seems. 
 Doth glorify its humble birth 
 
 With matchless beams. 
 
 Tlie piercing eye. the thoughtful brow. 
 The struggling heart, where be they 
 
 now ■? — 
 Full soon the Aspirant of the plough, 
 
 The prompt, the brave. 
 Slept, with the obscurest, in the low 
 
 And silent grave. 
 
 I mourned with thousands, but as one 
 More deeply grieved, for He was gone 
 Whose light I hailed when first it shone. 
 
 And showed my youth 
 How Verse may build a princely throne 
 
 On humble truth. 
 
 Alas ! where'er the current tends. 
 Regret pursues and with it blends, — 
 Huge CrilTel's hoary top ascends 
 
 By Skiddaw seen, — 
 Neighbors we were, and loving friends 
 
 We might have been ; 
 
 True friends though diversely inclined ; 
 But heart with heart and mind with 
 
 mind. 
 Where the main fibres are entwined, 
 
 Tiirough Natvu'e's skill. 
 May even by contraries be joined 
 
 More closely still. 
 
 The tear will start, and let it flow ; 
 Thou " poor Inhabitant below," 
 At this dread moment — even so — 
 
 Might we together 
 Have sate and talked where go wans 
 blow , 
 
 Or on wild heather. 
 
 What treasui-es would have then been 
 
 placed 
 Within my reach : of knowledge graced 
 By fancy what a rich repast ! 
 
 But wh}^ go on ? — 
 Oh ! spare to sweep, thou mournful 
 blast. 
 His grave grass-grown. 
 
 There, too, a Son, his joy and pride, 
 (Not three weeks past the Stripling 
 
 died,) 
 Lies gathered to his Father's side. 
 
 Soul-moving sigiit ! 
 Yet one to which is not denied 
 
 Some sad delight : 
 
 For he is safe, a quiet bed 
 
 Hath earl}"^ found among the dead, 
 
 Harbored where none can be misled, 
 
 Wronged, or distrest ; 
 And surely here it may be said 
 
 That such are blest. 
 
 And oh for Thee, by pitjnng grace 
 Checked oft-times in a devious race. 
 May He who hallowetli the place 
 
 Where Man is laid 
 Receive thy Spirit in the embrace 
 
 For which it prayed ! 
 
 Sighing I turned away ; but ere 
 Nigiit fell I heard, or seemed to hear, 
 Music that sorrow comes not near, 
 
 A ritual hymn. 
 Chanted in love that casts out fear 
 
 By Seraphim. 
 
 1S03. 1845. 
 
 TO A HIGHLAND GIRL 
 
 AT INVERSNEYDE, UPON LOCH LOMOND 
 
 This delightful creature and her demeanor are 
 particularly described in my Sister's Journal. 
 ( Wordsivvrth. ) 
 
 Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower 
 Of beauty is tJi.y earthly dower ! 
 Twice seven consenting years have slied 
 Their utmost bounty on thy head : 
 And these gray rocks ; that household 
 
 lawn ; 
 Those trees, a veil just half withdrawn ; 
 This fall of water that doth make 
 A murmur near the silent lake ; 
 This little bay ; a qviiet road 
 That holds in shelter thy Abode — 
 In truth together do 5' e seem 
 Like sometlujig fashioned in a dream ; 
 Such Forms as from their covert peep 
 When earthly cares are laid asleep ! 
 But, O fair Creature ! in the light 
 Of common day. so heavenly bright, 
 I bless Thee, Vision as thou art 
 I bless thee with a luim;i,n heart ; 
 God shield thee to thy latest years ! 
 Thee neither know I, nor thy peers ; 
 And yet my eyes are filled wnth tears. 
 
38 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 With earnest feeling I shall pray 
 For thee when I am far away : 
 For never saw I mien, or face, 
 III which more plainly I could trace 
 Benignity and home-bred sense 
 Ripening in perfect innocence. 
 Here scattered, like a random seed. 
 Remote from men. Thou dost not need 
 The embarrassed look of shy distress, 
 And maidenlj' shamefacedness : 
 Thou wear'st upon thy foreiiead clear 
 Tlie freedom of a Mountaineer : 
 A face with gladness overspread ! 
 .Soft smiles, by human kindness bred ! 
 And seemliness complete, tliat sways 
 Tliy courtesies, about thee plays ; 
 With no restraint, but sucli as springs 
 From quick and eager visitings 
 Of thouglits that lie beyond tlie reach 
 Of thy few words of English speech : 
 A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife 
 T!iat gives thy gestures grace and life ! 
 So have I, not unmoved in mind. 
 Seen birds of tempest-loving kind — 
 Thus beating up against the wind. 
 
 What hand but would a garland cull 
 For tliee who art so beautiful ? 
 
 happy pleasure ! here to dwell 
 Beside thee in some heathy dell : 
 Adopt your homely ways, and dress, 
 A Shepherd, tliou'a Shepherdess ! 
 But I could frame a wish for thee 
 More like a grave reality : 
 
 Thou art to me but as a wave 
 
 Of the wild sea ; and I would have 
 
 Some claim upon thee, if I could. 
 
 Though but of common neighborhood. 
 
 What joy to hear tliee, and to see ! 
 
 Thy elder Brother I would be, 
 
 Thy Father — anything to tliee ! 
 
 Now thanks to Heaven ! that of its 
 
 grace 
 Hatii led me to this lonel,y place. 
 Joy have I had ; and going hence 
 
 1 bear away my recompense. 
 In spots like tliese it is we prize 
 Our Memory, feel tliat she hatii eyes: 
 Then, why should I be loth to stir ? 
 
 I feel this place was made for her ; 
 
 To give new pleasure like the ])ast. 
 
 Continued long as life shall last. 
 
 Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart. 
 
 Sweet Highland Girl ! from thee to part : 
 
 For I, methinks, till I grow old, 
 
 As fair before me siiall behold. 
 
 As I do now, the cabin small, 
 
 Tiie la'ke, tlie bay, the waterfall ; 
 
 And Thee, the spirit of them all ! 
 
 1S03, 1807. 
 
 STEPPING WESTWARD 
 
 While my Fellow-traveller and I were walk- 
 ing by the side of Loch Ketteriue, one fine even- 
 ing after sunset, in our road to a Hut where, in 
 the course of our Tour, we had been hospitably 
 entertained some weeks before, we met, in one 
 of tlie loneliest parts of that solitary region, two 
 well-dressed Women, one of whom said to us by 
 way of greeting, " What, you are stepping west- 
 ward ? " {Wordsworih.) 
 
 " What, you are stepping ivestioard ?"" 
 — " Yea." 
 — 'Twould be a uiildish destiny. 
 If we, who thus together roam 
 In a strange Land, and far from home. 
 Were in this place the guests of Chance : 
 Yet who would stop, or fear to advance 
 Though home or shelter he had none, 
 With such a sky to lead him on? 
 
 The dewy ground was dfirk and cold ; 
 
 Behind, all gloomy to behold ; 
 
 And stepping westward seemed to be 
 
 A kind of heavenly destiny : 
 
 I h'ked tlie greeting : 't was a sound 
 
 Of sometliing without place or bound ; 
 
 And seemed to give me spiritual right 
 
 To travel through that region briglit. 
 
 The voice was soft, and she who spake 
 
 Was walking by her native lake : 
 
 The salutation had to me 
 
 The very sound of courtesy : 
 
 Its power was felt ; and while my eye 
 
 Was fixed upon tlie glowing Sky, 
 
 The echo of the voice en wrought 
 
 A human sweetness with the thought 
 
 Of travelling through the world that lay 
 
 Before me in my endless way. 
 
 ISOS. 1807. 
 
 THE SOLITARY REAPER 
 
 Behold her, .single in the field. 
 Yon solitary Highland Lass ! 
 Reaping and singing by herself ; 
 Stop here, or gently pass ! 
 Alone she cuts and binds the grain, 
 And sings a melancholy strain ; 
 O listen ! for the Vale profound 
 Is overflowing with the sound. 
 
 No Nightingale did ever chant 
 More welcome notes to weary bands 
 Of travellers in some shady haunt, 
 Among Arabian sands : 
 A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard 
 In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird, 
 Breaking tlie silence of the seas 
 Amoni'- the farthest Hebrides. 
 
WORDSWORTH 
 
 39 
 
 Will no one tell me what she sings ? — 
 
 Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow 
 
 For old, vmhappy, far-off things, 
 
 And battles long ago : 
 
 Or is it some more humble lay, 
 
 Familiar matter of to-day ? 
 
 Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, 
 
 That has been, and may be again ? 
 
 Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang 
 As if her song could have no ending ; 
 I saw her singing at her work. 
 And o'er the sickle bending ; — 
 I listened, motionless and still ; 
 And, as I mounted up the hill 
 The music in my heart I bore. 
 Long after it was heard no more. 
 
 1803. 1807. 
 
 YARROW UNVISITED 
 
 See the various Poems the scene of which is 
 laid upon tlie banks of Die Yarrow ; in part icu- 
 lar, the exquisite Ballad of Hamilton beginning 
 "Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny Bride, — 
 
 Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome Marrow ! — " 
 {Wordsworth) . 
 
 From Stirling castle we had seen 
 The mazy Forth unravelled : 
 Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Ta\', 
 And with the Tweed had travelled ; 
 And when we came to Clovenford; 
 Then said my " ivinsome 3Iarrou\'^ 
 "Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside, 
 And .see the Braes of Yarrow." 
 
 " Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town, 
 
 Who have been buying, selling. 
 
 Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own ; 
 
 Each maiden to her dwelling ! 
 
 On Yarrow's banks let herons feed, 
 
 Hares couch, and rabbits burrow ! 
 
 But we will downward with the Tweed, 
 
 Nor turn aside to Yarrow. 
 
 " There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs, 
 
 Both lying right before us ; 
 
 And Dryborough, where with chiming 
 
 Tweed 
 The lintwhites sing in chorus ; 
 There's pleasant Tiviot-dale, a land 
 Made blithe with plough and harrow : 
 Why throw away a needful day 
 To go in search of Yarrow ? 
 
 " What's Yarrow but a river bare, 
 Jliat glides the dark hills under? 
 There are a thousand such elsewhere 
 As worthy of your wonder." 
 
 — Strange words they seemed of slight 
 
 and scorn 
 My True-love sighed for sorrow ; 
 And looked me in the face, to think 
 I thus could speak of Yarrow ! 
 
 "Oh! green," said I, "are Yarrow's 
 
 holms, 
 And sweet is Yarrow flowing ! 
 Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, 
 But we will leave it growing. 
 O'er hilly path, and open Strath, 
 We'll wander Scotland thorough ; 
 But, though so near, we will not turn 
 Into the dale of Yarrow. 
 
 " Let beeves and home-bred kine partake 
 The sweets of Burn-mill meadow ; 
 The swan on still St. Mary's Lake 
 Float double, swan and shadow ! 
 We will not see them ; will not go, 
 To-day, nor yet to-morrow, 
 Enough if in our hearts we know 
 There's such a place as Yarrow. 
 
 " Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown ! 
 It must, or we shall rue it : 
 We have a vision of our own ; 
 Ah ! why should we undo it ? 
 The treasured dreams of times long past, 
 We'll keep them, winsome Marrow ! 
 For when we're there, although 'tis fair, 
 'Twill be another Yarrow ! 
 
 ' ' If Care with freezing years should 
 
 come. 
 And wandering seem but folly. — 
 Should we be loth to stir from home, 
 And yet be melancholy ; 
 Should life be dull, and spirits low, 
 'Twill soothe us in our sorrow. 
 That earth has something yet to show, 
 Tlie bonny holms of Yarrow ! " 
 
 ISOJ. 1807. 
 
 ODE 1 ^ S, 
 
 INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM REC- 
 OLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD 
 
 " In my Ode on the Intimations of Immnr- 
 fality in Childhood, I do not profess to give a 
 literal representation of the state of the affec- 
 tions and of tlie moral being in childhood. I re- 
 cord my own feelings at that time— my absolute 
 spirituality, my ' all-soulness,' if I may so speak. 
 At that time I could not believe that I should lie 
 down quietly in the grave, and that my body 
 would moulder into dust." (Wordsworth in con- 
 versation ; Knight's Life of Wordsuwrth, II, 
 336.) 
 
 I 
 
 There was a time when meadow, grove, 
 and stream. 
 
f . 1 '^ 
 
 40 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 The earth, and every common sight, 
 To me did seem 
 Apparelled in celestial light. 
 The glory and the freshness of a dream. 
 It is not now as it hath been of 3 ore ; — 
 Tuin wliereso'er I may, 
 By night or day, 
 Tiie things whicli I have seen I now can 
 see no more. 
 
 The Rainbow comes and goes, 
 And lovely is the Rose, 
 The Moon'doth with delight 
 Look round her when the heavens are 
 bare ; 
 
 Waters on a starry night 
 
 Are beautiful and fair ; 
 
 Tlie sunshine is a glorious birth ; 
 
 But j'et I know, where'er I go, 
 
 That there liath past away a glory from 
 
 the earth. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous 
 song, 
 And while the young lambs bound 
 As to the tabor's sound. 
 To me alone there came a thought of 
 
 grief ; 
 A timely utterance gave that thought 
 relief, 
 
 And I again am strong : 
 The cataracts blow their trumpets from 
 
 the steep ; 
 No more shall grief of mine the season 
 
 wrong ; 
 I hear the Echoes through the moun- 
 tains tlirong. 
 The Winds come to me from the fields 
 of sleep. 
 
 And all the earth is gay ; 
 Land and sea 
 Give themselves up to jollity, 
 
 And with the heart of May 
 Doth every Beast keep holiday ; — 
 Thou Child of Joy, 
 Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, 
 thou happy Shepherd-boy ! 
 
 IV 
 
 Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the 
 call 
 Ye to each other make ; I see 
 The heavens laugh with you in your 
 jubilee ; 
 My heart is at your festival. 
 My head hath its coronal. 
 The fulness of your bliss, I feel — I feel 
 it all. 
 
 Oh evil day ! if I were sullen 
 While Earth herself is adorning, 
 
 This sweet May-morning, 
 And the Children are culling 
 
 On every side. 
 In a thousand valleys far and wide, 
 Fresh flowers ; while the sun shines 
 M'arm , 
 And the Babe leaps up on his Mother's 
 arm : — 
 I hear. I hear, with joy I hear ! 
 — But there's a Tree, of many, one, 
 A single Field which I have looked 
 
 upon. 
 Both of them speak of something that is 
 gone : 
 The Pans}' at my feet 
 Doth tlie same tale repeat : 
 AVhither is fled the A'isionary gleam ? 
 Where is it now, the glory and the 
 dream ? 
 
 Our birth is but a sleep and a foi-get- ] 
 ting : ^ 
 
 The Soul that rises with us, our life's 
 Star, 
 Hath had elsewhere its setting, 
 
 And Cometh from afar : 
 Not in entire forgetfulness, 
 And not in utter nakedness. 
 But trailing clouds of glory do we come 
 
 From God. who is our home : 
 Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! 
 Sliades of the prison-house begin to 
 close 
 Upon the growing Boy. 
 But he beholds the light, and whence it 
 flows. 
 He sees it in his joj' ; 
 The Youth, who daily farther from the 
 east 
 Must travel, still is Nature's Priest, 
 And by the vision splendid 
 Is on his way attended ; 
 At length the Man perceives it die 
 
 away. 
 And fade into the light of common day. 
 
 Earth fills her lajj with pleasures of her 
 
 own ; 
 Yearnings she hath in her own natural 
 
 kind. 
 And, even with something of a Mother's 
 
 mind. 
 And no unworthy aim. 
 The homely Nurse doth all she can 
 To make her Foster-child, her Inmate 
 
 Man, 
 
WORDSWORTH 
 
 41 
 
 Forget the glories he hath known, 
 And that imperial palace whence he 
 came. 
 
 Behold the Child among his new-born 
 
 blisses, 
 A six years' Darling of a pigmy size ! 
 See, where 'mid work of his own hand 
 
 he lies. 
 Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, 
 With light upon him froni his father's 
 
 eyes ! 
 See, at his feet, some little plan or 
 
 chart. 
 Some fragment from his dream of hu- 
 man life, 
 Shaped by himself with newly-learned 
 art ; 
 A wedding or a festival. 
 A mourning or a funeral ; 
 
 And this liath now his heart, 
 And unto this he frames his song : 
 Then will lie fit his tongue 
 To dialogues of business, love, or strife ; 
 But it will not be long 
 Ere this be thrown aside. 
 And with new joy and pride 
 The little Actor cons another part ; 
 Filling from time to time his " humor- 
 ous stage " 
 With all the Persons, down to jialsied 
 
 Age, 
 That Life brings with her in lier equip- 
 age ; 
 As if his whole vocation 
 Were endless imitation. 
 
 VIII 
 
 Thou, whose exterior semblance doth 
 
 belie 
 Thy Soul's immensity ; 
 Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost 
 
 keep 
 Thy heritage, thou Eye among the 
 
 blind, 
 That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal 
 
 deep. 
 Haunted forever by the eternal mind, — 
 
 Mighty Prophet ! Seer blest ! 
 On whom those truths do rest. 
 Which we are toiling all our lives to 
 
 find. 
 In darkness lost, the darkness of the 
 
 grave ; 
 Thou, over whom thy Immortality 
 Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a 
 
 Slave, 
 A Presence which is not to be put by ; 
 
 Thou little Child, yet glorious in tlie 
 
 might 
 Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's 
 
 height, 
 Why with such earnest pains dost thou 
 
 provoke 
 The years to bring the inevitable yoke. 
 Thus blindly with thy blessedness at 
 
 strife ■? 
 Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthl j- 
 
 freight, 
 And custom lie upon thee with a 
 
 weight. 
 Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life ! 
 
 IX 
 
 O joy ! tliat in our embers 
 Is sonietliing tliat doth live, 
 That natvire yet remembers 
 What was so fugitive ! 
 The thouglit of our past years in me 
 
 dotii breed 
 Perpetvial benediction : not inileed 
 For that which is most wortliy to ))e 
 
 blest — 
 Delight and liberty, tlie simple creed 
 Of Childhood, whetlier busy or at rest. 
 With new-fledged hope still fluttering 
 in liis breast : — 
 Not for these I raise 
 The song of tlianks and praise ; 
 But for those obstinate questionings 
 Of sense and outward things. 
 Fallings from us, vanisliings ; 
 Blank misgivings of a. Creature 
 Moving about in worlds not realized. 
 High instincts before which our mortal 
 
 Nature 
 Did tremble like a guilty Thing sur- 
 prised : 
 But for those first affections. 
 Those shadowy recollections, 
 AVhich. be they what tliey maj', 
 Are yet the fountain light of all our d;iy. 
 Are yet a master light of all our seeing ; 
 Uphold us. cherish, and have power 
 to make 
 Our noisy years seem moments in the 
 
 being 
 Of the eternal Silence : truths that 
 wake. 
 To perisli never ; 
 Which neither listlessness, nor mad en- 
 deavor. 
 Nor Man nor Boy, 
 Nor all that is at enmity with joy, 
 Can utterly al)o]ish or destroy ! 
 
 Hence in a season of calm weather 
 Though inland far we be, 
 
42 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Our Souls have sight of that immortal 
 sea 
 Which brought us hither, 
 Can in a moment travel thither, 
 And see the Children sport upon the 
 
 shore. 
 And hear the mighty waters rolling 
 evermore. 
 
 Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous 
 song ! 
 And let the young Lambs bound 
 As to the tabor's sound ! 
 We in thought will join your throng. 
 Ye that pipe and ye that plaj'. 
 Ye tliat through your hearts to-day 
 Feel the gladness of the May ! 
 What though the radiance which was 
 
 once so bright 
 Be now forever taken from my sight, 
 Though nothing can bring back the 
 hour 
 Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the 
 flower ; 
 We will grieve not, rather find 
 Strength in what remains behind ; 
 In the primal sympathy 
 Which having been niust ever be ; 
 In the soothing thouglits that spring 
 Out of human suffering ; 
 In the faith that looks through 
 death. 
 In years that bring the philosophic 
 mind. 
 
 And O ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, 
 and Groves, 
 
 Forebode not any severing of our loves ! 
 
 Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your 
 might ; 
 
 I only have relinquished one delight 
 
 To live beneath your more habitual 
 sway. 
 
 I love the Brooks which down their 
 channels fret, 
 
 Even more than when I tripped lightly 
 as they ; 
 
 The innocent brightness of a new-born 
 Day 
 
 Is lovely j^et ; 
 
 The Clouds that gather round the set- 
 ting sun 
 
 Do take a sober coloring from an eye 
 
 That hath kept watch o'er man's mor- 
 tality ; 
 
 Another race hath been, and other 
 palms are won. 
 
 Thanks to the human heart by whicli 
 
 we live. 
 Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and 
 
 fears. 
 To me the meanest flower that blows 
 
 can give 
 Thouglits that do often lie too deep for 
 
 tears. 1S03-6. 1807. 
 
 TO THE CUCKOO 
 
 BLITHE New-comer ! I have heard, 
 
 1 hear thee and rejoice. 
 
 Cuckoo ! shall I call thee Bird, 
 Or but a wandering Voice ? 
 
 While 1 am lying on the grass 
 Thy twofold shout I hear. 
 From hill to liill it seems to pass, 
 At once far off, and near. 
 
 Though babbling only to the Vale, 
 Of sunshine and of flowers. 
 Thou bringest unto me a tale 
 Of Aisionary hours. 
 
 Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring ! 
 
 Even yet thou art to me 
 
 No bird, but an invisible thing, 
 
 A voice, a mystery ; 
 
 The same whom in my school-hoy days 
 
 1 listened to ; that Crj- 
 
 Which made me look a thousand ways 
 In bush, and tree, and sk3^ 
 
 To seek thee did I often rove 
 Through woods and on the green ; 
 And thou wert still a hope, a love ; 
 Still longed for, never seen. 
 
 And I can listen to thee jet ; 
 
 Can lie upon the plain 
 
 And listen, till I do beget )<^ 
 
 That golden time again. 
 
 O blessed Bird ! the earth we pace 
 Again appears to be 
 An unsubstantial, faer}^ place ; 
 That is fit home for Thee ! 
 
 ISOi. 1807. 
 
 SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF 
 DELIGHT 
 
 Written at Town-end, Grasmere. The germ of 
 this poem was four lines composed as a part of 
 the verses on the Highland Girl. Though begin- 
 ning in this way, it was written from my heart, 
 as is sufficiently obvious. {Wordsworth.) 
 
 She was a Phantom of delight 
 
 When first she gleamed upon my sight ; 
 
WORDSWORTH 
 
 43 
 
 A lovely Apparition sent 
 To be a moment's ornainent ; 
 Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair ; 
 Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair; 
 But all things else about her drawn 
 From May-time and the cheerful Dawn; 
 A dancing Shape, an Image gay, 
 To haunt, to startle, and \vay-la3'. 
 
 I saw lier upon nearer view. 
 A Spirit, yet a Woman too ! 
 Her liousehold motions liglit and free, 
 And steps of virgin-liberty : 
 A countenance in which did meet 
 Sweet records, promises as sweet ; 
 A Creature not too bright or good 
 For human nature's daily food ; 
 For transient sorrows, simple wiles. 
 Praise, blame, love, kisses, teai's and 
 smiles. 
 
 And now I see with e.ye serene 
 The very pulse of the machine ; 
 *A Being breathing thouglitful breath, 
 A Traveller between life and deatli ; 
 The reason firm, the temperate will, 
 Endurance, foi'esight, strength, and 
 
 skill ; 
 A perfect Woman, nobly planned. 
 To warn, to comfort^ and command ; 
 And yet a Spirit still, and bright 
 With something of angelic light. 
 
 ISOJt. 1807. 
 
 I WANDERED LONELY AS A 
 CLOUD 
 
 Written at Town-end, Grasmere. The Daf- 
 fodils grew and still grow on the margin of Ulls- 
 water, and probably may he seen to this day as 
 beautiful in the month of March, nodding their 
 golden heads beside the dancing and foaming 
 waves. ( Wordsworth. ) 
 
 I "WANDERED lonely as a cloud 
 
 Tliat floats on high o'er vales and hills. 
 
 When all at once I saw a crowd, 
 
 A host, of golden daffodils ; 
 
 Beside the lake, beneath the trees. 
 
 Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. 
 
 Continuous as the stars that shine 
 And twinkle on the milky way. 
 They stretched in never-ending line 
 Along the margin of a bay : 
 Ten thousand saw I at a glance. 
 Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 
 
 The waves beside them danced ; but 
 
 they • 
 Out-did the sparkling waves in glee : 
 A poet could not but be gay, 
 
 In such a jocund company : 
 I gazed — and gazed — but little thouglit 
 AVliat wealth the show to me had 
 brought : 
 
 For oft, when on my couch I lie 
 
 In vacant or in pensive mood, 
 
 Tliey flash upon that inward eye 
 
 Which is the bliss of solitude ; 
 
 And then my heart w.ith pleasure fills, 
 
 And dances with the daffodils. 
 
 1S(|J^. 1807. 
 
 THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET 
 
 Written at Town-end, Cfrasmere. This was 
 taken'f rom the case of a poor widow who lived 
 in the town of Penrith. Her sorrow was well 
 known to Mrs. Wordsworth, to my Sister, and. I 
 believe, to the whole town. She kept a shop, 
 and wlien she saw a stranger passing by, she was 
 in the habit of going out into the street to en- 
 quire of him after her son. ( Wordsworth.) 
 
 Where art thou, my beloved Son, 
 Where art thou, worse to me tlian dead ? 
 Oh find me, prosperous or undone ! 
 Or, if the grave be now thy bed, 
 Why am I ignorant of the .same, 
 That I may rest, and neither blame 
 Nor sorrow may attend thy name ? 
 
 Seven years, alas ! to have received 
 No tidings of an only child ; 
 To have despaired, have hoped, believed, 
 And been for evermore beguiled : 
 Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss ! 
 I catch at them, and then I miss ; 
 Was ever darkness like to this ? 
 
 He was among the prime in worth, 
 
 An object beauteous to behold ; 
 
 Well born, well bred ; I .sent him forth 
 
 Ingenuous, innocent, and bold : 
 
 If things ensued that wanted grace. 
 
 As hath been said, they were not base ; 
 
 And never blush was on mj' face. 
 
 All ! little doth the young one dream, 
 When full of play and childish cares, 
 What power is in his wildest scream, 
 
 iHeard by his mother unawares ! 
 
 "^e knows it not, he cannot guess 
 Years to a motlier bring distress ; 
 
 ^But do not make her love the les 
 
 Neglect me ! no, I suffered long 
 
 From that ill thought ; and. being blind, 
 
 Said, " Pride shall help me in \\\y wrong ; 
 
 Kind mother have I been, as kind 
 
 As ever breathed : " and that is true ; 
 
 I've wet my path with tears like dew. 
 
 Weeping for him when no one knew. 
 
44 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 My Son, if thou be humbled, poor, 
 
 Hopeless of honor and of gain, 
 
 Oh ! do not dread thy mother's door ; 
 
 Think not of me with grief and pain : 
 
 I now can see with better eyes ; 
 
 And worldly grandeur I despise, 
 
 And fortune with her gifts and lies. 
 
 Alas ! the fowls of heaven have wings, 
 And blasts of heaven will aid their flight ; 
 They mount— how short a voyage bi'ings 
 The wanderers back to their delight ! 
 Chains tie us down bj' land and sea ; 
 And wishes, vain as mine, may be 
 All that is left to comfort thee. 
 
 Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan. 
 Maimed, mangled by inhuman men ; 
 Or thou upon a desert thrown 
 Inheritest the lion's den ; 
 Or hast been summoned to the deep, 
 Thou, thou and all thy mates, to keep 
 An incommunicable sleep. 
 
 I look for ghosts ; but none will force 
 Their way to me : 'tis falsely said 
 Tliat there was ever intercourse 
 Between the living and the dead ; 
 For, surely, then I should have sight 
 Of him I wait for day and night. 
 With love and longings infinite. 
 
 My apprehensions come in crowds ; 
 I dread the rustling of the grass ; 
 The very shadows of tlie clouds 
 Have power to sliake me as they pass : 
 I question things and do not find 
 One that will answer to my mind ; 
 And all the world appears unkind. 
 
 Beyond participation lie 
 My troubles, and beyond relief : 
 If any chance to heave a sigh. 
 They pity me, and not my grief. 
 Then come to me. my Son, or send 
 Some tidings that my woes may end ; 
 I have no other earthly friend ! . 
 
 ISOJt. 1807. 
 
 ODE TO DUTY 
 
 Stern Daughter of the Voice of God ! 
 O Duty ! if that name tliou love 
 Who art a light to guide, a rod 
 To check the erring, and reprove ; 
 Thou, who art victor}^ and law 
 When empty terrors overawe : 
 From vain temptatiotis dost set free : 
 And calm'st the weary strife of frail 
 humanity ! 
 
 There are who ask not if thine eye 
 Be on them ; wlio, in love and truth, 
 Where no misgiving is, rely 
 Upon the genial sense of youth : 
 Glad Hearts ! without reproach or blot 
 Who do thy work, and know it not : 
 Oh ! if througli confidence misplaced 
 They fail, thj^ saving arms, dread 
 Power ! around them cast. 
 
 Serene will be our days and briglit, 
 And happy will our nature be, 
 Wlien love is an unerring light, 
 And joy its own security. 
 And they a blissful course may hold 
 Even now, wlio, not unwiseh^ bold. 
 Live in the spirit of this creed ; 
 Yet seek tliy firm support, according to 
 tlieir need. 
 
 I, loving freedom, and untried, 
 No sport of every random gust, 
 Yet being to myself a guide, 
 Too blindly have reposed my trust : 
 And oft, when in w\y heart was lieard 
 Thy timely mandate, I deferred 
 The task, in smoother walks to stray ; 
 But thee I now would serve more 
 strictly, if I may. 
 
 Tlirough no disturbance of my soul. 
 Or strong compunction in me wrought, 
 I supplicate for thy control ; 
 But in the quietness of tliought : 
 Me this vinchnrtejed freedom tires ; 
 I feel the weiglit of chance-desires : 
 My hopes no more must cliange their 
 
 name, 
 I long for a repose that ever is the 
 
 same. 
 
 Stern La wgiver ! yet thou dost wear 
 The Godliead's most benignant grace ; 
 Nor know we anything so fair 
 As is the smile upon thy face : 
 Flowers laugh before thee on their beds 
 And fragrance in th}- footing treads : 
 Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong ; 
 And the most ancient heavens, through 
 Thee, are fresh and strong. 
 
 To Immbler functions, awful Power ! 
 I call thee : I myself commend 
 Unto thy guidaiice froin tliis hour ; 
 Oh, let my weakness have an end ! 
 Give unto me. made lowly wise. 
 The spirit of self-sacrifice ; 
 The confidence of reason give : 
 And in the light of trutli thy Bondman 
 let me live ! 1S05. 1807. 
 
WORDSWORTH 
 
 45 
 
 TO A SKY-LARK 
 
 Up with me! up with me into the clouds ! 
 
 For thy song, Lark, is strong ; 
 Up with me, up witli me into the clouds ! 
 
 Singing, singing, 
 With clouds and sky about thee ringing 
 
 Lift me, guide me till I find 
 That spot which seems so to thy mind ! 
 
 I have walked through wildernesses 
 
 dreary 
 And to-day my heart is weary ; 
 Hatl I now tlie wings of a Faery, 
 Up to thee would I fly. 
 There is madness about thee, and joy 
 
 divine 
 In that song of thine ; 
 Lift me, guide me high and high 
 To thy banqueting-jjlace in the sky. 
 
 Joyous as morning 
 Thou art laughing and scorning ; 
 Thou hast a nest for thy love and thy 
 
 rest. 
 And, though little troubled with sloth. 
 Drunken Lark ! thou would'st be loth 
 To be sucli a traveller as I. 
 Happy, happy Liver, 
 With a soul as strong as a mountain 
 
 river 
 Pouring out praise to the Almighty 
 
 Giver, 
 Jo}^ and jollity be with us both ! 
 
 Alas ! my journey, rugged and uneven, 
 Througli prickly moors or dusty ways 
 
 must wind ; 
 But hearing thee, or others of thy kind. 
 As full of gladness and as free of 
 
 heaven, 
 I. witli my fate contented, will plod on. 
 And hope for higher raptures, when 
 
 life's day is done. 1805. 1807. 
 
 ELEGIAC STANZAS 
 
 SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF PEELE 
 CASTLE, IN A STORM, PAINTED BY SIR 
 GEORGE BEAUMONT 
 
 I WAS tliy neighbor once, thou rugged 
 
 Pile! 
 Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of 
 
 thee : 
 I saw thee every day ; and all the wliile 
 Thy Form was sleeping on a glassy sea. 
 
 So pure the sky, so quiet was the air ! 
 So like, so very like, was day to day ! 
 Whene'er I looked, tliy Image still was 
 
 tliere ; 
 It trembled, but it never passed away. 
 
 How perfect was the calm ! it seemed 
 
 no sleep ; 
 No mood, which season takes away, or 
 
 brings : 
 I could have fancied that the mighty 
 
 Deep 
 Was even the gentlest of all gentle 
 
 Things. 
 
 Ah ! THEN, if mine had been the Painter's 
 
 hand , 
 To express what then I saw ; and add 
 
 the gleam. 
 The light that never was, on sea or 
 
 land. 
 The consecration, and the Poet's dream ; 
 
 I would have planted thee, thou hoary 
 
 Pile 
 Amid a world how different from this ! 
 Beside a sea that could not cease to 
 
 smile ; 
 On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss. 
 
 Thou shouldst have seemed a treasure- 
 house divine 
 
 Of peaceful years ; a chronicle of 
 heaven ; — 
 
 Of all tlie sunbeams that did ever shine 
 
 The very sweetest had to thee been 
 given. 
 
 A picture had it been of lasting ease, 
 Elysian quiet, without toil or strife ; 
 No motion but tlie moving tide, a breeze. 
 Or merely silent Nature's breathing life. 
 
 Such, in the fond illusion of my heart. 
 Such Picture would I at that time have 
 
 made : 
 And seen the soul of truth in every part, 
 A steadfast peace that might not be 
 
 betrayed. 
 
 So once it would have been, — 'tis so no 
 
 more ; 
 I have submitted to a new control : 
 A power is gone, which nothing can 
 
 restore ; 
 A deep distress hath humanized my 
 
 Soul. 
 
46 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Not for a moment could I now behold 
 A sm^iling sea, and be what I have been : 
 The feeling of my loss will ne"er be old ; 
 This, which I know, I speak with mind 
 serene. 
 
 Then, Beaumont, Friend ! who would 
 
 have been the Friend, 
 If he had lived, of Him whom I deplore, 
 This work of thine I blame not, but 
 
 commend : 
 This sea in anger, and that dismal shore. 
 
 'tis a passionate Work !— yet wise and 
 
 well, 
 Well chosen in tlie spirit that is liere ; 
 That Hulk which labors in the deadly 
 
 swell. 
 This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear ! 
 
 And this huge Castle, standing liere sub- 
 lime, 
 
 1 love to see the look with which it 
 
 braves. 
 Cased in the unfeeling armor of old 
 
 time, 
 The lightning, the fierce wind, and 
 
 trampling waves. 
 
 Farewell, farewell the heart that lives 
 
 alone, 
 Housed in a dream, at distance from the 
 
 Kind ! 
 Such happiness, wherever it be known. 
 Is to be pitied ; for 't is surel}^ blind. 
 
 But welcome fortitude, and patient 
 
 cheer. 
 And frequent sights of what is to be 
 
 borne! 
 Such sights, or worse, as are before me 
 
 here. — 
 Not without hope we suffer and we 
 
 mourn. 1805. 1807. 
 
 TO A YOUNG LADY 
 
 WHO HAD BEEN REPROACHED FOR TAK- 
 ING LONG WALKS IN THE COUNTRY 
 
 Dear Child of Nature, let them rail ! 
 
 — There is a nest in a green dale,' 
 
 A harbor and a hold ; 
 
 Where thou, a Wife and Friend, shalt 
 
 see 
 Thy own heart-stirring days, and be 
 A light to young and old. 
 
 There, healthy as a shepherd boy, 
 And treading among flowers of joy 
 
 Which at no season fade, 
 Thou, while thy babes around thee cling, 
 Shalt show us how divine a thing 
 A Woman may be made. 
 
 Thy thoughts and feelings shall not die, 
 Nor leave tliee, when gray hairs are nigh, 
 A melancholy slave ; 
 But an old age .serene and bright, 
 And lovely as a Lapland night, 
 Shall lead thee to thy grave. 
 
 1S05. 1807. 
 
 FRENCH REVOLUTION 
 
 as it APPEARED TO ENTHUSIASTS AT ITS 
 COMMENCEMENT 
 
 An extract from the long poem of my own 
 poetical education. It was first published by 
 Coleridge in his " Friend," which is the reason 
 of its having had a place in every edition of my 
 poems since. (Wordsworth.) From The Prelude, 
 Bk. XI. 
 
 Oh ! pleasant exerci.se of hope and joy ! 
 For mighty were the auxiliars whicli 
 
 then stood 
 Upon our side, we wlio were strong in 
 
 love ! 
 Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive. 
 But to be young was very heaven ! — 
 
 Oil ! times, 
 In whicli the meagre, stale, forbidding 
 
 ways 
 Of cu.stom, law, and statute, took at once 
 The attraction of a country in romance ! 
 When Reason seemed the most to assert 
 
 her rights, 
 Wlien most intent on making of herself 
 A prime Enchantress — to assist the work, 
 Wliich then was going forward in her 
 
 name ! 
 Not favored spots alone, but the whole 
 
 earth, 
 The beauty wore of promise, that which 
 
 sets 
 (As at some moment might not be unfelt 
 Among tVie bowers of paradise itself) 
 The budding ro.se above the rose full 
 
 blown. 
 Wliat temper at the prospect did not 
 
 wake 
 To happiness unthought of ? The inert 
 Were roused, and lively natures rapt 
 
 away 
 
 They wlio had fed their childhood upon 
 
 dreams, 
 Tlie playfellows of fancy, who had made 
 All powers of swiftness, subtilty, and 
 
 strength 
 
WORDSWORTH 
 
 47 
 
 Tlieir ministers, — who in lordly wise had 
 
 stirred 
 Among the grandest objects of the sense, 
 And dealt with whatsoever they found 
 
 there 
 As if they liad within some lurking right 
 To wield it ; — they, too, who, of gentle 
 
 mood, 
 Had watched all gentle motions, and to 
 
 these 
 Had fitted their own thoughts, schemers 
 
 more mild, 
 And in the region of their peaceful 
 
 selves ; — 
 Now was it that both found, the meek 
 
 and lofty 
 Did both find, helpers to their heart's 
 
 desire. 
 And stuff at hand, plastic as they could 
 
 wish ; 
 Were called upon to exercise their skill, 
 Not in Utopia, subterranean fields, 
 Or some secreted island, Heaven knows 
 
 where ! 
 But in tlie very world, which is the 
 
 world 
 Of all of us, — the place where in the end 
 We find our happiness, or not at all I 
 1S05. 1810. 
 
 CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY 
 WARRIOR 
 
 Suggested in part by an event which all Eng- 
 land was lamenting— the death of Lord Nelson — 
 and in part by tl>e personal loss, which he still 
 felt so keenly, his brother John's removal. On 
 the 4th of February, 1806, Southey wrote thus 
 to Sir Walter Scott : . . . ' Wordsworth was 
 with me last week ; he has been of late more 
 employed in correcting his poems than in writ- 
 ting others ; but one piece he has written, upon 
 the ideal character of a soldier, than which I 
 have never seen anything more full of meaning 
 and sound thought. The subject was suggested 
 by Nelson's most glorious death. . . .' 
 
 (Knight, Life of Wordsworth, II, 46-7.) 
 
 Who is the happy Warrior ? Who is he 
 That every man in arms siiould wish to 
 
 be? 
 — It is the generous Spirit, who, when 
 
 brought 
 Among the task of real life, hath 
 
 wrought 
 Upon the plan that pleased his boyish 
 
 thought : 
 Whose high endeavors are an inward 
 
 light 
 That makes the path before him always 
 
 bright : 
 Who, with a natural instinct to discern 
 
 What knowledge can perform, is dili- 
 gent to learn ; 
 
 Abides by tliis resolve, and stops not 
 there. 
 
 But makes his moral being his prime 
 care ; 
 
 Who, doomed to go in company with 
 Pain, 
 
 And Fear, and Bloodshed, miserable 
 train ! 
 
 Turns his necessity to glorious gain ; 
 
 In face of these doth exercise a power 
 
 Which is our human nature's highest 
 dower ; 
 
 Controls them and subdues, transmutes, 
 bereaves 
 
 Of their bad influence, and their good 
 receives : 
 
 By objects, which might force the soul 
 to abate 
 
 Her feeling, rendered more compassion- 
 ate ; 
 
 Is placable — because occasions rise 
 
 So often that demand such sacrifice ; 
 
 More skilful in self-knowledge, even 
 more pure. 
 
 As tempted more ; more able to endure, 
 
 As more exposed to suffering and dis- 
 tress ; 
 
 Thence, also, more alive to tenderness, 
 
 — 'Tis he whose law is reason ; who de- 
 pends 
 
 Upon that law as on the best of friends ; 
 
 Whence, in a state where men are 
 tempted still 
 
 To evil for a guard against worse ill, 
 
 And what in quality or act is best 
 
 Doth seldom on a right foundation rest, 
 
 He labors good on good to fix, and owes 
 
 To virtue every triumph that he knows : 
 
 — Who, if he rise testation of command. 
 
 Rises by open means ; and there will 
 stand 
 
 On honorable terms, or else retire. 
 
 And in himself po.ssess his own desire ; 
 
 Who comprehends his trust, and to the 
 same 
 
 Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim ; 
 
 And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in 
 wait 
 
 For wealth, or honors, or for worldly 
 state ; 
 
 Whom they must follow ; on whose head 
 must fall. 
 
 Like showers of manna, if they come at 
 all: 
 
 Whose powers shed round him in the 
 common strife. 
 
 Or mild concerns of ordinary life, 
 
48 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 A constant influence, a peculiar grace ; 
 But wlio, if lie be called upon to face 
 Some awful moment to which Heaven 
 
 lias joined 
 Great issues, good or bad for human 
 
 kind, 
 Is happy as a Lover ; and attired 
 With sudden brightness, like a Man in- 
 spired ; 
 And, through the heat of conflict, keeps 
 
 the law 
 In calmness made, and sees what he 
 
 foresaw ; 
 Or if an unexpected call succeed. 
 Come when it will, is equal to the need : 
 — He who, though thus endued as with 
 
 a sense 
 And faculty for storm and turbulence. 
 Is yet a Soul whose master-bias leans 
 To homefelt pleasures and to gentle 
 
 scenes ; 
 Sweet images ! which, wheresoe'er he 
 
 be. 
 Are at his heart ; and such fidelity 
 It is his darling passion to approve ; 
 More brave for this, that he hath much 
 
 to love ; — 
 'Tis, finally, the Man, who, lifted high, 
 Conspicuous object in a Nation's eye. 
 Or left unthought-of in obscurity, — 
 Who, with a toward or untoward lot. 
 Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or 
 
 not — 
 Plays, in the many games of life, that 
 
 one 
 Where what he most doth value must 
 
 be won : 
 Whom neither shape of danger can dis- 
 may. 
 Nor thought of tender happiness betray ; 
 Who, not content that former worth 
 
 stand fast, 
 Looks forward, persevering to the last, 
 Froni well to better, daily self-surpast : 
 Who, whether praise of him must walk 
 
 the earth 
 For ever, and to noble deeds give birth. 
 Or he must fall, to sleep without his 
 
 fame. 
 And leave a dead unprofitable name — 
 Finds comfort in himself and in his 
 
 cause ; 
 And, while the moral mist is gathering, 
 
 draws 
 His breath in confidence of Heaven's 
 
 applause : 
 This is the happy Warrior ; this is He 
 That every Man in arms should wish to 
 
 be. ISUG. 1807. 
 
 YES, IT WAS THE MOUNTAIN 
 ECHO 
 
 Yes, it was the mountain Echo, 
 Solitary, clear, profound. 
 Answering to the shouting Cuckoo, 
 Giving to her sound for sound ! 
 
 Unsolicited repl)^ 
 
 To a babbling wanderer sent ; 
 
 Like her ordinary cry. 
 
 Like — but oh, liow different ! 
 
 Hears not also mortal Life ? 
 Hear not we, unthinking Creatures I 
 Slaves of folly, love, or strife — 
 Voices of two different natures ? 
 
 Have not ive too ? — yes, we have 
 Answers, and we know not whence ; 
 Echoes from beyond the grave, 
 Recognized intelligence ! 
 
 Such rebounds our inward ear 
 Catches sometimes from afar — 
 Listen, ponder, hold them dear; 
 For of God,— of God thev are. 
 
 "iSOG. 1807. 
 
 NUNS FRET NOT AT THEIR CON- 
 VENT'S NARROW ROOM 
 
 In the cottage, Town-end, Grasmere, one after- 
 noon in 1801, my sister read to me the Sonnets of 
 ]\[iIton. I had lonj; been well acquainted with 
 them, but I was particularly struck on tl>at occa- 
 sion with the dignified simplicity and majestic 
 harmony that runs tlu-ough most of them, — in 
 character so totally different from the Italian, 
 and still more so from Shalcspeare's fine Soiuiels. 
 I took fire, if I may be allowed to say so, and 
 produced three Sonnets the same afternoon, the 
 first I ever wrote except an irregular one at 
 school. Of these three, the only one I distinctly 
 remember is — " I grieved for Buonapartt^." One 
 was never written down : the third, which was, 
 I t)elieve, preserved, I cannot particularize. 
 {Wordsworth.) 
 
 Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow 
 
 room ; 
 And hermits are contented with their 
 
 cells ; 
 And students with their pensive citadels ; 
 Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his 
 
 loom. 
 Sit blithe a)id happj^ ; bees that soar for 
 
 bloom , 
 High as the highest Peak of Furness-fells, 
 Will nnirmur by the hour in foxglove 
 
 bells: 
 
WORDSWORTH 
 
 49 
 
 In tiutli the prison, unto whicli we doom 
 Ourselves, no prison is : and hence for 
 
 me, 
 In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be 
 
 bound 
 Within the Sonnet's scanty plot of 
 
 ground ; 
 Pleased if some Souls (for such there 
 
 needs must be) 
 Who have felt the weight of too much 
 
 liberty, 
 Should find brief solace there, as I have 
 
 found. ISUG. 1S07. 
 
 PERSONAL TALK 
 
 I AM not One who much or oft delight 
 To season my fireside with pei'sonal 
 
 talk— 
 Of friends, who live within an easy walk. 
 Or neighbors, daily, weekly, in mj^ sight : 
 And, for mj' cliance-acquaintance, ladies 
 
 bright, 
 Sons, mothers, maidens withering on the 
 
 stalk. 
 These all wear out of me, like Forms, 
 
 with chalk 
 Painted on rich men's floors, for one 
 
 feast-night. 
 Better than such discourse doth silence 
 
 long. 
 Long, barren silence, square with my 
 
 desire ; 
 To sit without emotion, hope, or aim. 
 In the loved presence of my cottage-fire. 
 And listen to the flapping of the flame. 
 Or kettle whispering its faint undersong. 
 
 II 
 " Yet life," you say, "is life; we have 
 
 seen and see, 
 And with a living pleasure we describe ; 
 And fits of sprightly malice do but bribe 
 Tiie languid mind into activity. 
 Sound sense, and love itself, and mirth 
 
 and glee 
 Are fostered by the comment and the 
 
 gibe." 
 Even be it so ; yet still among your 
 
 tribe. 
 Our daily world's true Worldlings, rank 
 
 not me ! 
 Children are blest, and powerful ; their 
 
 world lies 
 Moi"e justly balanced ; partly at their 
 
 feet. 
 And part far from them : sweetest mel- 
 odies 
 
 Are those that aie hy distance made 
 
 more sweet ; 
 Whose mind is but the mind of his own 
 
 eyes. 
 He is a Slave ; the meanest we can 
 
 meet ! 
 
 Ill 
 
 Wings have we, — and as far as we can 
 
 go, 
 We may find pleasure : wilderness and 
 
 wood. 
 Blank ocean and mere sk}-, sujjport that 
 
 mood 
 Wiiich with the loftj^ sanctifies the low. 
 Dreams, books aie each a world ; and 
 
 books, we know. 
 Are a substantial world, both pure and 
 
 good : 
 Round these, witli tendrils strong as 
 
 flesh and blood. 
 Our pastime and our happiness will 
 
 grow. 
 There find I personal themes, a plente- 
 ous store. 
 Matter wherein right A^oluble I am. 
 To which I listen with a ready ear ; 
 Two shall be named, i)re-eminently 
 
 dear, — 
 The gentle Lady married to the Moor ; 
 And heavenly Una with her milk-white 
 
 Lamb. 
 
 Nor can I not believe but tlmt hereby 
 Great gains are mine ; for tluis I live re- 
 mote 
 From evil-speaking ; rancor, never 
 
 sought, 
 Comes to me not ; malignant truth, or 
 
 lie. 
 Hence have I genial seasons, hence have 
 
 I 
 Smooth passions, smooth discourse, and 
 
 joyous thought : 
 And thus from day to day my little boat 
 Rocks in its harbor, lodging peaceably. 
 Blessings be with them — and eternal 
 
 praise. 
 Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler 
 
 cares — 
 The Poets, who on earth have made us 
 
 heirs 
 Of truth and pure delight b)-^ heavenly 
 
 lays ! 
 Oh ! migiit my name be numbered 
 
 among theirs. 
 Then gladly would I end my mortal 
 
 days. ISUG. 1807. 
 
so 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH 
 US 
 
 The world is too much with us ; late and 
 
 soon , 
 Getting and spending, we lay waste our 
 
 powers : 
 Little we see in Nature tiiat is ours ; 
 We have given our hearts away, a sor- 
 did boon ! 
 The Sea that bares her bosom to the 
 
 moon ; 
 The winds that will be howling at all 
 
 hours. 
 And are up-gathered now like sleeping 
 
 flowers ; 
 For this, for everything, we are out of 
 
 tune ; 
 It moves us not. — Great God ! I'd rather 
 
 be 
 A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn ; 
 So might I, standing on this pleasant 
 
 lea, 
 Have glimpses that would make me less 
 
 forlorn ; 
 Have sight of Proteus rising from the 
 
 sea ; 
 Or hear old Triton bk)w liis wreathed 
 
 horn. 180G. 1«07. 
 
 TO SLEEP 
 
 A FLOCK of sheep that leisurelj' pass 
 
 by, 
 One after one ; the sound of rain, and 
 
 bees 
 Murmuring ; the fall of rivers, winds 
 
 and seas. 
 Smooth fields, white sheets of water, 
 
 and pure sky ; 
 I have thought of all by turns, and yet 
 
 do lie 
 Sleepless ! and soon the small birds' 
 
 melodies 
 Must hear, first uttered from my orchard 
 
 trees ; 
 And the first cuckoo's melanclioly cry. 
 Even thus last night, and two niglits 
 
 more, I lay. 
 And could not win thee. Sleep ! by any 
 
 stealth : 
 So do not let me wear to-night away : 
 Without Thee what is all the morning's 
 
 wealth ? 
 Come, blessed barrier between day and 
 
 day. 
 Dear mother of fresh thoughts and jov- 
 
 ous health ! ISOG. 1807.' 
 
 XOVExAlBER, IbUG 
 
 Another year ! — another deadly blow ! 
 Another mighty Empire overthrown ! 
 And We are left, or shall be left, alone ; 
 The last that dare to struggle with the 
 
 Foe. 
 'Tis well ! from this day forward we 
 
 shall know 
 That in ourselves our safety must be 
 
 sought ; 
 That by our own riglit liands it must be 
 
 wrouglit ; 
 That we must stand iin propped, or be 
 
 laid low. 
 O dastard whom such foretaste doth not 
 
 cheer ! 
 We shall exult, if they who rule the 
 
 land 
 Be men who hold its many blessings 
 
 dear. 
 Wise, upright, valiant ; not a servile 
 
 band, 
 Wlio are to judge of danger which tliey 
 
 fear, 
 And honor which thev do not under- 
 stand. " IfiOa. 1807. 
 
 THOUGHT OF A BRITON ON THE 
 SUBJUGATION OF SWITZERLAND 
 
 Two Voices are there ; one is of the 
 
 .sea. 
 One of the mountains ; each a miglity 
 
 Voice : 
 In both from age to age thou didst re- 
 joice, 
 Thej^ were thy choseTi music. Liberty ! 
 There came a Tyrant, and with lioly 
 
 glee 
 Thou fought'st against him ; but hast 
 
 vainly striven : 
 Thou from thy Alpine liolds at length 
 
 art driven. 
 Where not a torrent murmurs heard by 
 
 tliee. 
 Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been 
 
 bereft : 
 Tlien cleave, O cleave to tliat which still 
 
 is left ; 
 For, high-souled Maid, what sorrow 
 
 would it be 
 That mountain floods should thunder as 
 
 before, 
 And Ocean bellow from his rocky 
 
 shore. 
 And neither awful Voice be heard by 
 
 thee ? 1807. 1807. 
 
WORDSWORTH 
 
 S^ 
 
 HERE PAUSE : THE POET CLAIMS 
 AT «LEAST THIS PRAISE 
 
 Here pause : the poet claims at least this 
 
 praise. 
 That virtuous Liberty hath been the 
 
 sco]ie 
 Of his pure song, wliich did not shrink 
 
 from liope 
 In tlie worst moment of these evil days ; 
 From hope, the paramount duty tliat 
 
 Heaven lays, 
 For its own honor, on man's suffering- 
 heart. 
 Never may from our souls one truth 
 
 depart — 
 That an accursed thing it is to gaze 
 On prosperous tyrants with a dazzled 
 
 eye ; 
 Nor — touched with due abhorrence of 
 
 their guilt 
 For whose dire ends tears flow, and 
 
 blood is spilt, 
 And justice labors in extremity — 
 Forget thy weakness, upon which is built 
 O wretched man, the throne of tyranny ! 
 ISll. 1815. 
 
 LAODAMIA 
 
 Written at Rj'dal Mount. The incident of the 
 trees growing and withering: put tlie subject into 
 my tlioiiglits, and I wrote with tlie liope of giving 
 it a loftier tone than, so far as I know, has been 
 given to it by any of the Ancients who have 
 treated of it. It cost me more trouble than al- 
 most anything of equal length I have ever writ- 
 ten . ( WordswortJt. ) 
 
 "Laodamia is a very original poem; I mean 
 original with reference to your own mannej-. 
 You have nothing like it. I should have seen 
 it in a strange place, and greatly admired it, 
 but not suspected its derivation..." (Lamb 
 to Wordsworth. Talfourd, Final Memories of 
 Charles Lamb, p. 151.) 
 
 " With sacrifice before the rising morn 
 Vows have I made by fruitless hope in- 
 spired ; 
 And from the infernal Gods, 'mid shades 
 
 forlorn 
 Of night, my slaughtered Lord liave I 
 
 required : 
 Celestial pity I again implore : — • 
 Restore him to my sight — great Jove, 
 restore ! " 
 
 So speaking, and b}' fervent love en- 
 dowed 
 
 With faith, the Suppliant heavenward 
 lifts her hands ; 
 
 While, like the sun emerging from a 
 cloud, 
 
 Her countenance brightens — and her 
 eye expands. ; 
 
 Her bosom heaves and spreads, her stat- 
 ure grows ; 
 
 And siie expects the. issue in repose. 
 
 terror ! what hath she perceived ? — O 
 
 joy ! 
 
 What doth she look on? — whom doth she 
 
 behold ? 
 Her Hero slain upon the beach of Troy ? 
 His vital presence ? his corporeal mould ! 
 It is — if sense deceive her not — 'tis He ? 
 And a God leads him, winged Mercury ! 
 
 Mild Hermes spake — and touched her 
 
 with his wand 
 That calms all fear ; " Such grace hath 
 
 crowned thy prayer, 
 Laodamia ! tliat at Jove's command 
 Thy Husband walks the paths of upper 
 
 air : 
 He comes to tarry with thee three hours' 
 
 space : 
 Accept the gift, behold him face to face ! 
 
 Forth sprang the impassioned Queen ; 
 
 her Lord to clasp ; 
 Again that consummation she essayed ; 
 But unsubstantial Form eludes her grasp 
 As often as that eager grasp was made, 
 Tiie Phantom parts— but parts to re-unite. 
 And re-assume his place before her sight. 
 
 " Protesilaus, lo ! thy guide is gone ! 
 Confirm, I pray, the vision with thj' 
 
 voice : 
 This is our palace, — j-onder is tin' throne ; 
 Speak, and the floor thou tread'st on 
 
 will rejoice. 
 Not to appal me have the gods bestowed 
 This precious boon ; and blest a sad 
 
 abode." 
 
 " Great Jove. Laodamia ! doth not leave 
 His gifts imperfect : — Spectre though I 
 be, 
 
 1 am not sent to scare thee or deceive ; 
 But in reward of thy fidelity. 
 
 And somethingalso did my worth obtain : 
 For fearless virtue bringeth boundless 
 gain. 
 
 " Thou knowest, the Delphic oracle fore- 
 told 
 
 That the first Greek who touched the 
 Trojan strand 
 
 Should die ; but me the tiireat could not 
 withhold ; 
 
52 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 A generous cause a victim did demand ; 
 And forth I leapt upon tlie sandy plain ; 
 A self-devoted chief — by Hector slain." 
 
 "Supreme of Heroes — bravest, noblest, 
 
 best! 
 Thy matchless courage I bewail no more, 
 Wliicli then, when tens of thousands 
 
 were deprest 
 By doubt, propelled thee to tlie fatal 
 
 shore ; 
 Thoufound'st — and I forgive thee — here 
 
 thou art — 
 A nobler counsellor than my poor heart. 
 
 " But thou, though capable of sternest 
 
 deed , 
 Wert kind as resolute, and good as 
 
 brave : 
 And he, wliose power restores thee, hath 
 
 decreed 
 Thou should'st elude the malice of. the 
 
 grave : 
 Redundant are tliy locks, thy lips as fair 
 As when their breath enriched Thessa- 
 
 lian air. 
 
 " No Spectre greets me, — no vain Shadow 
 
 this ; 
 Come, blooming Hero, place thee by my 
 
 side ! 
 Give, on this well-known couch, one 
 
 nuptial kiss 
 To me, this day, a second time tliy 
 
 bride ! " 
 Jove frowned in heaven : the conscious 
 
 Parcaj threw 
 Upon those roseate lips a Stygian hue. 
 
 " This visage tells thee that my doom is 
 past : 
 
 Nor should the change be mourned, even 
 if the joys 
 
 Of sense were able to return as fast 
 
 And surely as tliey vanisli. Eartli de- 
 stroys 
 
 Those raptures duly — Erebus disdains ; 
 
 Calm i)leasures there abide — majestic 
 pains. 
 
 " Be taught, O faitliful Consort, to con- 
 trol 
 Rebellious passion : for the Gods approve 
 The depth, and not the tumult, of the 
 
 soul ; 
 A fervent, not ungovernable, love. 
 Tliy transports moderate ; and meekly 
 
 mourn 
 When I depart, for brief is my sojourn — "' 
 
 " Ah, wherefore ? — Did not Hercules by 
 
 force 
 Wiest from the guardian Monster of the 
 
 tomb 
 Alcestis, a reanimated corse, 
 Given back to dwell on earth in vernal 
 
 bloom ? 
 Medea's spells dispersed the weight of 
 
 years. 
 And ^son stood a j'outh 'mid youthful 
 
 peers. 
 
 •' The Gods to us are merciful — and thej-^ 
 Yet further may relent : for mightier 
 
 far 
 Than strength of nerve and .sinew, or the 
 
 sway 
 Of magic potent over svm and star. 
 Is love, thovigh oft to agojiy distrest. 
 And though liis favorite seat be feeble 
 
 woman's breast. 
 
 " But if tliou goest, I follow — "" Peace ! " 
 he said ; — 
 
 She looked upon him and was calmed 
 and clieered : 
 
 Tlie gliastly color from his lips had fled ; 
 
 In his de])ortment, shape, and mien, ap- 
 peared 
 
 Elysian beauty, melancholy grace. 
 
 Brought from a pensive though a happy 
 place. 
 
 He spake of love, such love as Spirits 
 
 feel 
 In worlds whose course is equable and 
 
 pure ; 
 No fears to beat away — no strife to 
 
 heal — 
 The past unsighed for, and the future 
 
 sure ; 
 Spake of lieroic arts in graver mood 
 Revived, with finer harmony pursued ; 
 
 Of all that is most beauteous — imaged 
 
 tiiere 
 In happier beauty ; more pellucid 
 
 streams. 
 An ampler etlier, a diviner air. 
 And fields invested with purpureal 
 
 gleams ; 
 Climes which the sun, who sheds the 
 
 brightest day 
 Earth knows, is all unworthy to survey. 
 
 Yet there tlie Soul shall enter wliich 
 
 hath earned 
 Tiiat privilege by virtue. " 111," said he, 
 ' ' The end of man's existence I discerned, 
 Who from ignoble games and revelry 
 
WORDSWORTH 
 
 53 
 
 Could draw, when we had parted, vain 
 
 delight, 
 While tears were thy best pastime, day 
 
 and night ; 
 
 " And wliile my youthful peers before 
 my eyes 
 
 (Each hero following his peculiar bent) 
 
 Prepared themselves for glorious entei'- 
 prise 
 
 By martial sports, — or, seated in the 
 tent, 
 
 Chieftains and kings in council were de- 
 tained ; 
 
 What time the fleet at Aulis l;iy en- 
 chained. 
 
 "The wished-for wind was given: — I 
 then revolved 
 
 The oracle, vipon the silent sea : 
 
 And, if no worthier led the way, re- 
 solved 
 
 That, of a thousand vessels, mine should 
 be 
 
 The foremost prow in pressing to the 
 strand. — 
 
 Mine the first blood that tinged the Tro- 
 jan sand. 
 
 " Yet bitter, oft-times bitter was the 
 
 pang 
 When of thy loss I thought, beloved 
 
 Wife ! 
 On thee too fondly did my memory 
 
 hang. 
 And on the jovs we shared in mortal 
 
 life.— 
 The patlis which we had trod — these 
 
 fountains, flowers. 
 My new-planned cities, and unfinished 
 
 towers. 
 
 " But should suspense permit the Foe to 
 
 cry, 
 ' Behold they tremble ! — haughty their 
 
 array. 
 Yet of their number no one dares to 
 
 die ? ' 
 In soul I swept the indignity away : 
 Old frailties then recurred : — but lofty 
 
 thought, 
 In act embodied, my deliverance 
 
 wrought. 
 
 " And Thou, though strong in love, art 
 
 al} too weak 
 In reason, in self-government too slow ; 
 I counsel thee by fortitude to seek 
 Our blest re-union in the shades below. 
 
 The invisible world with thee hath sym- 
 pathized ; 
 Be thy affections raised and solemnized. 
 
 " Learn, bj' a mortal yearning, to as- 
 cend — 
 
 Seeking a higher object. Love was 
 given, 
 
 Encouraged, sanctioned, chiefly for that 
 end ; 
 
 For this the passion to excess was 
 driven — 
 
 That self might be annulled : her bond- 
 age prove 
 
 The fetters of a dream, opposed to 
 love." 
 
 Aloud she shrieked ! for Hermes reap- 
 pears ! 
 
 Round the dear Shade she would have 
 clung — "t is vain : 
 
 The hovus are past — too brief had they 
 been years : 
 
 And him no mortal effort can detain : 
 
 Swift, toward the realms that know not 
 earthly day. 
 
 He tlirough the portal takes liis silent 
 way. 
 
 And on the palace-floor a lifeless corse 
 she lay. 
 
 Thus, all in vain exhorted and reproved. 
 She perished ; and, as for a wilful crime. 
 By the just Gods whom no weak pity 
 
 moved. 
 Was (loomed to wear out her appointed 
 
 time. 
 Apart from happy Ghosts, that gather 
 
 flowers 
 Of blissful quiet "mid unfading bowers. 
 
 — Yet tears to human suffering are due ; 
 And mortal hopes defeated and o'er- 
 
 thrown 
 Are mourned by man, and not by man 
 
 alone, 
 As fondly he believes. — Upon the side 
 Of Hellespont (such faith was enter- 
 tained) 
 A knot of spiry trees for ages grew 
 From out the tomb of him for whom she 
 
 died ; 
 And ever, when such stature they had 
 
 gained 
 That Ilium's walls were subject to their 
 
 view. 
 The trees' tall summits withered at the 
 
 sight : 
 A constant interchange of growth and 
 
 blight ! ISU. 1815. 
 
54 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 YARROW VISITED 
 
 SEPTEMBER, 1814 
 
 As mentioned in my verses on the death of the 
 Ettrick Shepherd, my first visit to Yarrow was 
 in his company. We had lodged the night be- 
 fore at Traquhair, where Hogg had joined us 
 ... I seldom read or think of this poem without 
 regretting that my dear Sister was not of the 
 party, as she would have had so much delight in 
 recalling the time when, travelling together in 
 Scotland, we declined going in search of this 
 celebrated stream, not altogether, I will frankly 
 confess, for the reasons assigned in the poem oii 
 the occasion. ( Wordsivorth.) 
 
 And is this— Yarrow ? — TJiis tlie Stream 
 
 Of which my fancy cherished, 
 
 So faithfully, a waking dream ? 
 
 An image that hath perished ! 
 
 O tliat some Minstrel's harj) were near. 
 
 To utter notes of gladness. 
 
 And chase tliis silence from the air, 
 
 That fills my heart with sadness ! 
 
 Yet why ? — a silvery current flows 
 With uncontrolled meanderings ; 
 Nor have these eyes by greener hills 
 Been soothed, in all my wanderings. 
 And, through her depths, Saint Jlary's 
 
 Lake 
 Is visibly delighted ; 
 For not a feature of those hills 
 Is in the mirror slighted. 
 
 A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow vale. 
 
 Save where that pearly whiteness 
 
 Is round the rising sun diffused, 
 
 A tender hazy brightness ; 
 
 Mild dawn of promise ! that excludes 
 
 All profitless dejection ; 
 
 Though not unwilling here to admit 
 
 A pensive recollection. 
 
 Where was it that the famous Flower 
 
 Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding ? 
 
 His bed perchance was yon smooth 
 
 moun d 
 On which the herd is feeding : 
 And haply from this crystal pool. 
 Now peaceful as the morning. 
 The Water-wraith ascended thrice — 
 And gave his doleful warning. 
 
 Delicious is the Lay that sings 
 
 The haunts of happy Lovers, 
 
 The path that leads them to the grove, 
 
 The leafy grove that covers : 
 
 And Pity sanctifies the Verse 
 
 That paints, by strength u£ sorrow, 
 
 The unconquerable strength of love ; 
 Bear witness, rueful Yarrow ! 
 
 But thou, that didst appear so fair 
 
 To fond imagination, 
 
 Dost rival in the light of day 
 
 Her delicate creation : 
 
 Meek loveliness is round thee spread, 
 
 A softness still and holy ; 
 
 The grace of forest charms decayed. 
 
 And pastoral melancholy. 
 
 That region left, the vale unfolds 
 
 Rich groves of lofty stature, 
 
 With Yarrow winding through the 
 
 pom p 
 Of cultivated nature ; 
 And, rising from tho.se lofty groves. 
 Behold a Ruin hoary ! 
 Tlie shattered front of Newark's Towers, 
 Renowned in Border story. 
 
 Fair scenes for childhood's opening 
 
 bloom, 
 For sportive youth to stray in ; 
 For manhood to enjoy his strength ; 
 And age to wear away in ! 
 Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss, 
 A covert for protection 
 Of tender thoughts, that nestle there — 
 The brood of chaste affection. 
 
 How sweet, on this autumnal day, 
 
 The wild- wood fruits to gather. 
 
 And on my True-love's forehead plant 
 
 A crest of Ijlooming heather ! 
 
 And wliat if I enwreatiied nij^ own ! 
 
 'Twere no offence to reason ; 
 
 The sober Hills thus deck their brows 
 
 To meet the wintry season. 
 
 I see — but not by sight alone. 
 
 Loved Yarrow, have I won thee ; 
 
 A ray of fancy still survives^ 
 
 Her sunshine plays upon thee ! 
 
 Thy ever-youthful waters keep 
 
 A course of lively pleasure ; 
 
 And gladsome notes my lips can breathe, 
 
 Accordant to the measure. 
 
 The vapors linger round the Heights, 
 They melt, and soon must vanish ; 
 One hovir is theirs, nor more is mine — 
 Sad thought, which I would banish. 
 But tliat I know, where'er I go, 
 Thy giMiuine image, Yarrow ! 
 Will dwell with me — to heighten joj% 
 And cheer my mind in sorrow. 
 
 ISI4. 1820. 
 
WORDSWORTH 
 
 55 
 
 TO B. R. HAYDON 
 
 B. R. Haydon, the painter, was for many years 
 a friend of Wordsworth. On November 37, 1815. 
 Haydon wrote : " I have benefited and have been 
 supported in the troubles of life by your poetry. 
 . . I will bear want, pain, misery, and blindness ; 
 but I will never yield one step I have gained on 
 the road I am determined to travel over." 
 Wordsworth's answer to this letter was the 
 following sonnet. 
 
 High is our calling, Friend ! — Creative 
 
 Art 
 (Whether the instrument of words she 
 
 use, 
 Or pencil pregnant with ethereal hues.) 
 Denianilw the service of a mind and heart, 
 Thougli sensitive, yet, in their weakest 
 
 part, 
 Heroically fashioned — ^to infuse 
 Faith in the wliispeis of the lonely Muse, 
 AVhile the whole world seems adverse to 
 
 desert. 
 And, oh ! when Natiu-e sinks, as oft she 
 
 may. 
 Through long-lived jiressiu-e of obsciu'e 
 
 distress, 
 Still to be strenuous for tlie bright re- 
 ward. 
 And in the soul admit of no decay. 
 Brook no continuance of weak-minded- 
 ness — • 
 Great is the glory, for the strife is hard ! 
 1S15. 1816. 
 
 NOVEMBER 1 
 
 How clear, how keen, how marvellously 
 bright 
 
 The effluence from yon distant mount- 
 ain's head. 
 
 Which, strewn with snow smooth as the 
 sky can shed. 
 
 Shines like another sun — on mortal sight 
 
 Uprisen, as if to check approaching 
 Night, 
 
 And all her twinkling stars. Who now 
 woidd tread. 
 
 If so he might, yon mountain's glittering 
 head — ■ 
 
 Terrestrial, but a surface, by the flight 
 
 Of sad mortality's earth-sullying wing, 
 
 Unswept, unstained ? Nor shall the 
 aerial Powers 
 
 Dissolve that beauty, destined to endure. 
 
 White, radiant, spotless, exquisitely 
 pure, 
 
 Through all vicissitudes, till genial 
 Spring 
 
 Has filled the laughing vales with wel- 
 come flowers. 1S15. 1816. 
 
 SURPRISED BY JOY — IMPATIENT 
 AS THE WIND 
 
 This was in fact suggested by my daughter 
 Catherine long after her death. ( Wordsworth.) 
 
 Surprised by joy — impatient as the 
 
 Wind 
 I turned to share the transport — Oh ! 
 
 with whom 
 But Tliee, deep buried in the silent tomb. 
 That spot which no vicissitude can find V 
 Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my 
 
 mind — 
 But how could I forget thee ? Through 
 
 what power, 
 Even for the least division of an hour. 
 Have I been so beguiled as to be blind 
 To my most grievous loss? — That 
 
 thought's return 
 Was the worst pang that sorrow ever 
 
 bore. 
 Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn. 
 Knowing my heart's best treasure was 
 
 no more ; 
 That neither present time, nor years un- 
 born 
 Could to my sight that heavenly face 
 
 restore. 1S15. 1815. 
 
 HAST THOU SEEN, WITH FLASH 
 INCESSANT 
 
 Hast thou seen, with flash incessant. 
 Bubbles gliding under ice. 
 Bodied forth and evanescent, 
 No one knows by what device ? 
 
 Such are thoughts ! — -A wind-swept 
 
 meadow 
 Mimicking a troubled sea. 
 Such- is life ; and death a shadow 
 From the rock eternity ! ' ISIS. 1820. 
 
 COMPOSED UPON AN EVENING OF 
 
 EXTRAORDINARY SPLENDOR 
 
 AND BEAUTY 
 
 Had thisefl'ulgence disappeared 
 
 With flying haste, I might have sent, 
 
 Among the speechless clouds, a look 
 
 Of blank astonishment ; 
 
 But 'tis endued with power to stay, 
 
 And sanctify one closing day. 
 
 That frail Mortality may see — 
 
 What is ? — ah no, but what can be ! 
 
 Time was when field and watery cove 
 
56 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 With modulated echoes rang, 
 
 Wliile choirs of fervent Angels sang 
 
 Their vespers in the grove ; 
 
 Or, crowning, star-like, each some 
 
 sovereign height, 
 Warbled, for heaven above and earth 
 
 below. 
 Strains suitable to both.— Such holy rite, 
 Methinks. if audibly repeated now 
 From liill or valley, could not move 
 Sublimer transport, purer love. 
 Than doth this silent spectacle — the 
 
 gleam — 
 The shadow — and the peace supreme ! 
 
 II 
 No sound is uttered, — but a deep 
 And solemn harmony pervades 
 The hollow vale from steep to steep, 
 And penetrates tiie glades. 
 Far-distant images draw nigh. 
 Called forth by wondrous potency 
 Of beamy radiance, that imbues, 
 Whate'er it strikes, with gem-like hues ! 
 In vision exquisiteh'^ clear, 
 Herds range along tlie mountain side ; 
 And glistening antlers are descried ; 
 And gilded flocks appear. 
 Thine is tlie tranquil hour, purpureal 
 
 Eve! 
 But long as god- like wish, or hope 
 
 divine, 
 Informs my spirit, ne'er can I believe 
 That tliis magiiilicpnce is wholly thine ! 
 — From worlds not quickened by the sun 
 A portion of the gift is won ; 
 An intermingling of Heaven's pomp is 
 
 spread 
 On ground whicli British shepherds 
 
 tread ! 
 
 Ill 
 
 And, if there be whom broken ties 
 
 Afflict, or injuries assail, 
 
 Yon liazy ridges to their eyes 
 
 Present a glorious scale, 
 
 Climbing suflfused with sunny air. 
 
 To stop — no record hath told where ! 
 
 And tempting Fancy to ascend. 
 
 And with immortal Spirits blend ! 
 
 — Wings at my shoulders seem to play ; 
 
 But, rooted liere, I stand and gaze 
 
 On those bright steps that heavenward 
 
 raise 
 Their practicable way. 
 Come forth, ye drooping old men, look 
 
 abroad. 
 And see to what fair countries ye are 
 
 bound ! 
 
 And if some traveller, weary of his road, 
 Hath slept since noontide on the grassy 
 
 ground, 
 Ye Genii ! to his covert speed ; 
 And wake him with such gentle heed 
 As may attune his soul to meet the 
 
 dower 
 Bestowed on this transcendent hour ! 
 
 Such hues from tlieir celestial Urn 
 
 Were wont to stream before mine eye, 
 
 Wliere'er it wandered in the morn 
 
 Of blissful infancy. 
 
 This glimpse of glory, why renewed ? 
 
 Nay, rather speak with gratitude ; 
 
 For, if a vestige of those gleams 
 
 Survived, 'twas only in my dreams. 
 
 Dread Power ! whom peace and calm- 
 ness serve 
 
 No less than Nature's threatening voice. 
 
 If aught unworthj- be my choice, 
 
 From Thee if I would swerve ; 
 
 Oh, let thv grace remind me of the 
 light"^ 
 
 Full early lost, and fruitlessly deplored ; 
 
 Which, at this moment, on my waking 
 sight 
 
 Appears to shine, by miracle restored ; 
 
 My soul, though yet confined to earth. 
 
 Rejoices in a second birtli ! 
 
 — "Tis past, the visionary splendour 
 fades ; 
 
 And night approaches witli her shades. 
 i<S7,S'. 1820. 
 
 SEPTEMBER, 1819 
 
 Departing summer hath assumed 
 An aspect tenderly illumed. 
 The gentlest look of spring : 
 That calls from yonder leafy shade 
 Unfaded, yet prepared to fade, 
 A timely carolling. 
 
 No faint and hesitating trill. 
 
 Such tribute as to winter chill 
 
 The lonely redbreast pays ! , 
 
 Clear, loud, and lively is the din. 
 
 From social warblers gathering in 
 
 Their harvest of sweet laj's. 
 
 Nor doth the example fail to cheer 
 Me, conscious that my leaf is sere. 
 And yellow on the bough : — 
 Fall, rosy garlands, from my head ! 
 Ye myrtle wreaths, your fragrance shed 
 Around a younger brow ! 
 
WORDSWORTH 
 
 57 
 
 Yet will I temperately rejoice ; 
 
 Wide is the range, ami free the choice 
 
 Of un discordant themes ; 
 
 Which, haply, kindred souls may prize 
 
 Not less than vernal ecstasies, 
 
 And passion's feverish dreams. 
 
 For deathless powers to verse belong, 
 
 And they like Demi-gods are strong 
 
 On whom the Muses smile ; 
 
 But some their function have dis- 
 claimed. 
 
 Best pleased with what is aptliest 
 framed 
 
 To enervate and defile. 
 
 Not such the initiatory strains 
 Committed to the silent plains 
 In Britain's earliest dawn : 
 Trembled tlie groves, the stars grew 
 
 pale. 
 Wliile all-too-daringly the veil 
 Of nature was withdrawn ! 
 
 Nor such the spirit-stirring note 
 When the live chords Alca?us smote. 
 Inflamed by sense of wrong ; 
 Woe ! woe to Tyrants ! from the lyre 
 Broke threateningly, in sjiarkles dire 
 Of fierce vindictive song. 
 
 And not unhallowed was the page 
 By winged Love inscribed, to assuage 
 The pangs of vain pursuit ; 
 L(jve listening wliile the Lesbian Maid 
 With finest touch of passion swayed 
 Her own ^olian lute. 
 
 ye. wlio patiently explore 
 The wreck of Herculanean lore, 
 What rapture ! could j'e seize 
 Some Tlieban fragment, or unroll 
 One precious, tender-hearted, scroll 
 Of pure Simonides. 
 
 Tliat were, indeed, a genuine birth 
 Of poesj- ; a bursting forth 
 Of genius from the dust : 
 Wliat Horace gloried to behold. 
 What Maro loved, shall we enfold ? 
 Can haughty Time be just ! 
 
 1S19. 1830. 
 
 AFTER-THOUGHT 
 
 1 THOUGHT of Thee, my partner and my 
 
 guide. 
 As being past away. — Vain sjMupathies ! 
 For, backward, Duddon, as I cast my 
 
 eyes, 
 
 1 see wliat was, and is, and will abide ; 
 
 Still glides tlie Stream, and shall for 
 ever glide : 
 
 The Form remains, the Function never 
 dies ; 
 
 While we. the brave, the might}', and 
 the wise. 
 
 We Men. who in our morn of youth de- 
 fied 
 
 Tlie elements, must vanish ; — be it so ! 
 
 Enough, if sometliing from our hands 
 have power 
 
 To live, and act, and serve the future 
 hour ; 
 
 And if, as toward the silent tomb we 
 
 Througli love, tlnough hope, and faith's 
 
 transcendent dower. 
 We feel that we are greater than we 
 
 know. 1S20. .1830, 
 
 MUTABILITY 
 
 From low to high doth dissolution 
 
 climb. 
 And sink from liigh to low, along a 
 
 scale 
 Of awiul notes, whose concord sliall not 
 
 fail : 
 A musical but melancholy chime. 
 Which they can hear who meddle not 
 
 witli crime, 
 Nor avarice, nor over-anxious care. 
 Truth fails not : but her outward forms 
 
 that liear 
 Tlie longest date do melt like frosty 
 
 rime, 
 That in the morning whitened hill and 
 
 ])lain 
 And is no more ; drop like the tower 
 
 subliiue 
 Of yesterday, which royally did wear 
 His crown of weeds, but could not even 
 
 sustain 
 Some casual shout tliat broke the silent 
 
 air. 
 Or the unimaginable touch of Time. 
 
 1S21. 1832. 
 
 INSIDE OF KING'S COLLEGE 
 CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE 
 
 Tax not the roj^al Saint with vain ex- 
 pense. 
 
 With ill-matched aims the Architect 
 who planned — 
 
 Albeit laboring for a scant}"^ band 
 
 Of white-robed Scholars only — this im- 
 mense 
 
58 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 And glorious Work of fine intelligence ! 
 
 Give all thou canst ; high Heaven re- 
 jects the lore 
 
 Of nicely-calculated less or more ; 
 
 So deemed the man who fashioned for 
 the sense 
 
 These lofty pillars, spi-ead that branch- 
 ing roof 
 
 Self-poised, and scooped into ten thou- 
 sand cells, 
 
 Where light and shade repose, where 
 music dwells 
 
 Lingering — and wandering on as loth to 
 die ; 
 
 Like thouglits whose very sweetness 
 yieldeth proof 
 
 That they were born for immortalitv. 
 18:21. 1832. 
 
 MEMORY 
 
 A PEN— to register ; a key — 
 That winds througli secret wards ; 
 Are well assigned to Memoiy 
 By allegoric Bards. 
 
 As aptly, also, might be given 
 
 A Pencil to her hand ; 
 
 Tliat, softening objects, sometimes even 
 
 Outstrips the heart's demand ; 
 
 That smooths foregone distress, the 
 
 lines 
 Of lingering care subdues. 
 Long-vanished happiness refines, 
 And clothes in brighter hues ; 
 
 Yet. like a tool of Fancy, works 
 Those Spectres to dilate 
 That startle Conscience, as she lurks 
 Witiiin her lonely seat. 
 
 Oh ! tliat our lives, which flee so fast. 
 In purity were such. 
 That not an image of the past • 
 Sliould fear that pencil's touch ! 
 
 Retirement then might hourly look 
 Upon a soothing scene. 
 Age steal to his allotted nook 
 Contented and serene ; 
 
 With heart as calm as lakes that sleep, 
 In frosty moonlight glistening ; 
 Or mountain rivers, where they creep 
 Along a channel smooth and deep. 
 To their own far-off murmurs listening. 
 1SJ3. 1837. 
 
 TO A SKY-LARK 
 
 Ethereal minstrel ! pilgrim of the sky ! 
 Dost thou despise the earth where cares 
 
 abound ? 
 Or, while the wings aspire, are heart 
 
 and eye 
 Both with thy nest upon the dewy 
 
 ground ? 
 Thy nest which thou canst drop into at 
 
 will, 
 Those quivering wings composed, that 
 
 music still ! 
 
 Leave to the nightingale her shady 
 wood ; 
 
 A privacy of glorious light is thine ; 
 
 Whence thou dost pour upon the world 
 a flood 
 
 Of harmony, with instinct more di- 
 vine ; 
 
 Type of the wise who soar, but never 
 roam ; 
 
 True to the kindred points of Heaven 
 and Home ! 1S25. 1837. 
 
 SCORN NOT THE SONNET 
 
 Composed, almost extempare, in a short walk 
 on the western side of Rydal Lake. ( Wordsworth.) 
 
 Scorn not the Sonnet ; Critic, you have 
 
 frowned. 
 Mindless of its just honors ; with this 
 
 key 
 Shakspeare urdocked liis heart ; the 
 
 melody 
 Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's 
 
 wound ; 
 A thousand times this pipe did Tasso 
 
 sound ; 
 With it Camoens soothed an exile's 
 
 grief ; 
 Tlie Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf 
 Amid the cypress with which Dante 
 
 crowned 
 His visionary brow : a glow-worm lamp, 
 It cheered mild Spenser, called from 
 
 Faery land 
 To struggle through dark ways ; and, 
 
 when a damp 
 Fell round the path of Milton, in his 
 
 hand 
 The Thing became a trumpet ; whence 
 
 he blew 
 Soul-animating strains — alas, too few ! 
 1SJ7. 1837. 
 
WORDSWORTH 
 
 59 
 
 THE PRIMROSE OF THE ROCK 
 
 Written at Rydal Mount. The Rock stands on 
 the right hand a little way leading up tlie middle 
 road f roui Rydal to Grasmere. We have been 
 in the habit of calling it tlie glow-worm rock 
 from the number of glow-worms we have often 
 seen hanging on it as described. The tuft of 
 prinu-ose has, I fear, been washed away by the 
 heavy rains. (Wordsworth) 
 
 See Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal, April 24th, 
 
 A Rock there is wliose homely front 
 Tlie passing traveller slights ; 
 
 Yet there the glow-worms hang their 
 lamps, 
 Like stars, at various heights ; 
 
 And one coy Primrose to that Rock 
 The vernal breeze invites. 
 
 What liideous warfare hath been waged, 
 What kingdoms overthrown, 
 
 Since fir.st I spied that Primrose-tuft 
 And marked it for my own ; 
 
 A lasting link in Nature's chain 
 From highest heaven let down ! 
 
 The flowers, still faithful to tiie stem.>j. 
 
 Their fellowship renew ; 
 The stems are faithfid to the root. 
 
 That worketli out of view ; 
 And to the rock the root adheres 
 
 In every fibre true. 
 
 Close clings to earth the living rock, 
 Tliougii threatening still to fall ; 
 
 The earth is constant to her sphere ; 
 And God upholds them all : 
 
 So blooms tins lonely Plant, nor dreads 
 Her annual funeral. 
 
 Here closed the meditative strain ; 
 
 But air breathed soft that day. 
 The hoary mountain-heights were 
 cheered, 
 
 Tlie sunny vale looked gay ; 
 And to tlie Primrose of the Rock 
 
 I gave this after-lay. 
 
 I sang — Let myriads of bright flowers. 
 Like Thee, in field and grove 
 
 Revive unenvied ; — mightier far, 
 Than tremblings that reprove 
 
 Our vernal tendencies to hope, 
 Is God's redeeming love ; 
 
 That love which changed — for wan dis- 
 ease. 
 
 For sorrow that had bent 
 O'er hopeless dust, for witiiered age — 
 
 Their moral element, 
 And turned the thistles of a curse 
 
 To types beneficent. 
 
 Sin-blighted though we are, we too. 
 
 The reasoning Sons of Men. 
 From one oblivious winter called 
 
 Shall rise, and breathe again ; 
 And in eternal summer lose 
 
 Our threescore years and ten. 
 
 To humbleness of heart descends 
 This prescience fi-oni on high, 
 
 The faith that elevates the just, 
 Before and when they die ; 
 
 And makes each soul a separate heaven. 
 A court for Deity. 1S31. 1835. 
 
 YARROW REVISITED 
 
 The following Stanzas are a memorial of a day 
 passed with Sir Walter Scott and other Friends 
 visiting the Banks of tlie Yarrow under his guid- 
 ance, immediately before his departure from 
 Abbotsford, for Naples. 
 
 The title Yarroiv Revinited will stand in no need 
 of explanation for Readers acquainted with the 
 Author's previous poems suggested by that cele- 
 brated Stream. {Wordsivorth.) 
 
 The gallant Youth, who may have 
 gained. 
 
 Or seeks, a " winsome Marrow," 
 Was but an Infant in the lap 
 
 When first I looked on Yarrow ; 
 Once more, by Newark's Castle-gate 
 
 Long left without a warder, 
 I stood, looked, listened, and with Thee, 
 
 Great Minstrel of the Border ! 
 
 Grave thoughts ruled wide on th;»t 
 sweet day. 
 
 Their dignity installing 
 In gentle bosoms, while sere leaves 
 
 Were on the bough, or falling : 
 But breezes played, and sunshine 
 gleamed— 
 
 The forest to embolden ; 
 Reddened the fiery hues, and shot 
 
 Transparence through the golden. 
 
 For busy thoughts the Sti-eam flowed on 
 
 In foamy agitation ; 
 And slept in many a crystal pool 
 
 For quiet contemplation : 
 No public and no private care 
 
 The freeborn mind enthralling. 
 We made a day of happy hours. 
 
 Our happy days recalling. 
 
 Brisk Youtli appeared, the Morn of 
 youth , 
 
 With freaks of graceful folly, — 
 Life's temperate Noon, her sober Eve, 
 
 Her Night not melancholy : 
 Past, present, futuie, all appeared 
 
 In harmony united, 
 
6o 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Like guests that meet, and some from 
 far. 
 By cordial love invited. 
 
 And if, as Yarrow, through the woods 
 
 And down the meadow ranging, 
 Did meet us with unaltered face, 
 
 Though we were changed and cliang- 
 ing; 
 If, then, some natural shadows spread 
 
 Our inward prospect over. 
 The soul's deep valley was not slow 
 
 Its brightness to recover. 
 
 Eternal blessings on the Muse, 
 
 And her divine employment ! 
 Tlie blameless Muse, who trains her Sons 
 
 For hope and calm enjoyment ; 
 Albeit sickness, lingering j^et, 
 
 Has o'er their pillow brooded ; 
 And Care waylays their steps — a Sprite 
 
 Not easily eluded. 
 
 For thee, O Scott ! compelled to change 
 
 Green Eildon-hill and Clieviot 
 For warm Vesuvio's vine-clad slopes ; 
 
 And leave thy Tweed and Tiviot 
 For mild Sorrento's breezy waves ; 
 
 May classic Fancy, linking 
 With native Fancy her fresh aid. 
 
 Preserve thy heart from sinking ! 
 
 Oh ! while thej' minister to thee, 
 
 Eacli vying with the other. 
 May Health return to mellow Age 
 
 With Strengtli, her venturous brotlier ; 
 And Tiber, and each brook and rill 
 
 Renowned in song and story. 
 With unimagined beauty shine, 
 
 Nor lose one ray of glory ! 
 
 For Thou, upon a hundred streams. 
 
 By tales of love and sorrow, 
 Of faitliful love, undaunted truth. 
 
 Hast slied the power of Yarrow ; 
 And streams unknown, hills yet unseen. 
 
 Wherever they invite Thee, 
 At parent Nature's grateful call. 
 
 With gladness must requite Thee. 
 
 A gracious welcome shall be thine, 
 
 Sucli looks of love and honor 
 As thy own Yarrow gave to me 
 
 When first I gazed upon her : 
 Belield what I had feared to see, 
 
 Unwilling to surrender 
 Dreams treasured up from early days. 
 
 The holy and the tender. 
 
 And what, for this frail world, were all 
 That mortals do or suflfei'. 
 
 Did no responsive harp, no pen, 
 
 Memorial tribute offer ? 
 Yea. what were mighty Natvire's self? 
 
 Her features, could they win us, 
 Un helped by the poetic voice 
 
 That hourly speaks within us ? 
 
 Nor deem that localized Romance 
 
 Plays false witii our affections ; 
 Unsanctifies our tears — made sport 
 
 For fanciful dejections : 
 Ah. no ! the visions of tlie past 
 
 Sustain the heart in feeling 
 Life as she is — our changefnl Life, 
 
 With friends and kindred dealing. 
 
 Bear witness, Ye, whose thoughts that 
 day 
 
 In Yarrow's groves were centred ; 
 Who through the silent portal arch 
 
 Of mouldering Newark entered ; 
 And clomb the winding stair that once 
 
 Too timidly was mounted 
 By the " last" Minstrel," (not the last !) 
 
 Ere he his Tale recounted. 
 
 Flow on for ever. Yarrow Stream ! 
 
 Fulfil thy ])ensive duty. 
 Well i)leased that future Bards should 
 chant 
 
 For simple hearts thy beauty ; 
 To dream-liuht dear while yet unseen, 
 
 Dear to tlie common sunshine, 
 And dearer still, as now I feel, 
 
 To memory's shadowy moonshine ! 
 1S31 i835. 
 
 THE TROSACHS 
 
 As recorded in my sister's Journal, I had first 
 seen the Trosaehs in her and Coleridge's com- 
 pany. Tlie sentiment that runs through this 
 Sonnet was natural to the season in which I 
 again saw this beautiful spot ; but this and some 
 other soiniets that follow were colored by the 
 remembrance of my recent visit to Sir Walter 
 Scott, and the melancholy errand on which he 
 was going. ( Wordsworth.) 
 
 There's not a nook within this solemn 
 
 Pass, 
 But were an apt confessional for One 
 Taught by his summer spent, his autumn 
 
 gone. 
 That Life is but a tale of morning grass 
 Withered at eve. From scenes of art 
 
 which cliase 
 That thought awaj', turn, and with 
 
 watchful eyes 
 Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities. 
 Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more 
 
 clear than glass 
 
WORDSWORTH 
 
 6i 
 
 Untouclied, unbreathed upon. Thrice 
 
 happy quest, 
 If from a gokleu perch of aspen spi'aj' 
 (October's workuiaiisliip to rival May) 
 The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast 
 That moral sweeten by a heaven-tauglit 
 
 lay. 
 Lulling the vear. witli all its cares, to 
 
 rest! " 1831. 1835; 
 
 IF THOU INDEED DERIVE THY 
 LIGHT FROM HEAVEN 
 
 If tliou indeed derive tliy light from 
 Heaven , 
 
 riien, to tlie measure of that heaven- 
 born liglit, 
 
 Sliiiie, Poet ! in thy place, and be content: 
 
 The stars pre-eminent in magnitude, 
 
 And tliey tliat from tlie zenith dart tlieir 
 bea.ms, 
 
 (Visible tliough tliey be to half the earth. 
 
 Though half a sphere be conscious of 
 their brightness) 
 
 Ai'e yet of no diviner origin. 
 
 No purer essence, than the one that 
 burns, 
 
 Like an untended watch-fire on the ridge 
 
 Of some dark movmtain ; or than those 
 whicli seem 
 
 Humbly to hang, like twinkling winter 
 lamps, 
 
 Among the branches of the leafless trees. 
 
 All are the undying olFspringof oneSire : 
 
 Then, to tlie measure of tlie light voucli- 
 safed. 
 
 Shine, Poet ! in tli}^ place, and be con- 
 tent. 1S32. 1836. 
 
 IF THIS GREAT WORLD OF JOY 
 AND PAIN 
 
 If tills great world of joy and pain 
 
 Revolve in one sure track ; 
 If freedom, set. will rise agnin. 
 
 And virtue, flown, come back ; 
 Woe to tlie pnrl)liiid crew who fill 
 
 The heart with each day's care ; 
 Nor gain, from jiast or future, skill 
 
 To bear, and to forbear ! 
 
 1S33. 1835. 
 
 " THERE ! " SAID A STRIPLING, 
 POINTING WITH MEET PRIDE 
 
 "There!" said a Stripling, pointing 
 
 with meet jiride 
 Towards a low roof with green trees 
 
 half concealed, 
 
 " Is Mosgiel Farm ; and that's the very 
 
 field 
 Where Burns ploughed up the Daisy." 
 
 Far and wide 
 A plain below stretched seaward, while, 
 
 descried 
 Above sea-clouds, the Peaks of Arran 
 
 rose ; 
 And, by that simple notice, the repose 
 Of eartli, sky, sea and air, was vivified. 
 Beneath "the random hield of clod or 
 
 stone " 
 Myriads of daisies have shone forth in 
 
 flower 
 Near the lark's nest, and in their natural 
 
 hour 
 Have iiassed away ; less happy than the 
 
 One 
 That, l\y the unwilling ploughshare, died 
 
 to prove 
 The tender charm of poetry and love. 
 1S33. 1835. 
 
 MOST SWEET IT IS WITH UN- 
 UPLIFTED EYES 
 
 Most sweet it is with umiplifted eyes 
 To pace the ground, if patli be there or 
 
 none. 
 While a fair region round the traveller 
 
 lies 
 Which he forbears again to look upon ; 
 Pleased rather with some soft ideal .scene, 
 Tlie work of Fancy, or some happy tone 
 Of meditation, slipping in between 
 The beauty coining and the beauty gone. 
 If Thought and Love desert us, from that 
 
 day 
 Let us break off all commerce with the 
 
 Muse : 
 With Thought and Love companions of 
 
 our way, 
 Whate'er the senses take or may refuse, 
 T'.ie Mind's internal heaven shall shed her 
 
 dews 
 Of inspiration on the humblest lay. 
 
 1833. 1835. 
 
 EXTEMPORE EFFUSION UPON THE 
 DEATH OF JAMES HOGGi 
 
 When first, descending from the luoor- 
 
 lands, 
 I saw the Stream of Yarrow glide 
 
 ' Walter Scott died Sept. 21, 1833 
 
 S. T. Coleridge " Jn'y 25, 1834 
 
 Charles Lamb " I>ec. 27, 1834 
 
 Geo. Crabbe " Feb. 3, 18.3-2 
 
 Felicia Heniaus " May 16, 1834 
 
62 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Along a bare and open valley, 
 
 The Ettrick Shepherd was nij- guide. 
 
 When last along its banks I wandered 
 Through groves tliat had begun to shed 
 Their golden leaves upon the pathways, 
 My steps the Border-minstrel led. 
 
 The mighty Minstrel breatlies no longer, 
 'Mid mouldering ruins low he lies ; 
 And death upon tlie braes of Yarrow, 
 Has closed the Shepherd-poet's eyes : 
 
 Nor has the rolling year twice measured, 
 From sign to sign, its steadfast course. 
 Since every mortal power of Coleridge 
 Was frozen at its marvellous source ; 
 
 The rapt One, of the godlike forehead, 
 The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in 
 
 earth : 
 And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle. 
 Has vanished from his lonely hearth. 
 
 Like clouds that rake the inountain- 
 
 summits. 
 Or waves that own no curbing hand. 
 How fast lias brother followed brotlier 
 From sunshine to the sunless land ! 
 
 Yet I. whose lids from infant slumber 
 Were earlier raised, remain to hear 
 A timid voice, that asks in whispers, 
 " Who next will drop and disappear ? " 
 
 Our haughty life is crowned with dark- 
 ness. 
 
 Like London with its own black wreath, 
 
 On which with thee, O Crabbe ! forth- 
 looking. 
 
 I gazed from Hampstead's breezy heath. 
 
 As if but yesterday departed, 
 Thou too art gone before ; but why. 
 O'er ripe fruit, seasonably gathered, 
 Should frail survivors heave a sigh ? 
 
 Mourn rather for that holy Spirit, 
 Sweet as the spring, as ocean deep : 
 For Her who, ere her summer faded. 
 Has sunk into a breathless sleep. 
 
 No more of old romantic sorrows. 
 
 For slaughtered Youth or love-lorn 
 
 Maid! 
 With sharper grief is Yarrow smitten. 
 And Ettrick mourns with her their Poet 
 
 dead. November, 1SS5. 1836. 
 
 A POET !— HE HATH PUT HIS 
 HEART TO SCHOOL 
 
 A Poet! -lie hath put his heart to 
 
 school, 
 Nor dares to move unpropped upon the 
 
 staff 
 Which Art hath lodged within his hand 
 
 — must laugh 
 B}' precept onh', and shed tears by rule. 
 Thy Art be Nature ; the live current 
 
 quaff. 
 And let the groveller sip his stagnant 
 
 pool, 
 In fear that else, when Critics grave and 
 
 cool 
 Have killed him, Scorn should write his 
 
 epitaph. 
 How does the Meadow-flower its bloom 
 
 unfold ? . 
 
 Because the lovely little flower is free 
 Down to its root, and, in that freedom, 
 
 bold; 
 And so the grandeur of the Forest-tree 
 Comes not by casting in a formal mould, 
 But from its own divine vitalitv. 
 
 IS 42. 1842. 
 
 SO FAIR, SO SWEET, WITHAL SO 
 SENSITIVE 
 
 So fair, so sweet, witlial so sensitive. 
 Would that the little Flowers were born 
 
 to live. 
 Conscious of half tlie pleasure which 
 
 the}^ give ; 
 
 That to this mountain-daisy's self were 
 
 known 
 The beauty of its star-shaped shadow, 
 
 thrown 
 On the smooth surface of this naked 
 
 stone ! 
 
 And what if hence a bold desire should 
 
 mount 
 High as the Sun, that he could take 
 
 account 
 Of all that issues from his glorious 
 
 fount ! 
 
 So might he ken how by his sovereign 
 
 aid 
 Tiiese delicate companionsliips are 
 
 made ; 
 And how he rules the pomp of- light 
 
 and shade ; 
 
WORDSWORTH 
 
 63 
 
 And were the Sister-power that shines 
 
 bj- night 
 So privileged, what a countenance of 
 
 delight 
 Would til rough the clouds break forth 
 
 on human sight ! 
 
 Fond fancies ! wheresoe'er shall turn 
 
 thine eye 
 On earth, air, ocean, or the starry sky. 
 Converse with Nature in pure sympa- 
 thy ; 
 
 All vain desires, all lawless wislies 
 quelled, 
 
 Be Tliou to love and praise alike im- 
 pelled 
 
 Whatever boon is granted or withheld. 
 IS 45. 1845. 
 
 THE UNREMITTING VOICE OF 
 NIGHTLY STREAMS 
 
 The unremitting A'oice of nightly 
 
 streams 
 Tliat wastes so oft, we think, its tune- 
 ful powers. 
 If neitlier soothing to the worm that 
 
 gleams 
 Through dew}' grass, nor small birds 
 
 liushed in bowers. 
 Nor unto silent leaves and drowsy 
 
 flowers, — 
 That voice of unpretending harmony 
 (For who whatissliall measure by what 
 
 seems 
 To be, or not to be. 
 
 Or tax high Heaven with prodigality?) 
 Wants not a healing influence that can 
 
 creep 
 
 Into the human breast, and mix with 
 sleep 
 
 To regulate the motion of our dreams 
 
 For kindly issues — as through every 
 clime 
 
 Was felt near murmuring brooks in 
 earliest time ; 
 
 As at this day, the rudest swains who 
 dwell 
 
 Where torrents roar, or hear the tink- 
 ling knell 
 
 Of watei'-breaks, with grateful heart 
 could tell 1846. 1850. 
 
 SONNET 
 
 TO AN OCTOGENARIAN 
 
 Affections lose their object ; Time 
 
 brings forth 
 No successors ; and, lodged in memory, 
 If love exist no longer, it must die, — 
 Wanting accustomed food, must pass 
 
 from earth. 
 Or never hope to reacii a second birth. 
 Tliis sad belief, the happiest that is left 
 To thousands, share not Thou ; howe'er 
 
 bereft, 
 Scorned, or neglected, fear not such a 
 
 dearth. 
 Though poor and destitute of friends 
 
 thou art. 
 Perhaps the sole survivor of thy race. 
 One to whom Heaven assigns that 
 
 mournful part 
 The utmost solitude of age to face. 
 Still shall be left some corner of the 
 
 heart 
 Where Love for living Thing can find a 
 
 place. 1S4G. 1850. 
 
COLERIDGE 
 
 LIST OF REFERENCES 
 
 Editions 
 
 There is no " standard " edition of Coleridge's Poetical Works, though 
 that edited by James Dykes Campbell nearly tills the place of one. The 
 best editions are : the Pickering Edition, London, 181*7, 4 volumes ; re- 
 issued by The Macmillan Co., with additions, in 1880 ; the Aldine Edition, 
 2 volumes, 1885 ; the Riverside Edition (Houghton, Mifflin & Co.) ; and 
 the * Globe Edition, edited by James Dykes Campbell, 1 volume, 1893, 
 (The Macmillan Co.). 
 
 Biography 
 
 GiLLM AX (James), The Life of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Vol I, 1838 
 (not completed). Ijuandl (Alois), Samuel Taylor Coleridge und die eng- 
 lische Roman tik, Berlin, 1886. (English edition, by Lady Eastlake, as- 
 sisted by the author, 1887). Traill (H. D.), Coleridge, (English Men of 
 Letters Series), 1884. Caine (T. Hall), Coleridge (Great Writers Series), 
 1887. * Campbell (James Dykes), Samuel Taylor Coleridge, a Narrative 
 of the Events of his Life, 1894. (See also Knight's Life of Wordsworth.) 
 
 Persoj^al Reminiscences and Early Criticism 
 
 Coleridge (S. T.), Biographia Literaria. Table Talk. Letters, edited 
 by Ernest Hartley Coleridge. Anima Poetse, Selections from the unpub- 
 lished Note-Books of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, edited by Ernest Hartley 
 Coleridge. Letters, Conversations, and Recollections of S. T. Coleridge, 
 edited by Thomas Allsop. Memoir and Letters of Sara Coleridge, edited 
 by her daughter. Cottle (Joseph), Early Recollections of S. T. 
 Coleridge. Talfourd (T. N.), Final Memorials of Lamb. Rohin- 
 soN (H. C), Diary. Hazlitt (William), My First Acquaintance with Poets. 
 Hazlitt (William), Spirit of the Age. Hazlitt (William), Lectures on 
 the English Poets ; Lecture 8. De Quincey (Masson's Edition), Vol. 5, 
 Coleridge and Opium-Eating. Mitford (M. R.), Recollections of a Literary 
 Life. Wilson (John), Essays. Jeffrey (Lord Francis), Critical Essays : 
 Coleridge's Literary Life. * Carlyle, The Life of John Sterling, Cha]). >k 
 Lamb (Charles), Works: * Christ's Hospital Five and Thirty Years Ago ; 
 Recollections of Christ's Hospital ; On the Death of Coleridge. * Words- 
 worth (Doroth}'), Recollections of a Tour in Scotland. Journal. 
 
 64 
 
COLERIDGE 65 
 
 Later Criticism 
 
 Mill (J. S.), Dissertations and Discussions. Stephen (Leslie), Hours 
 in a Library, Vol. III. * Pater (Walter), Appreciations. * Lowell 
 (J. R.), Prose Works. * Swinburxe (A. C), Essays and Studies. * Gar- 
 nett (R.), Essays of an Ex-librarian : The Poetry of Coleridge. Robert- 
 son (John M.), New Essays Towards a Critical Method. Winter (W.), 
 Shakespeare's England : At the Grave of Coleridge. Rossetti (W. M.), 
 Lives of Famous Poets. Dowden (Edward), New Studies in Literature : 
 Coleridge as a Poet. Dowden (Edward), French Revolution and Eng- 
 lish Literature : Essay IV. Beers, English Romanticism in the Nine- 
 teenth Century. Woodberry (G. E.), Makers of Literature. Shairp 
 (J, C), Studies in Poetry and Philosophy. Calvert (G. IL), Biographic 
 Aesthetic Studies : Coleridge, Shelley, Goethe. Mitchell (D. G.), Eng- 
 lish Lands, Letters and Kings. Saintsbury (G.), Essays in English 
 Literature : Coleridge and Southey. Birrell (Augustine), Obiter Dicta. 
 Watson (William), Excursions in Criticism. 
 
 Bayne (Peter), Essays, II. Bell (C. D.), Some of our English Poets. 
 Brooke (Stopford A.), Theology in the English Poets. Brooks (S. W.), 
 English Poetry and Poets. Chancellor (E. B.), Literary Types. Chor- 
 ley (Henry F.), Authors of England. Dawson (G.), Biographical Lec- 
 tures. Dawson (W. J.), Makers of Modern English. Deshler (C. D.) 
 Afternoons with the Poets. Devey (J.), Comparative Estimate of Mod- 
 ern English Poets. Dixon (W. M.), English Poetry : Blake to Brown- 
 ings Frothingham (O. B.), Transcendentalism in New England. Hall 
 (S. C), Book of Memories. Hancock (A. E.), The French Revolution 
 and the English Poets. Johnson (C. F.), Three Americans and Three 
 Englishmen. MacDonald (G.), England's Antiphon. O'IIagan (T.), Oc- 
 casional Papers. Ossoli (M. F.), Art, Literature and the Drama. Reed 
 (H.), Lectures on British Poets : II. Shairp (J. C), Studies in Poetry. 
 Sharp (R. F.), Architects of English Literature. Shedd (W. G. F.), Lit- 
 erary Essays. Swan wick (A.), Poets the Interpreters of Their Age. 
 THo:\rsoN (K. B.), Recollections of Literary Characters. Tifckerman 
 (H. T.), Thoughts on the Poets. Wotton (Mabel E.), Word Portraits. 
 
 Memorial Verses, etc. 
 
 Shelley, To Coleridge. * Rossetti (D. G.), Five English Poets: 
 Sauuiel Taylor Coleridge. De Vere (Aubrey), Coleridge. Browning 
 (E. B.), A Vision of Poets. Watts-Dunton (T.), Coleridge (in Stedman's 
 Victorian Anthology.) Watson (William), Lines in a Fly-Leaf of Chris- 
 tabel. Helljian (G. S.), Coleridge (in Stedman's American Anthology). 
 
 Bibliography 
 
 Shepherd (R. H.), Bibliography of Coleridge ; revised by W. F. Pri- 
 deaux. Haney (J. L.), A Bibliography of Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 
 
 5 
 
COLERIDGE 
 
 LIFE 
 
 As late I journey'd o'er the extensive 
 
 plain 
 Where native Otter sports his scanty 
 
 stream. 
 Musing in torpid woe a sister's pain. 
 Tlie glorious prospect woke nie from 
 
 the dream. 
 
 At every step it widen'd to my siglit. 
 Wood, Meadow, verdant Hill, and dreary 
 
 Steep, 
 Following in quick succession of delight. 
 Till all — at once — did my eye ravish'd 
 
 sweep 
 
 May this (1 cried) my course through 
 Life portray ! 
 
 New scenes of wisdom may each step 
 display. 
 
 And knowledge open as my days ad- 
 vance ! 
 
 Till what time Death shall pour the un- 
 darken'd ray. 
 
 My eye shall dart thro' infinite ex- 
 panse, 
 
 And tl)Ought suspended lie in rapture's 
 blissful trance. 
 
 September, 17S9. 1834.1 
 
 LINES 
 
 ON AN AUTUMNAL EVENING 
 
 O THOU wild Fancy, clieck tliy wing ! 
 
 No more 
 Those tliin white flakes, those purple 
 
 clouds explore ! 
 Nor there with happy spirits speed thy 
 
 flight 
 
 1 The dates for Coleridge's poems are made up 
 from the Shepherd-Prideaux and the Haney 
 bibliographies, and from the excellent notes to 
 Campbell's edition of the Poetical Works. 
 
 66 
 
 Bathed in rich amber-glowing floods of 
 
 light ; 
 Nor in yon gleam, where slow descends 
 
 the day, 
 With western peasant hail the morning 
 
 ray ! 
 Ah ! rather bid the perished pleasures 
 
 move, 
 A shadowy train, across the soul of 
 
 Love ! 
 O'er disappointment's wintr^y desert fling 
 Eacli flower that wreatlied tlie dewj' 
 
 locks of Spring, 
 Wlien blusliing, like a bride, from Hope's 
 
 trim bower 
 She leapt, awakened by the pattering 
 
 shower. 
 Now sheds the sinking Sun a deeper 
 
 gleam. 
 Aid, lovely Sorceress I aid thy Poet's 
 
 dream ! 
 With faery wand O bid the Maid arise. 
 Chaste Joyance dancing in lier bright- 
 blue eyes : 
 As erst when from the Muses' calm 
 
 abode 
 I came, with Learning's meed not un- 
 
 bestowed : 
 When as she twined a laurel round my 
 
 brow. 
 And met my kiss, and half returned my 
 
 vow. 
 O'er all my frame shot rapid my thrilled 
 
 heart. 
 And every nerve confessed the electric 
 
 dart. 
 
 dear Deceit ! I see the Maiden lise. 
 Chaste Joyance dancing in her bright- 
 blue eyes ! 
 
 When first the lark high-soaring swells 
 
 his throat. 
 Mocks the tired eye, and scatters the 
 
 loud note, 
 
 1 trace her footsteps on the accustomed 
 lawn, 
 
COLERIDGE 
 
 67 
 
 I mark lier glancing mid the gleams of 
 
 dawn. 
 When the bent flower beneatli tlie niglit- 
 
 devv weeps 
 And on the lake the silver lustre sleeps. 
 Amid tlie paly radiance soft and sad. 
 Slie meets my lonely patli in moonbeams 
 
 clad. 
 With lier along the streamlet's brink I 
 
 rove ; 
 Witli lier I list tlie warblings of the 
 
 grove ; 
 And seems in each low wind her voice 
 
 to float 
 Lone wliispering Pity in each soothing 
 
 note ! 
 
 Spirits of Love ! ye lieard her name ! 
 
 Obey 
 The powerful spell, and to my haunt 
 
 repair. 
 Wlietlier on clustering jjinions ye are 
 
 there. 
 Where rich snows blossom on tlie 
 
 Myrtle-trees, 
 Or with fond languishinent around my 
 
 fair 
 Sigh in the loose luxuriance of her 
 
 hair ; 
 O heed the spell, and hltlier wing your 
 
 way. 
 Like far-off music, voyaging the breeze ! 
 
 Spirits ! to you the infant Maid was 
 
 given 
 Formed by the wondrous Alchemy of 
 
 Heaven ! 
 No fairer Maid does Love's wide empire 
 
 know, 
 No fairer Maid e'er heaved the bosom's 
 
 snow. 
 A thousand Loves around her forehead 
 
 fly: 
 
 A thousand Loves sit melting in her eye ; 
 
 Love lights her smile — in Joy's red 
 nectar dips 
 
 His myrtle flower, and plants it on her 
 lips. 
 
 She speaks ! and hark that passion- 
 warbled song — 
 
 Still, Fancy ! still that voice, those notes, 
 prolong. 
 
 As sweet as when tliat voice with rap- 
 turous falls 
 
 Shall wake the softened echoes of 
 Heaven's Halls ! 
 
 O (have I sigh'd) were mine the wiz- 
 ard's rod, 
 
 Or mine the power of Proteus, changeful 
 
 God ! 1 
 A flower-entangled Arbor I would seem 
 To shield my Love from Noontide's 
 
 sultry lieam : 
 Or bloom a Myrtle, from whose odorous 
 
 boughs 
 M}^ Love might weave gay garlands for 
 
 her brows. 
 Wlien Twilight stole across the fading 
 
 viile. 
 To fan my Love I'd be the Evening 
 
 Gale ; 
 Mourn in the soft folds of her swelling 
 
 vest. 
 And flutter my faint pinions on her 
 
 breast ! 
 On Seraph wing I'd float a Dream by 
 
 night. 
 To soothe my Love with shadows of 
 
 delight":— 
 Or soar aloft to be the Spangled Skies, 
 And gaze upon her with a thousand 
 
 eyes ! 
 
 As wlien the Savage, wlio his drowsy 
 
 frame 
 Had basked beneatli tlie Sun's unclouded 
 
 ilame. 
 Awakes amid the troubles of the air. 
 The skiey deluge, and white lightning's 
 
 glare — 
 Aghast he scours before the tempest's 
 
 sweep. 
 And sad recalls the sunnj^ hour of 
 
 sleep : — 
 So tossed by storms along Life's wilder- 
 
 ing Avay. 
 Mine eye reverted views that cloudless 
 
 day, 
 When by my native brook I wont to 
 
 rove. 
 While Ho]ie with kisses nursed the In- 
 fant Love. 
 
 Dear native brook ! like Peace, so 
 
 placidly 
 Smoothing through fertile fields thy 
 
 current meek ! 
 Dear native brook! where first young 
 
 Poesy 
 Stared wildh'-eager in her noontide 
 
 dream ! 
 Where blameless pleasures dimple Quiet's 
 
 cheek. 
 
 1 I entreat tlie Public's pardon for having: care- 
 lessly suffered to he printed such intolerable stuff 
 as this and the thirteen following lines. They 
 liave not tlie tiiei-it even of iiriyinality : as every 
 thought is to be found in the (ireek" Epigrams. 
 (From Coleridge's note in the Poems, 1796.) 
 
68 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 As water-lilies ripple tlij^ slow stream ! 
 Dear native haunts ! where Virtue still 
 
 is gay, 
 Where Friendship's fixed star sheds a 
 
 mellowed ray, 
 Where Love a crown of thornless Roses 
 
 wears, 
 Where so ften'd Sorrow smiles within Jier 
 
 tears ; 
 And Memory, with a Vestal's chaste 
 
 employ, 
 Unceasing feeds the lambent flame of 
 
 joy! 
 No more your sky-larks melting from the 
 
 sight 
 Shall tlirill the attuned heart-string with 
 
 delight — 
 No more shall deck your pensive Pleas- 
 ures sweet 
 With wreaths of sober hue my evening 
 
 seat. 
 Yet dear to Fancy's eye your varied 
 
 scene 
 Of wood, hill, dale, and sparkling brook 
 
 between ! 
 Yet sweet to Fancy's ear the warbled 
 
 song. 
 That soars on Morning's wing j'our vales 
 
 among. 
 
 Scenes of my Hope ! the acliinge ye ye 
 
 leave 
 Like yon bright hues that paint the 
 
 clouds of eve ! 
 Tearful and saddening witli the saddened 
 
 blaze 
 Mine eye the gleam pursues vvitli wistful 
 
 gaze : 
 Sees shades on shades witli deeper tint 
 
 iinpend. 
 Till cliill and damp the moonless niglit 
 
 descend, 1793. 179G. 
 
 LEWTI 
 
 OR THE CIRCASSIAN LOVE-CHANT 
 
 At midnight by the stream I roved, 
 To forget the form I loved. 
 Image of Lewti ! from my mind 
 Depart ; for Lewti is not kind. 
 
 Tlie Moon was high, the moonlight 
 gleam 
 
 And the shadow of a star 
 Heaved upon Tamalia's stream : 
 
 But the rock shone brigliter far, 
 Tlie rock half sheltered from my view 
 By pendent boughs of tressy yew. — 
 
 So shines my Lewti's forehead fair, 
 Gleaming through her sable hair, 
 Image of Le«ti ! from my mind 
 Depart ; for Lewti is not kind. 
 
 I saw a cloud of palest lure. 
 
 Onward to the moon it passed ; 
 Still brighter and more bright it grew. 
 With floating colors not a few. 
 
 Till it reach'd the moon at last : 
 Then the cloud was wholly bright. 
 With a ricli and amber light ! 
 And so with many a hope I seek 
 
 And with such joy I find my Lewti ; 
 And even so my pale wan cheek 
 
 Drinks in as deep ;i, flush of beauty ! 
 Nay, treacherous image ! leave my 
 
 mind, 
 If Lewti never will be kind. 
 
 The little cloud — it floats away, 
 
 Awa.y it goes ; away so soon ? 
 Alas ! it has no power to stay : 
 Its hues are dim, its hues are gray 
 
 Away it passes from the moon ! 
 How mournfully it seems to fly, 
 
 Ever fading more and more, 
 To joyless regions of the sky — 
 And now 'tis whiter than before ! 
 As white as my poor cheek will be. 
 
 When, Lewti ! on my coucii I lie, 
 A d3ang man for love of tliee. 
 Naj% treacherous image ! leave my 
 
 mind — 
 And yet, thou didst not look unkind, 
 
 I saw a vapor in the sky. 
 
 Thin, and white, and very liigh ; 
 I ne'er beheld so thin a cloud : 
 
 Perhaps the breezes that can fly 
 
 Now below and now above. 
 Have snatched aloft the lawny shroud 
 
 Of Lady fair — that died for love. 
 For maids, as well as youths, have 
 
 perished 
 From fruitless love too fondly cherished. 
 'Nay, treacherous image ! leave my 
 
 mind — 
 For Lewti never will be kind. 
 
 Hush ! my heedless feet from under 
 Slip tiie crumbling banks for ever : 
 
 Like echoes to a distant thunder. 
 They plunge into the gentle river. 
 
 The river-swans have heard my tread, 
 
 And startle from their reedy bed. 
 
 O beauteous birds ! methinks ye measure 
 Your movements to some heavenly 
 tune ! 
 
COLERIDGE 
 
 69 
 
 beauteous birds ! 'tis such a pleasure 
 To see you move beneath the moon, 
 
 1 would it were your true delight 
 To sleep by day and wake all night. 
 
 I know the place where Lewti lies 
 When silent night has closed her eyes : 
 
 It is a breezy jasmine-bower, 
 The nightingale sings o'er her head : 
 
 Voice of the Night ! had I the power 
 That leafy labyrinth to thread. 
 And creep, like thee, with soundless 
 
 tread, 
 I then migiit view her bosom white 
 Heaving lovely to mj* sight, 
 As these two swans together heave 
 On the gently-swelling wave. 
 
 Oh ! that she saw me in a dream, 
 And dreamt that I had died foi' care ; 
 
 All pale and wasted I would seem 
 Yet fair withal, as spirits are ! 
 
 I'd die indeed, if I might see 
 
 Her bosom heave, and heave for me ! 
 
 Soothe, gentle image ! soothe my mind ! 
 
 To-morrow Lewti may be kind. 
 
 110 J^. April 13, 1798. 
 
 LA FAYETTE 
 
 As when far off the warbled strains are 
 heard 
 That soar on Morning's wing the vales 
 
 among ; 
 Within his cage the imprisoned matin 
 bird 
 Swells the full chorus with a generous 
 song : 
 
 He bathes no pinion in the dewy light. 
 No Fatlier's joy, no Lover's bliss he 
 
 shares. 
 Yet still the rising radiance cheers 
 his sight — 
 His fellows' freedom soothes the cap- 
 tive's cares ! 
 
 Thou, Fayette ! who didst wake with 
 startling A'oice 
 Life's better sun from that long win- 
 try night. 
 Thus in thy Country's triumphs shalt 
 rejoice 
 And mock with raptures high the dun- 
 geon's might : 
 
 For lo ! the morning struggles into daj*. 
 And Slavery's spectres shriek and van- 
 ish from the rav ! 
 
 ndJ^, December 15, 1794. 
 
 REFLECTIONS ON HAVING LEFT 
 A PLACE OF RETIREMENT 
 
 Sermoni propriora. — hor, 
 
 Low was our pretty Cot : our tallest rose 
 Peeped at the chamber-window. We 
 
 could hear 
 At silent noon, and eve, and early morn. 
 The sea's faint murmur. In the open 
 
 air 
 Our myrtles blossom'd ; and across the 
 
 porch 
 Thick jasmines twined : the little land- 
 scape round 
 Was green and woody, and refreshed 
 
 the eye. 
 It was a spot which you might aptly 
 
 call 
 TJie Valley of Seclusion ! Once I saw 
 (Hallowing his Sabbath-day by quietness) 
 A wealthy son of commerce saunter by, 
 Bristowa's citizen : methought. it calmed 
 His tiiirst of idle gold, and made him 
 
 muse 
 With wiser feelings : for he paused, and 
 
 looked 
 With a pleased sadness, and gazed all 
 
 around, 
 Then eyed our Cottage, and gazed round 
 
 again. 
 And sighed, and said, it was a Blessed 
 
 Place. 
 And we were blessed. Oft with patient 
 
 ear 
 Long-listening to the viewless sky-lark's 
 
 note 
 (Viewless, or haply for a moment seen 
 Gleaming on sunny wings) in whispered 
 
 tones 
 I've said to my beloved, " Such, sweet 
 
 girl ! 
 Tlie inobtrusive song of Happiness, 
 Unearthly minstrelsy ! then only heard 
 When the soul seeks to hear ; when all 
 
 is hushed. 
 And the heart listens ! " 
 
 But the time, when first 
 Fi'om that low dell, steep up the stony 
 
 mount 
 I climbed with perilous toil and reached 
 
 the top, 
 Oh ! what a goodly scene ! Here the 
 
 bleak mount. 
 The bare bleak mountain speckled thin 
 
 with sheep ; 
 Gray clouds, that shadowing spot the 
 
 sunny fields ; 
 And river, now with bushy rocks o'er* 
 
 browed. 
 
70 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Now winding bright and full, witli naked 
 banks : 
 
 And seats, and lawns, tlie abbey and the 
 wood. 
 
 And cots, and hamlets, and faint city- 
 spire ; 
 
 Tlie Channel there, the Islands and white 
 sails, 
 
 Dim coasts, and cloud-like hills and 
 slioreless Ocean — 
 
 It seem'd like Omnipresence! God, me- 
 thought, 
 
 Had built liiin there a Temple : the 
 whole World 
 
 Seemed imaged in its vast circumfer- 
 ence : 
 
 No wisJi ] )V( )faned my overwhelmed heart. 
 
 Blest hour ! It was a luxury, — to be ! 
 
 Ah ! quiet dell ! dear cot, and naount 
 sul)lime ! 
 
 I was constrained to quit you. Was it 
 riglit. 
 
 While my unnumbered bretiiren toiled 
 and bled, 
 
 That I sliould dream away the entrusted 
 hours 
 
 On rose-leaf beds, pampering the coward 
 heart 
 
 Witli feelings all too delicate for use? 
 
 Sweet is the tear that from some How- 
 ard's eye 
 
 Drops on the cheek of one he lifts from 
 earth : 
 
 And he that works me good with un- 
 moved face. 
 
 Does it but half : he chills me while he 
 aids. 
 
 My benefactor, not my brother man ! 
 
 Yet even tliis, this cold beneficence 
 
 Praise, praise it, O my Soul ! oft as thou 
 scann'st 
 
 The sluggard Pity's vision-weaving tribe ! 
 
 Who sigh for wretchedness, yet shun 
 tlie wretched. 
 
 Nursing in some delicious solitude 
 
 Their slotliful loves and daintj^ sym- 
 pathies ! 
 
 I therefore go, and join head, heart, and 
 hand, 
 
 Active and firm, to fight the bloodless 
 fight 
 
 Of science, freedom, and the truth in 
 Christ. 
 
 Yet oft when after honorable toil 
 Rests the tired mind, and waking loves 
 
 to dream, 
 My spirit shall revisit thee, dear Cot ! 
 
 Thy jasmine and thy window-peeping 
 
 rose. 
 And myrtles fearless of the mild sea-air. 
 And I shall sigh fond wishes — sweet 
 
 abode ! 
 All ! — had none greater ! And that all 
 
 had such ! 
 Itmiglitbeso — but the time is not yet. 
 Speed it, O Father ! Let thy Kingdom 
 
 come ! 1705. October, 1796. 
 
 TIME REAL AND IMAGINARY 
 
 AN ALLEGORY 
 
 On the wide level of a mountain's head, 
 
 (I knew not where, but 'twas some 
 faery place) 
 
 Their iiinions, ostrich-like, for sails out- 
 spread, 
 
 Two lovely children run an endless race, 
 A sister and a brother ! 
 This far outstrij)t the other ; 
 
 Yet ever runs she with reverted face. 
 
 And looks and listens for the boy be- 
 hind : 
 For he, alas ! is blind ! 
 
 O'er rough and smooth with even step he 
 passed. 
 
 And knows not whether he be first or 
 last. 9K . . 1817. 
 
 THIS LIME-TREE BOWER MY 
 PRISON 
 
 ADDRESSED TO CHARLES LAMB, OF THE 
 INDIA HOUSE, LONDON 
 
 In the .Tune of 1797 some long-expected friends 
 paid a visit to the author's cottage ; and on the 
 morning of tlieir arrival, he met witli an acci- 
 dent, which disabled him from walking during 
 the whf>le time of their stay. One evening, 
 when they had left him for a few hours, he 
 composed the following lines in the garden - 
 bower. {Colcrklye.) 
 
 Well, they are gone, and here must 1 
 
 remain. 
 This lime-tree bovver my prison ! I have 
 
 lost 
 Beauties and feelings, such as would 
 
 have been 
 Most sweet to my remembrance even 
 
 when age 
 
 ' Inchiiled by Coleridge among his "Juvenile 
 I'oems." There is no other evidence to indicate 
 at what date it was written. See, however, a man- 
 uscript note of 1811 on the same sub.iect, given 
 in Anima Poetae at the beginning of Chapter 
 VIII. 
 
COLERIDGE 
 
 71 
 
 Had dimmed mine eyes to blindness ! 
 
 Tliey, meanwhile, 
 Friends, whom I never more may meet 
 
 again, 
 On springy heath, along the hill-top 
 
 edge, 
 Wander in gladness, and wind down, 
 
 percliance. 
 To that still roaring dell, of which I told ; 
 The roaring dell, o'erwooded, narrow, 
 
 deep, 
 And only speckled by the mid-day sun ; 
 Where its slim trunk tlie asli from rock 
 
 to rock 
 Flings arching like a bridge ; — that 
 
 branchless ash. 
 Unsunned and damp, whose few poor 
 
 yellow leaves 
 Ne'er tremble in the gale, yet tremble 
 
 still, 
 Fanned by the water-fall ! and there my 
 
 friends 
 Behold the dark green file of long lank 
 
 weeds, 
 Tliat all at once (a most fantastic sight!) 
 Still nod and drip beneath the djripping 
 
 edge 
 Of the blue clay-stone. 
 
 Now, my friends emerge 
 Beneath tlie wide wide Heaven — and 
 
 view again 
 The many steepled tract magnificent 
 Of hilly fields and meadows, and the 
 
 sea, 
 With some fair bark, perhaps, whose 
 
 sails light up 
 The slip of smooth clear blue betwixt 
 
 two Isles 
 Of purple shadow ! Yes ! they wander 
 
 on 
 In gladness all ; but thou, methinks, 
 
 most glad. 
 My gentle-hearted Charles ! for thou hast 
 
 pined 
 And hungered after Nature, many a 
 
 year. 
 In the great City pent, winning thy way 
 With sad yet patient soul, through evil 
 
 and pain 
 And strange calamity ! Ah ! slowly sink 
 Behind the western ridge, thou glorious 
 
 Sun! 
 Shine in the slant beams of the sinking 
 
 orb. 
 Ye purple lieath-fiowers ! richlier burn, 
 
 ye clouds ! 
 Live in the yellow light, ye distant 
 
 groves ! 
 
 And kindle, thou blue Ocean ! So my 
 
 friend 
 Struck with deep joy may stand, as I 
 
 have stood. 
 Silent with swimming sense ; yea, gazing 
 
 round 
 On the wide landscape, gaze till all doth 
 
 seem 
 Less gross than bodily ; and of such 
 
 hues 
 As veil the Almighty Spirit, when yet 
 
 he makes 
 Spirits perceive his presence. 
 
 A delight 
 Comes sudden on my heart, and I am 
 
 glad 
 As I myself were there ! Nor in this 
 
 bower, 
 This little lime-tree bower, have I not 
 
 marked 
 Much that has sootlied me. Pale beneath 
 
 the blaze 
 Hung the transparent foliage ; and I 
 
 watched 
 Some broad and sunny leaf, and loved to 
 
 see 
 Tiie shadow of the leaf and stem above. 
 Dappling its sunshine ! And that wal- 
 nut-tree 
 Was richly tinged, and a deep radiance 
 
 lay 
 Full on the ancient ivy, which usurps 
 Tliose fronting elms, and now, witli 
 
 blackest mass 
 Makes their dark branches gleam a lighter 
 
 hue 
 Through the late twilight : and tliough 
 
 now the bat 
 Wheels silent by, and not a sw^allow 
 
 twitters. 
 Yet still the solitary humble-bee 
 Sings in the bean-flower ! Henceforth I 
 
 shall know 
 That Nature ne'er deserts the wise and 
 
 pure ; 
 No plot so narrow, be but Nature there. 
 No waste so vacant, but may well 
 
 employ 
 Each faculty of sense, and keep the 
 
 heart 
 Awake to Love and Beauty ! and some- 
 times 
 'Tis well to be bereft of promised good, 
 That we may lift the soul, and contem- 
 plate 
 With lively joy the joys we cannot 
 
 sliare. 
 My gentle-hearted Charles ! when the 
 last rook 
 
72 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Beat its straight path along the dusky 
 
 air 
 Homewards, I blest it 1 deeming, its 
 
 black wing 
 (Now a dim speck, now vanishing in 
 
 light) 
 Had cross'd the mighty orb's dilated 
 
 glory, 
 While thou stood'st gazing ; or when all 
 
 was still. 
 Flew creeking o'er thy head, and had a 
 
 charm 
 For thee, my gentle-hearted Charles, to 
 
 whom 
 No sound is dissonant whicli tells of 
 
 Life. 1797. 1800. 
 
 V 
 
 KUBLA KHAN 
 
 In the summer of the year 1797, the Author, 
 then in ill health, had retired to a lonely farm- 
 house between Porlock and Linton, on the Ex- 
 moor confines of Somerset and Devonshire. In 
 consequence of a slight indisposition, an anodyne 
 had been prescribed, from the effects of which 
 he fell asleep in his chair at the moment that he 
 was reading the following sentence, or words of 
 the same substance, in Purchas's " Pilgrimage" : 
 " Here the Khan Kubla commanded a palace to 
 be built, and a stately garden thereunto. And 
 thus ten miles of fertile ground were inclosed 
 with a wall." The Author continued for about 
 three hours in a profound sleep, at least of the 
 external senses, during which time he has the 
 most vivid confidence, that he could not have 
 composed less than from two to three hundred 
 lines ; if that indeed can be called composition 
 in which all the images rose up before him as 
 thing/i, with a parallel production of the corre- 
 spondent expressions, without any sensation or 
 consciousness of effort. On awaking he ap- 
 peared to himself to have a distinct recollection 
 of the whole, and taking his pen, ink, and paper, 
 instantly and eagerly wrote down the lines that 
 are here preserved. At this moment he was un- 
 fortunately called out by a person on business 
 from Porlock, and detained by him above an 
 hour, and on his return to his room, found, to his 
 no small surprise and mortification, that though 
 he still retained some vague and dim recollec- 
 tion of the general purport of the vision, yet, 
 with the exception of some eight or ten scattered 
 lines and images, all the rest had passed away, 
 like the images on the surface of a stream into 
 which a stone has been cast, but, alas 1 without 
 the after restoration of the latter. 
 
 Then all the charm 
 Is broken— all that phantom-world so fair 
 Vanishes, and a thousand circlets spread. 
 And each mis-shapes the other. Stay awhile, 
 Poor youth ! who scarcely dar'st lift up thine 
 
 eyes^ 
 The stream will soon renew its smoothness, soon 
 The visions will return I And lo, he stays, 
 And soon the fragments dim of lovely forms 
 Come trembling back, unite, and now once 
 
 more 
 The pool becomes a mirror. 
 
 (From The Picture ; or., the Lover'' s Resoht- 
 tion) 
 
 yet from the still surviving recollections in his 
 
 mind, the Author has frequently purposed to 
 finish for himself what had been originally, as it 
 were, given to him. AOptoi' aSiov dcro), but the 
 to-morrow isyet to come. {Coleridge'' s note, 1816.) 
 
 In Xanadu did Kubla Khan 
 A stately pleasure-dome decree : 
 Where Alph, the sacred river, ran 
 Through caverns measureless to man 
 
 Down to a sunless sea. 
 8o twice five miles of fertile ground 
 With walls and towers were girdled 
 
 round : 
 And here were gardens bright with 
 
 sinuous rills. 
 Where blossomed many an incense-bear- 
 ing tree ; 
 And here were foi'ests ancient as the 
 
 hills, 
 Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. 
 But oil ! that deep romantic chasm 
 
 which slanted 
 Down the green hill athwart a cedarn 
 
 cover ! 
 A savage place ! as hoi 3^ and enchanted 
 As e'er beneath a waning moon was 
 
 haunted 
 By woman wailing.for her demon-lover ! 
 And from this chasm, witli ceaseless 
 
 turmoil seething. 
 As if this earth in fast thick pants were 
 
 bi'eathing, 
 A miglity fountain momently was 
 
 forced : 
 Amid wliose swift half-intermitted burst 
 Huge fragment.s vaulted like rebounding 
 
 hail, 
 Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's 
 
 flail: 
 And 'jnid these dancing rocks at once 
 
 and ever 
 It flung up momently the sacred river. 
 Five miles meandering with a mazy 
 
 motion 
 Through wood and dale the sacred river 
 
 ran, 
 Tlien reached the caverns measureless to 
 
 man. 
 And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean : 
 And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from 
 
 far 
 Ancestral voices prophesying war ! 
 
 The shadow of the dome of pleasure 
 
 Floated midway on the waves ; 
 
 Where was lieard the mingled 
 measure 
 
 From the fountain and the caves. 
 It was a miracle of rare device, 
 A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice 1 
 
COLERIDGE 
 
 73 
 
 A damsel with a dulcimer 
 
 In a vision once I saw : 
 
 It was an Abyssinian maid, 
 
 And on her dulcimer she played, 
 
 Singing of Mount Abora. 
 
 Could I revive within me 
 
 Her symphony and song. 
 
 To such a deep delight 'twould win 
 me, 
 That with music loud and long, 
 I would build that dome in air. 
 That sunny dome ! those caves of ice ! 
 And all who heard should see them 
 
 there. 
 And all should cry. Beware ! Beware ! 
 His flashing eyes, his floating hair ! 
 Weave a circle round him thrice. 
 And close your eyes with holy dread, 
 For he on honey-dew hath fed. 
 And drunk the milk of Paradise. 
 
 1797. 1816. 
 
 SONG FROM OSORIO 
 
 Hear, sweet spirit, hear the spell. 
 Lest a blacker charm compel ! 
 So shall the midnight breezes swell 
 "With thy deep long-lingering knell. 
 
 And at evening evermore, 
 In a Chapel on the shore, 
 Shall the Chaunters sad and saintly. 
 Yellow tapers burning faintly. 
 Doleful Masses chaunt for thee, 
 Miserere Domine ! 
 
 Hark ! the cadence dies away 
 On the quiet moonlight sea : 
 
 The boatmen rest their oars and say. 
 Miserere Domine! 1707. 1813. 
 
 / 
 
 THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT 
 MARINER 1 
 
 IN SEVEN PARTS 
 
 Facile credo, plures esse Naturas Invisibiles 
 quaiii visibilesin rerumuniversitate. Sed horurn 
 omnium familiam quis nobis enarrabit ? et gra- 
 dus et eognationes et discrimina et singulorum 
 munera ? Quid agunt ? quaj loca habitant ? 
 Harum rerum notitiam semper ambivit ingeniuna 
 humanum, nunquam attigit. Juvat, interea, 
 non diffiteor, quandoque in animo, taiiquam in 
 tabula, majoris et melioris mimdi imaginem 
 contemplari : ne mens assuefacta hodiernse vitie 
 minutiis se coutrahat uimis, et tota subsidat in 
 
 * The poem is here given in the text of 1839 
 which is Coleridge's final version, the result of 
 several revisions, most of which are impnive- 
 ments over the first text of 1798. Instead of llie 
 
 pusillas cogitationes. Sed veritati interea invi- 
 gilandum est, modusque servandus, ut certa ab 
 incertis, diem a nocte, distinguamus. T. Burnet 
 Archceol. Phil. p. 68. 
 
 ARGUMENT » 
 
 How a Ship having passed the Line was driven 
 by storms to the cold Country towards the Soiith 
 Pole ; and how from thence she made her course 
 lo the tropical Latitude of the Great Pacific 
 Ocean ; and of the strange things that befell ; 
 and in what manner the Ancyent Marinere came 
 back to his own Country. 
 
 Part i 
 
 '^ It is an ancient Mariner, 
 
 And he stoppeth one of three. 
 
 '■ By thy long gray beard and glittering 
 
 eye, 
 Now wherefore stopp'st thou me ? 
 
 The Bridegroom's doors are opened 
 
 wide. 
 And I am next of kin ; 
 The guests are met. the feast is set : 
 May'st hear the merry din." 
 
 He holds him with his skinny hand, 
 
 '• Tliere was a ship," quoth he. 
 
 "Hold off! unhand me, gray -beard 
 
 loon ! " 
 Eftsoous his hand dropt he. 
 
 3 He holds him with his glittering eye — 
 The Wedding-Guest stood still, 
 And listens like a three years' child : 
 The Mariner hath his will. 
 
 third stanza, for instance, the original text has 
 the two following : 
 
 But still he holds the wedding-guest — 
 
 " There was a Ship," quoth he — 
 " Nay, if thou'st got a laughsome tale, 
 
 Marinere! come with me." 
 
 He holds him with his skinny hand, 
 
 Quoth he, " There was a Ship—" 
 " Now get thee hence, thou gray-beard Loon I 
 
 Or my Stafl: shall make thee skip." 
 
 For a full study of the different texts, see 
 Prof. F. H. Sykes' Select Poems of Coleridge 
 and Wordsworth, edited from Authors' Editions, 
 Toronto, 1899. On the origin of the poem, see 
 Biogruphia Literaria, Chap XIV, and Words- 
 worth's account of it, quoted and discussed in 
 H. D. Traill's Life of Coleridge, pp. 47-50. 
 
 I In the editions of 1798 and 1800 only. 
 
 ' An ancient Mariner meeteth three Gallants 
 bidden to a wedding-feast, and detaineth one. 
 [This and the folio iring notes, except those in 
 brackets, are Coleridge^s running Siivimarj/ of 
 the story, first printed in Sybilline Leaves, 1817.] 
 
 ' The Wedding-Guest is spell-bound by the 
 eye of the old seafaring man, and constrained 
 to hear his tale. 
 
74 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone : 
 He cannot clioose but hear ; 
 And thus spake on that ancient man, 
 The bright-eyed Mariner. 
 
 " The ship was cheered, the harbor 
 
 cleared, 
 Merrily did we drop 
 Below the kirk, below the hill, 
 Below the lighthouse top. 
 
 1 The sun came up upon the left, 
 Out of the sea came he ! 
 
 And he shone bright, and on the right 
 Went down into the sea. 
 
 Higher and higher every day. 
 
 Till over the mast at noon — " 
 
 The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast, 
 
 For he heard the loud bassoon. 
 
 2 The bride hath paced into the hall. 
 Red as a rose is she ; 
 
 Nodding their heads before her goes 
 The merry minstrelsy. 
 
 The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast. 
 Yet he cannot clioose but hear ; 
 And thus spake on that ancient man, 
 The bright-eyed Mariner. 
 
 ^ " And now the Storm-blast came, and 
 
 he 
 Was tyrannous and strong : 
 He struck with his o'ertaking wings, 
 And chased us south along. 
 
 With sloping masts and dipping prow, 
 As who pursued with yell and blow 
 Still treads the shadow of his foe. 
 And forward bends liis liead. 
 The ship drove fast, loud roared tlie 
 
 blast. 
 And southward aye we fled. 
 
 And now there came both mist and 
 
 snow. 
 And it grew wondrous cold : 
 And ice, mast-higli, came floating by, 
 As green as emerald. 
 
 ' The Mariner tells how the ship sailed south- 
 ward with a good wind and fair weather, till it 
 reached the line. 
 
 ' The Wedding Guest heareth the bridal 
 music ; but the Mariner continueth his tale. 
 
 •■' The ship drawn by a storm toward the south 
 pole. 
 
 * The land of ice, and of fearful sounds, where 
 no living thing was to be seen. 
 
 And through the drifts the snowy clifts 
 Did send a dismal sheen : 
 Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken — 
 The ice was all between. 
 
 Tlie ice w^as here, the ice was there, 
 
 The ice was all around : 
 
 It cracked and growled, and roared and 
 
 howled. 
 Like voices in a swound ! 
 
 1 At length did cross an Albatross, 
 Thorough the fog it came ; 
 
 As if it had been a Christian soul. 
 We hailed it in God's name. 
 
 It ate the food it ne'er had eat. 
 And round and round it flew. 
 The ice did split with a tliunder-fit ; 
 The helmsman steered us through ! 
 
 2 And a good south wind sprung up be- 
 
 hind ; 
 The Albatro.ss did follow% 
 And every day, for food or play, 
 Came to the mariner's hollo ! 
 
 In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, 
 
 It perched for vesper* nine ; 
 
 While all the night, through fog-smoke 
 
 white, 
 Glimmered the white moon-shine." 
 
 ^ " God save thee, ancient Mariner ! 
 From the fiends, that plague thee 
 
 thus !— 
 Why look'st thou so?" — "With my 
 
 cross-bow 
 I shot the Albatross, 
 
 Part ii 
 
 " Tlie Sun now ro.se upon the right : 
 Out of the sea came he, 
 Still hid in mist, and on the left 
 Went down into the sea. 
 
 And the good south wind still blew be- 
 hind. 
 But no sweet bird did follow. 
 Nor any day for food or play 
 Came to the mariners' hollo ! 
 
 » Till a great sea bird, called the Albatross, 
 came through the snow-fog, and was received 
 with great joy and hospitality. 
 
 2 And lo I the Albatross proveth a bird of godH 
 omen, and foUoweth the ship as it returned 
 northward through fog and floating ice. 
 
 ^ The ancient Mariner inhospitably killeth the 
 pious bird of good omen. 
 
COLERIDGE 
 
 75 
 
 1 And I had done an hellish thmg, 
 And it would work 'em woe : 
 
 For all averred, I had killed the bird, 
 That made the breeze to blow. 
 Ah wretch ! said they, the bird to slay, 
 That niade the breeze to blow ! 
 
 2 Nor dim nor red, like God's own head. 
 The glorious Sun nprist : 
 
 Then all averred, I had killed the bird 
 
 That brought tiie fog and mist. 
 
 'Twas right, said they, such birds to 
 
 slay. 
 That bring the fog and mist. 
 
 ^ The fair breeze blew, the white foam 
 
 flew, 
 The furrow followed free ; 
 We were the first that ever burst 
 Into that silent sea. 
 
 * Down dropt tiie breeze, the sails dropt 
 
 down, 
 'Twas sad as sad could be ; 
 And we did speak only to break 
 The silence of the sea ! 
 
 All in a hot and copper sky, 
 The bloody Sun, at noon, 
 Right up above the mast did stand, 
 No bigger than the Moon. 
 
 Day after day, day after day, 
 We stuck, nor breath nor motion ; 
 As idle as a painted ship 
 Upon a painted ocean. 
 
 ^ Water, water, everywhere. 
 And all tlie boards did shrink ; 
 Water, water, everywhere 
 Nor any drop to drink. 
 
 The very deep did rot : O Christ ! 
 That ever this should be ! 
 Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs 
 Upon the slimy sea. 
 
 About, about, in reel and rout 
 The death-fires danced at night ; 
 The water, like a witch's oils, 
 Burnt green, and blue and white. 
 
 1 His shipmates cry out against the ancient 
 Mariner, for killing the bird of good luck. 
 
 2 But when the fog cleared off, they justify the 
 same, and thus make themselves accomplices in 
 the crime. 
 
 ^ The fair breeze continues ; the ship enters 
 the Pacific Ocean, and sails northward, even 
 till it reaches the Line. 
 
 * The ship hath been suddenly becalmed. 
 
 s And the Albatross begins to be avenged. 
 
 1 And some in dreams assured were 
 Of the Spirit that plagued us so ; 
 Nine fatliom deep he had followed us 
 From the land of mist and snow. 
 
 And every tongue, through utter 
 
 drought. 
 Was withered at the root ; 
 We could not speak, no more than if 
 We had been choked with soot. 
 
 2 Ah ! well a-day ! what evil looks 
 Had I from old and young ! 
 Instead of the cross, the Albatross 
 About my neck was hung. 
 
 Part hi 
 
 "There passed a weary time. Each 
 
 tViroat 
 Was parched, and glazed each eye. 
 A vveary time ! a weary time ! 
 How glazed each weary eye ! — 
 
 3 When looking westward, I beheld 
 A something in the sky. 
 
 At first it seemed a little speck, 
 And then it seemed a mist ; 
 It moved and moved, and took at last 
 A certain sliajje, I wist. 
 
 A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist ! 
 And still it neared and neared : 
 As if it dodged a water-sprite. 
 It plunged and tacked and veered. 
 
 •* With throats unslaked, with black lips 
 
 baked, 
 We could nor laugh nor wail ; 
 Through utter drought all dumb we 
 
 stood ! 
 I bit my arm, I sucked the blood, 
 And cried, A sail ! a s;ul ! 
 
 With throats unslaked, with black lips 
 
 baked. 
 Agape they heard me call : 
 
 1 A Spirit had followed them ; one of the in- 
 visible inhabitants of this planet, neither de- 
 parted souls nor angels ; concerning whom the 
 learned Jew, Josephus, and the Platonic Con- 
 stantinopolitan, Michael Psellus, may be con- 
 sulted. They are very numerous, and there is 
 no climate or element without one or more. 
 
 ^ The shipmates, in their sore distress, would 
 fain throw the whole guilt on the ancient Mari- 
 ner : in sign whereof they hang the dead sea- 
 bird round his neck. 
 
 ' The ancient Mariner beholdeth a sign in the 
 element afar off. 
 
 ■• At its nearer approach, it seemeth him to be 
 a ship; and at a dear ransom he freeth his 
 speech from the bonds of thirst. 
 
76 
 
 ENGLISH POETS 
 
 1 Gramercy ! they for joy did grin, 
 And all at once their breath drew in, 
 As they were drinking all. 
 
 2 ' See ! see ! ' (I cried) ' she tacks no 
 
 more ! 
 Hither to work us weal. 
 Without a breeze, without a tide, 
 She steadies with upright keel ! ' 
 
 The western wave was all aflame. 
 The day was well-nigh done ! 
 Almost upon the western wave 
 Rested tlie broad bright Sun ; 
 When that strange shape drove suddenly 
 Betwixt us and the Sun. 
 
 3 And straight the Sun was flecked with 
 
 bars, 
 (Heaven's Mother send us grace !) 
 As if through a dungeon-grate he peered 
 With broad and burning face. 
 
 Alas ! (thought I, and my heart beat 
 
 loud) 
 How fast she nears and nears I 
 Are tliose her sails that glance in the 
 
 Sun, 
 Like restless gossameres ? 
 
 * Are those her ribs though which the Sun 
 Did peer, as through a grate ? 
 And is that Woman all her crew ? 
 Is that a Death ? and are there two? 
 ^ Is Death that woinan's mate ? 
 
 6 Her lips were red, her looks were free, 
 Her locks were yellow as gold : 
 Her skin was as white as leprosy, 
 The Night-mare Life-in-Death was she, 
 Who thicks man's blood with cold. 
 
 ' The naked hulk alongside came, 
 And the twain were casting dice ; 
 ' Tlie game is done ! I've won ! I've won ! ' 
 Quoth she, and whistles thrice. 
 
 ' A flash of joy. 
 
 2 And horror follows. For can it be a ship that 
 comes onward without wind or tide ? 
 
 ^ It seemeth him but the skeleton of a ship. 
 
 * And its ribs are seen as bars on the face of 
 the setting Sun. 
 
 ^ The Spectre-Woman and her Death-mate, 
 and no other on board the skeleton-ship. 
 
 " Like vessel, like crew ! 
 
 ' Death and Life-in-Death have diced for the 
 ship's crew, and she (the latter) winneth the 
 ancient Mariner. 
 
 1 The Sun's rim dips ; the stars rush out. 
 At one stride comes the dark ; 
 
 With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea, 
 Off shot the spectre-bark. 
 
 2 We listened and looked sideways up ! 
 Fear at my heart, as at a cup. 
 
 My life-blood seemed to sip ! 
 
 The stars were dim, and thick the night, 
 
 The steersman's face by his lamp 
 
 gleamed white ; 
 Froin the sails the dew did drip — 
 Till clomb above the eastern bar 
 The horned Moon, with one bright star 
 Within the nether tip. 
 
 ^ One after one, hy the star-dogged Moon, 
 
 Too quick for groan or sigh. 
 
 Each turned his face with a ghastly 
 
 pang. 
 And cursed me with his eye. 
 
 *Four times fifty living men, 
 (And I heard nor sigh nor groan) 
 With heavy thump, a lifeless lump, 
 They dropped down one by one. 
 
 5 The souls did from their bodies fly, — 
 They fled to bliss or woe ! 
 And every soul, it passed me by. 
 Like the whizz of my cross-bow ! " — 
 
 Part iv 
 
 ^ " I fear thee, ancient Mariner! 
 
 I fear thy skinny hand 
 
 And thou art long, and lank, andbi'own, 
 
 As is the ribbed sea-sand.'' 
 
 I fear thee and thy glittering eye. 
 And thy skinnj' hand, so brown." — 
 ® " Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding- 
 Guest ! 
 This body dropt not down. 
 
 ' No twilight within the courts of the Sun. 
 - At tlie rising of the Moon, 
 ^ One after another 
 
 * His shipmates drop down dead. 
 
 ^ But Life-in-Death begins her work on the 
 ancient Mariner. 
 
 " The Wedding-Guest feareth that a Spirit is 
 talking to him. 
 
 ' [For the last two lines of this stanza, I am in- 
 debted to Mr. Wordsworth. It was on a delight- 
 ful walk from Nether Stowey to Dulverton, with 
 him and his si.ster, in the autumn of 1797, that 
 this poem was planned, and in part composed. 
 (Note of Coleridge, first printed in Sibylline 
 Leaves, 1817) ] 
 
 * But the ancient Mariner assureth him of his 
 bodily life, and proceedeth to relate his horrible 
 penance. 
 
COLERIDGE 
 
 11 
 
 Alone, alone, all, all alone, 
 Alone on a wide wide sea ! 
 And never a saint took pity on 
 My soul in agony. 
 
 1 Tlie many men, so beautiful ! 
 And they all dead did lie : 
 
 And a thousand thousand slimy things 
 Lived on ; and so did I. 
 
 2 1 looked upon the rotting sea. 
 And drew my eyes away ; 
 
 I looked upon the rotting deck, 
 And there tlie dead men laj'. 
 
 I looked to heaven, and tried to pray ; 
 But or ever a prayer had gusht, 
 A wicked wliisper came, and made 
 My heart as dry as dust. 
 
 I closed my lids, and kept them close. 
 
 And tlie balls like pulses beat ; 
 
 Fur the sky and the sea, and the sea and 
 
 the sky 
 Lay like a load on my weary eye. 
 And the dead were at my feet. 
 
 3 The cold sweat melted from their 
 
 limbs. 
 Nor rot nor reek did they : 
 Tlie look with which they looked on me 
 Had never jjassed away. 
 
 An orphan's curse would drag to hell 
 
 A spirit from on higli ; 
 
 But oh ! more horriljle than that 
 
 Is a cvirse in a dead man's eye ! 
 
 Seven days, seven nights, I saw that 
 
 curse, 
 And yet I could not die. 
 
 * The moving Moon went up the sky. 
 And nowhere did abide : 
 Softly she was going up, 
 And a star or two beside — 
 
 ' He despiseth the creatures of the calm. 
 
 * And envieth that they should live, and so 
 many lie dead. 
 
 2 But the curse liveth for him in the eye of the 
 dead men. 
 
 * In his loneliness and fixedness he yearneth to- 
 wards the journeying Moon, and the stars that 
 still sojourn, yet still move onward ; and every- 
 wliere the blue sky belongs to them, and is their 
 appointed rest, and their native country and 
 their own natural homes, which they enter un- 
 announced, as lords that are certainly expected, 
 and yet there is a silent joy at their arrival. 
 
 Her beams bemocked the sultry main. 
 
 Like April hoar-frost spread ; 
 
 But where the ship's huge shadow lay, 
 
 The charmed water burnt alway 
 
 A still and awful red. 
 
 1 Beyond the shadow of the ship, 
 
 I watched the water-snakes : 
 
 They moved in tracks of shining white. 
 
 And when they reared, the elfish light 
 
 Fell olf in hoary flakes. 
 
 Within the shadow of the ship 
 
 1 watched their rich attire : 
 
 Blue, glossy green, and velvet black, 
 They coiled and swam ; and every track 
 Was a flash of golden fire. 
 
 2 O happy livings things ! no tongue 
 Tlieir beauty might declare : 
 
 A spring of love gushed from my heart, 
 
 3 And I blessed them unaware : 
 Sure my kind saint took pity on me. 
 And I blessed them unaware. 
 
 * The selfsame moment I could pray ; 
 And from my neck so free 
 The Albatross fell off, and sank 
 Like lead into the sea. 
 
 Part v 
 
 " Oh sleep ! it is a gentle thing. 
 Beloved from pole to pole ! 
 To Mary Queen the praise be given ! 
 She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven, 
 That slid into my soul. 
 
 5 The silly buckets on the deck. 
 
 That had so long remained. 
 
 I dreamt that they were filled with dew ; 
 
 And when I awoke, it rained. 
 
 My lips were wet, my throat was cold. 
 My garments all were dank ; 
 Sure I had drvmken in my dreams. 
 And still my body drank. 
 
 I moved, and could not feel my limbs : 
 I was so light — almost 
 I thought that I had died in sleep, 
 And was a blessed ghost. 
 
 ■» By the light of the Moon he beholdeth God's 
 creatures of the great calm. 
 2 Their beauty and their happiness. 
 
 * He blesseth them in his heart. 
 
 * The spell begins to break. 
 
 '5 By grace of the holy M(jther, the ancient 
 Mariner is refreshed with rain. 
 
78 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 1 And soon I heard a roaring wind : 
 It did not come anear : 
 
 But with its sound it shook the sails, 
 That were so thin and sere. 
 
 The upper air burst into life ! 
 And a liundred fire-flags sheen, 
 To and fro they were liurried about ! 
 And to and fro. and in and out. 
 The wan stars danced between. 
 
 And tlie coming wind did roar more 
 
 loud. 
 And the sails did sigh like sedge ; 
 And tlie raiTi ])oured down from one 
 
 black cloud ; 
 The Moon was at its edge. 
 
 Tlie thick black cloud was cleft, arid still 
 The Moon was at its side : 
 Like waters sliot from some high crag. 
 The lightning fell witii never a jag. 
 A river steep and wide. 
 
 2 The loud wind never reached the 
 
 ship. 
 Yet now the ship moved on ! 
 Beneath the lightning and tlie Moon 
 The dead men gave a gi"oan. 
 
 They groaned, they stirred, they all up- 
 rose. 
 Nor spake, nor moved tlieir eyes ; 
 It had been strange, even in a dream, 
 To have seen those dead men rise. 
 
 The helmsman steered, the ship moved 
 
 on ; 
 Yet never a breeze up blew ; 
 /The mariners all 'gan work the ropes. 
 Where they were wont to do ; 
 They raised their limbs like lifeless 
 
 tools — 
 We were a ghastly crew. 
 
 Tlie body of my brother's son 
 Stood by me, knee to knee : 
 The body and 1 pulled at one rope 
 But he said nought to me." — • 
 
 8 " I fear thee, ancient Mariner ! " — 
 " Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest ! 
 
 ' He heareth sounds and seeth strange sights 
 and commotions in tlie sky and tlie element. 
 
 2 The bodies of the ship's crew are inspired, 
 and the ship moves on ; 
 
 3 But not by the souls of the men, nor by 
 demons of earth or middle air, but by a blessed 
 troop of angelic spirits, sent down by the invo- 
 cation of the guardian saint. 
 
 'Twas not those souls that fled in pain, 
 Whicii to their corses came again. 
 But a troop of spirits blest : 
 
 For when it dawned — they dropped their 
 
 arms, 
 xVnd clustered round the mast ; 
 Sweet sounds rose slowly through their 
 
 mouths. 
 And from their bodies passed. 
 
 Around, around, flew each sweet sound. 
 Then darted to the Sun ; 
 Slowly the sounds came back again. 
 Now mixed, now one by one. 
 
 Sometimes a-dropping from the sky 
 I heard the skj-lark sing ; 
 Sometimes all little birds that are. 
 How they seemed to fill the sea and air 
 With their sweet jargoning ! 
 
 And now 'twas like all instruments. 
 Now like a lonely flute ; 
 Anil now it is an angel's song. 
 That makes tlie heavens be mute. 
 
 It ceased ; yet still tiie sails made on 
 
 A pleasant noise till noon. 
 
 A noise like of a hidden brook 
 
 In the leafy month of June, 
 
 That to the sleeping woods all niglit 
 
 Singetha quiet tune. 
 
 Till noon we quietly sailed on. 
 Yet never a breeze did bi-eatlie : 
 Slowlj' and smoothly went tlie ship, 
 Moved onward from beneath. 
 
 1 Under the keel nine fathom deep. 
 From the land of mist and snow. 
 The spirit slid : and it was he 
 That made the ship to go. 
 The sails at noon left ofl: their tune. 
 And the ship stood still also. 
 
 The Sun, right up above the mast. 
 Had fixed her to the ocean : 
 But in a minute she 'gan stir. 
 With a short uneasy motion — 
 Backwards and forwards half her length 
 Witli a short uneasy motion. 
 
 Then like a pawing horse let go, 
 She made a sudden bound : 
 It flung the lilood into mj' head, 
 And I fell down in a swound. 
 
 ' The lonesome Spirit from the south-pole 
 carries on the ship as far as the Line, in oljedi- 
 ence to the angelic troop, but still requireth 
 vengeance. 
 
COLERIDGE 
 
 79 
 
 1 How long in that same fit I lay, 
 
 I have not to declare ; 
 
 But ere my living life returned, 
 
 1 heard and in my soul discerned 
 Two voices in the air. 
 
 ' Is it he ? ' quoth one. ' Is tliis the man ? 
 By him who tlied on ci'oss. 
 With his cruel bow he laid full low 
 The harmless Albatross. 
 
 The spirit who bideth by himself 
 In tlie land of mist and snow. 
 He loved the bird that loved the man 
 Who shot him with his bow.' 
 
 Tlie other was a softer voice, 
 
 As soft as honey-dew : 
 
 Quoth he, ■ The man hath penance 
 
 done, 
 And penance more will do.' 
 
 Part vi 
 
 first voice 
 
 " ' But tell me, tell me ! speak again. 
 Thy soft response renewing — 
 What makes that ship drive on so fast ? 
 What is the ocean doing ? 
 
 SECOND VOICE 
 
 ' Still as a slave before his lord, 
 The ocean iiath no blast ; 
 His great bright eye most silently 
 Up to the Moon is cast— 
 
 If he may know which way to go ; 
 For slie guides him smooth or grim. 
 See, brother, see ! liow graciousl}^ 
 She looketh down on him.' 
 
 FIRST VOICE 
 
 2 ' But why drives on that ship so fast. 
 Without or wave or wind ? ' 
 
 SECOND VOICE 
 
 ' The air is cut away before. 
 And closes from behind. 
 
 1 The Polar Spirit's fellow-demons, the invis- 
 ible inhabitants of the element, take part in his 
 wrong: ; and two of them relate one to the other, 
 that penance long and heavy for the ancient 
 Mariner hath been accorded to the Polar Spirit, 
 who returneth southward. 
 
 ^ The Mariner hath been east into a trance ; 
 for the angelic power causeth the vessel to 
 drive northward faster than human life could 
 endure. 
 
 Fly, brother, fly ! more high, more high ! 
 Or we shall be belated : 
 For slow and slow that ship will go. 
 When the Mariner's trance is abated.' 
 
 1 I woke, and we were sailing on 
 
 As in a gentle weather : 
 
 "Twas nigiit, calm night, the Moon was 
 
 higii, 
 The dead men stood together. 
 
 All stood together on the deck, 
 For a charnel-dungeon fitter : 
 All fixed on me their stony eyes. 
 That in the Moon did glitter. 
 
 The pang, the curse, with which they 
 
 died, 
 Had never passed away : 
 
 1 could not draw my eyes from theirs, 
 Nor turn them up to pray. 
 
 2 And now this .spell was snapt : once 
 
 more 
 I viewed the ocean green. 
 And looked far forth, yet little saw 
 Of what had else been seen — 
 
 Like one, that on a lonesome road 
 
 Dotli walk in fear and dread. 
 
 And having once turned round walks 
 
 on. 
 And turns no more his head ; 
 Because he knows, a friglitful fiend 
 Doth close behind him tread. 
 
 But soon there breathed a wind on me, 
 Nor sound nor motion made : 
 Its path was not upon the sea. 
 In ripple or in shade. 
 
 It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek 
 Like a meadow-gale of spring — 
 It mingled strangely with my fears, 
 Yet it felt like a welcoming. 
 
 Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship. 
 Yet she sailed softly too : 
 Sweetly, sweetlj^ blew the breeze — 
 On me alone it blew. 
 
 3 Oh ! dream of joy ! is this indeed 
 The liglit-hoiise top I see ? 
 
 Is tliis the hill ? is this the kirk? 
 Is this mine own countree ? 
 
 'The supernatural motion is retarded; the 
 Mariner awakes, and his penance begins anew. 
 
 ^ The curse is finally expiated. 
 
 ^ And the ancient Mariner beholdeth his native 
 country. 
 
BRITISH POETS 
 
 We drifted o'er the harbor-bar. 
 And I with sobs did pray — 
 ' O let me be awake, my God ! 
 Or let me sleep alway.' 
 
 The harbor-bay was clear as glass. 
 So smoothly it was strewn ! 
 And on the bay the moonliglit lay% 
 And the shadow of tlie Moon. 
 
 The rock slione bright, the kirk no less. 
 That stands above the rock : 
 Tlie moonlight steeped in silentness 
 The steady weathercock. 
 
 And the bay was white with silent light 
 Till rising from the same, 
 
 1 Full many shapes, that shadows were, 
 In crimson colors came. 
 
 2 A little distance from the prow 
 Those crimson shadows were : 
 
 I turned my eyes upon tlie deck — 
 Oh, Christ ! what saw I tliere ! 
 
 Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat. 
 And, by the holy rood ! 
 A man all light, a seraph-man, 
 On every corse tliere stood. 
 
 This seraph-band, each waved his hand : 
 It was a heavenly sight ! 
 They stood as signals to tlie land. 
 Each one a lovely light ; 
 
 This seraph-band, each waved his hand. 
 No voice did they impart — 
 No voice ; but oh ! the silence sank 
 Like music on my heart. 
 
 But soon I heard the dash of oars, 
 I heard the Pilot's cheer ; 
 My head w^as turned perforce away, 
 And I saw a boat appear. 
 
 The Pilot and the Pilot's boy, 
 I heard them coming fast : 
 Dear Lord in Heaven ! it was a joy 
 The dead men could not blast. 
 
 I saw a third — I heard his voice : 
 
 It is the Hermit good ! 
 
 He singeth loud his godly hymns 
 
 That he makes in the wood. 
 
 He'll shrieve ray soul, he'll wash away 
 
 The Albatross's blood. 
 
 * The angelic spirits leave the dead bodies, 
 
 * And appear iu their own forms of light. 
 
 Part vii 
 
 1 " This Hermit good lives in that wood 
 Which .slopes down to the sea. 
 
 How loudly his sweet voice he rears ! 
 He loves to talk with marineres 
 That come froni a far countree. 
 
 He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve — 
 
 He hath a cushion plump : 
 
 It is the moss that wholl}'^ hides 
 
 The rotted old oak-stump. 
 
 The skiff-boat neai'ed : I heard them 
 
 talk, 
 ' Whj', this is strange, I trow ! 
 Where are those lights so many and 
 
 fair, 
 That signal made but now ? ' 
 
 2 'Strange, by my faith ! ' the Hermit 
 
 said — 
 ' And they answered not our cheer ! 
 The planks looked warped ! and see those 
 
 sails. 
 How thin they are and sere ! 
 I never saw aught like to them, 
 Unless perchance it were 
 
 Brown skeletons of leaves that lag 
 My forest-brook along ; 
 W^hen the ivj'-tod is heavy with snow. 
 And the owlet whoops to the wolf below, 
 That eats the she-wolf's young.' 
 
 ' Dear Lord ! it hath a fiendish look '^ 
 (The Pilot made reply) 
 ' I am a-feared.' — ' Pusli on, push on ! ' 
 Said the Hermit cheeril}'. 
 
 The boat came closer to the ship. 
 But I nor spake nor stirred : 
 The boat came close beneatli the ship, 
 And straight a sound was heard. 
 
 3 Under the water it rumbled on. 
 Still louder and more dread : 
 
 It reached the ship, it split tlie bay ; 
 The ship went down like lead. 
 
 * Stunned by that loud and dreadful 
 
 sound. 
 Which sky and ocean .smote, 
 
 1 The Hermit of the Wood, 
 
 2 Approacheth the ship with wonder. 
 2 The ship suddenly sinketh. 
 
 * The ancient Mariner is saved in tlie Pilot's 
 boat. 
 
COLERIDGE 
 
 8i 
 
 Like one that hatli been seven days 
 
 drowned 
 My body lay afloat ; 
 But swift as dreams, myself I found 
 Within the Pilot's boat. 
 
 Upon the whirl, where sank the ship, 
 The boat spun round and round ; 
 And all was still, save that the hill 
 Was telling of the sound. 
 
 I moved my lips — the Pilot shrieked 
 And fell down in a fit ; 
 The Holy Hermit i-aised his eyes, 
 And prayed where he did sit. 
 
 I took the oars : Tlie Pilot's boy 
 
 Who nov?- doth crazy go 
 
 Laughed loud and long, and all the while 
 
 His eyes went to and fro. 
 
 ' Ha ! ha ! ' quoth he, ' full plain I see. 
 
 The Devil knows how to row.' 
 
 And now, all in my own countree, 
 I stood on the firm land ! 
 The Hermit stepped forth from the boat. 
 And scarcely he could stand. 
 
 1 ' O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man !' 
 The Hermit crossed his brow. 
 
 ' Say quick,' quoth he, ' I bid thee say — 
 What manner of man art thou ? ' 
 
 Forthwith this frame of mine was 
 
 Avrenched 
 With a woful agony, 
 Wliich forced me to begin my tale ; 
 And then it left me free. 
 
 2 Since then, at an uncertain hour, 
 That agony returns : 
 
 And till my ghastly tale is told, 
 This heart within me burns. 
 
 I pass, like night, from land to land ; 
 I have strange power of speech ; 
 That moment that his face I see, 
 I know the man that must hear me : 
 To him my tale I teach. 
 
 What loud uproar bursts from that door I 
 The wedding-guests are there : 
 But in the garden-bower the bride 
 And bride-maids singing are : 
 And hark the little vesper bell, 
 Which biddeth me to prayer ! 
 
 1 The ancient Mariner earnestly entreateth the 
 Hermit to shrieve him ; and the penance of life 
 falls on him. 
 
 2 And ever and anon throughout his future life 
 an agony constraineth him to travel from laud 
 to land. 
 
 O Wedding-Guest ! this soul hath been 
 Alone on a wide wide sea : 
 So lonely, 'twas, that God himself 
 Scarce seemed there to be. 
 
 O sweeter than the marriage-feast, 
 'Tis sweeter far to me, 
 To walk together to the kirk. 
 With a goodly company ! — 
 
 To walk together to the kirk, 
 
 And all together pray. 
 
 While each to his great Father bends, 
 
 Old men, and babes, and loving friends 
 
 And youths and maidens gay ! 
 
 ' Farewell, farewell ! but this I tell 
 To thee, thou Wedding-Guest ! 
 He pi'aj'eth well, who loveth well 
 Both man and bird and beast. 
 
 He prayeth best, who loveth best 
 All things both great and small ; 
 For the dear God who loveth us. 
 He made and loveth all." 
 
 The Mariner, whose eye is bright, 
 Whose beard with age is hoar, 
 Is gone ; and now the Wedding-Guest 
 Turned from the bridegroom's door. 
 
 He went like one that hath been 
 
 stunned, 
 And is of sense forlorn : 
 A sadder and a wiser man. 
 He rose the morrow morn. 
 
 1797-179S. 1798. 
 
 1/ 
 
 CHRISTABEL 
 
 The first part of the following poem was writ- 
 ten in the year one thousand seven hundred and 
 ninety-seven, at Stowey, in the county of Somer- 
 set. The second part, after my return from 
 Germany, in the year one thousand eight hun- 
 dred, at Keswick, Cumberland. Since the latter 
 elate, my poetic powers have been, till very 
 lately, in a state of suspended animation. But 
 as, in my very first conception of the tale, 
 I had the whole present to my mind, with the 
 wholeness, no less than with the liveliness of a vis- 
 ion ; I trust that I shall be able to embody in 
 verse the three parts yet to come, in the course 
 of the present year. . . . 
 
 I have only to add, that the metre of the 
 Christabel is not, properly speaking, irregular, 
 though it may seem so from its being founded 
 on a new principle : namely, that of counting 
 in each line the accents, not the syllables. 
 Though the latter may vary from seven to 
 twelve, yet in each line the accents will be found 
 
 * And to teach, by his own example, love and 
 reverence to all things that God made and 
 loveth. 
 
82 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 to be, only four. Nevertheless this occasional 
 variation in number of syllables is not intro- 
 duced wantonly, or for the mere ends of con- 
 venience, but in correspondence with some tran- 
 sition in the nature of the imagery or passion. 
 (From Coleridge's Preface to the first edition.) 
 
 PART THE FIRST 
 
 'Tis the middle of niglit bj^ the castle 
 clock, 
 
 And the owls have awakened the crow- 
 ing cock, 
 
 Tu— wliit ! -Tu— wlioo ! 
 
 And hark, again ! tlie crowing cock, 
 
 How drowsily it crew. 
 
 Sir lieoline, the Baron rich, 
 
 Hatli a tootliless mastiff, which 
 
 From her kennel beneath tlie rock 
 
 Maketh answer to the clock, 
 
 Four for tlie quarters, and twelve for 
 
 the hour ; 
 Ever and aye, by shine and sliower. 
 Sixteen short howls, not over loud : 
 Some say, she sees my lady's shroud. 
 
 Is tlie night chilly and dark ? 
 The night is ciiilly, l)ut not dark. 
 The thin gray cloud is spread on high, 
 It covers but not hides the sky. 
 The moon is behind, and at the full ; 
 And yet she looks both small and dull. 
 The night is chill, the cloud is gray ; 
 'Tis a montli before the month of May. 
 And the Spring comes slowly up this 
 way. 
 
 The lovely lady, Christabel, 
 
 Whom her father loves so well, 
 
 What makes her in the woods so late, 
 
 A furlong from the castle gate? 
 
 She had dreams all yesterniglit 
 
 Of her own betrothed knight ; 
 
 And she in the jnidnight wood will pray 
 
 For the weal of her lover that's far away. 
 
 She stole alotig, she nothing spoke. 
 The sighs she heaved were soft and low, 
 And naught was green upon the oak 
 But moss and rarest misletoe : 
 She kneels lieneath the huge oak tree. 
 And in silence prayeth she. 
 
 The lady sprang up suddenly. 
 The lovely lady, Christabel ! 
 It moaned as near, as near can be. 
 But what it is she cannot tell. — 
 On the other side it seems to be. 
 Of the huge, broad-breasted, old oak 
 tree. 
 
 The night is cliill ; the forest bare ; 
 Is it the wind that moaneth bleak ? 
 There is not wind enough in the air 
 To move away the ringlet curl 
 From the lovely lady's cheek — 
 There is not wind enough to twirl 
 The one red leaf, the last of its clan, 
 That dances as often as dance it can. 
 Hanging so light, and hanging so high. 
 On the topmost twig that looks up at 
 the sky. 
 
 Hush, beating heart of Christabel ! 
 Jesu, Maria, shield her well ! 
 She folded her arms beneath her cloak. 
 And stole to the other side of the oak. 
 What sees she tiiere ? 
 
 There she sees a damsel bright, 
 Drest in a silken robe of white, 
 That shadowy in the mooidight shone : 
 The neck that made the white rt)be 
 
 wan , 
 Her stately neck, and arms were bare ; 
 Her blue-veined feet unsandal'd were, 
 And wildly glittered here and there 
 The gems entangled in her hair. 
 I guess, "twas frightful there to see 
 A lady so richly clad as she — 
 Beautiful exceedingly ! 
 
 Mary mother, save me now ! 
 
 (Said Christabel,) And who art thou? 
 
 The lady strange made answer meet, 
 And her voice was faint and sweet : — 
 Have pity on my sore distress, 
 I scarce can speak for weariness : 
 Stretch forth thy hand, and have no 
 
 fear ! 
 Said Christabel, How camestthou here ? 
 And the lady, whose voice was faint and 
 
 sweet, 
 Did thus pursue her answer meet : 
 
 My sire is of a noble line. 
 
 And my name is Geraldine : 
 
 Five warriors seized me yestermorn. 
 
 Me, even me, a maid forlorn : 
 
 They choked my cries with force and 
 
 fright. 
 And tied me on a palfrey white. 
 The palfrey was as fleet as wind, 
 And they rode furiously behind. 
 They spurred amain, their steeds were 
 
 white : 
 And once we crossed the shade of night. 
 As sure as Heaven shall rescue me, 
 1 have no thought what men they be ; 
 Nor do I know how long it is 
 
COLERIDGE 
 
 83 
 
 (For I have lain entranced I wis) 
 
 Since one, the tallest of the five. 
 
 Took ine from tlie palfrej-'s back, 
 
 A weary woman, scarce alive. 
 
 Some muttered words his comrades 
 
 spoke : 
 He placed me underneath this oak ; 
 He swore they would return with haste ; 
 Whitiier they went I cannot tell — 
 I thought I heard, some minutes past, 
 Sounds as of a castle bell. 
 Stretch forth thy hand (thus ended she), 
 And help a wretched maid to flee. 
 
 Then Christabel stretched forth her 
 
 hand. 
 And comforted fair Geraldine : 
 O well, brig! it dame ! may you command 
 The service of Sir Leoline ; 
 And gladly our stout chivalry 
 Will he send forth and friends withal 
 To guide and guard you safe and free 
 Home to your noble father's hall. 
 
 She rose : and forth witli steps they 
 
 passed 
 That strove to be, and were not. fast. 
 Her gracious stars the lady blest. 
 And thus spake on sweet Christabel : 
 All our household are at rest 
 The hall as silent as the cell ; 
 Sir Leoline is weak in health. 
 And may not well awakened be. 
 But we will move as if in stealth. 
 And I beseech your courtesj', 
 This night, to share your couch with me. 
 
 They crossed the moat, and Christabel 
 
 Took the key that fitted well ; 
 
 A little door she opened straight. 
 
 All in the middle of the gate ; 
 
 The gate that was ironed within and 
 
 without, 
 Where an army in battle array had 
 
 marched out. 
 The lady sank, belike through pain. 
 And Christabel with might and main 
 Lifted her up, a weary weight. 
 Over the threshold of the gate : 
 Then the lady rose again. 
 And moved, as she were not in pain. 
 
 So free from danger, free from fear, 
 They crossed the court ; right glad they 
 
 were. 
 And Christabel devoutly cried 
 To the lady by her side. 
 Praise we the Virgin all divine 
 Who hath rescued thee from thy dis- 
 tress ! 
 
 Alas, alas ! said Geraldine, 
 I cannot speak for weariness. 
 So free from danger, free from fear, 
 They crossed the court : right glad they 
 were. 
 
 Outside her kennel, the mastiff old 
 Lay fast asleep, in moonshine cold. 
 The mastiff old did not awake, 
 Yet she an angry moan did make ! 
 And what can ail the mastiff bitch ? 
 Never till now she uttered yell 
 Beneath tlie eye of Christabel. 
 Perhaps it is the owlet's scritch: 
 For what can ail the mastiff bitch ? 
 
 They passed the hall, that echoes still, 
 
 Pass as lightly as you will ! 
 
 The brands were flat, the brands were 
 
 dying. 
 Amid their own white ashes 15'ing; 
 But when the lady passed, there came 
 A tongue of light, a fit of flame ; 
 And Clu'istabel saw the lady's eye. 
 And nothing else saw she thereby. 
 Save the boss of the shield of Sir Leoline 
 
 tall. 
 Which hung in a murky old niche in the 
 
 wall. 
 O softly tread, said Christabel, 
 My father seldom sleepeth well. 
 
 Sweet Christabel her feet doth bare, 
 And jealous of the listening air 
 They steal their way from stair to stair 
 Now- in glimmer, and now in gloom. 
 And now they pass the Baron's room. 
 As still as death, with stifled breath ! 
 And now have reached her chamber 
 
 door ; 
 And now doth Geraldine press down 
 The ruslies of the chamber floor. 
 
 The moon shines dim in the open air, 
 And not a moonbeam enters here. 
 But they without its light can see 
 The chamber carved so curiously. 
 Carved with figures strange and sweet, 
 All made out of the carver's brain. 
 For a lady's chamber meet ; 
 The lamp with twofold silver chain 
 Is fastened to an angel's feet. 
 
 The silver lamp burns dead and dim; 
 But Christabel the lamp will trim. 
 She trimmed the lamp, and made it 
 
 bright, 
 A.nd left it swinging to aiid fro, 
 While Geraldine. in wretched plight, 
 Sank down upon the floor below. 
 
BRITISH POETS 
 
 weary lady, Geialdine. 
 
 1 pray you, drink this cordial wine ! 
 It is a wine of virtuous powers ; 
 My mother made it of wild flowers. 
 
 And will your mother pity me, 
 Who am a maiden most forlorn ? 
 Christabel answered — Woe is me ! 
 She died the hour that I was born. 
 1 have heard the gra}' -haired friar tell 
 How on her death-bed slie did say. 
 That she should hear the castle-bell 
 Strike twelve upon my wedding-day. 
 
 mother dear ! that tliou wert here ! 
 
 1 would, said Geraldine, she were ! 
 
 But soon with altered voice, said she^ 
 "Off, wandering mother! Peak and 
 
 pine ! 
 I have power to bid thee flee." 
 Alas ! wliat ails poor Geraldine ? 
 Wliy stares slie with unsettled eye ? 
 Can she the bodiless dead espy ? 
 And why with hollow voice cries she, 
 "Off, woman, off ! this hour is mine — 
 Though thou lier guardian spirit be, 
 Off, woman, off ! 'tis given to me.'' 
 
 Then Christabel knelt by the lady's side, 
 And raised to heaven her eyes so blue — 
 " Alas ! " said slie, " this gliastly ride — 
 Dear lady ! it hath wildered you !"' 
 The lady wiped her moist cold brow, 
 And faintly said, " 'tis over now ! " 
 
 Again the wild-flower wine she drank: 
 Her fair large eyes 'gan glitter briglit. 
 And from the floor whereon she sank. 
 The lofty lady stood upright : 
 She was most beautiful to see, 
 Like a lady of a far countree. 
 
 And thus the lofty lady spake — 
 
 " All they who live in the upper sky, 
 
 Do love you, holy Cliristabel ! 
 
 And you love them, and for their sake 
 
 And for the good which me befel. 
 
 Even I in my degree will try. 
 
 Fair maiden, to requite you well. 
 
 But now unrobe yourself ; for I 
 
 Must pray, ere yet in bed I lie." 
 
 Quoth Christabel, So let it be ! 
 And as the lady bade, did she. 
 Her gentle limbs did she undress. 
 And lay down in her loveliness. 
 
 But through her brain of weal and woe 
 So many thoughts moved to and fro, 
 
 That A'ain it were her lids to close ; 
 So lialf-way from the bed she rose. 
 And on her elbow did recline 
 To look at the lady Geraldine. 
 
 Beneath the lamp the lady bowed. 
 And slowly rolled her eyes around ; 
 Then drawing in Iier breath aloud. 
 Like one that shuddered, she unbound 
 Tlie cincturp from beneath her breast : 
 Her silken robe, and inner vest, 
 Dropt to her feet, and full in view. 
 Behold ! her bosom and lialf lier 
 
 side 
 
 A sight to dream of, not to tell ! 
 
 O shield her ! shield sweet Christabel ! 
 
 Yet Geraldine nor speaks nor stirs ; 
 Ah ! wliat a stricken look was hers ! 
 Deep from within she seems lialf-way 
 To lift some weight witii sick assay, 
 And ej'es the maid and seeks delay ; 
 Tlien suddenly, as one defied, 
 Collects herself in scorn and pride, 
 And lay down by the Maiden's side ! — 
 And in her arms the maid she took, 
 
 Ah wel-a-day ! 
 And with low voice and doleful look 
 Tliese words did say : 
 " In the touch of this bosom there 
 
 worketh a spell, 
 Which is lord of thy utterance, Christa- 
 bel ! 
 Thou knowest to-night, and wilt know 
 
 to-morrow, 
 Tliis mark of my shame, this seal of my 
 sorrow ; 
 But vainly thou warrest. 
 
 For this is alone in 
 Thy power to declare. 
 
 That in tlie dim foi'est 
 Thou lieard'st a low moaning. 
 And found'st a bright lady, surpassingly 
 
 fair ; 
 And didst bring her home with thee in 
 
 love and in charity. 
 To shield her and shelter her from the 
 damp air." 
 
 THE CONCLUSION TO PART THE FIRST 
 
 It was a lovely sight to see 
 The lady Christabel, when she 
 Was prajang at the old oak tree. 
 Amid the jagged sliadows 
 Of mossy leafless boughs. 
 Kneeling in the moonlight. 
 To make her gentle vows ; 
 
COLERIDGE 
 
 85 
 
 Her slender palms together prest. 
 Heaving sometimes on her breast ; 
 Her face resigned to bliss or bale — 
 Her face, oh call it fair not pale. 
 And both blue eyes more bright than 
 
 clear, 
 Each about to have a tear. 
 
 With open eyes (ah woe is me I) 
 Asleep, and dreaming fearfully, 
 Fearfully dreaming, yet, I wis. 
 Dreaming that alone, which is — 
 O sori'ow and shame ! Can this be she. 
 The lady, who knelt at the old oak 
 
 tree ? 
 And lo ! tlie worker of these harms. 
 That holds the maiden in her arms, 
 Seems to slumber still and mild, 
 As a mother with her child. 
 
 A star hath set, a star hath risen, 
 O Geraldine ! since arms of thine 
 Have been the lovely lady's prison. 
 O Geraldine ! one hour was thine — - 
 Thou'st had thy will ! By tairn and 
 
 rill, 
 The night-birds all that hour were still. 
 But now they are jubilant anew, 
 From cliff and tower, tu — whoo ! tu — 
 
 whoo ! 
 Tu — wlioo ! tu — whoo ! from wood and 
 
 fell! 
 
 And see ! tlie lady Christabel 
 Gatliers herself from out her trance ; 
 Her limljs relax, her countenance 
 Grows sad and soft ; the smooth tliin 
 
 lids 
 Close o'er her eyes ! and tears she sheds — 
 Large tears tliat leave the lashes brigliL ! 
 And oft the while she seems to smile 
 As infants at a sudden light ! 
 
 Yea, she doth smile, and she doth 
 
 weep. 
 Like a youthful hermitess. 
 Beauteous in a wilderness. 
 Who, praying always, prays in sleej:). 
 And, if she move unquietly, 
 Perchance, 'tis but the blood so free 
 Comes back and tingles in her feet. 
 No doubt, she hath a vision sweet. 
 What if her guardian spirit 'twere. 
 What if she knew her mother near? 
 But this she knows, in joys and woes. 
 That saints will aid if nu-n will call : 
 For the blue sky bends over all ! 
 
 1707. 1816. 
 
 PART THE SECOND 
 
 Each matin bell, the Baron saith, 
 Knells us back to a world of death. 
 These words Sir Leoline first said. 
 When he rose and found his lady dead : 
 These words Sir Leoline will say 
 ]Many a morn to his dying day ! 
 
 And hence the custom and law began 
 That still at dawn the sacristan, 
 Wiio duly pulls the heavy bell. 
 Five and forty beads must tell 
 Between each stroke — a warning knell, 
 Which not a soul can choose but hear 
 From Bratha Head to Wyndermere. 
 
 Saith Bracy the bard, So let it knell I 
 And let the drowsy sacristan 
 Still count as slowly as he can ! 
 There is no lack of such, I ween, 
 As well fill up the space between. 
 In Langdale Pike and Witch's Lair, 
 And Dungeon-ghyll so foully rent. 
 With ropes of rock and bells of air 
 Three sinful sextons' ghosts are pent. 
 Who all give back, one after t'other. 
 The death-note to their living brother ; 
 And oft too, by the knell offended. 
 Just as tlieirone ! two! three! is ended 
 Tlie devil mocks the doleful tale 
 With a merry peal from Borrowdale. 
 
 The air is still ! through mist and cloud 
 That merry peal comes ringing loud ; 
 And Geraldine shakes off her dread, 
 And rises lightly from the bed ; 
 Puts on her silken vestments white. 
 And tricks her hair in lovely plight. 
 And nothing doul)ting of her spell 
 Awakens the lady Christahfl. 
 " Sleep you, sweet lady Christabel ? 
 I trust that you have rested well." 
 
 And Christabel awoke and sjiied 
 The same who lay down by her side — 
 O rather say, the same wliom she 
 Raised up beneath the old oak tree ! 
 Nay, fairer yet ! and yet more fair ! 
 For she belike hath drunken deep 
 Of all the blessedness of sleep ! 
 And while she spake, her looks, her air. 
 Such gentle thankfulness declare, 
 That (so it seemed) her girded vests 
 Grew tight beneath her heaving breasts. 
 "Sure I have sinn'd !" said Christabel. 
 '• Now heaven be praised if all be well ! " 
 And in long faltering tones, yet sweet, 
 Did she the lofty lady greet 
 
86 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 With such perplexity of mind 
 As dreams too lively leave behind. 
 
 So quickly she rose, and quickly arrayed 
 Her maiden limbs, and having prayed 
 That He, who on the cross did groan, 
 Might wash away her sins unknown, 
 She forthwith led fair Geraldine 
 To meet her sire, Sir Leoline. 
 
 The lovely maid and the lady tall 
 Are pacing botli into the hall, 
 And pacing on tlirougli page and groom. 
 Enter the Baron's presence-room. 
 
 Tlie Baron rose, and while lie prest 
 His gentle daughter to his breast, 
 With cheerful wonder in his eyes 
 The lady Geraldine espies. 
 And gave svich welcome to the same, 
 As might beseem so bright a dame ! 
 
 But w^hen he heard the lady's tale. 
 And when she told lier fatiier's name. 
 Why waxed Sir Leoline so pale, 
 Murmuring o'er the name again. 
 Lord Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine ? 
 
 Alas ! they had been friends in youtli ; 
 But whispering tongues can poison 
 
 truth ; 
 And constancy lives in realms above ; 
 And life is thorny ; and youth is vain ; 
 And to be w-roth witli one we love 
 Doth work like madness in tlie brain. 
 And thus it chanced, as I divine. 
 With Roland and Sir Leoline. 
 Each spake words of high disdain 
 And insult to his heart's best brotiier: 
 They parted — ne'er to meet again ! 
 But never either iound anotiier 
 To free the hollow heart from pain- 
 
 They stood aloof, the scars remammg. 
 
 Like cliffs which liad been rent asunder; 
 
 A dreary sea now flows between.. 
 
 But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder. 
 
 Shall wholly do away. I ween, 
 
 The marks of that which once hath been. 
 
 Sir Leoline, a moment's space. 
 Stood gazing on the damsel's face ; 
 And the youthful Lord of Tryermaine 
 Came back upon his heart again. 
 
 O then the Baron forgot his age. 
 His noble heart swelled higli with rage ; 
 He swore by the wounds in Jesu's side 
 He would proclaim it far and w^ide, 
 
 With trump and solemn heraldrj-. 
 That they, who thus had wronged the 
 
 dame 
 Were base as spotted infamy ! 
 " And if they dare deny the same, 
 My herald shall appoint a week. 
 And let the recreant traitors seek 
 My tourne)^ court — that there and then 
 I may dislodge their reptile souls 
 From the bodies and forms of men ! " 
 He spake : his eye in liglitning rolls ! 
 For the lady was ruthlessly seized ; and 
 
 lie kenned 
 In the beautiful lady the child of his 
 
 friend ! 
 
 And now the tears were on his face, 
 
 And fondly in liis arms he took 
 
 Fair Geraldine, who met tiie embrace, 
 
 Prolonging it with joyous look. 
 
 Whicli when she viewed, a vision fell 
 
 Upon the soul of Christabel, 
 
 The vision of fear, the touch and pain ! 
 
 Slie shrunk and shuddered, and saw 
 
 again — 
 (Ah, woe is me ! AVas it for thee, 
 Tiiou gentle maid ! such sights to see?) 
 Again she saw tliat bosom old. 
 Again she felt that bosom cold, 
 And drew in her breath with a hissing 
 
 sound : 
 Whereat the Knight turned wildly 
 
 I'ovxnd, 
 And nothing saw, but his own sweet 
 
 maid 
 Witli eyes upraised, as one that prayed. 
 
 Tlie touch, tlie sight, had passed away, 
 And in its stead that vision blest, 
 Which comforted her after-rest, 
 Wliile in the lady's arms she lay. 
 Had put a rapture in her breast. 
 And on her lips and o'er her ej'es 
 Spread smiles like light ! 
 
 With new surprise, 
 •• What ails then my beloved child ? *' 
 Tiie Baron said. — His daughter mild 
 Made answer, '• All will yet be well ! " 
 I ween, slie had no power to tell 
 Aught else : so mighty was the spell. 
 
 Yet he, who saw this Geraldine, 
 Had deemed her sure a thing divine. 
 Such sorrow with such grace she 
 
 blended. 
 As if she feared she had offended 
 Sweet Cliristabel, that gentle m;iid ! 
 And with svich lowly tones she prayed 
 She might be sent without delay 
 
COLERIDGE 
 
 87 
 
 Hotne to her father's mansion. 
 
 "Nay 
 
 Nay, by my soul ! " said Leoline. 
 
 " Ho ! Bracy the bard, the charge be 
 
 thine ! 
 Go thou, with music sweet and loud, 
 And take two steeds with trappings 
 
 proud. 
 And take the youth wliom thou lov'st best 
 To bear thy harp, and learn thy song, 
 And clothe you both in solemn vest. 
 And over the mountains haste along. 
 Lest wandering folk, that are abroad, 
 Detain you on the valley road. 
 
 " And wiien he has crossed the Irthing 
 
 flood. 
 My merry bard ! he hastes, he hastes 
 Up Knorien Moor, through Halegarth 
 
 Wood, 
 And readies soon that castle good 
 Which stands and threatens Scotland's 
 
 wastes. 
 Bard Bracy ! bard Bracy ! your horses 
 
 are fleet, 
 Ye must ride up the hall, your music so 
 
 sweet, 
 Jlore loud than your horses' echoing feet ! 
 And loud and loud to Lord Roland call. 
 Thy dau.n'Iiter is safe in Langdale hall ! 
 Thy beautiful ilaughter is safe and free — 
 Sir Leoline greets thee thus through me. 
 He bids tlu^e come without delay 
 With all thy numerous array ; 
 And take thy lovely daughter home : 
 And lie will meet thee on the way 
 Witli all liis numerous array 
 White with their panting palfrej^s' foam : 
 And. by mine honor ! I will say. 
 That I rei)ent me of the day 
 Wlien i sjiake words of fierce disdain 
 To Roland de Vauxof Tryerniaine ! — 
 — For since that evil liour hath flown, 
 Many a summer's sun hath shone ; 
 Yet ne'er found I a friend again 
 Like Roland de Vaux of Tryerniaine." 
 
 The lady fell, and clasped his knees, 
 Her face upraised, her e.yes o'erflowing ; 
 And Bracy replied, with faltering voice. 
 His gracious hail on all bestowing ; 
 "Thy words, tliou sii"eof Christal)el, 
 Are sweeter than my harp can tell ; 
 Yet might I gain a boon of thee. 
 This day my journey should not be. 
 So strange a dream hath come to me : 
 That I had vowed with music loud 
 To clear yon wood from thing unblest, 
 Warn'd by a vision in my rest ! 
 
 For in my sleep I saw that dove. 
 
 That gentle bird, whom tiiou dost love. 
 
 And call'st by thy own daughter's 
 
 name — 
 Sir Leoline ! I saw the same. 
 Fluttering, and uttering fearful moan, 
 Among the green herbs in the forest 
 
 alone. 
 Which when I saw and when I heard, 
 I wonder'd what might ail the bird ; 
 For nothing near it could I see, 
 Save the grass and green herbs under- 
 neath the old tree. 
 
 " And in my dream, methought, I went 
 To search out what might there be found ; 
 And what the sweet bird's trouble meant, 
 That thus lay fluttering on tlie ground. 
 I went and peered, and could descry 
 No cause for her distressful cry ; 
 But yet for her dear lady's sake 
 I stooped, methought, the dove to take, 
 When lo ! I saw a bright green snake 
 Coiled around its wings and neck. 
 Green as the herbs on which it couched. 
 Close by the dove's its head it crouched : 
 And with the dove it heaves and stirs. 
 Swelling its neck as she swelled hers ! 
 I woke ; it was the midnight hour. 
 The clock was echoing in tlie tower ; 
 But though my slumber was gone by, 
 Tliis dream it would not pass away — 
 It seems to live upon my eye ! 
 And thence I vowed this self-same day 
 With music strong and saintly song 
 To wander through the forest bare, 
 Lest aught unholy loiter there." 
 
 Thus Bracy said : the Baron, the while, 
 
 Half-listening heard Iiini with a smile ; 
 
 Tlien turned to Lady Geraldine, 
 
 His eyes made up of wonder and love ; 
 
 And said in courtly accents fine, 
 
 •' Sweet maid. Lord Roland's beauteous 
 
 dove. 
 With arms more strong than harp of 
 
 song. 
 Thy sire and I will crush the snake ! " 
 He kissed her forehead as he spake, 
 And Geraldine in maiden wise 
 Casting down her large bright eyes. 
 With blusliing cheek and courtesy fine 
 Slie turned her from Sir Leoline : 
 Softly gathering up her train, 
 Tiiat o'er her right arm fell again ; 
 And folded her arms across her chest. 
 And couched her head upon her breast, 
 
 And looked askance at Christabel ^^ 
 
 Jesu, Maria, shield her well ! 
 
BRITISH POETS 
 
 A snake's small eye blinks dull and shy, 
 And the lady's eyes they shrunk in her 
 
 head, 
 Each shrunk up to a serpent's eye, 
 And with somewhat of malice, and more 
 
 of dread, 
 At Christabel she look'd askance ! — 
 One moment — and the sight was fled ! 
 But Christabel in dizzj^ trance 
 Stumbling on the unsteadj^ ground 
 Shuddered aloud, with a hissing sound ; 
 And Geraldine again turned round. 
 And like a thing, that sought relief. 
 Full of wonder and full of grief. 
 She rolled her large bright eyes divine 
 Wildly on Sir Leoline. 
 
 The maid, alas ! her thoughts are gone, 
 
 She nothing sees — no sight but one ! 
 
 The maid, devoid of guile and sin, 
 
 I know not how, in fearful wise, 
 
 So deeply had she drunken in 
 
 That look, those shrunken serpent eyes. 
 
 That all her features were resigned 
 
 To this sole image in her mind : 
 
 And passively did imitate 
 
 That look of dull and treacherous hate ! 
 
 And thus she stood, in dizzy trance. 
 
 Still picturing that look askance 
 
 With forced unconscious sympathy 
 
 Full before her father's view 
 
 As far as such a look could be 
 In eyes so innocent and blue ! 
 
 And when the trance was o'er, the maid 
 Paused awhile, and inly prayed : 
 Then falling at the Baron's feet, 
 " By my mother's soul do I entreat 
 That thou this woman send away ! " 
 She said : and more she could not say : 
 For what she knew slie could not tell, 
 O'er mastered by the mighty spell. 
 
 Why is thy cheek so wan and wild. 
 Sir Leoline? Thy only child 
 Lies at thy feet, thy joy, thy pride. 
 So fair, so innocent, so mild ; 
 The same, for whom thy lady died ! 
 O, by the pangs of her dear mother. 
 Think thou no evil of thy child ! 
 For her, and thee, and for no other, 
 She prayed the moment ere she died : 
 Prayed that the babe for whom she died 
 Might prove her dear lord's joy and 
 pride ! 
 Tliat prayer her deadly pangs beguiled. 
 
 Sir Leoline ! 
 And wouldst thou wrong thv only 
 child, 
 Her child and thine ? 
 
 Within the Baron's heart and brain 
 If thoughts, like these, had any sliai'e. 
 They only swelled his ]-age and pain, 
 Ancl did but work confusion there. 
 His heart was cleft with pain and rage. 
 His cheeks they quivered, his eyes were 
 
 wild, 
 Dishonor'd thus in his old age ; 
 Dislionor'd by liis only child, 
 And all his hospitality 
 To the insulted daughter of his friend 
 By more than woman's jealousy 
 Brouglit thus to a disgraceful end — 
 He rolled his eye with stern regard 
 Upon the gentle minstrel bard. 
 And said in tones abrupt, austere — 
 " Why, Bracy ! dost tnou loiter here? 
 I bade thee hence ! " The bard obeyed : 
 And turning from his own sweet maid, 
 The aged knight. Sir Leoline, 
 Led forth the lady Geraldine ! 
 
 ISOO. 181G. 
 
 THE CONCLUSION TO PART THE SECOND 
 
 A little child, a limber elf, 
 
 Singing, dancing to itself. 
 
 A fairy thing with red round cheeks, 
 
 That always finds, and never seeks. 
 
 Makes such a vision to the sight 
 
 As fills a father's eyes with light : 
 
 And pleasures flow in so thick and fast 
 
 Upon his heart, that he at last 
 
 Must needs express liis love's excess 
 
 With words of unmeant bitterness. 
 
 Perhaps 'tis pretty to force together 
 
 Thoughts so all unlike each other ; 
 
 To mutter and mock a broken charm, 
 
 To dally with wrong that does no harm. 
 
 Perhaps 'tis tender too and pretty 
 
 At each wild word to feel within 
 
 A sweet recoil of love and pity. 
 
 And what, if in a world of sin 
 
 (O sorrow and shame should tliis be 
 
 true !) 
 Such giddiness of heart and brain 
 Comes seldom save from rage and pain. 
 So talks as it's most used to do. 
 
 91801. 1816. 
 
 . FRANCE: AN ODE 
 I 
 
 Ye Clouds ! that far above me float and 
 
 pause, 
 Whose pathless march no mortal may 
 
 control ! 
 Ye Ocean Waves ! that, wheresoe'er 
 
 ye roll. 
 
'^ 
 
 X 
 
 COLERIDGE 
 
 89 
 
 Yield homage only to eternal laws ! 
 Ye Woods ! that listen to the night- 
 bird's singing, 
 Midway the smooth and perilous slope 
 reclined, 
 Save when your own imperious bi'anches 
 swinging. 
 Have made a solemn music of the 
 wind ! 
 Where, like a man beloved of God, 
 Through glooms, which never woodman 
 trod, 
 How oft, pursuing fancies holy, 
 My moonlight way o'er flowering weeds 
 I wound, 
 Inspired beyond the guess of folly, 
 By each rude sha]>e and wild unconquer- 
 able sound ! 
 O ye loud Waves ! and O ye Forests 
 high ! 
 And O ye Clouds that far above me 
 soared ! 
 Thou rising sun ! thou blue rejoicing 
 Sky! 
 Yea, every thing that is and will be 
 
 free ! 
 Bear witness for me, wheresoe'er ye 
 
 be, 
 Witli what deep worship I have still 
 adored 
 The spirit of divinest Liberty. 
 
 II 
 
 When France in wrath her giant-limbs 
 upreared, 
 And with that oath which smote air, 
 
 earth and sea, 
 Stamped her strong foot and said she 
 would be free. 
 Bear witness for me, how I hoped and 
 
 feared ! 
 With what a joy my lofty gratulation 
 
 Unawed I sang, amid a slavish hand : 
 And when to whelm the disenclianted 
 nation, 
 Like fiends embattled by a wizard's 
 wand. 
 The Monarchs marched in evil day, 
 And Britain join'd the dire array ; 
 Though dear her shores and circling 
 ocean. 
 Though many friendships, many youth- 
 ful loves 
 Had swoln the patriot emotion 
 And flung a magic light o'er all her hills 
 
 and groves ; 
 Yet still my voice, unaltered, sang 
 defeat 
 
 To all that braved the tyrant-quelling 
 
 lance, 
 And shame too long delay' d and vain 
 
 retreat ! 
 For ne'er, O Liberty ! with partial aim 
 I dimmed thy light or damped thy holy 
 
 flame ; 
 But blessed the paeans of delivered 
 
 France, 
 And hung my head and wept at Britain's 
 
 name. 
 
 ■' And what." I said, " though Blas- 
 phemy's loud scream 
 With that sweet music of deliverance 
 
 strove ! 
 Though all the fierce and drunken 
 passions wove 
 A dance more wild than e'er was 
 maniac's dream ! 
 Ye storms, tliat round the dawning 
 east assembled. 
 The Sun was rising, though ye hid his 
 light ! 
 And when to sootlie my soul, that 
 hoped and trembled. 
 The dissonance ceased, and all seemed 
 calm and bright ; 
 When France her front deep-scarr'd 
 
 and gory 
 Concealed with clustering wreaths of 
 glory ; 
 Wlien insupportably advancing, 
 Her arm made mockery of the war- 
 rior's ramp ; 
 While timid looks of fury glancing. 
 Domestic treason, crushed beneath her 
 fatal stamp. 
 Writhed like a wounded dragon in his 
 gore ; 
 Then I reproached my fears that 
 would not flee ; 
 *' And soon," I said, "shall Wisdom 
 
 teach her lore 
 In the low huts of them that toil and 
 
 groan ; 
 And, conquering by her happiness 
 alone, 
 Shall France compel the nations to be 
 free. 
 Till Love and Joy look round, and call 
 the earth their own." 
 
 Forgive me, Freedom ! O forgive those 
 dreams ! 
 I hear thy voice, I hear thy loud 
 lament, 
 
90 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 From bleak Helvetia's icy caverns 
 sent — 
 I hear thy groans upon her blood-stained 
 streams ! 
 Heroes, that for your peaceful country 
 perished , 
 And ye, tliat fleeing, spot your moun- 
 tain snows 
 With lileeding wounds ; forgive me, . 
 that I cherished 
 One thought that ever blessed your cruel 
 foes ! 
 To scatter rage and traitorous guilt 
 Where Peace her jealous home had 
 built ; 
 A patriot-race to disinlierit 
 Of all tliat made tlieir stormy wilds so 
 dear ; 
 And with inexpiable spirit 
 To taint tlie bloodless freedom of the 
 
 mountaineer — ■ 
 O France, that mockest Heaven, adul- 
 terous, blind. 
 And patriot only in pernicious toils ! 
 Are these thy boasts. Champion of liuinan 
 kind ? 
 To mix with Kings in the low lust of 
 sway. 
 Yell in the hunt, and share the murder- 
 ous prey ; 
 To insult the slirine of Liberty with spoils 
 From freemen torn ; to tempt and to 
 betray ? 
 
 The Sensual and the Dark rebel in 
 vain, 
 Slaves by their own compvilsion ! In 
 
 mad game 
 They burst tlieir manacles and wear 
 the name 
 Of Freedom, graven on a heavier 
 
 chain ! 
 O Liberty ! with profitless endea\or 
 Have I pursued thee, many a weary 
 hour ; 
 But thou nor swell'st the victor's strain 
 nor ever 
 Didst breatlie thy soul in forms of luiman 
 power. 
 Alike from all, howe'er they praise 
 
 thee, 
 (Nor prayer, nor boastful name delays 
 thee) 
 Alike from Priestcraft's harpy 
 minions. 
 And factious Blasphemy's obscener 
 slaves, 
 
 Thou speedest on thy subtle pinions, 
 The guide of homeless winds, and play- 
 mate of the \^•aves ! 
 And then I felt thee ! — on that sea-cliff's 
 verge. 
 Wlio.se pines, scarce travelled bj^ the 
 breeze above. 
 Had made one murmur w-ith the distant 
 
 surge ! 
 Yes, while I stood and gazed, my temples 
 
 bare. 
 And shot mj^ being through earth, sea 
 and air. 
 Possessing all things with intensest 
 love, 
 O Liberty ! my spirit felt thee there. 
 February, 170S. April 16, 1798. 
 
 FROST AT MIDNIGHT 
 
 The Frost performs its secret ministry, 
 Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's 
 
 cry 
 Came loud — and hark, again ! loud as 
 
 before. 
 The inmates of my cottage, all at rest. 
 Have left me to that solitude, which 
 
 suits 
 Abstruser musings : save that at my 
 
 side 
 My cradled infant slumbers peacefully. 
 'Tis calm indeed ! so calm, that it dis- 
 turbs 
 And A'exes meditation with its strange 
 And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and 
 
 wood. 
 This populous village ! Sea, and hill, and 
 
 wood. 
 With all the numberless goings-on of 
 
 life. 
 Inaudible as dreams ! tlie thin blue 
 
 flame 
 Lies on my low-burnt fire, and cpiivers 
 
 not ; 
 Only that film, which fluttered on the 
 
 grate, 
 Still flutters there, the sole unquiet 
 
 thing. 
 Methinks, its motion in tliis hush of 
 
 nature 
 Gives it dim sympathies with me who 
 
 live. 
 Making it a companionable form. 
 Whose inmy flaps and freaks the idling 
 
 Spirit 
 By its own moods interprets, everywhere 
 Echo or mirror seeking of itself, 
 And makes a toy of Thought. 
 
COLERIDGE 
 
 91 
 
 But O ! how oft, 
 How oft, at scliool, with most believhig 
 
 mind. 
 Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars, 
 To watch tliat fluttering stranger ! and 
 
 as oft 
 With unclosed lids, already had I 
 
 dreamt 
 Of my sweet birth-place, and the old 
 
 church-tower, 
 Whose bells tlie poor man's only music 
 
 rang 
 From morn to evening, all the hot Fair- 
 day, 
 So sweetly, tliat they stirred and 
 
 haunted me 
 With a wild pleasure, falling on mine 
 
 ear 
 Most like articulate sounds of things to 
 
 come ! 
 So gazed I, till tlie soothing things, I 
 
 dreamt. 
 Lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged 
 
 my dreams ! 
 And so I boded all the following morn. 
 Awed by the stern preceptor's face, 
 
 mine eye 
 Fixed witli mock study on my swim- 
 ming book : 
 Save if the door half openeil, and I 
 
 snatched 
 A hasty glance, and still my heart leaped 
 
 iip. 
 For still I hoped to see the stranger s 
 
 face, 
 Townsman, or aunt, or sister more be- 
 loved, 
 My play-mate when we botli were 
 
 clotlied alike ! 
 Dear Babe, tliat sleepest cradled by 
 
 my side. 
 Whose gentle breathings, heard in this 
 
 deep calm, 
 Fill up tlie interspersed vacancies 
 And momentary pauses of tlie thought ! 
 My babe so beautiful ! it thrills ni}' 
 
 heart 
 With tender gladness, thus to look at 
 
 thee. 
 And think that tliou slialt learn far 
 
 otlier lore, 
 And in far other scenes ! For I was 
 
 reared 
 In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters 
 
 dim, 
 And saw nought lovely but the sky and 
 
 stars. 
 But thou, my babe ! shalt wander like a 
 
 breeze 
 
 By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the 
 
 crags 
 Of ancient mountain, and beneath tiie 
 
 clouds. 
 Which image in their bulk both lakes 
 
 and shores 
 And mountain crags : so shalt thou see 
 
 and hear 
 The lovely shapes and sounds intelligi- 
 ble 
 Of that eternal language, which tliy 
 
 God 
 Utters, who from eternity dotli teach 
 Himself in all, and all things in himself. 
 ( Treat universal Teacher ! he shall mould 
 Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask. 
 Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to 
 
 thee. 
 Whether the summer clothe the general 
 
 earth 
 With greenness, or the redbreast sit ami 
 
 sing 
 Betwixt the tufts of snow on tlie bare 
 
 branch 
 Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh 
 
 thatch 
 Smokes in the sun-thaw ; whether the 
 
 eave-drops fall 
 Heard only in tlte trances of the blast, 
 Or if the secret ministry of fiost 
 Shall hang them up in silent icicles. 
 Quietly shining to the quiet Moon. 
 
 Febniary, 1798. 1798. 
 
 LOVE 
 
 All thoughts, all passions, all delights, 
 Whatever stirs this mortal frame, 
 All are but ministers of Love, 
 And feed his sacred flame. 
 
 Oft in my waking dreams do I 
 Live o'er again that happy hour, 
 Wiien midway on the mount I lay, 
 Beside the ruined tower. 
 
 The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene 
 Had blended with the lights of eve: 
 And she was there, my hope, my joy. 
 My own dear Genevieve ! 
 
 Slie leant against the armed man, 
 
 Tlie statue of the armed knight ; 
 
 She stood and listened to my lay. 
 
 Amid the lingering light. 
 
 Few sorrows hath she of her own. 
 My hope ! my joy ! my Genevieve! 
 She loves me best, whene'er I sing 
 The songs that make her grieve. 
 
92 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 I played a soft and doleful air, 
 I sang an old and moving story — 
 An old rude song, that suited well 
 That ruin wild and hoary. 
 
 She listened with a flitting blush. 
 With downcast eyes and modest grace ; 
 For well she knew, I could not choose 
 But gaze upon her face. 
 
 I told her of the Knight that wore 
 Upon his shield a burning brand ; 
 And that for ten long years he wooed 
 The Lady of the Land. 
 
 I told her liow he pined : and ah ! 
 The deep, the low, the pleading tone 
 With which I sang another's love. 
 Interpreted my own. 
 
 She listened with a flitting blush. 
 With downcast eyes, and modest grace 
 And she forgave me, that I gazed 
 Too fondly on her face ! 
 
 But when I told the cruel scorn 
 That crazed that bold and lovely Knight, 
 And that he crossed the mountain- 
 woods. 
 Nor rested day nor night ; 
 
 That sometimes from the savage den, 
 And sometimes from the darksome sliade 
 And sometimes starting up at once 
 In green and sunny glade, — 
 
 There came and looked him in the face 
 An angel beautiful and bright ; 
 And that he knew it was a Fiend, 
 This miserable Knight ! 
 
 And that unknowing what he did, 
 He leaped amid a murderous baud. 
 And saved from outrage worse than 
 death 
 The Lady of the Land ! 
 
 And how she wept, and clasped liis 
 
 knees ; 
 And how she tended him in vain — 
 And ever sti'ove to expiate 
 
 The scorn that crazed his brain ; — 
 
 * 
 
 And that she nursed him in a cave ; 
 And how his madness went away. 
 When on the yellow forest-leaves 
 A dying man he lay ; — 
 
 His dying words — but wlien I reached 
 That tenderest strain of all the ditty, 
 My faltering voice and pausing harp 
 Disturbed her soul with pity ! 
 
 All impulses of soul and sense 
 Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve ; 
 The music and the doleful tale. 
 The rich and balmy eve ; 
 
 And hopes, and fears that kindle hope. 
 An undistinguishable throng, 
 And gentle wishes long subdued. 
 Subdued and cherished long ! 
 
 She wept with pity and deliglit. 
 
 She blushed w'ith love, and vii-gin- 
 
 shame ; 
 And like the murmur of a dream, 
 
 I heard her breathe my name. 
 
 Her bosom heaved — she stepped aside, 
 As conscious of my look she stepped — 
 Then suddenly, with timorous eye 
 She fled to me and wept. 
 
 Slie half enclosed me wnth her arms. 
 Slie pressed me with a meek embrace : 
 And bending back her head, looked up, 
 And gazed upon my face. 
 
 'Tvvas partly love, and pai-tly fear, 
 And partly 'twas a bashful art. 
 That I might rather feel, than see, 
 Tiie swelling of her heart. 
 
 I calmed her fears, and she was calm. 
 And told her love with virgin pride ; 
 And so I won my Genevieve, 
 
 Mv bright and beauteous Bride, 
 " 170S-1790. December 21, 1799. 
 
 THE BALLAD OF THE DARK 
 LADIE 
 
 A FRAGMENT 
 
 Beneath yon birch witli silver bark. 
 And boughs so pendulous and fair. 
 The brook falls scattered down the rock : 
 And all is mossy there ! 
 
 And there upon the moss she sits, 
 The Dark Ladie in silent pain ; 
 The heavy tear is in her eye. 
 And drops and swells again. 
 
 Three times she sends her little page 
 Up tlie castled mountain's breast. 
 If he might find the Knight that wears 
 The Griffin for his crest. 
 
 The sun was sloping down the sky. 
 And she had linger'd tliere all dny, 
 Counting moments, dreaming fears — 
 Oh wherefore can he stay ? 
 
COLERIDGE 
 
 93 
 
 Slie hears a rustling o'er the brook. 
 She sees far off a swinging bough ! 
 " 'Tis He ! 'Tis my betrothed Knight ! 
 Lord Falkland, it is Thou ! "' 
 
 She springs, she clasps him round the 
 
 neck. 
 She sobs a thousand hopes and fears, 
 Her kisses glowing on his cheeks 
 She quenches with her tears. 
 
 " My friends with rude ungentle words 
 They scoff and bid nie fly to thee ! 
 
 give me shelter in thy breast ! 
 
 O shield and shelter me ! 
 
 " My Henry, I have given thee much, 
 
 1 gave what I can ne'er recall. 
 
 I gave my heart, I gave my peace, 
 O Heaven ! I gave thee all." 
 
 The Knight made answer to the Maid, 
 While to his heart he held her hand, 
 "Nine castles hath my noble sire, 
 None statelier in the land. 
 
 " The fairest one shall be my love's. 
 The fairest castle of the nine ! 
 Wait only till the stars peep out. 
 The fairest shall be thine : 
 
 " Wait only till the hand of eve 
 Hath wholly closed yon western bars, 
 And through the dark we two will steal 
 Beneath the twinkling stars ! " — 
 
 "The dark? the dark? No! not the 
 
 dark ! 
 The twinkling stars ? How, Henry ? 
 
 How ? 
 O God ! 'twas in tiie eye of noon 
 He pledged his sacred vow ! 
 
 '• And in the eye of noon my love 
 Shall lead me from my mother's door. 
 Sweet boys and girls all clothed in white 
 Strewing flowers before : 
 
 ' ' But first the nodding minstrels go 
 With music meet for lordly bowers. 
 The children next in snow-white vests. 
 Strewing buds and flowers ! 
 
 " And then my love and I shall pace. 
 My jet black hair in pearly braids. 
 Between our comely bachelors 
 And blushing bridal maids." 
 
 179S. 1834. 
 
 LINES 
 
 WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM AT ELBINGERODE. 
 IN THE HARTZ FOREST 
 
 I STOOD on Brocken's sovran height, and 
 
 saw 
 Woods ci'owding upon woods, hills over 
 
 hills, 
 A surging scene, and only limited 
 By the blue distance. Heavily my way 
 Downward I dragged through fir groves 
 
 evermore. 
 Where briglit green moss heaves in 
 
 sepulchral forms 
 Speckled with sunshine ; and, but sel- 
 dom heard, 
 Tlie sweet bird's song became an hollow 
 
 sound : 
 And the breeze, murmuring indivisibly. 
 Preserved its solemn murmur most dis- 
 tinct 
 From many a note of many a waterfall. 
 And the brook's chatter ; 'mid wliose 
 
 islet-stones 
 The dingy kidling with its tinkling bell 
 Leaped frolicsome, or old romantic goat 
 Sat, his white beard slow waving. I 
 
 moved on 
 In low and languid mood : for T had 
 
 found 
 That outward forms, the loftiest, still 
 
 receive 
 Their finer influence from the Life 
 
 within ; — 
 Fair cj^phers else : fair, but of import 
 
 vague 
 Or unconcerning, where the heart not 
 
 finds 
 History or j^rophecy of friend, or child. 
 Or gentle maid, our first and early love, 
 Or father, or the venerable name 
 Of our adored country ! O thou Queen, 
 Thou delegated Deity of Earth, 
 O dear, dear England ! how my longing 
 
 eye 
 Turned westward, shaping in the steady 
 
 clouds 
 Thy sands and high white cliffs ! 
 
 My native Land ! 
 Filled with the thought of thee this 
 
 heai't was proud. 
 Yea, mine eye swam with tears : that 
 
 all the view 
 From sovran Brocken, woods and woody 
 
 hills. 
 Floated away, like a departing dream, 
 
94 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Feeble and dim ! Stranger, these im- 
 pulses 
 
 Blame thou not lightly ; nor will I pro- 
 fane, 
 
 With hastj^ judgment or injurious 
 doubt, 
 
 That man's sublimer spirit, who can feel 
 
 That God is everywhere ! the God who 
 framed 
 
 Mankind to be one mighty family. 
 
 Himself our Father, and the World our 
 Home. 
 May 17, 1799. September 17, 1799. 
 
 ODE TO TRANQUILLITY 
 
 Tranquillity ! thou better name 
 Tlian all the family of Fame ! 
 Tliou ne'er wilt leave my riper age 
 To low intrigue, or factious rage ; 
 For oh ! dear child of thoughtful 
 
 Truth. 
 To thee I gave my early youth. 
 And left tlie bark, and blest the stead- 
 fast shore. 
 Ere yet tlie tempest rose and scared me 
 witli its roar. 
 
 Who late and lingering seeks thy 
 
 shrine. 
 On him but seldom. Power divine, 
 Tliy spirit rests ! Satiety 
 And Sloth, poor counterfeits of thee. 
 Mock tlie tired worldling. Idle Hope 
 And dire Eemembrance interlope. 
 To vex the feverish slumbers of the 
 
 mind : 
 The bubble floats before, the spectre 
 stalks behind. 
 
 But me thy gentle hand will lead 
 At morning through the accustomed 
 
 mead : 
 And in the sultry summer's heat 
 Will build me up a mossy seat ; 
 And when the gust of Autumn 
 
 crowds. 
 And breaks the busj' moonlight 
 
 clouds. 
 Thou best the thought canst raise, the 
 
 heart attune. 
 Light as the busy clouds, calm as the 
 
 gliding moon. 
 
 The feeling heart, the searching 
 
 soul, 
 To thee I dedicate the whole ! 
 And while within myself I trace 
 The greatness of some future race, 
 Aloof with hermit-eye I scan 
 
 The present works of present man — 
 A wild and dream-like trade of blood 
 
 and guile. 
 Too foolish for a tear, too wicked for a 
 smile ! ISUl. December 4, 1801. 
 
 /dejection : AN ODE i 
 
 Late, late yestreen I saw tlie new Moon, 
 With the old Moon in her arms ; 
 Ami I fear, I fear, my master dear ! 
 We shall have a deadly storm. 
 
 Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence. 
 
 Well ! If the Bard was weather-wise, 
 who made 
 The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick 
 
 Spence, 
 This night, so tranquil now. will not 
 go hence 
 Unroused by winds, that ply a busier 
 
 trade 
 Than those which mould yon cloud in 
 
 lazy flakes. 
 Or the dull sobbing draft, that moans 
 and rakes 
 Upon the strings of this ^olian 
 
 lute, 
 AVhich better far were mute. 
 For lo ! the New-moon winter-bright I 
 And overspread with phantom liglit. 
 (With swimming phantom light o'er- 
 
 spread 
 But rimmed and circled b}- a silver 
 thread) 
 I see the old Moon in her lap. foretelling 
 The comiug-on of rain and squally 
 blast, 
 And oh ! that even now the gust were 
 swelling, 
 And the slant night-shower driving 
 loud and fast ! 
 Those sounds which oft have raised me, 
 whilst they awed. 
 And sent my soul abroad, 
 Might now perhaps their wonted impulse 
 
 give, 
 Might startle this dull pain, and make it 
 move and live ! 
 
 1 This Ode was originally written to William 
 Wordswoi'th. who was addressed as '"Edmiiud" 
 in tlie poem when first printed, on the daj' of 
 Wordsworth's marriage, October 4, 1S03. In that 
 copy, the name "Edmund" occurs at every point 
 where "Lady" is found in the later versions and 
 also where the name "Otway" occurs, in the 
 seventh stanza : there is a corresponding differ- 
 ence of the personal pronouns, and some other 
 slight differences of text, the most important of 
 which is in the conclusion, as noted below. 
 
COLERIDGE 
 
 95 
 
 A grief without a pang, void, dark, and 
 drear, 
 Astifled, drowsy, iinimpassioned grief , 
 Which finds no natural outlet, no re- 
 lief, 
 In word, or sigh, or tear — 
 
 Lady ! in tliis wan and heartless mood. 
 To other thoughts by yonder throstle 
 
 woo'd, 
 
 All tliis long eve, so balmy and serene, 
 
 Have I been gazing on the western skj'. 
 
 And its peculiar tint of yellow green ; 
 
 And still I gaze — and with how blank 
 
 an eye ! 
 And those thin clouds above, in flakes 
 
 and bars, 
 Tliat give away their motion to the stars ; 
 Those stars, that glide behind them or 
 
 between. 
 Now sparkling, now bedimmed, but al- 
 
 wa3^s seen ; 
 Yon crescent Moon, as fixed as if it grew 
 In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue ; 
 
 1 see them all so excellently fair, 
 
 I see, not feel, how beautiful they are ! 
 
 My genial spirits fail ; 
 And what can these avail 
 To lift tlie smotliering weight from ofT 
 my breast ? 
 It were a vain endeavor. 
 Though I should gaze for ever 
 On that green liglit that lingers in the 
 
 west ; 
 I may not hope from outward forms to 
 
 win 
 The passion and the life, whose foun- 
 tains are witliin. 
 
 O Lady ! we receive but what we give. 
 And in our life alone does Nature live ; 
 Uurs is her wedding-garment, ours her 
 shroud ! 
 And would we aught behold, of higher 
 worth. 
 Than that inanimate cold world allowed 
 To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd. 
 Ah ! from the soul itself must issue 
 forth 
 A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud 
 
 Enveloping the Earth — 
 And from the soul itself must there be 
 sent 
 A sweet and potent voice, of its own 
 birth, 
 Of all sweet sounds the life and element ! 
 
 O pure of heart ! thou need'st not ask 
 
 of me 
 What this strong music in the soul may 
 
 be! 
 What, and wherein it doth exist. 
 This light, this glory, this fair luminous 
 
 mist. 
 This beautiful and beauty-making 
 
 power. 
 Joy, virtuous Lady ! Joy that ne'er 
 
 was given. 
 Save to the pure, and in their purest 
 
 hour, 
 Life, and Life's effluence, cloud at once 
 
 and shower, 
 Joy, Lady ! is the spirit and the power. 
 Which wedding Nature to us gives in 
 
 dower, 
 A new Earth and new Heaven, 
 Undreamt of by the sensual and the 
 
 proud — 
 J03' is the sweet voice. Joy the luminous 
 
 cloud — • 
 We in ourselves rejoice ! 
 And thence flows all that charms or ear 
 
 or sight, 
 All melodies the echoes of that voice, 
 All colors a suffusion from that light. 
 
 There was a time when, though my path 
 was rough. 
 This joy within me dallied with dis- 
 tress, 
 And all misfortunes were but as the stuff 
 Whence Fancy made me dreams of 
 happiness : 
 For hope grew round me, like the twin- 
 ing vine. 
 And fruits, and foliage, not my own, 
 
 seemed mine. 
 But now aftiictions bow me down to 
 
 earth : 
 Nor care I that they rob me of my 
 mirth ; 
 But oh ! each visitation 
 Suspends what nature gave me at my 
 birth. 
 My shaping spirit of Imagination. 
 For not to think of what I needs must 
 feel. 
 But to be still and patient, all I can ; 
 And haply by abstruse research to steal 
 From my own nature all the natural 
 
 man — 
 This was my sole resource, my only 
 plan ; 
 
96 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Till that which suits a part infects the 
 
 wliole, 
 And now is almost grown the habit of 
 
 my soul. 
 
 VII 
 
 Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around 
 my mind. 
 Reality's dark dream ! 
 I turn from you, and listen to the wind. 
 Which long has raved unnoticed. 
 What a scream 
 Of agony by torture lengthened out 
 Tliat lute sent forth ! Thou Wind, that 
 rav'st witliout, 
 Bare crag, or moiintain-tairn, or 
 blasted tree. 
 Or pine-grove whither woodman never 
 
 clomb. 
 Or lonely house, long held the witches' 
 home, 
 Methinks were fitter instruments for 
 thee. 
 Mad Lutanist ! who in this month of 
 
 showers. 
 Of dark-brown gardens, and of peeping 
 
 flowers, 
 Mak'st Devils' yule, with worse than 
 
 wintry song. 
 The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaA^es 
 among. 
 Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic 
 sounds ! 
 Thou mighty Poet, even to frenzy bold ! 
 What tell'st thou now about V 
 'Tis of the rushing of an host in rout, 
 With groans of trampled men, with 
 smarting wounds — 
 At once they groan with pain, and 
 
 shudder with the cold ! 
 But hush ! there is a pause of deepest 
 silence ! 
 And all that noise, as of a rushing 
 crowd. 
 With groans, and tremulous sliudderings 
 — all is over — 
 It tells another tale, with sounds less 
 
 deep and loud ! 
 A tale of less affright. 
 And tempered with delight. 
 As Otway's ^ self had framed the tender 
 lay. 
 
 1 In the first printed copy, " EdmiincVs,^'' re- 
 ferring: to Wordsworth. The followinf; lines are 
 evidently an allusion to Wordsworth's Liici/ 
 Gray. The conclusion is as follows in the first 
 printed copy ; 
 
 With light heart may he rise, 
 
 Gay fancy, cheerful eyes. 
 And sing his lofty song, and teach me to rejoice .' 
 
 'Tis of a little child 
 Upon a lonesome wild, 
 Not far from home, but she hath lost her 
 
 way ; 
 And now moans low in bitter grief and 
 
 fear. 
 And now screams loud, and hopes to 
 make her mother liear. 
 
 'Tis midniglit. but small thoughts have 
 
 I of sleep : 
 Full seldom may my friend such vigils 
 
 keep ! 
 Visit her, gentle Sleep ! with wings of 
 healing. 
 And maj^ tliis storm be but a moun- 
 tain-birth, 
 ilay all tlie stars hang bright above her 
 dwelling, 
 Silent as though tliey watched the 
 sleeping Eartli ! 
 With light heart may she rise. 
 Gay fancy, cheerful eyes. 
 Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her 
 voice ; 
 To her may all things live, from pole to 
 
 pole. 
 Tlieir life tlie eddyingof her living soul ! 
 
 O simple spirit, guided from above. 
 Dear Lady ! friend devoutest of mj- 
 
 choice. 
 Thus mayest thou ever, evermore re- 
 joice. 
 Ajyi-il 4, 1S02. October 4, 1802. 
 
 HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE, IN THE 
 VALE OF CHAMOUNI 
 
 Besides the Rivers Arve and Arveiron, which 
 have their sources in the foot of Mont Blanc, five 
 conspicuous torrents rush down its sides; and 
 within a few paces of the glaciers the Gentiana 
 Major grows in immense numbers, with its 
 " flowers of loveliest blue." {Coleridge.) 
 
 Hast thou a charm to stay the morning- 
 star 
 
 In his steep course ? So long he seems 
 to pause 
 
 O Edmund, friend of my devoutest choice, 
 
 O rais'd from anxious dread and busy care, 
 
 By the immenseness of the good and fair 
 
 Which thou see'st everywhere, 
 
 Joy lifts thy spirit, joy attunes thy voice. 
 
 To thee do all things live from pole to pole. 
 
 Their life the eddying of thy living soul 1 
 
 O simple spirit, guided from above, 
 
 O lofty Poet, full of life and love, 
 
 Brother and friend of my devoutest choice, 
 
 Thus may'st Thou ever, evermore rejoice 1 
 
COLERIDGE 
 
 97 
 
 On thy bald awful head, O sovran 
 
 Blanc ! 
 The Arve and Aiveiron at thy base 
 Rave ceaselessly ; but thou, most awful 
 
 Form ! 
 Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines. 
 How silently ! Around tliee and above 
 Deep is the air and dark, substantial, 
 
 black. 
 An ebon mass : methinks thou piercest 
 
 it. 
 As with a wedge ! But when I look 
 
 again. 
 It is thine own calm home, thy crystal 
 
 shrine, 
 Tiiy habitation from eternity ! 
 
 dread and silent Mount ! I gazed upon 
 
 thee. 
 
 Till thou, still present to the bodily 
 sense. 
 
 Didst vanish from my thought : en- 
 tranced ill prayer 
 
 1 worshipped the Invisible alone. 
 
 Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody. 
 So sweet, we know not we are listening 
 
 to it, 
 Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending 
 
 with my Tliought, 
 Yea, witii my Life and Life's own secret 
 
 joy : 
 Till the dilating Soul, enrapt, transfused. 
 Into the mighty vision passing — tliere 
 As in lier natural form, swelled vast to 
 
 Heaven ! 
 
 Awake, my soul ! not onh' passive 
 
 praise 
 Thou owest ! not alone these swelling 
 
 tears. 
 Mute tlianks and secret ecstasy ! Awake, 
 Voice of sweet song ! Awake, my heart, 
 
 awake ! 
 Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my 
 
 Hymn. 
 
 Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of 
 
 the Vale ! 
 O struggling with the darkness all the 
 
 night. 
 And visited all night by troops of stars. 
 Or when they climb the sky or when 
 
 tliey sink : 
 Companion of the morning-star at dawn. 
 Thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the 
 
 dawn 
 Co-herald : wake, O wake, and utter 
 
 praise ! 
 Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in 
 
 Earth ? 
 
 7 
 
 Who fill'd thv countenance with rosy 
 
 light? 
 Who made thee parent of perpetual 
 
 streams ? 
 
 And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely 
 
 glad ! 
 Who called you forth from niglit and 
 
 utter death, 
 From dark and icy caverns called vou 
 
 forth, 
 Down those precipitous, black, jagged 
 
 rocks. 
 For ever shattered and the same for 
 
 ever ? 
 Who gave you your invulnerable life. 
 Your strength, your speed, your fury, 
 
 and your joy. 
 Unceasing thunder and eternal foam ? 
 And who commanded (and the silence 
 
 came), 
 Here let the billows stiffen, and have 
 
 rest ? 
 
 Ye Ice-falls ! ye that from the moun- 
 tain's brow 
 
 Adown enormous ravines slope amain — 
 
 Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty 
 voice. 
 
 And stopped at once amid their maddest 
 plunge ! 
 
 Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts! 
 
 Who made you glorious as the Gates of 
 Heaven 
 
 Beneath the keen full moon ? Who bade 
 the sun 
 
 Clothe j'ou with rainbows ? Who, with 
 living flowers 
 
 Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at 
 your feet ? — 
 
 God ! let the torrents, like a shout of 
 nations. 
 
 Answer ! and let the ice-plains echo, 
 God! 
 
 God ! sing ye meadow-sti-eams with 
 gladsome voice ! 
 
 Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul- 
 like sounds ! 
 
 And they too have a voice, j'on piles of 
 snow. 
 
 And in their perilous fall shall thunder, 
 God! 
 
 Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal 
 frost ! 
 
 Ye wild goats sporting round tlie eagle's 
 nest ! 
 
 Ye eagles, play-mates of the mountain- 
 storm ! 
 
98 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the 
 
 clouds ! 
 Ye signs and wonders of the element ! 
 Utter forth God, and fill tlie liills with 
 
 praise ! 
 
 Thou too, hoar Mount ! with thy sky- 
 pointing peaks, 
 Oft from whose feet the avalanche, un- 
 heard. 
 Shoots downward, glittering through the 
 
 pure serene 
 Into the depth of clouds, that veil thy 
 
 breast — 
 Thou too again, stupendous Mountain ! 
 
 thou 
 That as I raise my head, awhile bowed 
 
 low 
 In adoration, vipward from thy base 
 Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused 
 
 with tears, 
 Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud, 
 To rise before me — Rise, O ever rise. 
 Rise like a cloud of incense from the 
 
 Eartli ! 
 Thou kingly Spirit throned among the 
 
 hills, 
 Thou dread ambassador from Earth to 
 
 Heaven. 
 Great Hierarch ! tell thou the silent 
 
 sky. 
 And tell the stars, and tell yon rising 
 
 sun 
 Earth, with her thousand voices, praises 
 
 God. 
 
 ISO?. September 11, 1803. 
 
 THE GOOD. GREAT MAN 
 
 " How seldom, friend ! a good great man 
 inherits 
 Honor or wealth with all liis w<n-th 
 and pains ! 
 It sovmds like stories from the land of 
 
 spirits 
 If any man obtain that which he 
 merits 
 Or any merit that which he obtains." 
 
 REPLY TO THE ABOVE 
 
 For shame, dear friend, renounce this 
 
 canting strain ! 
 What would'st thou have a good great 
 
 man obtain ? 
 Place? titles'? salary? a gilded chain ? 
 Or throne of coi'ses wliicli his sword had 
 
 slain ? 
 Greatness and goodne.ss are not means, 
 
 but ends ! 
 
 Hath he not always treasures, alwaj^s 
 
 friends. 
 The good great man? tliree treasures, 
 
 Love, and Light, 
 And Calm THOUcmTS, regular as infant's 
 
 breath : 
 And three firm friends, more sure than 
 
 day and niglit. 
 Himself, liis Maker, and the Anuel 
 
 Death ! 
 
 ISO.?. September 23. 1802. 
 
 THE PAINS OF SLEEP 
 
 Ere on my bed my limbs I lay. 
 
 It hath not been my use to pray 
 
 With moving lips or bended knees ; 
 
 But silently, by slow degrees, 
 
 My spirit I to Love compose, 
 
 In humble trust mine eyelids close, 
 
 With reverential resignation. 
 
 No wish conceived, no thought exprest. 
 
 Only a sense of supplication ; 
 
 A sense o'er all my soul imprest 
 
 That I am weak, yet not unblest. 
 
 Since in me, round me. everj-where 
 
 Eternal Strength and Wisdom are. 
 
 But yester-night I pray'd aloud 
 In anguish and in agony, 
 Up-starting from the fiendish crowd 
 Of shapes and thoughts that tortured 
 
 me : 
 A lurid light, a trampling throng, 
 Sense of intolerable wrong, 
 And whom I scorned, those only strong ! 
 Thirst of revenge, tlie powerless will 
 Still baffled, and yet burning still ! 
 Desire with loathing strangely mixed 
 On wild or liateful objects fixed. 
 Fantastic passions ! maddening brawl ! 
 And shame and terror over all ! 
 Deeds to be hid which were not hid. 
 Which all confused I could not know 
 Whether I suffered, or I did : 
 For all seem'd guilt, remorse or woe. 
 My own or others still the same 
 Life-stifling fear, soul-stifling shame ! 
 
 So two nights passed : the night's dis- 
 may 
 
 Saddened and stunned the coming day. 
 
 Sleep, the wide blessing, seemed to me 
 
 Distemper's worst calmity. 
 
 The third night, when "my own loud 
 scream 
 
 Had waked me from the fiendish dream, 
 
 O'ercome with sufferings strange and 
 wild. 
 
COLERIDGE 
 
 99 
 
 I wept as I had been a cliilil : 
 And having thus by tears subdued 
 My anguish to a milder mood, 
 Such punishments, I said. 'were due 
 To natures deepliest stained witli sin : 
 For aye entempesting anew 
 Tlie unfatliomable liell witliin 
 The horror of their deeds to view. 
 To know and loathe, yet wisli and do ! 
 Sucli griefs with such men well agree. 
 But wlierefore, wlierefore fall on me ? 
 To be beloved is all I need, 
 And whom I love, I love indeed. 
 
 IS03. 1816. 
 
 TO WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 
 
 COMPOSED ON THE NIGHT AFTER HIS RE- 
 CITATION OF A POEM ON THE GROWTH 
 OF AN INDIVIDUAL MIND 
 
 Friend of the wise ! and Teacher of the 
 
 Good ! 
 Into my heart liave I received that Lay 
 More than historic, that prophetic Lay 
 Wherein (high theme by thee first sung 
 
 aright) 
 Of tlie foundations and the building up 
 Of a Human Si)irit thou hast dared to 
 
 tell 
 What may be told, to the understanding 
 
 mind 
 Revealable ; and what Avithin the mind 
 By vital breathings secret as the soul 
 Of vernal growth, oft quickens in the 
 
 heart 
 Thoughts all too deep for words ! — 
 
 Theme hard as high ! 
 Of smiles spontaneous, and mysterious 
 
 fears 
 (The first-born they of Reason and twin- 
 birth). 
 Of tides obedient to external force. 
 And currents self-determined, as might 
 
 seem, 
 Or by some inner Power ; of moments 
 
 awful, 
 Now in tiiy inner life, and now abroad. 
 When power streamed from thee, and 
 
 thy soul received 
 The liglit reflected, as alight bestoweil — 
 Of fancies fair, and milder liours of 
 
 youth, 
 Hyblean murmurs of poetic thought 
 Industrious in its joy. in vales and glens 
 Native or outland, lakes and famous 
 
 hills ? 
 Or on the lonely high-road, when the 
 
 stars 
 
 Were rising : or by secret mountain- 
 streams. 
 
 The guides and the companions of thy 
 way ! 
 
 Of more than Fanc}% of the Social Sense 
 
 Distending wide, and man beloved as 
 man. 
 
 Where France in all her towns lay vi- 
 brating 
 
 Like some becalmed bark beneath the 
 burst 
 
 Of Heaven's immediate thunder, when 
 no cloud 
 
 Is visible, or shadow on the maiUo 
 
 For thou wert there, thine own brows 
 garlanded. 
 
 Amid the tremor of a realm aglow, 
 
 Amid a miglity nation jubilant. 
 
 When from the general heart of human- 
 kind 
 
 Hope sprang forth like a full-born 
 Deity ! 
 
 Of that dear Hope afflicted and 
 
 stiuck down, 
 
 So summoned homeward, thenceforth 
 calm and sure 
 
 From the dread watch-tower of man's 
 absolute self 
 
 With light unwaning on her eyes, to 
 look 
 
 Far on — herself a glory to behold. 
 
 The angel of the vision ! Then (last 
 strain) 
 
 Of Duty, chosen Laws controlling choice. 
 
 Action and joy ! — An orphic song in- 
 deed, 
 
 A song divine of high and passionate 
 thoughts 
 
 To their own music chanted ! 
 
 O great B:ird ! 
 Ere yet that last strain dying awed the 
 
 air, 
 With steadfast eye I viewed thee in tl>e 
 
 choir 
 Of ever-enduring men. The truly gre.'it 
 Have all one age, and from one visible 
 
 space 
 Shed influence ! They, both in power 
 
 and act, 
 Are permanent, and Time is not with 
 
 tlieTTi, 
 Save as it worketh/or them, they in it. 
 Nor less a sacred Roll than those of old, 
 And to be placed, as they, with gradual 
 
 fame 
 Among the archives of mankind, thy 
 
 work 
 
 l.cf' 
 
lOO 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Makes audible a linked lay of Tiiitli, 
 Of Truth profound a sweet continuous 
 
 lay, 
 
 Not learnt, but native, her own natui-al 
 
 notes ! 
 1 Ah ! as I listen'd with a heart forlorn, 
 The pulses of my being Vieat anew : 
 And even as life returns upon tiie 
 
 drowned, 
 Life's joy rekindling roused a throng of 
 
 pains — 
 Keen pangs of Love, awakening as a 
 
 babe 
 Turbulent, with an outcry in the heart ; 
 And fears self-willed, that shunned the 
 
 eye of hope ; 
 And hope that scarce would know itself 
 
 from fear ; 
 Sense of past youth, and manhood come 
 
 in vain, 
 And genius given, and knowledge won 
 
 in vain ; 
 And all which I had culled in wood- 
 walks wide. 
 And all which patient toil liJid reared, 
 
 and all 
 Commune with thee had opened out — 
 
 but flowers 
 Strewed on my corse, and borne upon 
 
 my bier, 
 In the same coffin, fur the self-same 
 
 grave ! 
 
 That way no more ! and ill beseems 
 
 it me. 
 Who came a welcomer in herald's guise. 
 Singing of glory, and futurity. 
 To wander back on such unliealthful 
 
 road. 
 Plucking the poisons of self-harm ! And 
 
 ill 
 Such intertwine beseems triumphal 
 
 wreaths 
 
 1 In place of this line and the next, there stooil 
 in the manuscript copy of January IIjOT the 
 following lines : 
 
 Dear shall it be to every human heart, 
 To me how more tlian dearest 1 me, on whom 
 Comfort from thee, and utterance of thy love. 
 Came with such heights and depths of harmony. 
 Such sense of wings unlifting. that its might 
 Scatter'd and quell'd me, till my thoughts be- 
 came 
 A bodily tumult ; and thy faithful hopes, 
 Thy hopes of me, dear Friend, by me unfelt ! 
 Were troublous to me, almost as a voice. 
 Familiar once, and more than musical ; 
 As a dear woman's voice to one cast forth, 
 A wanderer with a worn-out heart forlorn, 
 Mid strangers pining with imtended wounds. 
 O Friend, too well thou know'st, of what sad 
 
 years 
 The long suppression had benumb'd my soul. . . . 
 
 Strew'd before thy advancing ! 
 
 Nor do thou. 
 Sage Bard ! impair the memory of that 
 
 hour 
 Of tliy communion witli my nobler 
 
 mind 
 P>y pity or gi-ief, already felt too long ! 
 Nor let my words import more blame 
 
 tlian need.s. 
 The tumult ro.se and ceased : for Peace 
 
 is nigh 
 Where wisdom's voice has found a 
 
 listening heart 
 Amid the howl of more than wintry 
 
 storms. 
 The halcyon hears tlie voice of vernal 
 
 hours 
 Already on the wing. 
 
 Eve following eve, 
 Dear tranquil time, when the sweet sense 
 
 of Home 
 Is sweetest ! moments for their own sake 
 
 hailed 
 And more desired, more precious, for 
 
 thy song. 
 In silence listening, like a devout 
 
 cliild, 
 My sovil laj'^ jiassive, by tliy various 
 
 strain 
 Driven as in surges now beneath the 
 
 stars, 
 With momentary stars of mj^ own 
 
 birth. 
 Fair constellated foam, still darting off 
 Into the darkness ; now a tranquil 
 
 sea. 
 Outspread and bright, yet swelling to 
 
 tlie moon. 
 
 And when — O Friend ! my comforter 
 
 and guide ! 
 Strong in thyself, and powerful to give 
 
 strength ! — 
 Thy long sustained Song finally closed. 
 And thy deep voice had ceased — yet 
 
 tliou tliyself 
 Wert .still before my eves, and round us 
 
 both 
 Tliat fiappy vision of beloved faces — 
 Scarce conscious, and yet conscious of 
 
 its close 
 I sate, my being blended in one thought 
 (Thought was it ? or aspiration ? or re- 
 solve ?) 
 Absorbed, yet hanging still upon the 
 
 sound — 
 And when I rose, I found myself in 
 
 prayer, 
 
 January, 1SU7. 1817. 
 
COLERIDGE 
 
 SONG FROM ZAPOLYA 
 
 A SUNNY shaft did I behold, 
 From sky to eartli it slanted : 
 
 And poised therein a bird so bold — 
 Sweet bird, thou wert enchanted ! 
 
 He sunk, he rose, he twinkled, he trolled 
 Within that shaft of sunny mist ; 
 
 His eyes of fire, his beak of gold, 
 All else of amethyst ! 
 
 And thus he sang : Adieu ! adieu ! 
 Love's di'eams prove seldom true. 
 The blossoms they make no delay ; 
 The sparkling dew-drops will not stay. 
 Sweet month of May, 
 We must away ; 
 Far far awav ! 
 
 To-day f to-day ! IS 15. 1817. 
 
 YOUTH AND AGE 
 
 Verse, a breeze mid blossoms straying. 
 Where Hojie clung feeding, like a bee — 
 Both were mine ! Life went a-maying 
 With Nature, Hope, and Poesy, 
 When I was young ! 
 When I was young ? — Ah, woeful When ! 
 Ah ! for the change 'twixt Now and 
 
 Then ! 
 This breathing house not built with 
 
 hands. 
 This body that does me grievous wrong. 
 O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands. 
 How lightly then it flashed along : — 
 Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore, 
 On winding lakes and rivers wide. 
 That ask no aid of sail or oar, 
 Tliatfear no spite of wind or tide ! 
 Nought cared this body for wind or 
 
 weather 
 When Youtli and I lived in't together. 
 Flowers are lovely ; Love is flower-like; 
 Friendship is a sheltering tree ; 
 
 ! the joys, that came down shower-like, 
 Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty, 
 
 Ere I was old ! 
 Ere I was old ? Ah woeful Ere, 
 Which tells me, Youth's nolonger here ! 
 O. Youth ! for years so many and sweet, 
 'Tis known, that Thou and I were one, 
 I'll think it but a fond conceit — 
 It cannot be tliat Thou art gone ! 
 Tliy vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd :^ 
 And thou wert aj'e a masker bf)l(l ! 
 AVhat strange disguise hast now put on. 
 To make believe, that thou art gone ? 
 
 1 see these locks in silvery slips, 
 
 This drooping gait, this altered size : 
 But Spring-tide blossoms on thy lips, 
 And tears take sunshine from thine eyes! 
 Life is but thought : so think I will 
 That Youth and I are house-mates still. 
 Dew-drops are the gems of morning, 
 But the tears of mournful eve ! 
 Where no hope is. life *s a warning 
 That only serves to riiake us grieve, 
 
 When we are old : 
 That only serves to make us grieve 
 With oft and tedious taking- leave 
 Like some poor nigh-related guest, 
 That may not rudely be dismist ; 
 Yet hatli out-stay'd his welcome while. 
 And tells the jest without the smile. 
 
 1S23— April, 1S3:2. 1828— June, 1832. 
 
 W^ORK WITHOUT HOPE 
 
 All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave 
 
 their lair — 
 The bees are .stirring — birds are on the 
 
 wing — 
 And Winter slumV)ering in the open air. 
 Wears on his smiling face a dream of 
 
 Spring ! 
 And I the while, the sole unbusy thing, 
 Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, 
 
 nor sing. 
 Yet well I ken the banks where ama- 
 ranths blow, 
 Have traced the fount whence streams 
 
 of nectar flow. 
 Bloom, O ye amaranths ! bloom for 
 
 whom ye may. 
 For me ye l)loom not ! Glide, rich 
 
 streams, away ! 
 With lips unbrigiitened, wreathless 
 
 brow, I stroll : 
 And would you learn the spells that 
 
 drowse my soul ? 
 AVork without Hope draws nectar in a 
 
 .sieve. 
 And Hope without an object cannot live. 
 February, 1S27. 1828. 
 
 THE GARDEN OF BOCCACCIO 
 
 Of late, in one of those most weary 
 hours. 
 
 When life seems emptied of all genial 
 powers, 
 
 A dreary mood, Avhich he who ne'er has 
 known 
 
 May bless his hapjiy lot, I sate alone ; 
 
 And, from the numbing spell to win re- 
 lief, [grief. 
 
 Call'd on the Past for thought of glee or 
 
BRITISH POETS 
 
 In vain ! bereft alike of grief and glee, 
 I sate and cow'r'd o'er my own vacancy ! 
 And as I watched the dull continuous 
 
 ache, 
 Which, all else slumbering, seem'd alone 
 
 to wake ; 
 
 Friend ! long wont to notice yet con- 
 
 ceal. 
 And soothe by silence what words can- 
 not heal, 
 
 1 but half saw that quiet hand of thine 
 Place on my desk this exquisite design, 
 Boccaccio's Garden and its faer}^ 
 
 The love, tlie joyaunce, and tlie gal- 
 lantry ! 
 An Idyll, with Boccaccio's spirit warm, 
 Framed in the silent poesy of form. 
 Like flocks a-down a newly-bathed steep 
 Emerging from a mist : or like a stream 
 Of mvisic soft, that not dispels tlie sleep, 
 But casts in happier moulds the 
 
 slimiberer's dream, 
 Gazed by an idle eye with silent might 
 The picture stole upon mj^ inward 
 
 sight. 
 A tremuloiis warmth crept gradual o'er 
 
 my chest. 
 As though an infant's finger touch'd my 
 
 breast. 
 And one by one (I know not whence) 
 
 were brought 
 All spirits of power that most had stirr'd 
 
 my thought 
 In selfless boyhood, on a new world tost 
 Of wonder, and in its own faiicies lost ; 
 Or charm'd my youth, that, kindled from 
 
 above. 
 Loved ere it loved, and souglit a form 
 
 for love ; 
 Or lent a lustre tf) the earnest scan 
 Of manhood, musing wliat and whence 
 
 is man ! 
 Wild strain of Scalds, that in the sea- 
 
 \vorn caves 
 Rehearsed their war-spell to tlie winds 
 
 and waves ; 
 Or fateful hymn of those prophetic 
 
 maids, 
 That callM on Hertlia in deep forest 
 
 glades ; 
 Or minstrel lay, that cheer'd the baron's 
 
 feast ; 
 Or rhyme of city pomp, of monk and 
 
 priest. 
 Judge, mayor, and many a guild in long 
 
 array. 
 To high-church pacing on the great 
 
 saint's day. 
 And many a verse which to myself I sang. 
 
 That woke the tear yet stole away the 
 
 pang. 
 Of hopes which in lamenting I lenew'd. 
 And last, a matron now. of sober mien. 
 Yet radiant still and with no earthly 
 
 sheen. 
 Whom as a faery child my childhood 
 
 woo'd 
 Even in my dawn of thought — Philos- 
 ophy ; 
 Though then unconscious of herself. 
 
 l)ardie. 
 She bore no other name than Poes^^ ; 
 And, like a gift from heaven, in lifeful 
 
 glee. 
 That had but newly left a mother's knee. 
 Prattled and play'd with bird and flower, 
 
 and stone. 
 As if with elfin playfellows well known, 
 And life reveal'd to innocence alone. 
 
 Thanks, gentle artist ! now I can descry 
 Thy fair creation with a mastering eye. 
 And all awake ! And now in fix'd gaze 
 
 stand. 
 Now wander through the Eden of thy 
 
 hand : 
 Praise the green arches, on the fountain 
 
 clear 
 See fragment shadows of the crossing 
 
 deer ; 
 And with that serviceable nymph I stoop 
 The crystal from its restless pool to 
 
 scoop. 
 I see no longer ! I myself am there, 
 Sit on the ground-sward, and the 
 
 banquet share. 
 'Tis I, that sweep that lute's love-echo- 
 ing strings. 
 And gaze upon the maid who gazing 
 
 sings ; 
 Or pause and listen to the tinkling bells 
 Frow the high tower, and think that 
 
 there she dwells. 
 With old Boccaccio's soul I stand jjossest. 
 And breathe an air like life, that swells 
 
 my chest. 
 
 The brightness of the world, O thou 
 
 once free. 
 And always fair, rare land of courtesy ! 
 O Florence ! with the Tuscan fields and 
 
 hills 
 And famous Arno, fed with all their 
 
 rills ; 
 Thou brightest star of star-bright Italy ! 
 Rich, ornate, populous, all treasures 
 
 thine. 
 The golden corn, the olive, and the vine, 
 
COLERIDGE 
 
 103 
 
 Fair cities, gallant mansions, castles old. 
 And forests, where beside Ids leafy hold 
 The sullen boar hath heard the distant 
 
 horn , 
 And whets his tusks against the gnarled 
 
 thorn ; 
 Palladian palace with its storied halls ; 
 Fountains, where Love lies listening to 
 
 their falls ; 
 Gardens, where flings the bridge its airy- 
 span , 
 And Nature makes her happy home 
 
 with man ; 
 Wliere many a gorgeous flower is duly 
 
 fed 
 With its own rill, on its own spangled 
 
 bed, 
 And wreathes the inarble urn, or leans 
 
 its head. 
 A mimic mourner, that witli veil with- 
 draw ir 
 Weeps liquid gems, tlie presents of the 
 
 dawn ; — 
 Tliine all delights, and every muse is 
 
 thine ; 
 And more than all, the embrace and 
 
 intertwine 
 Of all with all in gay and twinkling 
 
 dance ! 
 
 Mid gods of Greece and warriors of 
 
 roinance. 
 See ! Boccace sits, unfolding on his 
 
 knees 
 The new found roll of old Masonides ; 
 But from his mantle's fold, and near the 
 
 heart, 
 Peers Ovid's Holy Book of Love's sweet 
 
 smart ! ^ 
 
 O all-enjoying and all-blending sage. 
 Long be it mine to con tliy mazy page. 
 Where half conceal'd, the eye of fancy 
 
 views 
 Fauns, nymphs, and winged saints, all 
 
 gracious to thy muse ! 
 
 1 I know few more striking or more interesting 
 proofs of the overwhelming influence wliich the 
 study of tlie Greek and Roman classics exercised 
 on the judgments, feelings, and imaginations of 
 the literati of Europe at the commencement of 
 the restoration of literature, than the passage in 
 the Filocopo of Boccaccio, where the sage in- 
 structor, Racheo, as soon as the young prince 
 and the beautiful girl Biancofiore had learned 
 their letters, sets them to study the Holy Book, 
 Ovid's Art of Love. " Incomincio Racheo a 
 mettere il suo officio in esecuzione con intera 
 sollecitudine. E loro, in breve tempo, insegnato 
 a conoscer le lettere, fece leggere il santo libro 
 d'Ovvidio, nel quale il sommo poeta mostra, come 
 i santi fuoclii di Venere si debbano ne' ifreddi 
 cuori accendere." 
 
 Still in thy garden let me watch their 
 
 pranks. 
 And see in Dian's vest between the 
 
 ranks 
 Of the trim vines, some maid that half 
 
 believes 
 The vestal fires, of whicli her lover 
 
 grieves. 
 With tliat sly satyr peeping through the 
 
 leaves ! 1S28. 1829. 
 
 PHANTOM OF FACT 
 
 A DIALOGUE IN VERSE 
 AUTHOR 
 
 A LOVELY form there sate beside my 
 
 bed. 
 And such a feeling calm its presence 
 
 shed, 
 A tender love so pure from earthly 
 
 leaven. 
 That I unnethe the fancy might con- 
 trol, 
 'Tvvas my own spirit newly come from 
 
 heaven, 
 Wooing its gentle way into my soul ! 
 But ah ! the change — It liad not stirr'd, 
 
 and yet — 
 Alas ! that change how fain would I 
 
 forget ! 
 That shrinking back, like one that had 
 
 mistook ! 
 That weary, wandering, disavowing 
 
 look ! 
 "Tvvas all another, feature, look, and 
 
 frame, 
 And still, methought, I knew, it was 
 
 the same ! 
 
 This riddling tale, to what does it be- 
 long ? 
 
 Is't history ? vision ? or an idle song ? 
 
 Or rather say at once, within what 
 space 
 
 Of time this wild disastrous change took 
 place ? 
 
 AUTHOR 
 
 Call it a momenfs work (and such it 
 
 seems) 
 This tale's a fragment from the life of 
 
 dreams ; 
 But say. that years matur'd the silent 
 
 strife, 
 And 'tis a record from the dream of life. 
 
 1S30. 1834, 
 
SCOTT 
 
 LIST OF REFERENCES 
 
 Editions 
 
 Poetical Works, edited by William Minto, 2 volumes, Edinburgh, 
 1887-88. Poetical Works, edited, with revision of text, by W. J. Rolfe, 
 Boston, 1888. Poetical Works, edited by Andrew Lang, 2 volumes. The 
 Macmillan Company. Poetical Works (Globe Edition), edited by F. T. 
 Palgrave, The Macmillan Company (not complete). * Complete Works 
 (Cambridge Edition), edited by II. E. Scudder, Houghton & Mifflin. Poems 
 (The Aldine Poets), 5 volumes. The Macmillan Company. Comj)lete 
 Poetical and Dramatic Works (Riverside Edition), 5 volumes, Hough- 
 ton & Mifflin. Marmion (Students' Edition), edited by W. J. Rolfe, 
 Houghton & Mifflin. * Marmion (Longmans' English Classics), edited by 
 R. M. Lovett. 
 
 Biography 
 
 * LocKHART (J. G.), Life of Sir Walter Scott (The standard biograpliy). 
 
 * HuTTON (R. II.), Scott, English Men of Letters Series (containing two 
 chapters of excellent criticism on Scott's poetry). Yonge (C. D.) Scott, 
 Gi'eat Writers iSeries. See also Scott's Journal and Letters. 
 
 Critical Essays, etc. 
 
 Jeffrey (Lord Francis), Edinburgh Review, No. 32, Art. 1, Lady of 
 the Lake ; No. 36, Art. 6, Vision of Don Roderick ; No. 48, Art. 1, Lord 
 of the Isles. Also in his Critical Essays. Hugo (V.), Litterature et 
 Philosophic (1834). Carlyle, Miscellanies, I. * Ruskin, P'ors Clavigera. 
 
 * SnAiRP (Jolm C), Aspects of Poetry ; Homeric Spirit of Scott. * Pal- 
 grave (F. T.), Introduction to Globe Edition of Scott's Poetical Works. 
 Saixtsbury (G,), Essays on English Literature (Second Series). Rossetti 
 (W. M.), Lives of Famous Poets. Stephen (Leslie), Hours in a Library, 
 Vol. 1. Presoott (W. II.), Biographical and Critical Miscellanies. Lang 
 (A.), Letters to Dead Authors. Lang (A.), Essays in Little. Howells 
 (W. D.), My Literary Passions. Hay (John), Speech at the Unveiling of 
 the Bust of Scott in Westminster Abbey. Crockett (S. R.), The Scott 
 Cou7itry. 
 
 Bell (C. D.), Some English Poets. Brooks (S. W.), English Poetry 
 and Poets. Dawson (W. J.), Makers of Modern English. Devey (J.), 
 Comparative Estimate of Modern English Poets. Minto (W.), Literature 
 of the Georgian Era. Pierson (William), Epic Poems of Walter Scott, 
 compared with the like Poetry of Thomas Moore. Reed (H.), Lectures 
 on British Poets. Rushton (W.), Afternoon Lectures. Swanwick (A.), 
 Poets the Interpreters of their Age. Wilson (J. G.), Poets of Scotland. 
 
 104 
 
SCOTT 
 
 WILLIAM AND HELEN 
 
 Imitated from Burger's Lenore. See Lock- 
 hart's Life of Scott, Volume I, Chap. 7. 
 
 From heavy dreams fair Helen rose, 
 And eyed the dawning red : 
 
 "Alas, my love, thou tarriest long ! 
 O art thou false or dead ? " 
 
 With gallant Frederick's princely power 
 
 He sought the bold crusade, 
 But not a word from Judah's wars 
 
 Told Helen how he sped. 
 
 With Paynim and with Saracen 
 At lengtli a truce was made. 
 
 And every knight returned to dry 
 The tears his love had shed. 
 
 Our gallant host was homeward bound 
 
 With many a song of joy ; 
 Green waved the laurel in each plume, 
 
 The badge of victory. 
 
 And old and young, and sire and son, 
 To meet them crowd the waj'. 
 
 With shouts and mirtli and melody, 
 The debt of love to pay. 
 
 Full many a maid her true-love met, 
 
 And sobbed in his embrace. 
 And fluttering J03' in tears and smiles 
 
 Arrayed full many a face. 
 
 Nor joy nor smile for Helen sad. 
 She sought the host in vain ; 
 
 For none could tell her William's fate, 
 If faithless or if slain. 
 
 The martial band is past and gone ; 
 
 She rends her raven liair. 
 And in distraction's bitter mood 
 
 She weeps with wild despair. 
 
 *' O, rise, my child," her mother said, 
 
 " Nor sorrow thus in vain ; 
 A perjured lover's fleeting heart 
 
 No teai's recall again." 
 
 " O, Mother, what is gone is gone, 
 
 What's lost forever lorn : 
 Death, death alone can comfort me ; 
 
 O had I ne'er been born ! 
 
 " O, break, my heart, O, break at once ! 
 
 Drink my life-blood. Despair ! 
 No joy remains on e;utli for me, 
 
 For me in heaven no share." 
 
 " O, enter not in judgment. Lord ! " 
 
 The pious mother prays ; 
 " Impute not guilt to tli.y frail cliild ! 
 
 She knows not what slie says. 
 
 " O, say thy pater-noster. cliild ! 
 
 O, turn to God and grace ! 
 His will, that turned tliy bliss to bale. 
 
 Can change tliy bale to bliss." 
 
 " O mother, mother, what is bliss? 
 
 O mother, what is bale ? 
 My William's love was heaven on eartli, 
 
 Without it earth is hell. 
 
 " Why should I pray to ruthless Heaven, 
 Since my loved William's slain ':* 
 
 I only pra3'ed for William's salce. 
 And all my prayers were vain." 
 
 " O, take the sacrament, luy child. 
 
 And check these tears tliat flow ; 
 By resignation's humble prayer, 
 
 O, hallowed be thy woe ! " 
 
 " No sacrament can quencli this fire. 
 Or slake this scorching i)ain ; 
 
 No sacrament can bid the dead 
 Arise and live again. 
 
 " O. break, my heart, O, break at once ! 
 
 Be tliou my god. Despair ! 
 Heaven's lieaviest blow has fallen on me, 
 
 And vain each fruitless prayer." 
 
 " O, enter not in judgment. Lord, 
 With thy frail cliild of clay ! 
 
 She knows not wliat her tongue has 
 sjioke ; 
 Impute it not, I pray ! 
 
 105 
 
io6 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 " Forbear, my child, this desperate woe, 
 And turn to Cxod and grace ; 
 
 Well can devotion's heavenly glow 
 Convert thy bale to bliss." 
 
 " O mother, mother, what is bliss ? 
 
 mother, what is bale ? 
 
 Without my William what were heaven, 
 Or with him what were hell ? " 
 
 Wild she arraigns the eternal doom, 
 Upbraids each sacred power. 
 
 Till, spent, she sought her silent room, 
 All in the lonely tower. 
 
 She beat her breast, she wrung her 
 hands. 
 Till sun and day were o'er, 
 And through the glimmering lattice 
 shone 
 The twinkling of the star. 
 
 Then, crash ! the heavy drawbridge fell 
 That o'er the moat was hung ; 
 
 And, clatter ! clatter ! on its boards 
 The hoof of courser rung. 
 
 The clank of echoing steel was heard 
 
 As off the rider bounded ; 
 And slowly on the winding stair 
 
 A heavy footstep sounded. 
 
 And hark ! and hark ! a knock — tap ! 
 tap ! 
 
 A rustling stifled noise ; — 
 Door-latch and tinkling staples ring ; — 
 
 At length a whispering voice. 
 
 " Awake, awake, arise, my love ! 
 
 How, Helen, dost thou fare? 
 Wak'st thou, or sleep'st ! laugh'st thou, 
 or weep'st ? 
 
 Hast thought on me, my fair? " 
 
 " My love! my love !— so late by night !— 
 
 1 waked, I wept for thee : 
 
 Much have I borne since dawn of morn ; 
 Where, William, couldstthou be ? " 
 
 " We saddle late — from Hungary 
 
 I rode since darkness fell ; 
 And to its bourne we both return 
 
 Before the matin-bell." 
 
 " O, rest this night within my arms, 
 And warm thee in their fold ! 
 
 Chill howls through hawthorn bush the 
 wind : — 
 My love is deadly cold." 
 
 "Let the wind howl through hawtliorn 
 bush ! 
 
 This night we must away ; 
 The steed is wight, the spur is bright ; 
 
 I cannot stay till daj^" 
 
 "Busk, busk, and boune ! Thou mount'st 
 behind 
 
 Upon my black barb steed : 
 O'er stock and stile, a hundred miles, 
 
 We haste to bridal bed." 
 
 " To-night — to-niglit a hundred miles ! — 
 
 O dearest William, stay ! 
 The bell strikes twelve — dark, dismal 
 hour ! 
 
 O, wait, my love, till day ! " 
 
 " Look here, look here — the moon shines 
 clear — 
 
 Full fast I ween we ride : 
 Mount and away ! for ere the day 
 
 We reach our bridal bed. 
 
 " The black barb snorts, the bridle 
 rings ; 
 
 Haste, busk, and boune, and seat thee ! 
 The feast is made, the chamber spread, 
 
 The bridal guests await thee." 
 
 Strong love prevailed : she busks, she 
 bonnes. 
 
 She mounts the barb behind. 
 And round her darling William's waist 
 
 Her lily arms she twined. 
 
 And, hurry ! hurry ! off they rode, a^^^ 
 
 As fast as fast might be ; 
 Spurned from the courser's thundering 
 heels 
 
 The flashing pebbles flee. 
 
 And on the right and on the left, 
 
 Ere they could snatch a view, 
 Fast, fast each mountain, mead, and 
 plain, 
 
 And cot and castle flew. 
 
 " Sit fast — dost fear ? — The moon shines 
 clear — 
 Fleet goes my barb — keep hold ! 
 Fear'st thou ? '" — " O no ! " she faintly 
 said ; 
 " But why so stern and cold ? 
 
 " What yonder rings ? what yonder 
 sings ? 
 Why shrieks the owlet gray ? " 
 " 'T is death-bell's clang, 't is funeral 
 song. 
 The body to the clay. 
 
 1 
 
SCOTT 
 
 107 
 
 '• With song and clang at morrow's 
 dawn 
 
 Ye may inter the dead : 
 To-night I ride witli my young bride 
 
 To deck our bridal bed. 
 
 «' Come with thy choir, thou coffined 
 guest. 
 To swell our nuptial song ! 
 Come, priest, to bless our marriage 
 feast ! 
 Come all, come all along ! " 
 
 ( "eased clang and song ; down sunk the 
 bier ; 
 
 The shrouded corpse arose : 
 And hurry ! hurry ! all tlie train 
 
 The thundering steed pursues. 
 
 And forward ! forward ! on they go ; 
 
 High snorts the straining steed ; 
 Thick pants the rider's laboring breath. 
 
 As headlong on they speed. 
 
 " O William, why this savage haste ! 
 
 And w^here thy bridal bed ? " 
 •• 'Tis distant far, lovv% damp, and chill. 
 
 And narrow, trustless maid." 
 
 " No room for me ? " — " Enough for 
 both ;— 
 Speed, speed, my barb, thy course! " 
 O'er thundering bridge, through boiling 
 surge. 
 He drove the furious horse. 
 
 Tramp ! tramp ! along the land they 
 rode, 
 
 Splash I splash ! along the sea ; 
 The scourge is wight, the spur is bright, 
 
 The flashing pebbles flee. 
 
 Fled past on right and left how" fast 
 Each forest, grove, and bower ! 
 
 On right and left fled past how fast 
 Each city, town, and tower ! 
 
 " Dost fear ? dost fear ? The moon shines 
 clear, 
 
 Dost fear to ride with me ? — 
 Hurrah ! hurrah ! the dead can ride ! " — 
 
 " O William, let them be !— 
 
 "See there, see there! What yonder 
 swings 
 
 And creaks, mid whistling rain ? " — 
 " Gibbet and steel, the accursed wheel ; 
 
 A murderer in his chain. — 
 
 '• Hollo ! thou felon, follow here : 
 
 To bridal bed we ride ; 
 And thou slialt prance a fetter dance 
 
 Before me and my bride." 
 
 And, hurry ! hurry ! clash, clash, clash ! 
 
 The wasted form descends ; 
 And fleet as wind through hazel bush 
 
 The wild career attends. 
 
 Tramp ! tramp ! along the land they 
 rode, 
 
 Splash ! splash ! along the sea ; 
 The scourge is red, the spur drops blood, 
 
 The flashing pebbles flee. 
 
 How fled what moonshine faintly 
 showed ! 
 
 How fled what darkness hid ! 
 How fled the earth beneath their feet, 
 
 The Heaven above their head ! 
 
 ' ' Dost fear ? dost fear ? The moon shines 
 clear. 
 
 And well the dead can ride ; 
 Dost, faithful Helen, fear for them? " — 
 
 '" O leave in peace the dead ! " — 
 
 ' ' Barb ! Barb ! methinks I hear the cock, 
 
 The sand will soon be run : 
 Barb ! Barb ! I smell the morning air ; 
 
 The race is well-nigh done." 
 
 Tramp ! tramp ! along the land they 
 rode. 
 
 Splash ! splash ! along the sea ; 
 The scourge is red. the spur drops blood, 
 
 The flashing pebbles flee. 
 
 •Hurrah! hurrah! well ride the dead ; 
 
 The bride, the bride is come ; 
 And soon we reacli the bridal bed, 
 For, Helen, here's my home." 
 
 Reluctant on its rusty hinge 
 
 Revolveil an iron door. 
 And by the pale moon's setting beam 
 
 Were seen a church and tower. 
 
 With many a shriek and cry whiz round 
 The birds of midnight scared ; 
 
 And rustling like autumnal leaves 
 Unhallowed ghosts were heard. 
 
 O'er many a tomb and tombstone pale 
 
 He spurred the fiery horse. 
 Till suddenly at an open grave 
 
 He checked the w^ondrous course. 
 
io8 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 The falling gauntlet quits the rein, 
 Down drops the casque of steel, 
 
 The cuirass leaves his shrinking side, 
 Tlie spur his gory heel. 
 
 The eyes desert the naked skull. 
 The mouldering flesli the bone. 
 
 Till Helen's lily arms entwine 
 A gliastly skeleton. 
 
 The furious barb snorts fire and foam, 
 
 And with a fearful bound 
 Dissolves at once in empty air, 
 
 And leaves lier on the ground. 
 
 Half seen by fits, by fits half heard. 
 
 Pale specti'es flit along, 
 Wheel round the maid in dismal dance. 
 
 And howl the funeral song ; 
 
 "E'en when the heart's with anguish 
 cleft 
 Revere the doom of Heaven, 
 Her soul is from lier bodj-^ reft ; 
 Her spirit be forgiven ! " 
 
 17D5. 1796. 
 
 THE VIOLET 
 
 See Lockhart's life of Scott, Vol I, Chapter 
 8, and the Century Magazine, July, 1899. 
 
 The violet in her gi-een- wood bower. 
 Where birchen boughs with hazels 
 mingle. 
 
 May boast itself the fairest flower 
 In glen or copse or forest dingle. 
 
 Though fair her gems of azure hue. 
 Beneath the dewdrop's weight reclin- 
 ing ; 
 I've .seen an eye of lovelier blue. 
 
 More sweet through watery lustre 
 shining. 
 
 The sujumer sun tliat th^w shall dry 
 Ere yet tlie day be jiMst its morrow. 
 
 Nor longer in my false love's eye 
 
 Remained the tear of parting .sorrow. 
 
 1797. 1810. 
 
 TO A LADY 
 
 WITH FLOWERS FROM A ROMAN WALL 
 
 Take these flowers which, purple wav- 
 ing, 
 
 On the ruined rampart grew. 
 Where, tlie sons of freedom braving, 
 
 Rome's imperial standards flew. 
 
 Warriors from the breacli of danger 
 Pluck no longer laurels there ; 
 
 They but yield the passing stranger 
 Wild-flower wreaths for Beauty's 
 hair. 1707. 
 
 THE EVE OF SAINT JOHN 
 
 The Baron of Smaylho'me ro.se witli 
 day, 
 lie spurred his courser on, 
 Witliout stop or stay, down the rocky 
 way, 
 That leads to Brotlierstone. 
 
 He went not with the l)old Buccleuch 
 
 His banner broad to rear ; 
 He went not 'gainst the English yew 
 
 To lift the Scottish spear. 
 
 Yet his plate-jack was braced and his 
 helmet was laced. 
 And his vavint-bi-ace of proof he wore ; 
 At his saddle-gerthe was a good steel 
 sperthe. 
 Full ten pound weight and more. 
 
 The baron returned in three days' space 
 And his looks were sad and soiu-; 
 
 And weary was his courser's pace 
 As he reached his rocky tower. 
 
 He came not from where Ancrarn Moor 
 Ran red with English blood ; 
 
 Where the Douglas true and the bold 
 Buccleuch 
 'Gainst keen Lord Evers stood. 
 
 Yet was liis helmet hacdced and liewed, 
 
 His acton pierced and tore. 
 His axe and his dagger witli blood im- 
 brued, — 
 
 But it was not English gore. 
 
 He lighted at the Chapellage, 
 
 He held him close and still ; 
 And he whistled thrice for his little 
 foot-page. 
 
 His name was English Will. 
 
 " Come thou hither, my little foot-page, 
 
 Come hither to my knee ; 
 Though thou art young and tender of 
 age, 
 
 I think thou art true to me. 
 
 " Come, tell me all that thou hast seen, 
 
 And look thou tell me true ! 
 Since I from Smaylho'me tower have 
 been. 
 
 What did thy lady do V " 
 
SCOTT 
 
 109 
 
 " My lady, each niglit, sought tlie lonely 
 light 
 Tliat burns on the wild Watchfold ; 
 For from height to height the beacons 
 bright 
 Of the English foemen told. 
 
 " Tl)e bittern clamored from the moss, 
 Tlie wind blew loud and slu'ill ; 
 
 Yet tlie craggy patliway slie did cross 
 To tlie eiry Beacon Hill. 
 
 " I watched her steps, and silent came 
 Where she sat her on a stone ; — 
 
 No watchman stood by the dreary 
 flame, 
 It burned all alone. 
 
 " The second night I kept her in sight 
 
 Till to the fire she came. 
 And, by Mary's might ! an armed 
 knight 
 
 Stood by the lonely flame. 
 
 " And many a word that warlike lord 
 
 Did speak to my lady tliere ; 
 But the rain fell fast and. loud blew the 
 blast, 
 
 And I heard not what they were. 
 
 " The third niglit there the sky was fair. 
 And the mountain-blast was still. 
 
 As again I watched the secret pair 
 On the lonesome Beacon Hill. 
 
 " And I heard her name the midnight 
 liour, 
 And name this holy eve ; 
 And say. ' Come this night to thy 
 lady's bower ; 
 Ask no bold baron's leave. 
 
 " ' He lifts his spear with the bold Buc- 
 cleuch ; 
 His lady is all alone ; 
 The door she '11 undo to her knight so 
 true 
 On the eve of good Saint John.' 
 
 " ' I cannot come ; I must not come ; 
 
 I dare not come to tliee : 
 On the eve of Saint John I must wan- 
 der alone : 
 
 In thy bower I may not be.' 
 
 " ' Now, out on thee, faint-hearted 
 knight ! 
 Thou shouldst not say me nay ; 
 For the eve is sweet, and when lovers 
 meet 
 Is worth the whole summer's day. 
 
 '• • And I'll chain the blood-hound, and 
 the warder sliall not sound, 
 And rushes shall be strewed on the 
 
 stair ; 
 So, by the black rood-stone and by 
 lioly Saint John, 
 I conjure thee, my love, to l)e tliere ! " 
 
 " ' Tiiough the blood-houjidbe mute and 
 the rush beneath my foot. 
 And the warder his bugle should not 
 blow. 
 Yet there sleepeth a priest . in the 
 chamber to the east. 
 And my footstep he would know.' 
 
 " ' O, fear not the priest who sleepeth to 
 the east. 
 For to Dryburgh the way lie has ta'en ; 
 And there to say mass, till three days do 
 pass. 
 For the soul of a knight that is 
 slayne. ' 
 
 " He turned him around and grimlj^ lie 
 frowned 
 Then he laughed right scornfully — • 
 ' He wlio says the mass-rite for the soul 
 of that knight* 
 May as well say mass for me : 
 
 " ' At the lone midnight liour when bad 
 sjiirits have power 
 In thy chamber will I be. — ' 
 With tliat he was gone and my lad}' left 
 alone. 
 And no more did I see." 
 
 Then changed, I trow, was that bold 
 baron's brow 
 From the dark to the blood-red high ; 
 " Now, tell me tlie mien of the knight 
 thou hast seen. 
 For, by Mary, he shall die ! " 
 
 " His arms shone full bright in tlie 
 beacon's red light ; 
 His plume it was scarlet and blue ; 
 On his shield was a hound in a silver 
 leash bound, 
 And his crest was a branch of the 
 yew." 
 
 " Thou liest, thou liest, thou little foot- 
 page. 
 Loud dost thou lie to nie ! 
 For that knight is cold and low laid in 
 mould. 
 All under the Eildon-tree." 
 
BRITISH POETS 
 
 " Yet hear but my word, my noble lord ! 
 
 For I heard lier name his name ; 
 And that lady bright, she called the 
 kniglit 
 
 Sir Richard of Coldinghame." 
 
 The bold baron's brow then clianged, I 
 trow, 
 From high blood-red to ]iale — 
 "The grave is deep and dark — and tlie 
 corpse is stiff and stark — 
 So I may not trust thy tale. 
 
 " Where fair Tweed flows round holy 
 Melrose, 
 
 And Eildon slopes to the plain. 
 Full three nights ago by some secret foe 
 
 That gay gallant was slain. 
 
 " The varying light deceived thy sight. 
 And tlie wild winds drowned tiie 
 name ; 
 For the Dryburgh bells ring and the 
 white monks do sing 
 For Sir Richard of Coldinghame ! " 
 
 He passed the court-gate and he oped tlie 
 tower-gate, 
 And he mounted *he narrow stair 
 To the bartizan-seat where, with maids 
 that on her wait. 
 He found his lady fair. 
 
 That lady sat in mournful mood ; 
 
 Looked over hill and vale ; 
 Over Tweed's fair flood and Mertoun's 
 wood , 
 
 And all down Teviotdale. 
 
 " Now hail, now hail, thou lady bright ! " 
 " Now hail, thou baron true ! 
 
 What news, what news, from Ancram 
 fight? 
 What news from the bold Buccleuch ! " 
 
 " The Ancram moor is red with gore, 
 
 F(jr many a Southern fell ; 
 And Buccleuch has charged us evermore 
 
 To watch our beacons well." 
 
 The lady blushed red, but nothing she 
 said : 
 Nor added the baron a word : 
 Then she stepped down the stair to her 
 chamber fair. 
 And so did her moody lord. 
 
 In sleep the lady mourned, and the baron 
 tossed and turned. 
 And oft to himself he said, — 
 
 " The worms around him creep, and his 
 bloody grave is deep — 
 It cannot give uj) the dead ! " 
 
 It was near the ringing of matin-bell. 
 The night was well-nigh done. 
 
 When a heavy sleep on tliat baron fell, 
 On the eve of good Saint John. 
 
 The lady looked through the chamber 
 fair, 
 By the light of a dying flame ; 
 And she was aware of a knight stood 
 there — 
 Sir Richard of Coldinghame ! 
 
 " Alas ! away, away !" she cried, 
 " For the holy Virgin's sake ! " 
 
 " Lady, I know who sleeps bj' thy side ; 
 But, lady, he will not awake. 
 
 "By Eildon-tree for long nights three 
 
 In bloody grave have I lain ; 
 The mass and the death-prayer are said 
 for me. 
 
 But, lady, they are said in vain. 
 
 ' ' Bj' the baron's brand, near Tweed's fair 
 strand. 
 Most foully slain I fell ; 
 And my restless sprite on the beacon's 
 lieight 
 For a space is doomed to dwell. 
 
 "At our trysting-place, for a certain 
 space, 
 I must wander to and fro ; 
 But I had not had power to come to thy 
 bovver 
 Hadst thou not conjured me so." 
 
 Love mastered fear — her brow she 
 crossed ; 
 
 " How, Richard, hast thou sped ? 
 And art thou saved or art thou lost ?" 
 
 The vision shook his head ! 
 
 " Who spilleth life shall forfeit life ; 
 
 So bid thy lord believe : 
 That lawless love is guilt above. 
 
 This awful sign receive." 
 
 He laid his left palm on an oaken beam, 
 
 His right upon her hand ; 
 The lady shrunk and fainting sunk, 
 
 For it scorched like a fiery brand. 
 
 The sable score of fingers four 
 
 Remains on that board impressed ; 
 
 And forevermore that lady wore 
 A covering on her wrist. 
 
SCOTT 
 
 There is a nun in Dryburgh bower 
 
 Ne'er looks upon the sun ; 
 There is a monk in Melrose tower 
 
 He speaketh word to none. 
 
 That nun who ne'er beholds the clay, 
 That monk wlio speaks to none — 
 
 Tiiat nun was Smaj^lho'me's lad}' gay, 
 That monk the bold baron. 
 
 1799. 1801. 
 
 CADYOW CASTLE 
 
 When princely Hamilton's abode 
 Ennobled Cadyow's Gothic towers. 
 
 The song went round, the goblet flowed. 
 And revel sped the laughing hours. 
 
 Then, thrilling to the harp's gay sound. 
 So sweetly rung each vaulted wall. 
 
 And echoed light the dancer's bound. 
 As mirth and music cheered the hall. 
 
 But Cadyow's towers in ruins laid. 
 And vaults by ivy mantled o'er, 
 
 Thrill to the music of the shade, 
 Or echo Evan's hoarser roar. 
 
 Yet still of Cadyow's faded fame 
 You bid me tell a minstrel tale. 
 
 And tune my liarp of Border frame 
 On the wild banks of Evandale. 
 
 For thou, from scenes of courtly pride. 
 From pleasure's lighter scenes, canst 
 turn. 
 
 To draw oblivion's pall aside 
 
 And mark the long-forgotten urn. 
 
 Then, noble maid ! at thy command 
 Again the crumbled halls sliall rise ; 
 
 Lo ! as on Evan's banks we stand. 
 The past returns — the present flies. 
 
 Where with the rock's wood-covered side 
 Were blended late tlie ruins green, 
 
 Rise turrets in fantastic pride 
 And feudal banners flaunt between : 
 
 Where the rude torrent's brawling course 
 Was shagged with thorn and tangling 
 sloe. 
 
 The ashler buttress bi'aves its force 
 And ramparts frown in battled row. 
 
 'Tis night — the shade of keep and spire 
 Obscurely dance on Evan's stream ; 
 
 And on the wave the warder's fire 
 Is checkering the moonlight beam. 
 
 Fades slow their light ; the east is gray ; 
 
 The weary warder leaves his tower ; 
 Steeds snort, uncoupled stag-hounds bay, 
 
 And merry hunters quit the bower. 
 
 Tlie drawbridge falls — they hurry out — 
 Clatters each plank and swinging 
 chain. 
 
 As, dashing o'er, the jovial rout 
 Urge the shy steed and slack the rein. 
 
 First of his troop, the chief rode on ; 
 
 His shouting merry-men throng be- 
 hind ; 
 The steed of princely Hamilton 
 
 Was fleeter than the mountain wind. 
 
 From the thick copse the roebucks 
 bound, 
 The startled red-deer scuds the plain, 
 For the hoarse bugle's warrior-sound 
 Has roused their mountain haunts 
 again. 
 
 Through tlie huge oaks of Evandale, 
 Whose limbs a thousand years have 
 worn, 
 What sullen roar comes down the gale 
 And drowns the hunter's pealing 
 horn ? 
 
 Mightiest of all tlie beasts of chase 
 Tliat roam in woody Caledon, 
 
 Crashing the forest in his race. 
 
 The Mountain Bull comes thundering 
 on. 
 
 Fierce on the hunter's quivered band 
 He rolls his eyes of swarthy glow. 
 
 Spurns with black hoof and horn the 
 sand, 
 And tosses high his mane of snow. 
 
 Aimed well the chieftain's lance has 
 flown ; 
 Struggling in blood the savage lies ; 
 His roar is sunk in hollow groan — ■ 
 
 Sound, merry huntsmen ! sound the 
 pryse ! 
 
 ' Tis noon — against the knotted oak 
 
 Tlie hunters rest the idle spear ; 
 Curls through the trees the slender 
 smoke. 
 Where yeomen dight the woodland 
 cheer. 
 
 Proudly the chieftain marked his clan, 
 On greenwood lap all careless thrown, 
 
112 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Yet missed his eye the boldest man 
 That bore the name of Hamilton. 
 
 "Why fills not Bothwellhaugh his place. 
 
 Still wont our weal and woe to share ? 
 Why comes lie not our sjwrt to grace? 
 
 Why shares he not our hunter's fare ? " 
 
 Stern Claud replied with darkening 
 face — 
 
 Gray Paisley's haughty lord was he — 
 "At merry feast or buxom chase 
 
 No more the wairior wilt thou see. 
 
 " Few svms have set since Woodhouselee 
 Saw Bothwellhaugh's bright goblets 
 foam, 
 When to his hearths in social glee 
 
 The war-worn soldier turned him 
 home. 
 
 " There, wan from her maternal throes, 
 His Margaret, beautiful and mild. 
 
 Sate in her bower, a pallid rose. 
 
 And peaceful nursed her new-born 
 child. 
 
 ' ' O change accursed ! past are those days ; 
 
 False Murray's ruthless spoilers came, 
 And, for the hearth's domestic blaze. 
 
 Ascends destruction's volumed flame. 
 
 "What sheeted phantom wanders wild 
 Where mountain Eske through wood- 
 land flows, 
 
 Her arms enfold a shadowy child — 
 O ! is it she, the pallid rose ? 
 
 " The wildered traveller sees her glide. 
 And hears her feeble voice with awe — 
 'Revenge,' she cries, 'on Murray's 
 pride ! 
 And woe for injured Bothwell- 
 haugh ! ' " 
 
 He ceased — and cries of rage and grief 
 Burst mingling from the kindred band, 
 
 And half arose the kindling chief. 
 And half unsheathed his Arran brand. 
 
 But who o'er bush, o'er stream and rock. 
 Rides headlong with resistless speed, 
 
 Whose bloody poniard's frantic stroke 
 Drives to the leap his jaded steed ; 
 
 Whose cheek is pale, whose eyeballs 
 glare. 
 As one some visioned sight that saw. 
 
 Whose hands are bloody, loose his hair ? — 
 'Tis he ! 'tis he ! 'tis Bothwellhaugh. 
 
 From gorj' selle and reeling steed 
 Sprung the tierce horseman with a 
 bound, 
 
 And, reeking from the recent deed, 
 He dashed his carbine on the ground. 
 
 Sternly he spoke — " 'Tis sweet to hear 
 In good greenwood the bugle blown, 
 
 But sweeter to Revenges ear 
 To drink a tyrant's dying groan. 
 
 ' ' Your slaughtered quarry proudly trode 
 At dawning morn o'er dale and down, 
 
 But prouder base-born Murray rode 
 Through old Linlithgow's crowded 
 town. 
 
 " From the wild Border's humbled side, 
 In haughty triumph marched he, 
 
 While Knox relaxed his bigot pride 
 And smiled the traitorous pomp to see. 
 
 " But can stern Power, with all his vaunt, 
 Or Pom]), with all her courtly glare, 
 
 The settled heart of Vengeance daunt. 
 Or change the purpose of Despair ? 
 
 " With hackbut bent, my secret stand. 
 Dark as the purposed deed, I chose. 
 
 And marked where mingling in his band 
 Trooped Scottish pi^jes and English 
 bows. 
 
 " Dark Morton, girt with many a spear, 
 Murder's foul minion, led the van ; 
 
 And clashed their broadswords in the 
 rear 
 The wild Macfarlanes' plaided clan. 
 
 " Glencairn and stout Parkhead were 
 nigh. 
 
 Obsequious at their Regent's rein, 
 And haggard Lindesay's iron eye, 
 
 That saw fair Mary weep in vain. 
 
 " Mid pennoned spears, a steely grove. 
 Proud Murray's plumage floated 
 liigb ; 
 
 Scarce could his trampling charger move, 
 So close the minions crowded nigh. 
 
 " Fi'om the raised vizor's shade his eye, 
 Dark-rolling, glanced the ranks along. 
 
 And his steel truncheon, waved on high. 
 Seemed marshalling the iron throng. 
 
SCOTT 
 
 113 
 
 " But yet his saddened brow confessed 
 A passing shade of doubt and awe ; 
 
 Some fiend was whispering in his breast, 
 •' Beware of injured Botliwellhaugh ! " 
 
 "The death-shot parts! the charger 
 springs ; 
 
 Wild rises tumult's startling roar ! 
 Aud Murray's plumy helmet rings — 
 
 Rings on the ground to rise no more. 
 
 " What joy the raptured youth can feel, 
 To hear her love tlie loved one tell — 
 
 Or he who broaches on liis steel 
 The wolf by whom his infant fell. 
 
 " But dearer to niy injured eye 
 To see in dust proud Murray roll ; 
 
 And mine was ten times trebled joy 
 To hear him groan his felon soul. 
 
 " My Margaret's spectre glided near. 
 
 With pride her bleeding victim saw, 
 And shrieked in liis death-deafened ear, 
 
 ' Remember injured Botliwellhaugh ! ' 
 
 " Tlien speed thee, noble Chatlerault ! 
 
 Spread to the \vin<l tliy bannered tree ! 
 Eacli warrior bend liis Clydesdale bow — 
 
 Murray is fallen and Scotland free ! " 
 
 Vaults every warrior to his steed ; 
 
 Loud bugles join their wild acclaim — 
 " Murray is fallen and Scotland freed ! 
 
 Couch, Arran, couch thy spear of 
 flame ! " 
 
 But see ! the minstrel vision fails — 
 The glimmering spears are seen no 
 more ; 
 
 The shouts of war die on the gales, 
 Or sink in Evan's lonely roar. 
 
 For the loud bugle pealing high. 
 
 The blackbird whistles down the vale, 
 And sunk in ivied ruins lie 
 
 The bannei'ed towers of Evandale. 
 
 For cliiefs intent on bloody deed. 
 
 And Vengeance shouting o'er the slain, 
 Lo ! liigh-born Beauty rules the steed, 
 
 Or graceful guides the silken rein. 
 
 And long may Peace and Pleasure own 
 The maids who list the minstrel's tale ; 
 Nor e'er a ruder guest be known 
 On the fair banks of Evandale ! 
 
 1801. 1803. 
 8 
 
 THE MAID OF NEIDPATH 
 
 O, lovers' eyes are sharp to see, 
 
 And lovers' ears in hearing ; 
 And love in life's extremity 
 
 Can lend an hour of cheering. 
 Disease had been in Mary's bower. 
 
 And slow decay from mourning. 
 Though now she sits on Neidpath's 
 tower 
 
 To watch her love's returning. 
 
 All sunk and dim her eyes so bright, 
 
 Her form decayed by pining. 
 Till through her wasted hand at night 
 
 You saw the taper shining ; 
 By fits, a sultry hectic hue 
 
 Across her cheek was flying ; 
 By fits, so ashy pale she grew. 
 
 Her maidens thought her dying. 
 
 Yet keenest powers to see and hear 
 
 Seemed in her frame residing ; 
 Before the watch-dog pricked liis ear, 
 
 She lieard lier lover's riding ; 
 Ere scarce a distant form was kenned, 
 
 She knew, and waved to greet him ; 
 And o'er the battlement did bend. 
 
 As on the wing to meet him. 
 
 He came — lie passed — an heedless gaze, 
 
 As o'er some stranger glancing ; 
 Her welcome, spoke in faltering phrase. 
 
 Lost in his courser's prancing — 
 Tlie castle arch, wliose hollow tone 
 
 Returns each wliisper spoken. 
 Could scarcely catch the feeble moan 
 
 Which told her heart was broken. 
 
 1806. 
 
 HUNTING SONG 
 
 Waken, lords and ladies gay. 
 On the mountain dawns the day, 
 All the jolly cliase is here. 
 With hawk and horse and hunting- 
 spear ! 
 Hounds are in their couples yelling. 
 Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling, 
 Merrily, merrily, mingle they, 
 •• Waken, lords and ladies gay." 
 
 Waken, lords and ladies gay. 
 
 The mist has left tlie mountain gray, 
 
 Springlets in the dawn are steaming. 
 
 Diamonds on the brake are gleaming : 
 
 And foresters have busy been 
 
 To track the buck in tliicket green ; 
 
 Now we come to chant our lay, 
 
 " Waken, lords and ladies gay." 
 
114 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Waken, lords and ladies ga}', 
 To the green-wood haste away ; 
 We can show you where he lies, 
 Fleet of foot and tall of size ; 
 We can show the marks lie made, 
 When 'gainst the oak his antlers frayed ; 
 You shall see him brought to bay, 
 " Waken, lords and ladies gay."' 
 
 Louder, louder chant the lay. 
 
 Waken, lords and ladies gay ! 
 
 Tell them youth and mirth and glee 
 
 Run a course as well as we ; 
 
 Time, stern huntsman, who can balk. 
 
 Stanch as hound and fleet as hawk? 
 
 Think of this and rise with day, 
 
 Gentle lords and ladies gay, 1808. 
 
 MARMION 
 
 A TALE OF FJ.ODDEX FIELD 
 
 See Lockharfs Life of Scott, Vol. Ill, Chap. 16. 
 
 CANTO FIRST 
 
 THE CASTLE 
 
 Day set on Norham's castled steep. 
 And Tweed's fair river, broad and deep. 
 
 And Cheviot's mountains lone ; 
 The battled towers, the donjon keep. 
 The loophole grates where captives 
 
 weep, 
 The flanking walls that round it sweep, 
 
 In yellow lustre shone. 
 The warriors on the turrets high. 
 Moving athwart the evening sky. 
 
 Seemed forms of giant height ; 
 Their armor, as it caught the rays. 
 Flashed back again the western blaze. 
 
 In lines of dazzling light. 
 
 Saint George's banner, broad and gay. 
 Now faded, as the fading ray 
 
 Less bright, and less, was flung ; 
 The evening gale had scarce the power 
 To wave it on the donjon tower. 
 
 So heavily it hung. 
 The scouts had parted on their search, 
 
 The castle gates were barred ; 
 Above the gloomy portal arch, 
 Timing his footsteps to a march, 
 
 The warder kept his gviard. 
 Low humming, as he paced along. 
 Some ancient Border gathering song. 
 
 A distant trampling sound lie hears ; 
 He looks abroad, and soon appears. 
 O'er Horncliff-hill, a plump of spears 
 
 Beneath a pennon gay ; 
 A horseman, darting from the crowd 
 Like lightning from a summer cloud, 
 Spui-s on his mettled courser proud. 
 
 Before the dark array. 
 
 Beneath the sable palisade 
 
 That closed the castle l)arricade, 
 
 His bugle-horn he blew ; 
 
 The warder hasted from the wall, 
 
 And warned the captain in the hall, 
 
 For well the blast he knew ; 
 And joj'fully that knight did call 
 To sewer, squire, and seneschal. 
 
 " Now^broaeh ye a pipe of Malvoisie, 
 
 Bring pasties of the doe. 
 And quickly make the entrance free, 
 And bid my heralds ready be. 
 And every minstrel sound his glee, 
 
 And all ovir trumpets blow ; 
 And, from the platform, spare ye not 
 To fire a noble salvo-shot ; 
 
 Lord Marmion waits below ! " 
 Then to the castle's lower ward 
 
 Sped forty yeomen tall. 
 The iron-studded gates unbarred. 
 Raised the portcullis' ponderous guard. 
 The lofty palisade unsparred. 
 
 And let the drawbridge fall. 
 
 Along the bridge Lord IMarmion rode, 
 Proudly his red-roan charger trode. 
 His helm hung at the saddle bow ; 
 Well by his visage you might know 
 He was a stalworth knight and keen. 
 And had in many a battle been ; 
 Th6 scar on Iiis brown cheek revealed 
 A token true of Bosworth field : 
 His eyebrow dark and eye of fire 
 Showed spirit proud and prompt to ire. 
 Yet lines of thouglit upon his cheek 
 Did deep design and counsel speak. 
 His forehead, by his casque worn bare. 
 His thick moustache and curly hair, 
 Coal-black, and grizzled here and there, 
 But more through toil than age, 
 
/•^ 
 
 SCOTT 
 
 lis 
 
 His square-turned joints and strength of 
 
 limb, 
 ) Showed him no carpet kniglit so trim, 
 But in close fight a cliampion grim, 
 In camps a leader sage. 
 
 Well was he armed from iiead to heel, 
 
 In mail and plate of Milan steel ; 
 
 But his strong helm, of miglity cost. 
 
 Was all with burnished gold embossed. 
 
 Amid tiie plumage of tlie ci'est 
 
 A falcon hovered on lier nest. 
 
 With wings outspread and forward 
 
 breast ; 
 E'en such a falcon, on his sliield, 
 Soared sal)le in an azure field : 
 The golden legend bore aright, 
 " Who checks at me. to deatii is diglit." 
 Blue was the charger's broidered rein ; 
 Blue ribbons decked his arcliing mane ; 
 Tiie knightly housing's ample fold 
 Was velvet blue and trapped with gold. 
 
 Beliind him rode two gallant squires, 
 Of noble name and knigiitly sires : 
 They burned tlie gilded spurs to claim, 
 For well could eacli a war-horse tame. 
 Could draw the bow, the sword could 
 
 sway, 
 And liglitly bear the ring away ; 
 Nor less with courteous precepts stored. 
 Could tlan(!e in hall, and carve at board. 
 And frame love-ditties passing rare, 
 And sing them to a lady fail*. 
 
 Four men-at-arms came at their backs, 
 With halbert, bill, and battle-axe ; 
 They bore Lord Marmion"s lance so 
 
 strong 
 And led his sumpter-mules along. 
 And ambling palfrey, when at need 
 Him listed ease his battle-steed. 
 Tiie last and trustiest of the four 
 On high his forky pennon bore ; 
 Like swallow's tail in shape and line, 
 Fluttered the streamer glossy blue. 
 Where, blazoned sable, as before, 
 Tlie towering falcon seemed to soar. 
 Last, twenty yeomen, two and two 
 In hosen black and jerkins blue. 
 With falcons broidered on each breast, 
 Attendetl on their lord's behest. 
 Each, chosen for an archer good. 
 Knew hunting-craft by lake or wood ; 
 Each one a, six-foot bow could bend. 
 And far a cloth-yard shaft could send ; 
 Each held a boar-spear tough and strong, 
 And at their belts their quivers rung. 
 Tlieir dusty palfreys and array 
 Showeil they had marched a weary way. 
 
 'Tis meet that I should tell you now, 
 How fairly armed, and ordered how, 
 
 The soldiers of the guard. 
 With musket, pike, and morion, 
 To welcome noble Marmion, 
 
 Stood in the castle -yard ; 
 Minstrels and trumpeters were there. 
 The gunner held his linstock yare. 
 
 For welcome-shot prepared : 
 Entered the train, and such a clang 
 As then through all his turrets rang 
 
 Old Norhani never heard. 
 
 The guards their morrice-pikes advanced, 
 
 The trumpets flourished brave, 
 The cannon from the ramparts glanced, 
 
 And thundering welcome gave. 
 A blithe salute, in martial sort. 
 
 The minstrels well might sound. 
 For, as Lord Marmion crossed the court, 
 
 He scattered angels round. 
 "Welcome to Norham, Marmion ! 
 
 Stout heart and open hand ! 
 Well dost thou brook thy gallant roan. 
 
 Thou flower of English land ! " 
 
 Two pursuivants, whom tabards deck, 
 With silver scutcheon round tlieir neck, 
 
 Stood on the steps of stone 
 By which you reach the donjon gate. 
 And there, with herald pomp and state. 
 
 They hailed Lord Marmion : * 
 
 They hailed him Lord of Fontenaye, 
 Of Lutterward, and Scrivelbaye, 
 
 Of Tamworth tower and town ; 
 And he, their courtesy to requite, 
 Gave tiiem a chain of twelve marks 
 weight. 
 
 All as he lighted down. 
 " Now, lai-gesse, largesse. Lord Marmion, 
 
 Kufght of the crest of gold ! 
 A blazoned shield, in battle won. 
 
 Ne'er guarded heart so bold." 
 
 They marshalled him to the castle-hall, 
 
 Where the guests stood all aside. 
 And loudly flourished the trumpet-call. 
 
 And the heralds loudly cried. — • 
 " Room, lordlings, I'oom for Lord Mar- 
 mion, 
 
 With the crest and helm of gold I 
 Full well we know the trophies won 
 
 In the lists at Cottiswold : 
 There, vainly Ralph de Wilton strove 
 
 'Gainst Marmion's force to stand ; 
 To him he lost his lady-love. 
 
 And to the king his land. 
 Ourselves beheld the listed field, 
 
 A sight both sad and fair ; 
 
 L 
 
ii6 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 We saw Lord Marmion pierce his shield, 
 
 And saw his saddle bare ; 
 We saw the victor win the crest 
 
 He wears witli worthy pride. 
 And ou the gibbet-tree, reversed, 
 
 Hisfoeman's scutcheon tied. 
 Place, nobles, for the Falcon-Knight ! 
 
 Room, room, ye gentles gay. 
 For him who conqnered in tlie right, 
 
 Marmion of Fontenaye ! "' 
 
 Then stepped, to meet that noble lord, 
 
 Sir Hugh tlie Heron bold, 
 Baron of Twisell and of Ford, 
 
 And Captain of the Hold ; 
 He led Lord Marmion to tlie deas. 
 
 Raised o'er the pavement high, 
 And placed him in the upper place — 
 
 They feasted full and high : 
 The whiles a Northern liarjjer rude 
 Chanted a rhj^me of deadly feud, 
 
 "How the fierce Tliirwalls, and Rid- 
 leys all, 
 Stout Willimondswick, 
 And Hardriding Dick, 
 And Hughie of Hawdon, and Will o' 
 the Wall, 
 Have set on Sir Albany Featlierston- 
 
 haugh, 
 And taken iiis life at the Dead-man's- 
 shaw." 
 Scantly Lord Marmion's ear could 
 brook 
 The harper's barbarous lay, 
 Yet inucli he praised the pains he took, 
 And well tiiose pains did pay ; 
 For lady's suit and minstrel's strain 
 By knight should ne'er be heard in vain. 
 
 " Now good Lord Marmion," Herop says, 
 
 " Of your fair courtes}'', 
 I pray you bide some little space 
 
 In this poor tower with me. 
 Here may you keep your arms from rust. 
 
 May breathe your war-horse well ; 
 Seldom hath passed a week but joust 
 
 Or feat of arms befell. 
 The Scots can rein a mettled steed, 
 
 Bnd love to couch a spear ; — 
 Saint George ! a stirring life they lead 
 
 That have such neighbors near ! 
 Then stay with us a little space, 
 
 Our Nortliern wars to learn ; 
 I pray you for your lady's grace ! " 
 
 Lord Marmion's brow grew stern. 
 
 The Captain marked his altered look, 
 
 And gave the squire the sign ; 
 A mighty wassail-bowl he took, 
 
 And crowned it high with wine. 
 " Now pledge me here. Lord Marmion ; 
 
 But first I pray thee fair. 
 Where hast thou left that page of thine 
 That used to serve thy cujd of wine, 
 
 Whose beauty was so rare ? 
 When last in Raby -towers we met, 
 
 The boy I closely eyed. 
 And often marked his cheeks were wet 
 
 With tears he fain would hide. 
 His was no rugged horse-boy's hand, 
 To burnish shield or sharpen brand, 
 
 Or saddle battle-steed, 
 But meeter seemed for lady fair, 
 To fan her cheek, or curl her hair. 
 Or tlirough embroidery, rich and rare. 
 
 The slender silk to lead ; 
 His skin was fair, his ringlets gold, 
 
 His bosom — when he sighed. 
 The russet doublet's rugged fold 
 
 Could scarce repel its pride ! 
 Say, hast thou given tiiat lovely j^outh 
 
 To serve in lady's bower ? 
 Or was the gentle page, in sooth, 
 
 A gentle paramour ? " 
 
 Lord Marmion ill could brook such jest ; 
 
 He rolled his kindling eye, 
 Witli pain his rising wrath suppressed, 
 
 Yet made a calm reply ; 
 "Tliat boy tliou thought so goodly fair. 
 Tie migiit not brook the Nortliern air. 
 More of his fate if thou wouldst learn, 
 I left him sick in Lindisfarne. 
 Enough of him. — But, Heron, say, 
 Why does thy lovely lady gay 
 Disdain to grace tlie hall to-day ? 
 Or has that dame, so fair and sage, 
 Gone on some pious pilgrimage ? " — 
 He spoke in covert scorn, feu* fame 
 AVhispered light tales of Heron's dame. 
 
 Unmarked, at least unrecked, the taunt. 
 
 Careless the knight replied : 
 " No bird whose feathers gaily flaunt 
 
 Delights in cage to bide ; 
 Norliam is grim and grated close, 
 Hemmed in by battlement and fosse, 
 
 And many a darksome tower, 
 And better loves my lady bright 
 To sit in liberty and light 
 
 In fair Queen Margaret's bower. 
 We iiold our greyhound in our hand. 
 
 Our falcon on our glove, 
 But where sliall we find leash or band 
 
 For dame that loves to rove ? 
 Let tlie wild falcon soar her swing. 
 She '11 stoop when she has tried her 
 wing." — 
 
SCOTT 
 
 117 
 
 '• Nay, if with Royal James's bride 
 
 Tlie iovely Lady Heron bide, 
 
 Beliold me liere a messenger. 
 
 Your tender greetings prompt to bear ; 
 
 For, to the Scottish court addressed, 
 
 I journey at our king's behest. 
 
 And pray you. of your grace, provide 
 
 For me and mine a trusty guide. 
 
 I have not ridden in Scotland since 
 
 James backed the cause of that mock 
 
 prince, 
 Warbeck, that Flemisli counterfeit, 
 Who on tlie gibbet paid the cheat. 
 Then did I march witli Surrey's power. 
 What time we razed old Ay ton tower.'' — 
 
 " For such-like need, my lord, I trow, 
 Norhani can find you guides enow ; 
 For here be some liave j^ricked as far 
 On Scottish grounds as to Dunbar, 
 Have drunk the monks of Saint 
 
 Bethan's ale. 
 And driven the beeves of Lauderdale. 
 Harried the wives of Greeidaw's goods, 
 And given them light to set tl*eir 
 
 hoods." 
 
 " Now, in good sooth," Lord Marmion 
 
 cried, 
 " Were I in warlike-wise to ride, 
 A better guard I would not lack 
 Than your stout forayers at my back ; 
 But as in form of peace I go, 
 A friendly messenger, to know. 
 Why, through all Scotland, near and 
 
 far. 
 Their king is mustering troops for war. 
 The sight of plundering Border spears 
 Miglit justify suspicious fears, 
 And deadly feud or thirst of spoil 
 Break out in some unseemly broil. 
 A herald were my fitting guide ; 
 Or friar, sworn in peace to bide ; 
 Or imrdoner, or travelling priest. 
 Or strolling pilgrim, at the least." 
 
 The Captain mused a little sjiace. 
 And passed his hand across Ins face. — 
 " Fain wovild I find the guide you want. 
 But ill may spare a pursviivant, 
 Tlie only men that safe can ride 
 Mine errands on the Scottish side : 
 And though a bishop built tins fort, 
 Few holy brethren here resort ; 
 Even our good chaplain, as I ween, 
 Since our last siege we have not seen. 
 The mass he miglit not sing or say 
 Upon one stinted meal a daj^ ; 
 So, safe he sat in Durham aisle, 
 
 And prayed for our success the while. 
 Our Norham vicar, woe betide, 
 Is all too well in case to ride ; 
 The priest of Shoreswood — he could rein 
 The wildest war-horse in your train, 
 But then no spearman in the hall 
 Will sooner swear, or stab, or brawl. 
 Friar John of Tillmoutli were the man ; 
 A blithesome brother at the can, 
 A welcome guest in hall and bower. 
 He knows each castle, town, and tower. 
 In which the wine and ale is good, 
 'Twixt Newcastle and Holy-Rood. 
 But that good man, as ill befalls, 
 Hath seldom left our castle walls. 
 Since, on the vigil of Saint Bede, 
 In evil hour lie crossed the Tweed, 
 To teach Dame Alison her creed. 
 Old Bughtrig found him with his wife. 
 And John, an enemy to strife. 
 Sans frock and liood, fled fen* his life. 
 The jealous churl hath deeply sworn 
 Tiiat, if again he venture o'er 
 He shall slirieve penitent no more. 
 Little he loves such risks, I know. 
 Yet in your guard perchance will go!" 
 
 Young Selby, at the fair hall-board. 
 Carved to his uncle and that lord. 
 And reverently took up the word : 
 " Kind uncle, woe were we each one. 
 If harm should hap to brother John. 
 He is a man of mirthful speech. 
 Can many a game and gambol teach ; 
 Full well at tables can he play, 
 And sweep at bowls the stake away. 
 None can a lustier carol bawl. 
 The needfullest among us all. 
 When time hangs lieavy in the hall. 
 And snow comes thick at Christmas 
 
 tide, 
 And we can neither hunt nor ride 
 A foray on the Scottish side. 
 The vowed revenge of Bughtrig rude 
 May end in worse than loss of hood, 
 Let friar John in safety still 
 In chimney corner snore his fill. 
 Roast hissing crabs, or flagons swill ; 
 Last night, to Norham there came one 
 Will better guide Lord Marmion." — 
 " Nepliew," (pioth Heron, " l)y my fay. 
 Well hast thou spoke ; say forth thy 
 
 say."-- 
 
 " Here is a holy Palmer come, 
 
 From Salem first, and last from Rome ; 
 
 One that hath kissed the blessed tomb. 
 
 And visited each holy shrine 
 
 In Araby and Palestine ; 
 
ii8 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 On hills of Armeuie hath been, 
 Where Noah's ark may yet be seen ; 
 By that Red Sea, too, hatli he trod, 
 Which parted at tlie Propliet's rod ; 
 In Sinai's wilderness lie saw 
 The Mount where Israel heard the law, 
 Mid thunder-dint, and flashing levin. 
 And shadows, mists, and darkness, 
 
 given. 
 He shows Saint James's cockle-shell. 
 Of fair Montserrat, too, can tell ; 
 
 And of that Grot where Olives nod, 
 Where, darling of each heart and eye, 
 From all the youth of Sicily, 
 
 Saint Rosalie retired to God. 
 
 " To stout Saint George of Norwich 
 
 merry. 
 Saint Thomas, too, of Canterbury, 
 Cutlibert of Durham and Saint Bede, 
 For his sins' pardon hath he i)rayo(l. 
 He knows the passes of the North. 
 And seeks far shrines beyond the Forth ; 
 Little he eats, and long will wake. 
 And drinks but of the stream or lake. 
 This'were a guide o'er moor and dale ; 
 But when our John hath quaffed his ale. 
 As little as the wind that blows. 
 And warms itself against his nose. 
 Kens he, or cares, which way he goes." — 
 
 " Gramercy ! " quoth Lord Marmion, 
 " Full loath were I that Friar John, 
 That venerable man, for me 
 Were placed in fear or jeopardy : 
 If this same Palmer will me lead 
 
 From hence to Holy-Rood, 
 Like his good saint, I'll pay his meed. 
 Instead of cockle-shell or bead, 
 
 With angels fair and good. 
 I love such holy ramblers ; still 
 The}' know to charm a weary hill 
 
 With song, romance, or lay : 
 Some jovial tale, or glee, or jest. 
 Some lying legend, at the least. 
 
 They bring to cheer the way." — 
 
 " Ah ! noble sir," young Selby said. 
 
 And finger on his lip he laid. 
 
 '• This man knows much, perchance e'en 
 
 more 
 Than he could learn bj' holy lore. 
 Still to himself he's muttering. 
 And shrinks as at some unseen thing. 
 Last night we listened at his cell ; 
 Strange sounds we heard, and, sooth to 
 
 tell, 
 He murmured on till morn, howe'er 
 No living mortal could be near. 
 
 Sometimes I thought I heard it plain, 
 As other voices spoke again. 
 I cannot tell — I like it not — 
 Friar John hath told us it is wrote. 
 No conscience clear and void of wrong 
 Can rest awake and pray so long. 
 Himself still sleeps before his beads 
 Have marked ten aves and two 
 creeds." — 
 
 "Let pass," quoth Marmion; " bj' my 
 
 fay. 
 This man shall guide me on mj' way. 
 Although the great arch-fiend and he 
 Had sworn themselves of company. 
 So please you, gentle youth, to call 
 This Palmer to the castle-hall.'' 
 The summoned Palmer came in place : 
 His sable cowl o'erhung his face ; 
 In his black mantle was he clad. 
 With Peter's keys, in cloth of red. 
 
 On his broad shoulders wrought ; 
 The scallop shell his cap did deck ; 
 The crucifix aroujid his neck 
 
 Was from Loretto brought ; 
 His sandals were with travel tore. 
 Staff, budget, bottle, scrip, he wore ; 
 Tlie faded palm-branch in his hand 
 Showed pilgrim from the Holy Land, 
 
 When as the Palmer came in hall. 
 
 Nor lord nor knight was there more tall. 
 
 Or had a statelier step withal. 
 
 Or looked more high and keen ; 
 For no saluting did he wait. 
 But strode across the hall of state. 
 And fronted Marmion where he sate. 
 
 As he liis peer had been. 
 But his gaunt frame was worn with 
 
 toil; 
 His cheek was sunk, alas the Avhile ! 
 And when he struggled at a smile 
 
 His eye looked haggard wild : 
 Poor wretch, the mother that him bare, 
 If she had been in presence there. 
 In his wan face and sunburnt hair 
 
 She had not known her child. 
 Danger, long travel, want, or woe. 
 Soon change the fornx that best we 
 
 know — 
 For deadly fear can time outgo. 
 
 And blanch at once the hair ; 
 Hard toil can roughen form and face. 
 And want can quench the eye's brigliit 
 
 grace. 
 Nor does old age a wrinkle trace 
 
 More deeply than despair. 
 Happy whom none of these befall. 
 But this poor Palmer knew them all. 
 
SCOTT 
 
 119 
 
 Lord Maraiioii then liis boon did ask ; 
 The Palmer took on him tlie task, 
 So he would march witli morning tide, 
 To Scottish court to be his guide. 
 " But I have solemn vows to pay, 
 And may not linger by the way. 
 
 To fair Saint Andrew's bound. 
 Within tlie ocean-cave to pray, 
 Wliere good Saint Rule his holy lay, 
 From midniglit to the dawn of day. 
 
 Sung to the billows' sound ; 
 Tlience to Saint Fillan's blessed well, 
 Wliose spring can frenzied dreams dispel 
 
 And tlie crazed brain restore. 
 Saint Mary grant that cave or spring 
 Could back to peace m}^ bosom bring. 
 
 Or bid it throb no more ! " 
 
 And now the midnight draught of sleep, 
 Wliere wine and spices riclily steep, 
 In massive bowl of silver deep, 
 
 The page presents on knee. 
 Lord Marmion drank a fair good rest, 
 Tlie Captain pledged his noble guest. 
 The cup went through among the rest. 
 
 Who drained it merrily ; 
 Alone the Palmer passed it by. 
 Though Selby pressed him courteouslJ^ 
 This was a sign the feast was o'er ; 
 It hushed the merry wassail roar, 
 
 The minstrels ceased to sound. 
 Soon in the castle nought was heard 
 But the slow footstep of the guard 
 
 Pacing his sober round. 
 
 With early dawn Lord Marmion rose : 
 And first the chapel doors unclose ; 
 Then, after morning rites were done — 
 A hasty mass from Friar Joim — 
 And knight and squire had broke their 
 
 fast 
 On rich substantial repast, 
 Lortl Marmion's bugle blew to horse. 
 Then came the stirrup-cup in course : 
 Between the baron and his host, 
 No point of courtesy was lost ; 
 High thanks were by Lord Marmion paid, 
 Solemn excuse the Captain made. 
 Till, filing from the gate, had passed 
 That noble train, their lord the last. 
 Tiien loudly rung the trumpet call ; 
 Thundered the cannon from tlie wall, 
 
 And shook the Scottish shore ; 
 Around the castle eddied slow 
 Volumes of smoke as white as snow 
 
 And liid its turrets hoar. 
 Till they rolled foi'th upon the air. 
 And met the river breezes there. 
 Which gave again the prospect fair. 
 
 CANTO SECOND 
 
 THE CONVENT 
 
 The breeze which swept away the smoke 
 
 Round Norhani Castle rolled. 
 When all the loud' artillery spoke 
 With lightning-flash and thunder-stroke, 
 
 As Marmion left the Hold. — 
 It curled not Tweed alone, that breeze. 
 For, far upon Northumbrian seas. 
 
 It freshly blew and strong. 
 Where, from high Whitby's cloistered 
 
 pile. 
 Bound to Saint Cuthbert's Holy Isle, 
 
 It bore a bark along. 
 Upon the gale she stooped her side, 
 And bounded o'er the swelling tide, 
 
 As she were dancing home ; 
 The merry seamen laughed to see 
 Their gallant ship so lustily 
 
 Furrow the green sea-foam. 
 Much joyed they in their honored 
 
 freight ; 
 For, on the deck, in chair of state, 
 The Abbess of Saint Hilda placed. 
 With five fair nuns, the galley graced. 
 
 " T was sweet to see these holy maids. 
 Like birds escaped to greenwood shades, 
 
 Their first flight from the cage. 
 How timid, and hovv curious too. 
 For all to them was strange and new. 
 And all the common sights they view 
 
 Their wonderment engage. 
 One eyed the shrouds and swelling sail, 
 
 With many a benedicite ; 
 One at the rippling surge grew pale, 
 
 And would for terror pray. 
 Then shrieked because the sea-dog nigh 
 His round black liead and sparkling eye 
 
 Reared o'er the foaming spray ; 
 And one would still adjust her veil 
 Disordered by the summer gale. 
 Perchance lest some more worldly e3'e 
 Her dedicated charms miglit spy, 
 Perchance because such action graced 
 Her fair-turned arm and slender waist. 
 Light was each simple bosom there, 
 Save two, who ill might pleasure share,-^ 
 The Abbess and the Novice Clare. 
 
 The Abbess was of noble blood. 
 
 But early took the veil and hood. 
 
 Ere upon life she cast a look. 
 
 Or knew the world that she forsook. 
 
 Fair too she was. and kind had been 
 
 As she was fair, but ne'er had seen 
 
 For her a timid lover sigh, 
 
 Nor knew the influence of her eye, 
 
BRITISH POETS 
 
 Love to her ear was but a name, 
 Combined witli vanity and shame ; 
 Her hopes, her fears, her joys, were all 
 Bounded within the cloister wall ; 
 The deadliest sin her mind could reach 
 Was of monastic rule the bi-each. 
 And her ambition's liighest aim 
 To emulate Saint Hilda's fame. 
 For this she gave her ample dower 
 To raise the convent's eastern tower ; 
 For this, with carving rare and quaint, 
 Siie decked the chapel of the saint. 
 And gave the relic-shrine of cost, 
 With ivory and gems embossed. 
 The poor her convent's bounty blest. 
 The pilgrim in its halls found rest. 
 
 Black was her garb, her rigid rule 
 Reformed on Benedictine school ; 
 Her cheek was pale, her form was spare ; 
 Vigils and penitence austere 
 Had early quenched the light of youth : 
 But gentle was the dame, in sooth ; 
 Though, vain of her religious sway, 
 She loved to see her maids obey. 
 Yet nothing stern was she iii cell. 
 And the nuns loved their Abbess well. 
 Sad was this voyage to the dame ; 
 Summoned to Lindisfarne, she came. 
 There, with Saint Cuthbert's Abbot old 
 And Tynemouth's Prioress, to hold 
 A chapter of Saint Benedict, 
 For inquisition stern and strict 
 On two apostates from the faith. 
 And, if need were, to doom to death. 
 
 Nought say I here of Sister Clare. 
 Save this, that she was young and fair ; 
 As yet a novice unprofessed. 
 Lovely and gentle, but distressed. 
 She was betrothed to one now dead, 
 Or worse, w^ho had dishonored fled. 
 Her kinsmen bade her give her hand 
 To one who loved her for her land ; 
 Herself, almost heart-broken now. 
 Was bent to take the vestal vow. 
 And shroud within Saint Hilda's gloom 
 Her blasted hopes and withered bloom. 
 
 She sate upon the galley's prow. 
 And seemed to mark the waves below ; 
 Nay, seemed, so fixed her look and eye, 
 To count them as they glided by : 
 She saw them not — 't was seeming all — 
 Far other scene her thoughts recall — . 
 A sun-scorched desert, waste and bare ; 
 Nor waves nor breezes murmured tliere ; 
 There saw she where some careless li;ind 
 O'er a dead corpse had heaped the sand, 
 
 To hide it till the jackals come 
 To tear it from the scanty tomb. — 
 See what a woful look was given. 
 As she raised up her eyes to heaven ! 
 
 Lovely, and gentle, and distressed — 
 These charms might tame the fiercest 
 
 breast : 
 Harpers have sung and poets told 
 That he, in fury uncontrolled. 
 The shaggy monarch of the wood, 
 Before a virgin, fair and good, 
 Hath pacified his savage mood. 
 But passions in the human frame 
 Oft put the lion's rage to shame ; 
 And jealousy, by dark intrigue. 
 With sordid avarice in league. 
 Had practised with their bowl and knife 
 Against the mourner's harmless life. 
 This crime was charged gainst those 
 
 who lay 
 Prisoned in Cuthbert's islet gray. 
 
 And now the vessel skirts the strand 
 Of mountainous Northumberland ; 
 Towns, towers, and halls successive rise, 
 And catch the nuns' delighted eyes. 
 Monk-Wearmouth soon behind them lay, 
 And Tynemouth's priory and bay : 
 They marked amid her trees the hall 
 Of lofty Seaton-Delaval ; 
 Thej' saw the Blythe and Wansbeck 
 
 floods 
 Rush to the sea through sounding 
 
 woods ; 
 They passed the tower of Widderington, 
 Mother of many a valiant son ; 
 At Coquet-isle their beads they tell 
 To the good saint who owned the cell ; 
 Then did the Alne Attention claim. 
 And Warkworth, proud of Percy's 
 
 name ; 
 And next they crossed themselves to 
 
 hear 
 The whitening breakers sound so near. 
 Where, boiling through the rocks, they 
 
 roar 
 On Dunstanborough's caverned shore ; 
 Thy tower, proud Bamborough. marked 
 
 they there. 
 King Ida's castle, huge and square. 
 From its tall rock look giimly down, 
 And on the swelling ocean frown ; 
 Then from the coast they bore away, 
 ■ And reached the Holy Island's bay. 
 
 The tide did now its flood-mark gain, 
 And girdled in the Saint's domain ; 
 For, with the flow and ebb, its style 
 
SCOTT 
 
 Varies from continent to isle: 
 
 Dry shod, o"er sands, twice every day 
 
 The pilgrims to the shrine find way ; 
 
 Twice every day the waves efface 
 
 Of staves and sandalled feet the trace. 
 
 As to the port the galley flew, 
 
 Higher and higher rose to view 
 
 The castle with its battled walls. 
 
 The ancient monastei'y's halls. 
 
 A solemn, huge, and dark-red pile, 
 
 Placed on the margin of the isle. 
 
 In Saxon strength that abbey frowned. 
 With massive arches broad and round, 
 That rose alternate, row and row, 
 On ponderous columns, short and low, 
 
 Built ere the art was known. 
 By pointed aisle and shafted stalk 
 The arcades of an alleyed walk 
 To emulate in stone. 
 On the deep walls the heathen Dane 
 Had poured his impious rage in vain ; 
 And needful was such strength to these, 
 Exposed to the tempestuous seas, 
 Scourged by the winds' eternal sway. 
 Open to rovers fierce as they. 
 Which could twelve hundred year's with- 
 stand 
 Winds, waves, and northern pirates' 
 
 hand . 
 Not but that portions of the pile, 
 Rebuilded in a later style. 
 Showed where the spoiler's hand had 
 
 been ; 
 Not but the wasting sea-breeze keen 
 Had worn the pillar's carving quaint. 
 And mouldered in his niche the saint. 
 And rounded wdth consuming power 
 The pointed angles of each tower ; 
 Yet still entire the abbey stood. 
 Like veteran, worn, but unsubdued. 
 
 Soon as tliey neared his tvirrets strong. 
 The maidens i-aised Saint Hilda's song. 
 And with the sea-wave and the wind 
 Their voices, sweetly shrill, combined 
 
 And made harmonious close ; 
 Then, answering from the sandy shore. 
 Half-drowned amid the breakers' roar. 
 
 According chorus rose : 
 Down to the haven of the Isle 
 The monks and nuns in order file 
 
 From Cuthbert's cloisteis grim : 
 Banner, and cross, and relics there. 
 To meet Saint Hilda's maids, they bai e ; 
 And, as they caught the sounds on air. 
 
 They echoed back the hymn. 
 Tlie islanders in joyous mood 
 Rushed emulously through the flood 
 
 To hale the bark to land : 
 Conspicuous by her veil and hood. 
 Signing tiie cross, the Abbess stood, 
 
 And blessed them with her hand. 
 
 Suppose we now the welcome said. 
 Suppose the convent banquet made : 
 
 All through the holy dome, 
 Throvigh cloister, aisle, and gallery, 
 Wherever vestal maid might pry, 
 Nor risk to meet unhallowed eye. 
 
 The stranger sisters roam ; 
 Till fell the evening damp with dew. 
 And the sharp sea-breeze coldly blew. 
 For there even summer night is cliill. 
 Then, having strayed and gazed their till, 
 
 They closed around the fire ; 
 And all, in turn, essayed to paint 
 The rival merits of their saint, 
 
 A theme that ne"er can tire 
 A holy maid, for be it known 
 That their saint's honor is their own. 
 
 Then Whitby's nuns exulting told 
 How to their house three barons bold 
 
 Must menial service do. 
 While horns blow out a note of shame. 
 And monks cry, " Fie upon your name ! 
 In wratli, for loss of sylvan game. 
 
 Saint Hilda's priest ye slew." — 
 "This, on Ascension-day, each year 
 While laboring on our harbor-pier, 
 Must Herbert, Bruce, and Percy hear." 
 They told how in their convent-cell 
 A Saxon princess once did dwell. 
 
 The lovely Edelfied ; 
 And how, of thousand snakes, each one 
 Was changed into a coil of stone 
 
 When holy Hilda prayed : 
 Themselves, within their holy bound, 
 Their stony folds had often found. 
 They told how^ sea-fowls' pinions fail 
 As over Whitby's towers they sail. 
 And, sinking down, with flutterings 
 
 faint, 
 They do their homage to the saint. 
 
 Nor did Saint Cuthbert's daughters fail 
 
 To vie with these in holy tale ; 
 
 His body's resting-place, of old. 
 
 How oft their patron changed, they told ; 
 
 How, when the rude Dane burned tlieir 
 
 pile. 
 The luonks fled forth from Holy Isle : 
 0"er northern mountain, marsh, and 
 
 moor. 
 From sea to sen. from shore to shore, 
 Seven years Saint Cuthbert's corpse they 
 
 bore. 
 
BRITISH POETS 
 
 They rested them in fair Melrose ; 
 
 But though, alive, he loved it well. 
 
 Not there his I'elics might repose ; 
 For, wondrous tale to tell ! 
 
 In his stone coffin forth he rides, 
 
 A ponderous bark for river tides, 
 
 Yet light as gossamer it glides 
 
 Downward to Tilmouth cell. 
 Nor long was his abiding there, 
 For soutliward did the saint repair ; 
 Chester-le-Street and Ripon saw 
 His holy corpse ere Wardilaw 
 
 Hailed him with joy and fear : 
 And, after many wanderings past, 
 He chose his lordly seat at last 
 "Wliere his cathedral, huge and vast, 
 
 Looks down upon the Wear. 
 There, deep in Durliam's Gothic shade. 
 His relics ai'e in secret laid ; 
 
 But none may know tlie place, 
 Save of his holiest servants three, 
 Deep sworn to solemn secrec}'. 
 
 Who share that wondrous grace. 
 
 Who may liis miracles declare? 
 Even Scotland's dauntless king and 
 heir — 
 
 Altliough with them they led 
 Galwegians. wild as ocean's gale. 
 And Loden's kniglits, all slieathed in 
 
 mail. 
 And the bold men of Teviotdale — 
 
 Before his standard fled. 
 'Twas he, to vindicate liis reign. 
 Edged Alfred's falchion on the Dane, 
 And turned the Conqueror back again, 
 Wlien, witli his Norman bowyer band. 
 He came to waste Northumberland. 
 
 But fain Saint Hilda's nuns would learn 
 If on a rock, b}' Lindisfarne, 
 Saint Cuthbert sits, and toils to frame 
 Tlie sea-born beads that bear liis name : 
 Such tales had Whitby's fisliers told. 
 And said they miglit liis shape behold. 
 
 And hear liis anvil sound ; 
 A deadened clang. — ^a huge dim form. 
 Seen but. and heard, when gathering 
 storm 
 
 And night were closing round. 
 But this, as tale of idle fame. 
 The nuns of Lindisfarne disclaim. 
 
 While round the fire such legends go, 
 Far different was the scene of woe 
 Where, in a secret aisle beneatli. 
 Council was lield of life and death. 
 It was more dark and long, tliat vault. 
 Than the worst dungeon cell ; 
 
 Old Colwulf built it. for his fault 
 
 In penitence to dwell. 
 When he for cowl and beads laid 
 down 
 The Saxon battle-axe and crown. 
 This den, which, chilling every sense 
 
 Of feeling, hearing, sight. 
 Was called the Vault of Penitence, 
 
 Excluding air and liglit. 
 Was by the prelate Sexlielm made 
 A place of burial for such dead 
 As, having died in mortal sin. 
 Might not be laid the church within. 
 'Twas now a place of punisliment ; 
 Whence if so loud a shriek were sent 
 
 As reached tlie upper air. 
 The hearers blessed themselves, and said 
 Tlie spirits of the sinful dead 
 Bemoaned their torments there. 
 
 But though, in the monastic pile, 
 Did of tliis penitential pile, 
 • Some vague tradition go. 
 Few only, save the Abbot, knew 
 Where the place lay, and still more few 
 Were those who had from him the clew 
 
 To that dread vault to go. 
 Victim and executioner 
 Were blindfold when transported there. 
 In low dark rounds the arches hung, 
 From the rude rock the side-walls sprung 
 The gravestones, rudely sculptured o'er. 
 Half sunk in earth, by time half wore, 
 Were all the pavement of the floor ; 
 The mildew drops fell one by one. 
 With tinkling plash, upon the stone. 
 A cresset, in an iron chain, 
 Wliich served to light this di'ear domain. 
 With damp and darkness seemed to 
 
 strive. 
 As if it scarce might keep alive ; 
 And yet it dimly served to show 
 The awful conclave met below. 
 
 Thei'e, met to doom in secrecy. 
 Were placed the heads of convents three, 
 All servants of Saint Benedict, 
 The statutes of whose order strict 
 
 On iron table lay ; 
 In long black dress, on seats of stone. 
 Behind were these tliree judges shown 
 
 By the pale crescent's ray. 
 The Abbess of Saint Hilda's there 
 Sat for a space with visage bare. 
 Until, to hide her bosom's swell. 
 And tear-drops that for pity fell, 
 
 She closely drew her veil ; 
 Yon shrouded figure, as I guess. 
 By her proud mien and flowing dress. 
 
SCOTT 
 
 123 
 
 Is Tyneinouth's hauglity Prioress, 
 
 And she with awe looks pale ; 
 And he, that ancient man, whose sight 
 Has long been quenched by age's night, 
 Upon whose wrinkled brow alone 
 Nor ruth nor mercy's trace is shown. 
 
 Whose look is hard and stern. — 
 Saint. Cuthbert's Abbot is his style. 
 For sanctity called through the isle 
 Tlie Saint of Lindisfarne. 
 
 Before them stood a guilty pair ; 
 But, though an equal fate tliey share, 
 Yet one alone deserves our care. 
 Her sex a page's dress belied ; 
 The cloak and doublet, loosely tied. 
 Obscured her cliarms, but could not 
 hide. 
 
 Her cap down o'er her face she drew ; 
 And, on her doublet breast, 
 
 She tried to hide the badge of blue, 
 Lord Marmion's falcon crest. 
 But. at tlie prioress' command. 
 A monk undid the silken band 
 
 Tliat tied her tresses fair. 
 And raised the bonnet from her head, 
 And down her slender form they spread 
 
 In ringlets rich and rai'e. 
 Constance de Beverley they know, 
 Sister professed of Fontevraud, 
 Whom the Church numbered with the 
 
 dead, 
 For broken vows and convent fled. 
 
 When thus her face was given to 
 
 view, — 
 Although so pallid was her hue. 
 It did a ghastly contrast bear 
 To tiiose briglit ringlets glistering 
 
 fair. — 
 Her look composed, and steady eye, 
 Bespoke a matddess constancy ; 
 And there she stood so calm and pale 
 That, but her breathing did not fail. 
 And motion sliglit of eye and head. 
 And of her bosom, warranted 
 Tiiat neither sense nor pulse she lacks. 
 You might have thought a form of wax, 
 Wrought to the very life, was there ; 
 So still she was, so pale, so fair. 
 
 Her comrade was a sordid soul. 
 Such as does murder for a meed ; 
 
 Who, but of fear, knows no control. 
 
 Because his conscience, seared and foul. 
 Feels not the import of his deed ; 
 
 One whose brute-feeling ne'er aspires 
 
 Beyond his own more brute desires. 
 
 Such tools the Tempter ever needs 
 
 To do the savagest of deeds ; 
 
 For them no visioned terrors daunt. 
 
 Their nights no fancied spectres haunt ; 
 
 One fear with them, of all most base. 
 
 The fear of death, alone finds place. 
 
 This wretch was clad in frock and cowl, 
 
 And shamed not loud to moan and howl, 
 
 His body on the floor to dash. 
 
 And crouch, like hound beneath the 
 
 lash ; 
 While his mute partner, standing near. 
 Waited her doom without a tear. 
 
 Yet well the luckless wretch might 
 
 shriek. 
 Well might her paleness terror speak 1 
 For there were seen in that dark wall 
 Two niches, narrow, deep, and tall ; — 
 Who enters at such grisly door 
 Shall ne'er, I ween, find exit more. 
 In each a slender meal was laid. 
 Of roots, of water, and of bread ; 
 By each, in Benedictine dress. 
 Two haggard monks stood motionless, 
 Who, holding high a blazing torch. 
 Showed the grim entrance of the porch ; 
 Reflecting back the smoky beam. 
 The dark-red walls and arches gleam. 
 Hewn stones and cement were dis- 
 played , 
 And building tools in order laid. 
 
 These executioners were chose. 
 As men who were with mankind foes, 
 And, with despite and envy fired, 
 Into the cloister had retired. 
 
 Or who, in desperate doubt of grace, 
 Strove by deep penance to efl'ace 
 
 Of some foul crime the stain ; 
 For, as the vassals of her will, 
 Sucli men the Church selected still 
 As either joyed in doing ill. 
 Or thought more grace to gain 
 If in her cause they wrestled down 
 Feelings their nature strove to own. 
 By strange device were they brought 
 
 there. 
 They knew not how, and knew not 
 whei'e. 
 
 And now that blind old abbot rose, 
 To speak the Chapter's doom 
 
 On those the wall was to enclose 
 Alive within the tomb. 
 
 But stopped because that woful maid, 
 
 Gathering her povv-ers. to speak essayed ; 
 
 Twice she essayed, and twice in vain. 
 
 Her accents might no \itterance gain ; 
 
 Nought but imperfect murmurs slip 
 
124 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 From her convulsed and quivering lip ; 
 'Twixt each attempt all was so still, 
 You seemed to hear a distant lill — 
 'T was ocean's swells and falls ; 
 For though this vault of sin and fear 
 Was to tlie sounding surge so near, 
 A tempest there you scarce could hear, 
 So massive were the walls. 
 
 At length, an effort sent apart 
 The blood that curdled to her heart, 
 
 And light came to her eye, 
 And color dawned upon her cheek, 
 A hectic and a fluttered streak, 
 Like that left on the Cheviot peak 
 
 By Autvnnn's stormy sky ; 
 And when her silence broke at length. 
 Still as she spoke she gathered strength. 
 
 And armed herself to bear. 
 It was a fearful sight to see 
 Such high resolve and constancy 
 
 In form so soft and fair. 
 
 " I speak not to implore your grace, 
 Well know I for one minute's space 
 
 Successless might I sue : 
 Nor do I speak your prayers to gain ; 
 For if a death of lingering pain 
 To cleanse my sins be penance vain. 
 
 Vain are your masses too. — 
 I listened to a traitor's tale, 
 I left the convent and the veil ; 
 For three long years I bowed my pride, 
 A horse-boy in his train to ride ; 
 7\nd well my folly's meed he gave. 
 Who forfeited, to be his slave, 
 All here, and all beyond the grave, 
 lie saw young Clara's face more fair, 
 He knew her of broad lands the heir, 
 Forgot his vows, his faith forswore. 
 And Constance was beloved no more. 
 
 'T is an old tale, and often told ; 
 But did my fate and wish agree. 
 
 Ne'er had been read, in story old. 
 
 Of maiden true betrayed for gold. 
 That loved, or was avenged, like me ! 
 
 " Tlie king approved his favorite's aim ; 
 In vain a rival barred his claim. 
 
 Whose fate with Clare's was plight. 
 For he attaints that rival's fame 
 With treason's charge — and on tiiey came 
 In mortal lists to figiit. 
 Their oaths are said. 
 Their prayers are prayed. 
 Their lances in the rest are laid. 
 They meet in mortal shock ; 
 And hark ! the throng, with thundering 
 
 Shout ' Marmion. Marmion ! to the skj', 
 
 De Wilton to the block ! ' 
 Say, ye who preach Heaven shall decide 
 When in the lists two champions ride. 
 
 Say, was Heaven's justice here? 
 When, loyal in his love and faith, 
 Wilton found overthrow or death 
 
 Beneath a traitor's spear? 
 How false the charge, how true he fell. 
 Tins guilty packet best can tell.'' 
 Then drew a packet from her breast. 
 Paused, gathered voice, and spoke the 
 rest. 
 
 "Still was false Marmion's bridal stayed ; 
 To Whitby's convent fied the maid. 
 
 The hated match to shun. 
 •Ho! shifts she thus?' King Henry 
 
 cried. 
 ' Sir Marmion, she shall be thy bride. 
 
 If she were sworn a nun.' 
 One Avay remained — the king's command 
 Sent Marmion to the Scottish land ; 
 I lingered here, and rescue planned 
 
 For Clara and for me : • 
 Tliis caitiff monk for gold did swear 
 He would to Whitby's shrine repair, 
 And by his drugs m^y rival fair 
 
 A saint in heaven should be ; 
 But ill the dastard kept his oath, 
 Whose cowardice hath undone us both. 
 
 " And now my tongue the secret tells, 
 Not that remorse mj' bosom swells. 
 But to assure mj'^ soul that none 
 Sliall ever wed with Marmion. 
 Had fortune my last hope lietrayed, 
 This packet, to the king conveyed. 
 Had given him to the headsman's stroke, 
 Although my heart that instant broke. — 
 Now, men of death, work forth your 
 
 will. 
 For I can suffer, and be still ; 
 And come he slow, or come he fast, 
 It is but Death who comes at last, 
 
 " Yet dread me from my living tomb. 
 
 Ye vassal slaves of bloody Rome ! 
 
 If Marmion's late remorse should wake, 
 
 Full soon such vengeance will he take 
 
 That you sliall wish the fiery Dane 
 
 Had rather been your guest again. 
 
 Behind, a darker hour ascends ! 
 
 The altars quake, the crosier bends, 
 
 The ire of a desjiotic king 
 
 Rides forth upon destruction's wing ; 
 
 Then sliall these vaults^, so strong and 
 
 deep. 
 Burst open to tlie sea-wind's sweep ; 
 
 4 
 
SCOTT 
 
 Some traveller tlien shall find my bones 
 Whitening amid disjointed stones, 
 And, ignorant of priests' cruelty, 
 Marvel such relics liere should be." 
 
 Fixed was her look and stern her air : 
 Back from her shoulders streamed her 
 
 hair ; 
 The locks that wont lier brow to shade 
 Stared up erectly from her liead ; 
 Her figure seemed to rise; more high ; 
 Her voice despair's wild energy 
 Had given a tone of prophecy. 
 Appalled the astonislied conclave sate ; 
 With stupid eyes, the men of fate 
 Gazed on the light inspired form, 
 And listened for tlie avenging storm ; 
 The judges felt the victim's dread ; 
 No hand was moved, no word was said, 
 
 Till thus the abbot's doom was given, 
 Raising his sightless balls to heaven : 
 " Sister, let thy sorrows cease ; 
 Sinful brother, part in peace ! " 
 
 From that dire dungeon, place of doom. 
 
 Of execution too, and tomb. 
 Paced forth the judges three ; 
 
 Sorrow it were and shame to tell 
 
 Tiie butcher-work that there befell. 
 
 When they had glided from the coll 
 Of sin and miser}". 
 
 An hundred wiiuling steps convey 
 That conclave to the upper day ; 
 But ere they breathed the fresher air 
 They heard tlie shriekings of despair. 
 
 And many a stilled groan. 
 With speed their upward way they 
 
 take, — 
 Such speed as age and fear can make. — 
 And crossed themselves for terror's .sake, 
 
 As hurrying, tottering on. 
 Even in the vesjier's heavenly tone 
 They seemed to hear a dying groan. 
 And bade the passing knell to toll 
 For welfare of a parting soul. 
 Slow o'er the midnight wave it swung, 
 Northumbrinn rocks in answer rung ; 
 To Warkworth cell the echoes rolled. 
 His beads the wakeful hermit told ; 
 The Bamborough peasant raised liis 
 
 head. 
 But slept ere half a pi'ayer he said ; 
 So far was heard the might}" knell. 
 The stag sprung up on Cheviot Fell, 
 Spread his broad nostrils to the wind, 
 Listed before, aside, behind, 
 Then couched him down beside the hind. 
 And quaked among the mountain fern, 
 To hear that sound so dull and stern. 
 
 CANTO THIRD 
 
 THE HOSTEL, OR INN 
 
 The livelong day Lord Marmion rode ; 
 The mountain path the Palmer showed 
 By glen and streamlet winded still, 
 Where stunted birches hid the rill. 
 They might not choose the lowland road, 
 For the Mer.se forayers were abroad, 
 Who, fired with hate and thinst of prey. 
 Had scarcely failed to bar their way ; " 
 Oft on the trampling band from crown 
 Of some tall clitf the deer looked down ; 
 On wing of jet from his repose 
 In the deep heath the blackcock rose ; 
 Sprung from the gorse the timid roe, 
 Nor waited for the bending bow ; 
 And when the stony path began 
 By which the naked peak they wan, 
 Up flew the snowy ptarmigan. 
 The noon had long been passed before 
 They gained the height of Lanimer- 
 
 moor ; 
 Thence winding down the northern 
 
 way, 
 Before them at the close of day 
 Old Gilford's towers and hamlet lay. 
 
 No summons calls them to the tower, 
 
 To spend the hospitable hour. 
 
 To Scotland's camji the lord was gone ; 
 
 His cautious dame, in bower alone, 
 
 Dreaded her castle to unclose. 
 
 So late, to unknown friends or foes. 
 On through the hamlet astliey paced. 
 Before a porch whose front was graced. 
 With bush and flagon trimly placed. 
 
 Lord Marmion drew his rein : 
 The village inn seemed large, though 
 
 rude ; 
 Its cheerful fire and hearty food 
 Might well relieve his train. 
 
 Down from their seats the horsemen 
 sprung, 
 
 AVith jingling spurs the court-yard rung ; 
 
 They bind their horses to the stall. 
 
 For forage, food, and firing call. 
 
 And various clamor fills the hall : 
 
 Weighing the labor with the cost. 
 
 Toils everywhere the bustling host. 
 
 Soon, by the chimney's merry blaze. 
 Through the rude hostel might you gaze, 
 Might see where in dark nook aloof 
 The rafters of the sooty roof 
 
 Bore wealth of winter cheer ; 
 Of sea-fowl dried, and solands store, 
 And gammons of the tusky boar. 
 
 And savory haunch of deer. 
 
126 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 The chimney arch projected wide ; 
 Above, around it, and beside. 
 
 Were tools for housewives' hand ; 
 Nor wanted, in that martial day, 
 The imijlements of Scottisli fray, 
 
 The buckler, lance, and brand. 
 Beneath its siiade, the place of state. 
 On oaken settle Marmion sate, 
 And viewed around tlie bhizing hearth 
 His followers mix in noisy niirtli : 
 Whom with brown ale, in jolly tide, 
 From ancient vessels ranged Hside 
 Full actively their host supplied. 
 
 Theirs was the glee of martial breast. 
 And laughter theirs at little jest ; 
 And oft Lord Marmion deigned to aid. 
 And mingle in the mirth they made ; 
 For though, with men of high degree, 
 Tlie proudest of the proud was lie. 
 Yet, trained in camps, he kuew the 
 
 art 
 To win the soldier's hardy heart. 
 They love a captain to obe}'. 
 Boisterous as March, yet fresh as May ; 
 With open hand and brow as free, 
 Lover of wine and minstrelsy ; 
 Ever the first to scale a tower. 
 As venturous in a lady's bow er : — ■ 
 Sucli buxom cliief shnil lead his host 
 From Intlia's fires to Zembla"s frost. 
 
 Resting upon his pilgrim staff. 
 
 Right o|)posite tlie Palmer stood. 
 His tliin dark visage seen but half, 
 
 Half hidden by liis hood. 
 Still fixed on Marmion was his look, 
 Which he, who ill such gaze could 
 brook. 
 
 Strove by a frown to quell ; 
 But not for that, though more than once 
 Full met their stern encountering glance, 
 
 The Palmer's visage fell. 
 
 By fits less frequent fi-om the crowd 
 Was heard the burst of laughter loud ; 
 For still, as squire and archer stared 
 On that dark face and matted beard, 
 
 Their glee and game declined. 
 All gazed at length in silence drear, 
 Unbroke save when in comrade's ear 
 Some yeoman, wondering in his fear, 
 
 Thus whispered forth his mind : 
 "Saint Mary! saw'st thou e'er sucli 
 
 sight ? 
 How pale his cheek, his eye how bright 
 Whene'er the firebrand's fickle light. 
 
 Glances beneatli his cowl ! 
 Full on our lord he sets his eye ; 
 
 For his best palfrej^ would not I 
 Endure that sullen scowl. " 
 
 But Marmion, as to chase the awe 
 Which thus had quelled their hearts 
 
 who saw 
 The ever-varying firelight show 
 Tiiat figux-e stern ami face of woe, 
 
 Now called upon a sqiiiie ; 
 '• Fitz-Eustace, know'.st tliou not some 
 
 lay. 
 To speed the lingering night away'? 
 
 We slumber by the fire.'' 
 
 " So please 3"ou," thus the youth rejoined, 
 "Our choicest-minsti-el's left behind. 
 Ill niaywe hope to please your ear. 
 Accustomed Constant's strains to hear. 
 The harp full deftly can he strike. 
 Anil wake the lover's lute alike ; 
 To dear Saint Valentine lio thrush 
 Sings livelier from a springtide bush, 
 No nightingale her lovelorn tune 
 More sweetly warbles to the moon. 
 Woe to the cause, whate'erit be. 
 Detains from us his melodj^ 
 Lavished on rocks and billows stern. 
 Or didler monks of Lindisfarne, 
 Now must I ventin-e as I may. 
 To sing his favorite roundelay. " 
 
 A mellow voice Fitz-Eustace had. 
 The air he chose was wild and sad ; 
 Such have I heard in Scottisli land 
 Rise from the busy, harvest band. 
 When falls before the mountaineer 
 On Lowland plains the ripened ear. 
 Now one shrill voice the notes prolong, 
 Now a wild chorus swells the song ; 
 Oft have I listened and stood still 
 As it came softened up the hill, 
 And deemed it the lament of men 
 Who langinshed for their native glen. 
 And thought how sad would be such 
 
 sound 
 On Susquehanna's swampy ground, 
 Kentucky's wood-encumbered brake, 
 Or wild Ontario's boundless lake. 
 Where heart-sick exiles in the strain 
 Recalled fair Scotland's hills again ! 
 
 SONG 
 Where shall the lover rest. 
 
 Whom the fates sever 
 From his true maiden's breast. 
 
 Parted forever ? 
 Where, through groves deep and high, 
 
 Sounds the far billow, 
 Where earlv violets die, 
 
 Under the willow. 
 
SCOTT 
 
 127 
 
 CHORUS 
 
 Eleu loro, etc. Soft shall be his pillow. 
 
 There, through the summer day, 
 
 Cool streams are laving ; 
 There, while the tempests sway, 
 
 Scarce are boughs waving; 
 Tliere thy rest shalt thou take, 
 
 Parted forever, 
 Never again to wake, 
 
 Never, O never ! 
 
 CHORUS 
 
 Eleu loro, etc. Never, O never 1 
 
 Where shall the traitor rest, 
 
 He the deceiver, 
 Wlio could win maiden's breast. 
 
 Ruin and leave her? 
 In the lost battle. 
 
 Borne down by the flying. 
 Where mingles war's rattle 
 
 With groans of the djang. 
 
 CHORUS 
 
 Eleu l^ro, etc. There shall he be 15'ing. 
 
 Her wing shall the eagle flap 
 
 O'er the false-hearted ; 
 His warm blood the wolf shall lap. 
 
 Ere life be parted. 
 Shame and dishonor sit 
 
 By his grave ever ; 
 Blessing shall hallow it, — 
 
 Never, O never ! 
 
 CHORUS 
 
 Eleu loro, etc. Never, O never ! 
 
 It ceased, the melancholy sound. 
 And silence sunk on all around. 
 Tlie air was sad ; but sadder still 
 
 It fell on Marniion's ear. 
 And plained as if disgrace and ill. 
 
 And sliameful deatli, were near. 
 He drew his mantle past his face. 
 
 Between it and the band. 
 And rested with his head a space 
 
 Reclining on his hand. 
 His thoughts I scan not ; but I ween 
 That, could their import have been 
 
 seen. 
 The meanest groom in all the hall, 
 Tliat e'er tied courser to a stall, 
 Wonld scarce have wished to be their 
 
 l)rev. 
 For Lutterward and Fontenaye. 
 
 High minds, of native pride and force, 
 Most deeply feel thy pangs. Remorse ! 
 Fear, for their scourge, mean villains 
 
 have, 
 Tliou art the torturer of the brave ! 
 Yet fatal strength they boast to steel 
 Their minds to bear the wounds they 
 
 feel. 
 Even while they writhe beneath the 
 
 smart 
 Of civil conflict in the heart. 
 For soon Lord Marmion raised liis head, 
 And smiling to Fitz-Eustace said : 
 " Is it not strange that, as ye sung, 
 Seemed in mine ear a death-peal rung, 
 Such as in nunneries they toll 
 For some departing sister's soul ! 
 Say, what may this portend ? ' 
 Then first the Palmer silence broke, — 
 The livelong day he had not spoke, — 
 ■' The death of a dear friend." 
 
 Marmion, whose steady heart and eye 
 Ne'er changed in worst extremit}^ ; 
 Marmion, whose soul could scantly 
 
 brook 
 Even from his king a haughtj^ look ; 
 Whose accent of command controlled 
 In camps the boldest of the bold — 
 Thought, look, and uttei'ance failed him 
 
 now. 
 Fallen was his glance and flushed his 
 brow : 
 
 For either in the tone. 
 Or something in the Palmer's look, 
 So full upon his conscience strook. 
 
 That answer he found none. 
 Thus oft it haps that when within 
 They shrink at sense of secret sin, 
 
 A feather daunts the brave ; 
 A fool's wild speech confounds the wise, 
 And proudest princes veil their eyes 
 
 Before their meanest slave. 
 
 Well might he falter ! — By his aid 
 Was Constance Beverley betrayed. 
 Not that he augured of the doom 
 Which on the living closed the tomb : 
 But, tired to hear the desperate maid 
 Threaten by turns, beseech, upbraid. 
 And wroth because in wild despair 
 She practised on the life of Clare, 
 Its fugitive the Church he gave. 
 Though not a victim, but a slave. 
 And deemed restraint in convent 
 
 strange 
 Would hide her wrongs and her revenge. 
 Himself, proud Henry's favorite peer, 
 Held KoMiish thunders idle fear ; 
 
128 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Secufe his pardon he might hold 
 For some sliglit mulct of penance-gold. 
 Tlius judging, he gave secret way 
 VViieu the stern priests surprised their 
 
 prey. 
 His train but deemed the favorite page 
 Was left beliind to spare his age ; 
 Or otlier if tliey deemed, none dared 
 To mutter wliat lie thought and heard : 
 Woe to tiie vassal wlio durst pry 
 Into Lord Marmion's privacy ! 
 
 His conscience slept — he deemed her 
 
 well, 
 And safe secured in distant cell ; 
 But wakened by her favorite lay, 
 And that strange Palmer's boding say, 
 Tl:at fell so ominous and drear 
 Full on tlie object of liis fear, 
 To aid remorse's venomed throes. 
 Dark tales of convent-vengeance rose ; 
 And Constance, late betrayed and 
 
 scorned, 
 All lovely on liis soul returned ; 
 Lovely as when at treacherous call 
 She left lier convent's peaceful wall. 
 Crimsoned with shame, with terror 
 
 mute, 
 Dreading alike escape, pursuit, 
 Till love, victorious o'er alarms, 
 Hid fears and blushes in his arms. 
 
 '• Alas ! " he thouglit, " how changed that 
 
 mien ! 
 How changed these timid looks have 
 
 been, 
 Since years of guilt and of disguise 
 Have steeled her br«vv and armed lier 
 
 eyes ! 
 No more of virgin terror speaks 
 Tlie blood that mantles in her cheeks ; 
 Fierce and unfeminine are tliere, 
 Frenzy for joy, for grief despair ; 
 And I the cause — for whom were given 
 Her peace on earth, her hopes in 
 
 heaven ! — • 
 Would," thought he, as the picture 
 
 grows, 
 " I on its stalk had left the rose ! 
 Oh, wliy should man's success remove 
 The very charms that wake liis love ? — 
 Her convent's peaceful solitude 
 Is now a prison harsh and rude ; 
 And, pent witliin the narrow cell, 
 How will her spirit chafe and swell ! 
 How brook the stern monastic laws ! 
 The penance how — and I the cause ! — 
 Vigil and scourge — perchance even 
 
 worse ! 
 
 And twice he rose to cry, '' To hor.se !"' 
 And twice his .sovereign's mandate came, 
 Like damji upon a kindling flame ; 
 And twice he thought, "Gave I not 
 
 charge ? 
 She should be safe, thougli not at 
 
 large ? 
 Tliej^ durst not, for tlieir island, shred 
 One golden ringlet from her head." 
 
 While thus in Marmion's bosom strove 
 
 Repentance and reviving love, 
 
 Like whirlwinds who.se contending sway 
 
 I've seen Loch Vennachar obey, 
 
 Their host the Palmer's speech had 
 
 heard. 
 And talkative took up the word : 
 
 '■ Ay, reverend pilgrim, you who stray 
 From Scotland's simple land away. 
 
 To visit realms afar. 
 Full often learn tlie art to know 
 Of future weal or future woe. 
 By word,, or sign, or star ; 
 Yet might a knight his fortvine hear, 
 If, Knight-like, he despises fear, 
 Not far from hence ; — if fatliers old 
 Alight our hamlet legend told." 
 These broken words the menials niove, — 
 For marvels still the vulgar k)ve, — 
 And. Marmion giving license cold, 
 His tale the host thus gladh' told : — 
 
 THE host's tale 
 
 "A clerk could tell what years have 
 
 flown 
 Since Alexander filled our throne, — 
 Third monarch of that warlike name, — 
 And eke the time when here he came 
 To seek Sir Hugo, then our lord : 
 A braver never drew a sword ; 
 A wiser never, at the hour 
 Of midnight, spoke the word of power ; 
 The same whom ancient records call 
 The founder of the Goblin-Hall. 
 I would. Sir Knight, your longer stay 
 Gave you that cavern to survey. 
 Of lofty roof and ample size, 
 Beneath the castle deep it lies : 
 To hew the living rock profound. 
 The floor to pave, the arch to round. 
 There never toiled a mortal arm. 
 It all was wrought by word and charm ; 
 And I have heard mj^ grandsiie say 
 That the wild clamor and affray 
 Of those dread artisans of hell. 
 Who labored under Hugo's spell, 
 Sounded as loud as ocean's war 
 Among the caverns of Dunbar. 
 
SCOTT 
 
 129 
 
 "The king Lord Gifford's castle sought. 
 Deep laboring with uncertain thouglit. 
 Even then lie mustered all his host, 
 To meet upon the western coast ; 
 For Norse and Danisli galleys plied 
 Their oars within the Firth of Clyde. 
 There floated Haco's banner trim 
 Above Norweyan warriors grim. 
 Savage of heart and large of limb. 
 Threatening both continent and isle, 
 Bute, Arran, Cvmninghame, and Kyle. 
 Lord Gifford, deep beneatli the ground, 
 Heard Alexander's bugle sound. 
 And tarried not his garb to change, 
 But, in his wizard habit strange. 
 Came forth, — a quaint and fearful sight : 
 His mantle lined with fox-skins white ; 
 His high and wrinkled forehead bore 
 A pointed cap, such as of yore 
 Clerks say that Pliaraoh's Magi wore ; 
 His shoes were marked with cross and 
 
 spell, 
 Upon his breast a pentacle : 
 His zone of margin parchment thin. 
 Or, as some tell, of dead man's skin. 
 Bore many a planetary sign. 
 Combust, and retrogade. and trine ; 
 And in his hand he held prepared 
 A naked sword without a guard. 
 
 " Dire dealings with the fiendish race 
 Had marked strange lines upon liisface ; 
 Vigil and fast had worn him grim. 
 His e3'esight dazzled seemed and dim, 
 As one unused to upper day ; 
 Even his own menials with dismay 
 Beheld, Sir Knight, the grisly sire 
 In tills unwonted wild attire ; 
 Unwonted, for traditions run 
 He seldom thus beheld the sun. 
 • I know,' he said, — his voice was hoarse 
 And broken seemed its hollow force, — ■ 
 ' I know the cause, although untold. 
 Why the king seeks his vassal's liold : 
 Vainly from me my liege would know 
 His kingdom's future weal or woe ; 
 But yet, if strong his arm and heart, 
 His courage may do more than art. 
 
 '• ■ Of middle air the demons proud, 
 Who ride upon the I'acking cloud, 
 Can read in fixed or wandering star 
 The issue of events afar, 
 But still their sullen aid withhold. 
 Save when by miglitier foi'ce controlled. 
 Such late I summoned to my hall ; 
 And though so potent was the call 
 That scarce the deepest nook of hell 
 I deemed a refuge from tlie spell, 
 
 9 
 
 Yet, obstinate in silence still. 
 The haughty demon mocks my skill. 
 But thou, — who little know"st thy might 
 As born upon that blessed night 
 When yawning graves and dying groan 
 Proclaimed hell's empire overthrown, — 
 With untaught valor shalt compel 
 Response denied to magic spell.' 
 ' Gramercy,' quoth our monarch free, 
 ' Place him but front to front witii me, 
 And, by this good and lionored brand, 
 The gift of Ca3ur-de-Lion's hand. 
 Soothly I swear that, tide what tide. 
 The demon shall a buffet bide.' 
 His bearing 'oold the wizard viewed, 
 And thus, well pleased, his speech re- 
 newed : 
 ' There spoke the blood of Malcolm! — 
 
 mark : 
 Forth pacing hence at midnight dark. 
 The rampart seek whose circling crown 
 Crests the ascent of yonder down : 
 A southern entrance slialt thou find ; 
 Thei'e halt, and there thy bugle wind, 
 And trust thine elfin foe to see 
 In guise of thy worst enemy. 
 Couch then thy lance and spur thy 
 
 steed — 
 Upon him ! and Saint George to speed ! 
 If he go down, thou soon shalt know 
 Whate'er these airy sjirites can show ; 
 If thy heart fail thee in the strife, 
 I am no warrant for thy life.' 
 
 " Soon as the midnight bell did ring. 
 Alone and armed, forth rode the king 
 To that old camp's deserted round. 
 Sir Knight, you well might mark the 
 
 mound 
 Left hand the town, — the Pictish race 
 The trench, long since, in blood did 
 
 trace ; 
 The moor around is brown and bai'e. 
 The space within is green and fair. 
 The spot our village children know. 
 For there the earliest wild-flowers grow ; 
 But woe betide the wandering wight 
 That treads its circle in the night ! 
 The bi'eadth across, a bowshot clear. 
 Gives ample space for full career ; 
 Opposed to the four points of heaven. 
 By four deep gaps axe entrance given. 
 The southernmost our monarch passed, 
 Halted, and blew a gallant blast ; 
 And on the north, within the ring. 
 Appeared the form of England's king, 
 Wlio then, a thousand leagues afar, 
 In Palestine waged holy war : 
 Yet arms like England's did he wield ; 
 
130 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Alike the leopards in the shield, 
 Alike his Syrian courser's frame, 
 The rider's length of limb tlie same. 
 Long afterwards did Scotland know 
 Fell Edward was her deadliest foe. 
 
 " The vision made our monarch start, 
 But soon he manned his noble heart, 
 And in the first career they ran , 
 Tlie Elfin Kiiiglit fell, horse and man ; 
 Yet did a splinter of his lance 
 Through Alexander's visor glance. 
 And razed the skin — a puny wound. 
 Tlie king, light leaping to the ground, 
 With naked blade his phantom foe 
 Compelled the future war to show. 
 Of Largs he saw the glorious plain, 
 Where still gigantic bones remain. 
 
 Memorial of the Danish war ; 
 Himself he saw, amid the field, 
 On high his brandished war-axe wield 
 And strike proud Haco from his car, 
 While all around the shadowy kings 
 Denmark's grim ravens cowered their 
 
 wings. 
 ' T is said that in that awful night 
 Remoter visions met his sight, 
 Foi'eshowing future conquest far, 
 When our sons' sons wage Northern 
 
 war ; 
 A royal city, tower and spire, 
 Reddened tlie midnight sky with fire, 
 And sliouting crews her navy bore 
 Triumphant to the victor shore. 
 Such signs may learned clerks explain, 
 They pass the wit of simple swain. 
 
 " The joyful king turned home again. 
 Headed his host, and quelled the Dane ; 
 But yearly, when returned the night 
 Of his strange combat with the sprite, 
 
 His wound must bleed and smart ; 
 Lord Giff'ord then would gibing siiy, 
 ' Bold as ye were, my liege, ye pay 
 
 The penance of your start.' 
 Long since, beneath Dunfermline's nave. 
 King Alexander fills his grave, 
 
 Our Lady give him rest ! 
 Yet still the kniglitly spear and shield 
 The Elfin Warrior doth wield 
 
 Upon the brown hill's breast. 
 And many a knight hath proved his 
 
 chance 
 In the charmed ring to break a lance. 
 
 But all have foully sped ; 
 Save two. as legends tell, and they 
 Were Wallace wight and Gilbert 
 Hay.- 
 
 Gentles, my tale is said." 
 
 The quaighs were deep, the liquor 
 
 strong. 
 And on the tale the yeoman-throng 
 Had made a comment sage and long. 
 
 But Marmion gave a sign. 
 And with their lord the squires retire. 
 The rest around the ho.stel fire 
 
 Their drowsj' limbs recline ; 
 For ]3illow. underneath each head 
 The qniver and the targe were laid. 
 Deep slumbering on the hostel floor. 
 Oppressed with toil and ale. they snore ; 
 The dying flame, in fitful change. 
 Threw on the group its shadows strange. 
 
 Apart, and nestling in the hay 
 Of a waste loft, Fitz-Eustace lay ; 
 Scarce by the pale moonlight were seen 
 The foldings of his mantle green : 
 Lightly he dreamt, as youth will dream. 
 Of sport by thicket, or by stream. 
 Of hawk or hound, or ring or glove, 
 Or, lighter yet, of lady's love. 
 A cautious tread his slumber broke. 
 And, close beside him when he woke. 
 In moonbeam half, and half in gloom. 
 Stood a tall form with nodding plume ; 
 But, ere his dagger Eustace drew. 
 His master Marmion's voice he knew : 
 
 " Fitz-Eustace ! rise, — I cannot rest ; 
 Yon churl's wild legend haunts my 
 
 breast. 
 And graver thoughts have chafed my 
 
 mood ; 
 The air must cool my feverish blood. 
 And fain would I ride forth to see 
 The scene of elfin chivalry. 
 Arise, and saddle me my steed ; 
 And, gentle Eustace, take good heed 
 Thou dost not rouse these drowsy 
 
 slaves ; 
 I would not that the prating knaves 
 Had cause for saying, o'er their ale, 
 That I could credit such a tale." 
 Then softly down the steps they slid, 
 Eustace the stable door undid. 
 And, darkling, Marmion's steed arrayed. 
 While, whispering, thus the baron 
 
 said : — 
 
 " Didst never, good my j^outh, hear tell 
 Tliat on the hour when I was born 
 
 Saint George, who graced my sire's cha- 
 pelle, 
 
 Down from his steed of marble fell, 
 A weary wight forlorn ? 
 
 The flattering chaplains all agree 
 
 The champion left his steed to me. 
 
SCOTT 
 
 131 
 
 I would, the omen's truth to show, 
 That I could meet this elfin foe ! 
 Blithe would I battle for tlie right 
 To ask one question at the sprite. — 
 Vain tliought ! for elves, if elves there 
 
 be. 
 An empty race, by fount or sea 
 To dashing- waters dance and sing, 
 Or rovmd the green oak wheel their 
 
 ring." 
 Thus speaking, he his steed bestrode, 
 And from the hostel slowly rode. 
 
 Fitz-Eustace followed him abroad. 
 And marked him pace the village road. 
 
 And listened to his iiorse's tramp, 
 Till, by the lessening sound. 
 
 He judged that of the Pictish camp 
 Lord Marmion sought the round. 
 Wonder it seemed, in the squire's eyes, 
 That one, so wary held and wise. — 
 Of whom 'twas .said, he scarce received 
 For gospel what the Church believed, — 
 
 Should, stirred by idle tale. 
 Ride forth in silence of the night, 
 As hoping lialf to meet a sprite. 
 
 Arrayed in plate and mail. 
 For little did Fitz-Eustace know 
 That passions in contending flow 
 
 Unfix the strongest mind ; 
 Wearied from doubt to doul)t to flee, 
 We welcome fond credulity. 
 
 Guide confident, tliough blind. 
 
 Little for this Fitz-Eustace cared. 
 But patient waited till he heard 
 At distance, pricked to utmost speed. 
 The foot-tramp of a flying steed 
 
 Come townward rushing on ; 
 First, dead, as if on turf it trode. 
 Then, clattering on tiie village road, — 
 In other pace tlum forth he yode. 
 
 Returned Lord Marmion, 
 Down hastily he sjjrung from selle. 
 And in his haste wellnigli he fell; 
 To the squire's hand the rein he threw. 
 And spoke no word as he witlulrew : 
 But yet the moonlight did betray 
 Tlie falcon-crest was soiled with clay ; 
 And plainly might Fitz Eustace see, 
 By stains upon the charger's knee 
 And his left side, that on the moor 
 He had not kept his footing sure. 
 Long musing on these wondrous signs. 
 At length to rest tlie squire reclines. 
 Broken and short ; for still between 
 Would dreams of terror intervene : 
 Eustace did ne'er so blitliely mark 
 The first notes of the morning kuk. 
 
 CANTO FOURTH 
 
 THE CAMP 
 
 Eustace, I said, did blithely mark 
 The first notes of the merry lark. 
 The lark sang shrill, tiie cock he crew. 
 And loudlj- Marmion's bugles blew. 
 And with their light and lively call 
 Brought groom and yeoman to the stall. 
 Wliistling they came and free of heart, 
 But soon their mood was changed ; 
 Complaint was heard on every part 
 Of some thing disarranged. 
 Some clamored loud for armor lost ; 
 Some brawled and wrangled svith the 
 
 host ; 
 ' By Becket's bones,' cried one, ' I fear 
 That some false Scot has stolen my 
 
 spear ! ' 
 Young Blount, Lord Marmion's second 
 
 squire. 
 Found liis steed wet with sweat and mire, 
 Although the rated horse-boy sware 
 Last night he dressed him sleek and fair. 
 While cliafed the impatient squire like 
 
 thunder. 
 Old Hubert shouts in fear and wonder, — • 
 Help, gentle Blount ! help, comrades all ! 
 Bevis lies dying in his stall ; 
 To Marmion who the plight dare tell 
 Of the good steed he loves so well ? ' 
 (raping for fear and ruth, they saw 
 Tlie cliarger panting on his straw ; 
 Till one, wiio would seem wisest, cried, 
 " What else but evil could betide. 
 With that cursed Palmer for our guide ? 
 Better we had througli mire and bush 
 Been lantern-led by Friar Rush." 
 
 Fitz-Eustace, who the cause but 
 guessed. 
 
 Nor wholly understood. 
 His comrades' clamorous plaints sup- 
 pressed : 
 
 He knew Lord Marmion's mood. 
 Him, ere he issued forth, he sought. 
 And found deep plunged in gloomj' 
 thought. 
 
 And did his tale display 
 Simply, as if he knew of nought 
 
 To cause such disarray. 
 Lord Marmion gave attention cold. 
 Nor marvelled at the wonders told, — 
 Passed them as accidents of course. 
 And bade his clarions .sound to horse. 
 
 Young Henry Blount, meanwhile, the 
 
 cost 
 Had reckoned with tlieir Scottish host : 
 
132 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 And, as the charge he cast and paid, 
 " 111 thou deserv'st thy hire," he said ; 
 "Dost see, thou knave, nij- horse's plight? 
 Fairies have ridden him all the night, 
 
 And left him in a foam ! 
 I trust that soon a conjui'iiig band, 
 With English cross and blazing brand. 
 Shall drive the devils from this land 
 
 To their infernal home ; 
 For in this haunted den, I trow. 
 All night they trampled to antl fro." 
 The laughing host looked on tiie hire : 
 " Gramercy, gentle southern squire. 
 And if thou com'st among the rest. 
 With Scottish broadsword to be blest. 
 Sharp be the brand, and sure the blow, 
 And short the pang to undergo." 
 Here stayed their talk, for Marmion 
 Gave now the signal to set on. 
 The Palmer showing forth the way, 
 They journeyed all the morning-day. 
 
 The greensward way was smooth and 
 
 good, 
 Through Humbie's and through Saltoun's 
 
 wood ; 
 A forest glade, which, varying still. 
 Here gave a view of dale and hill 
 There narrower closed till overhead 
 A vaulted screen the branches made. 
 " A pleasant path," Fitz-Eustace said ; 
 "Such as where errant knights miglit 
 
 see 
 Adventures of high chivalry. 
 Might meet some damsel fl\'ing fast. 
 With hair unbound and looks aghast ; 
 And smooth and level course were here, 
 In her defence to break a spear. 
 Here, too. are twilight nooks and dells ; 
 And oft in such, the story tells. 
 The damsel kind, from danger freed. 
 Did grateful pay her champion's meed." 
 He spoke to cheer Lord Marmion's mind. 
 Perchance to show his lore designed ; 
 
 For Eustace much had pored 
 Upon a huge romantic tome, 
 In the hall-window of his home, 
 Imprinted at the antique dome 
 
 Of Caxton or de Worde, 
 Tiierefore he spoke, — but spoke in vain, 
 For Marmion answered nought again. 
 
 Now sudden, distant trumpets shrill. 
 In notes prolonged by wood and hill, 
 
 Were heard to echo far ; 
 Each ready archer grasped his bow, 
 But by the flourish soon they know 
 
 They breathed no point of war. 
 Yet cautious, as in foeman's land, 
 
 Lord Marmion's order .speeds the band 
 
 Some opener ground to gain ; 
 And scarce a furlong had tiiey rode. 
 When thinner trees receding showed 
 
 A little woodland plain. 
 Just in that advantageous glade 
 The halting troop a line had made. 
 As forth from the opposing siiade 
 Issued a gallant train. 
 
 First came the trumpets, at whose clang 
 So late the forest echoes rang ; 
 On prancing steeds they forward pressed, 
 With scarlet mantle, azure vest ; 
 Each at his trump a banner wore, 
 Which ScotlaiuVs royal .scutcheon bore : 
 Heralds and pursuivants, by name 
 Bute, Islay, Marchmount, Rothsay, 
 
 came, 
 In painted tabards, proudly showing 
 Gules, argent, or, and azure glowing. 
 
 Attendant on a king-at-arms. 
 Whose hand the armorial truncheon 
 
 held 
 That feudal strife had often quelled 
 
 When wildest its alarms. 
 
 He was a man of middle age. 
 
 In aspect manly, grave, and sage, 
 
 As on king's errand come ; 
 But in the glances of his eye 
 A penetrating, keen, and sly 
 
 Expression found its home ; 
 The flash of that satiric rage 
 Which, bursting on the early stage, 
 Branded the vices of the age. 
 
 And broke the keys of Rome. 
 On milk-white palfrey forth he paced ; 
 His cap of maintenance was graced 
 
 With the proud heron-plume. 
 From his steed's shoulder, loin, and 
 breast, 
 
 Silk housings swept the ground. 
 With Scotland's arms, device, and crest. 
 
 Embroidered round and round. 
 The double tressure might you see, 
 
 First by Achaius borne, 
 The thistle and the fleur-de-lis, 
 
 And gallant unicorn. 
 So bright the king's armorial coat 
 That scarce the dazzled eye could note. 
 In living colors blazoned brave. 
 The Lion, which his title ga.ve ; 
 A train, which well beseemed his state, 
 But all unarmed, around him wait. 
 
 Still is thy name in high account, 
 And still thy verse has charms, 
 
 Sir David Lindesay of the Mount, 
 Lord Lion King-at-arms ! 
 
SCOTT 
 
 133 
 
 Down from his liorse did Marinion spring 
 
 Soon as he saw the Lion-King ; 
 
 For well the stately baron knew 
 
 To him such courtesy was due 
 
 Whom royal James himself liad crowned, 
 
 And on his temples placed tiie round 
 
 Of Scotland's ancient diadem. 
 And wet his brow with hallowed wine, 
 And on his finger given to shine 
 
 The emblematic gem. 
 Their mutual greetings duly made, 
 Tlie Lion thus his message said : — 
 ' Though Scotland's King hath deeply 
 
 swore 
 Ne'er to knit faith witli Henry more. 
 And strictly hath forbid resort 
 From England to his royal court. 
 Yet, for he knows Lord Marmion's name 
 And honors much his warlike fame, 
 My liege hath deemed it shame and 
 
 lack 
 Of courtesy to turn him back ; 
 And by liis order I, your guide. 
 Must lodging fit and fair provide 
 Till finds King James meet time to see 
 Tlie flower of English chivalry." 
 
 Though inly chafed at this delay. 
 Lord Marmion bears it as he may. 
 Tlie Palmer, his mysterious guide, 
 Beholding thus his place supplied, 
 
 Sought to take leave in vain ; 
 Strict was the Lion-King's command 
 That none wlio rode in Marmion's band 
 
 Should sever from the train. 
 " England has here enow of spies 
 In Lady Heron's witcliing eyes : " 
 To Marchmount thus apart he said. 
 But fair pretext to Marmion made. 
 Tlie right-hand path they now decline. 
 And trace against the stream the Tyiie. 
 
 At length up that wild dale they wind. 
 
 Where Crichtoun Castle crowns the 
 bank ; 
 For there the Lion's care assigned 
 
 A lodging meet for IMarmion's rank. 
 Tliat castle rises on the steep 
 
 Of the green vale of Tyne ; 
 And far beneath, where slow they creep 
 From pool to eddy, dark and deep, 
 WJiere alders moist and willows weep, 
 
 You hear her streams repine. 
 The towei's in difi'erent ages rose. 
 Their various architecture shows 
 
 The builders' various hands ; 
 A mighty mass, that could oppose. 
 When deadliest hatred fivod its foes, 
 
 The vengeful Douglas bands. 
 
 Crichtoun ! though now thy miry court 
 
 But pens the lazy steer and sheep. 
 
 Thy turrets rude and tottered keep 
 Have been the minstrers loved resort. 
 Oft have I traced, within thy fort. 
 
 Of mouldering shields the mystic 
 sense. 
 
 Scutcheons of honor or pretence, 
 Quartered in old armorial sort. 
 
 Remains of rude magnificeTice. 
 Nor wholly yet hath time defaced 
 
 Thy lordl}^ galleiy fair. 
 Nor yet tlie stony cord unbraced 
 Whose twisted knots, with roses laced, 
 
 Adorn thy ruined stair. 
 Still rises vmimpaired below 
 The court-yard's graceful portico ; 
 Above its cornice, row and row 
 Of fair-hewn facets richly show 
 
 Their pointed diamond form. 
 Though there but houseless cattle go. 
 
 To shield them from the storm. 
 And. shuddering, still may we explore, 
 
 Where oft whilom were captives pent. 
 The darkness of thy Massy More. 
 
 Or, from thy grass-grown battlement. 
 May trace in undulating line 
 The sluggish mazes of the Tyne. 
 
 Another aspect Crichtoun showed 
 As through its portal Marmion rode ; 
 But yet 't was melancholy state 
 Received him at the outer gate, 
 For none were in the castle then 
 But women, boys, or aged men. 
 With eyes scarce dried, the sorrowing 
 
 dame 
 To welcome noble Marmion came ; 
 Her son. a stripling twelve years old, 
 Proffered the baron's rein to hold : 
 For each man that could draw a sword 
 Had inarched that morning with their 
 
 lord, 
 Earl Adam Hepburn, — he who died 
 On Flodden by his sovereign's side. 
 Long may his lady look in vain ! 
 She ne'er shall see his gallant train 
 Come sweeping back through Crichtoun- 
 
 Dean . 
 'T was a brave race before the name 
 Of hated Bothwell stained their fame. 
 
 And here two days did Marmion rest. 
 With every right that honor claims, 
 
 Attended as the king's own guest ; — 
 Such the command of Royal James, 
 
 Who marshalled then his land's array, 
 
 Upon the Borough-moor that lay. 
 
 Perchance he would not foeman's eye 
 
134 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Upon his gathering host should pry, 
 Till full prepared was every band 
 To march against the Englisli land. 
 Here while they dwelt, did Lindesay's 
 
 wit 
 Oft cheer the baron's moodier fit ; 
 And, in his turn, lie knew to prize 
 Lord Marmion's powerful mind and 
 
 wise, — 
 Trained in the lore of Rome and Greece, 
 And policies of war and ijeace. 
 
 It chanced, as fell the second night. 
 
 That on the battlements tliey walked. 
 And by the slowly fading light 
 
 Of vai'jang topics talked : 
 And, unaware, the herald-bard 
 Said Marmion might his toil have spared 
 
 In travelling so far. 
 For that a messenger from heaven 
 III vain to James had counsel given 
 
 Against the Englisli war ; 
 And, closer questioned, thus he told 
 A tale which chronicles of old 
 In Scottish stca-y have enrolled : — 
 
 SIR DAVID lindesay's TALE 
 
 " Of all the palaces so fair. 
 
 Built for the royal dwelling 
 In Scotland, far beyond compare 
 
 Linlithgow is excelling ; 
 And in its park, in jovial June, 
 How sweet the merry linnet's tune, 
 
 How blithe the blackbird's lay ! 
 The wild buck bells from ferny brake, 
 The coot dives merry on the lake, 
 The saddest heart might j^leasure take 
 
 To see all nature gay. 
 But June is to our sovereign dear 
 The heaviest month in all the yeiir ; 
 Too well his cause of grief .you know, 
 June saw his father's overthrow. 
 Woe to the traitors who could bring 
 The princely boy against his king ! 
 Still in his conscience burns the sting. 
 In offices as strict as Lent 
 King James's June is ever spent. 
 
 "When last this rvithful montli was 
 
 come. 
 And in Linlithgow's holj^ dome 
 
 The king, as wont, was praying ; 
 While for his royal father's soul 
 The chanters sung, the bells did toll. 
 
 The bishop mass was saying — 
 For now the year brought round again 
 The day the luckless king wms slain — 
 In Catherine's aisle the monarch knelt, 
 With sackcloth sliirt and iron belt, 
 
 And eyes with sorrow streaming ; 
 Around him in their stalls of state 
 The Thistle's Knight-Companions sate, 
 
 Their banners o'er them beaming. 
 I too was there, and, sooth to tell. 
 Bedeafened with the jangling knell, 
 Was watching where the sunbeams fell. 
 
 Through the stained casement gleam- 
 ing ; 
 But while I marked what next befell 
 
 It seemed as I were dreaming. 
 Stepped from the crowd a ghostly wight, 
 In azure gown, with cincture white ; 
 His forehead bald, his head was bare, 
 Down hung at length his yellow hair. — 
 Now, mock me not wlien, good my lord, 
 I pledge to you my knightly word 
 That when I saw iiis placid grace, 
 His simple majestj' of face. 
 His solemn bearing, and his pace 
 
 So stately gliding on, — 
 Seemed to me ne'er did limner paint 
 So just an image of the saint 
 Who propped the Virgin in her faint. 
 
 The loved Apostle John ! 
 
 " He stepped before the monarch's chair. 
 And stood with rustic plainness there, 
 
 And little reverence made ; 
 Nor head, nor body, bowed, nor bent. 
 But on the desk his arm he leant, 
 
 And words like these he said. 
 In a low voice, — but never tone 
 So thrilled through vein, and nei've, and 
 
 bone : — 
 ' My mother sent me from afar. 
 Sir King, to warn tliee not to war, — 
 
 Woe waits on thine array ; 
 If war thou wilt, of woman fair. 
 Her witching wiles and wanton snare, 
 James Stuart, doubly warned, beware : 
 
 God keep thee as He may ! ' — 
 The wondering monarcli seemed to seek 
 
 For answer, and found none ; 
 And when he raised his head to speak. 
 
 The monitor was gone. 
 The marshal and myself had cast 
 To stop him as he outward passed ; 
 But, lighter than the whirlwind's blast. 
 
 He vanished from our eyes, 
 Like sunbeam on the billow cast. 
 
 That glances but, and dies." 
 
 While Lindesay told his marvel strange 
 
 Tlie twilight was so pale. 
 He marked not Marmion's color change 
 
 While listening to the tale ; 
 But, after a suspended pause, 
 The baron spoke : " Of Nature's laws 
 
SCOTT 
 
 f35 
 
 So strong I held the force, 
 That never superhuman cause 
 
 Could e"er control th.eir covirse, 
 And, three days since, had judged your 
 
 aim 
 Was but to make your guest your 
 
 game ; 
 But I iiave seen, since past the Tweed. 
 What much lias changed my sceptic 
 
 creed. 
 And made me credit auglit." — He stayed, 
 And seemed to wish his words unsaid, 
 But, by tliat strong emotion pressed 
 Wliich prompts us to unload our breast 
 
 Even when discovery's pain. 
 To Lindesay did at length unfold 
 The tale his village host had told. 
 
 At Gifford, to his train. 
 Nought of the Palmer says he there. 
 And nought of Constance or of Clare; 
 The thoughts which broke his sleep he 
 
 seems 
 To mention but as feverish dreams. 
 
 " In vain," said he, " to rest I spread 
 My burning limbs and couched my head ; 
 
 Fantastic thoughts returned. 
 And, by their wild dominion led. 
 
 My heart within me burned. 
 So sore was the delirious goad. 
 I took my steed and forth I rode. 
 And, as the moon shone bright and 
 
 cold. 
 Soon reached the camp upon the wold . 
 The southern entrance I passed thi'ough. 
 And halted, and my bugle blew. 
 Metiiought an answer met mj' ear,— 
 Yet was tlie blast so low and drear, 
 So hollow, and so faintly blown, 
 It might be echo of my own. 
 
 " Thus judging, for a little space 
 I listened ere I left the place, 
 
 But scarce could trust my eyes. 
 Nor yet can think they serve me true, 
 AVhen sudden in the ring I view. 
 In form distinct of shape and hue, 
 
 A mounted champion rise. — 
 I've fought, Lord-Lion, many a day. 
 In single fight and mixed affray, 
 And ever, I myself may say. 
 
 Have borne me as a knight ; 
 But when this unexpected foe 
 Seemed starting from the gulf below, — 
 I care not though the truth I show, — 
 
 I trembled with affright ; 
 And as I placed in rest my spear. 
 My hand so shook for very fear, 
 
 I scarce could couch it right. 
 
 " Why need my tongue the issue tell ? 
 We ran our course, — my charger fell ; — 
 What could he "gainst the shock of 
 hell ? 
 
 I rolled upon the plain. 
 High o'er my head with threatening 
 
 hand 
 The spectre shook his naked brand, — ■ 
 
 Yet did the worst remain : 
 My dazzled eyes I upward cast. — 
 Not opening hell itself could blast 
 
 Their sight like what I saw ! 
 Full on his face the moonbeam strook ! — 
 A face could never be mistook ! 
 I knew the stern vindictive look. 
 
 And held my breath for awe. 
 I saw the face of one who, fled 
 To foreign climes, has long been dead, — 
 
 I well believe the last ; 
 For ne'er from visor raised did stare 
 A human warrior with a glare 
 
 So grimly and so ghast. 
 Thrice o'er my head he shook the blade ; 
 But wiien to good Saint George I prayed, 
 — The first time e'er I asked iiis aid, — 
 
 He plunged it in the sheath. 
 And, on his courser mounting light. 
 He seemed to vanish from my sight : 
 The moonbeam drooped, and deepest 
 night 
 
 Sunk down upon the heath. — • 
 ' T were long to tell what cause I have 
 
 To know his face that met me there. 
 Called by his hatred from the grave 
 
 To cumber upper air ; 
 Dead or alive, good cause had he 
 To be my mortal enemy." 
 
 Marvelled Sir David of the Mount : 
 Then, learned in story, gan recount 
 
 Such chance had happed of old. 
 When once, near Norham, there did 
 
 fight 
 A spectre fell of fiendish might, 
 In likeness of a Scottish knight, 
 
 With Prian Buhner bold. 
 And trained him nigh to disallow 
 The aid of his baptismal vow, 
 •' And such a phantom, too. ' t is said. 
 With Highland broadsword, targe, and 
 plaid. 
 
 And fingers red with gore. 
 Is seen in Rothiemurcus glade. 
 Or where the sable pine-trees sliade 
 Dark Tomantoul, and Auchnaslaid, 
 
 Dromouchty, or Glenmore. 
 And yet, whafer sucli legends say 
 Of warlike demon, gliost, or faj", 
 
 On mountain, moor, or plain. 
 
136 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Spotless in faitli, in bosom bold, 
 True son of cliivaliy should hold 
 
 These mithiight tenors vain ; 
 For seldom have such spirits i>ower 
 To harm, save in the evil hour 
 When guilt we meditate within 
 Or harbor unrepented sin." — 
 Lord Marmion turned him half aside, 
 And twice to clear his voice he tried. 
 
 Then pressed Sir David's hand, — 
 But nouglit, at lengtli, in answer said ; 
 And liere their furtlier converse stayed, 
 
 Eacli ordering that his band 
 Sliould bowne tliein with tlie rising day. 
 To Scotland's camp to take tlieir way, — 
 
 Such was the king's command. 
 
 Early tliey took Dun-Edin's road. 
 And I could trace each step tliey trode ; 
 Hill, brook, nor dell, nor rock, nor stone, 
 Lies on the path to me unknown. 
 Much might it boast of storied lore ; 
 But, passing such digression o'er. 
 Suffice it tliat their route was laid 
 Across the furzy hills of Braid. 
 They passed the glen and scanty rill. 
 And climbed tlie ojiposing bank, until 
 They gained the top of Blackford Hill, 
 
 Blackford ! on whose uncultured breast. 
 
 Among the broom and thorn and whin, 
 A truant-boy, I souglit the nest, 
 Or listed, as I lay at rest. 
 
 While rose on breezes tiiin 
 The mvu'inur of the city crowd. 
 And. from liis steeple jangling loud. 
 
 Saint Giles's mingling din. 
 Now, from tlie summit to the plain. 
 Waves all the hill with yellow grain ; 
 
 And o'er tiie landscape as I loolc. 
 Nought do I see unchanged remain. 
 
 Save the rude cliffs and chiming brook. 
 To me the.y maJce a heavy moan 
 Of early friendships past and gone. 
 
 But different far the change has .been. 
 
 Since Marmion from tlie crown 
 Of Blackford saw that martial scene 
 
 Upon the bent so brown : 
 Thousand pavilions, wliite as snow. 
 Spread all the Borough-moor below, 
 
 Upland, and dale, and down. 
 A thousand did I say? . I ween, 
 Thousands on thousands there were seen. 
 That checkered all the heath between 
 
 The streamlet and the town. 
 In crossing ranks extending far. 
 Forming a cami) irregular ; 
 Oft giving way where still there stood 
 
 Some relics of the old oak wood, 
 
 That darkly huge did intervene 
 
 And tamed the glaring wliite witli green : 
 
 In these extended lines there lay 
 
 A martial kingdom's vast array. 
 
 For from Hebudes, dark with rain, 
 Tt) eastern Lodon's fertile plain. 
 And from the southern Redsvvire edge 
 To furthest Rosse's rocky ledge. 
 From west to east, from south to north, 
 Scotland sent all her warriors forth. 
 Marmionniight hear tlie mingled hum 
 Of myriads up tlie mountain come, — 
 The hoi'ses" tramp and tinkling clank. 
 Where chiefs reviewed their vassal rank, 
 
 And charger's shrilling neigli, — 
 And see the siiifting lines advance. 
 While frequent flashed from shield and 
 lance 
 
 The sun's reflected ray. 
 
 Thin curling in the morning air, 
 The wreaths of failing smoke declare 
 To embers now the brands (leca3'ed. 
 Where the night-watch their tires had 
 
 made. 
 They saw, slow rolling on the plain. 
 Full many a baggage-cart and wain. 
 And dire artillery's clumsy car. 
 By sluggish oxen tugged to war ; 
 And there were Borthwick's Sisters 
 
 Seven, 
 And culverins which France had given. 
 Ill-omened gift ! the guns remain 
 The conqueror's spoil on Flodden plain. 
 
 Nor marked they less where in tlie air 
 A thousand streamers flaunted fair ; 
 Various in shape, device, and hue. 
 Green, sanguine, purple, red. and blue. 
 Broad, narrow, swallow-tailed, and 
 
 square, 
 Scroll, pennon, pencil, bandrol, there 
 
 O'er the pavilions flew. 
 Highest and midmost, was descried 
 The royal banner floating wide ; 
 
 The staff, a pine-tree, sti"ong and 
 straight. 
 Pitched deeply in a massive stone. 
 Which still in memory is shown. 
 Yet bent beneath the standard's 
 weight, 
 Whene'er the ■western wind unrolled 
 With toil the huge and cumbrous 
 fold. 
 And gave to view the dazzling field. 
 Where in ]n-oud Scotland's royal shield 
 The ruddy lion ramped in gold. 
 
SCOTT 
 
 137 
 
 Lord Marmion viewed the landscape 
 
 bright. 
 He viewed it with a chief's delight, 
 Until within him burned his heart, 
 And lightning from Jiis eye did part, 
 
 As on the battle-da\' ; 
 Such glance did falcon never dart 
 Wlien stooping on his prt'3^ 
 " Oh ! well, Lord-Lion, hast thou said, 
 Tliy king from warfare to dissuade 
 
 Were but a vain essay ; 
 For, by Saint George, were that host 
 
 mine, 
 Not power infernal nor divine 
 Sliould once to peace my soul incline. 
 Till I had dimmed their armor's shine 
 
 In glorious battle-fray ! " 
 Answered the bard, of milder mood : 
 ' Fair is the sight, — and yet 'twere 
 good 
 
 That kings would think withal. 
 When peace and wealth their land has 
 
 blessed , 
 'T is better to sit still at rest 
 Than rise, perchance to fall. " 
 
 Still on the spot Lord Marmion stayed, 
 For fairer scene he ne'er surveyed. 
 When sated with the mai'tial show 
 That peopled all the plain below; 
 The wandering eye could o'er it go. 
 And mark the distant citj^ glow 
 
 With gloomy splendor red ; 
 For on the smoke-wreaths, huge and 
 
 slow, 
 That round her sable turrets flow. 
 
 The morning beams were shed, 
 And tinged them with a lustre proud. 
 Like that which streaks a thunder- 
 cloud. 
 Such dusky grandeur clothed the height 
 Where the huge castle holds its state, 
 
 And all the steep slope down. 
 Whose ridgy back heaves to tlie sky, 
 Piled deep and massy, close and high. 
 
 Mine own romantic town ! 
 But northward far, with purer blaze, 
 On Ochil mountains fell the rays. 
 And as each heathy top they kissed, 
 It gleamed a purple amethyst. 
 Yonder the shores of Fife you saw. 
 Here Preston-Bay and Berwick-law ; 
 
 And, broad between them rolled, 
 The gallant Firth the eye niiglit note, 
 Whose islands on its bosom float. 
 
 Like emeralds chased in gold. 
 Fitz-Evistace' heart felt closely pent ; 
 As if to give his rapture vent, 
 The spur he to his charger lent, 
 
 And raised his bridle hand, 
 And making denii-volt in air. 
 Cried, " Where's the coward that would 
 not dare 
 
 To fight for such a land ! " 
 The Lindesay smiled his joy to see, 
 Nor Marmion 's frown repressed his glee. 
 
 Thus while they looked, a flourish proud. 
 Where mingled trump, and clarion loud, 
 
 And ftfe, and kettle-drum, 
 And sackbut deep, and psaltery. 
 And war-pipe with discoixlant cry, 
 And cymbal clattering to the sky, 
 Making wild music bold and high, 
 
 Did up the mountain come ; 
 The whilst the bells with distant chime 
 Merrily tolled the liour of prime. 
 
 And thus the Lindesay spoke : 
 " Tlius clamor still the war-notes when 
 The king to mass his way has ta'en, 
 Or to Saint Catherine's of Sienne, 
 
 Or Chapel of Saint Rocque. 
 To you they speak of martial fame, 
 But me remind of peaceful game. 
 
 When blither was tlieir clieer. 
 Thrilling in Falkland-woods the air. 
 In signal none his steed should spare. 
 But strive wliich foremost might 
 repair 
 
 To the downfall of the deer. 
 
 '' Nor less,"' he said, " when looking forth 
 I view yon Empress of the North 
 
 Sit on her hilly throne. 
 Her palace's imperial bowers. 
 Her castle, proof to hostile powers. 
 Her stately halls and lioly towers — 
 
 Nor less," he said, " I moan 
 To think what woe mischance may 
 
 bring. 
 And how these merry bells may ring 
 TJie death-dirge of our gallant king, 
 
 Or with their larum c;iM 
 The burghers forth to watch and ward, 
 'Gainst Southern sack and fires to 
 guard 
 
 Dun-Rdin's leaguered wall. — 
 But not for my presaging thought. 
 Dream conquest sure or cheaply bought ! 
 
 Lord Marmion, I say nay : 
 God is the guider of the field. 
 He breaks the ciiampion's spear and 
 sliield ; 
 
 But thou tliyself slialt say. 
 When joins yon liost in deadly stowre. 
 That England's dames must weep in 
 bower. 
 
 Her monks the death-mass sing ; 
 
138 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 For never saw'st thou such a power 
 
 Led on by such a king."' 
 And now, down winding to the plain, 
 The barriers of the camp they gain, 
 
 And there they made a stay, — 
 There sta5s tlie Minstrel till he fling 
 His hand o'er every Border string, 
 And fit his harp the pomp to sing 
 Of Scotland's ancient court and king, 
 
 In the succeeding lay. 
 
 CANTO FIFTH 
 
 THE COURT 
 
 The train has left the hills of Braid ; 
 The barrier guard have opeii made — 
 So Lindesay bade — the palisade 
 
 That closed the tented ground ; 
 Their men the warders backward drew , 
 And carried pikes as they rode through 
 
 Into its anjple bound. 
 Fast ran the Scottish warriors there. 
 Upon the Southern band to stare, 
 And envy with their wonder rose, 
 To see such well-appointed foes ; 
 Such length of shafts, such mighty 
 
 bows. 
 So huge, that many simply thought 
 But for a vavmt such weapons wrought, 
 And little deemed their force to feel 
 Tlirough links of mail and plates of steel 
 When, rattling upon Flodden vale, 
 The cloth-yard arrows flew like hail. 
 
 Nor less did Marmion's skilful view 
 Glance every line and squadron through . 
 And much he marvelled one small land 
 Could marshal forth such various band ; 
 
 For men-at-arms were here, 
 Heavily sheathed in mail and plate. 
 Like iron towers for strength and weiglit 
 On Flemish steeds of bone and heiglit, 
 
 With battle-axe and spear. 
 Young kniglits and squires, a lighter 
 
 train, 
 Practised their charges on the plain, 
 By aid of leg, of hand, and rein, 
 
 Each warlike feat to show. 
 To pass, to wheel, the croupe to gain, 
 And high curvet, that not in vain 
 The sword-sway might descend amain 
 
 On foeman's casque below 
 He saw the hardy bui'ghers there 
 March armed on foot with faces bare, 
 
 For visor they wore none. 
 Nor waving plume, nor crest of knight ; 
 But burnished were their corselets 
 
 bright, 
 Their brigantines and gorgets light 
 
 Like very silver shone. 
 Long pikes they had for standing fight, 
 
 Two-handed swords tliey wore. 
 And many wielded mace of weight. 
 
 And bucklers bright they bore. 
 
 On foot the yeoman too. but dressed 
 In his steel-jack, a swarthj- vest. 
 
 With iron quilted well ; 
 Each at his back — a slender store — 
 His forty daj^s' provision bore, 
 
 As feudal statutes tell. 
 His arms were halbert, axe, or spear, 
 A crossbow there, a hagbut here, 
 
 A dagger-knife, and brand. 
 Sober lie seemed and sad of cheer, 
 As loath to leave his cottage dear 
 
 And march to foreign strand. 
 Or musing who would guide his steer 
 
 To till the fallow land. 
 Yet deem not in his thoughtful e\e 
 Did aught of dastard terror lie ; 
 
 More dreadful far his ire 
 Than theirs who, scorning danger's name 
 In eager mood to battle came. 
 Their valor like light straw on flame, 
 
 A fierce but fading fire. 
 
 Not so the Borderer ; — bred to war, 
 He knew the battle's din afar. 
 
 And ]0}'ed to hear it swell. 
 His peaceful day was slothful ea.se ; 
 Nor harp nor pipe his ear could please 
 
 Like the loud slogan yell. 
 On active steed, with lance and blade, 
 Tiie light-armed pricker plied his trade, — 
 
 Let noliles fight for fame ; 
 Let vassals follow where they lead. 
 Burghers, to guard their townships, 
 bleed. 
 
 But war's the Borderers' game. 
 Their gain, tlieir glory, their delight, 
 To sleep the da}', maraud the night. 
 
 O'er mountain, moss and moor ; 
 Joyful to fight they took their way, 
 Scarce caring who might win the day. 
 
 Their booty was secure. 
 These, as Lord Marmion's train passed 
 
 by, 
 Looked on at first with careless eye. 
 Nor marvelled aught, well taught to 
 
 know 
 The form and force of English bow. 
 But when thev saw the lord arrayed 
 In splendid arms and rich brocade. 
 Each Borderer to his kinsman said. — 
 
 " Hist, Ringan ! seest thou there ! 
 Canst guess which road they'll homeward 
 ride? 
 
SCOTT 
 
 139 
 
 Oh ! could we but on Border side, 
 By Eusedale glen, or Liddell's tide, 
 
 Beset a prize so fair ! 
 That fangless Lion, too, their guide. 
 Might chance to lose his glistering hide ; 
 Brown Maudlin of that doublet pied 
 
 Could make a kirtle rare." 
 
 Next, Marmion marked the Celtic race, 
 Of different langviage, form, and face, 
 
 A various race of man ; 
 Just then the cliiefs their tribes arrayed, 
 And wild and garish semblance made 
 The checkered trews and belted plaid. 
 And varying notes tlie \var-pipes brayed 
 
 To every varying clan. 
 Wild through their red or sable Jiair 
 Looked out tlieir eyes with savage stare 
 
 On Marmion as he passed ; 
 Their legs above the knee were bare ; 
 Their frame was sinewy, short, and 
 spare. 
 
 And hardened to the blast ; 
 Of taller race, the chiefs they own 
 Were by the eagle's plumage known. 
 Tlie liunted red-deer"s undressed hide 
 Their liairy buskins well supplied ; 
 The graceful bonnet decked tlieir liead ; 
 Back from their shoulders hung the 
 
 plaid ; 
 A bi-oads\vord of unwieldj^ length, 
 A dagger proved for edge and strength, 
 
 A studded targe tliey wore. 
 And quivers, bows, and shafts, — but, 
 
 oh! 
 Short was tlie shaft and weak the bow 
 
 To that which England bore. 
 Tlie Isles-men carried at their backs 
 Tlie ancient Danish battle-axe. 
 They raised a wild and wondering cry, 
 As with his guide rode Marmion by. 
 Loud were their clamoring tongues, as 
 
 wlien 
 The clanging sea-fowl leave the fen 
 And. with their cries discordant mixed. 
 Grumbled and yelled the pipes betwixt. 
 
 Thus through the Scottish camp tliey 
 
 passed . 
 And reached the city gate at last, 
 Where all around, a wakeful guard. 
 Armed burghers kept their watch and 
 
 ward. 
 Well had tliey cause of jealous fear. 
 When lay encamped in field so near 
 The Borderer and the Mountaineer. 
 As through the bustling streets they go, 
 AH was alive with martial show ; 
 At every turn with dinning clang 
 
 The armorer's anvil clashed and rang, 
 Or toiled the swarthy smith to wheel 
 The bar that arms tlie charger's heel. 
 Or axe or falchion to the side 
 Of jarring grindstone was applied. 
 Page, groom, and squire, with hurrying 
 
 pace, 
 Througli street and lane and market- 
 place. 
 
 Bore lance or casque or sword ; 
 While burghers, witli important face, 
 
 Described each new-come lord. 
 Discussed his lineage, told his name. 
 His following, and his warlike fame. 
 The Lion led to lodging meet, 
 Which high o'erlooked the crowded 
 street : 
 
 There must the baron rest 
 Till past the hour of ve.sper tide. 
 And then to Hoh'-Rood must ride, — 
 
 Such was the king's behest. 
 Meanwhile the Lion's care assigns 
 A banquet rich and costly wines 
 
 To Marmion and his train ; 
 And when the ajipointed hour succeeds. 
 The baron dons his peaceful wee<ls. 
 And following Lindesay as he leads. 
 
 The palace halls they gain. 
 
 Old Holy-Rood rung merrily 
 
 That night with wassail, mirth, and 
 
 glee: 
 King James within lier princeh' bower 
 Feasted the chiefs of Scotland's power. 
 Summoned to spend the ])artiiig liour ; 
 For he had <-liarged that liis array 
 Should southward march by break of 
 
 day. 
 Well loved that splendid monarch aj^e 
 
 The banquet and tlie song. 
 By day the tourney, and by night 
 The merry dance, traced fast and liglit. 
 The maskers quaint, the pageant bright. 
 
 The revel k)ud and long. 
 This feast outshone his banquets past ; 
 It was his blithest — and his last. 
 The dazzling lamps from gallery gay 
 Cast on the court a dancing ray ; 
 Here to the harp did minstrels sing, 
 There ladies touched a softer string : 
 With long-eared cap and motley ve.st. 
 The licensed fool retailed .his jest ; 
 His magic tricks the juggler plied ; 
 At dice and draughts the gallants vied ; 
 While some, in close recess apart, 
 Courted the ladies of their heart, 
 
 Nor courted them in vain ; 
 For often in the parting liour 
 Victorious Love asserts his power 
 
140 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 O'er coldness and disdain ; 
 And flinty is her heart can view 
 To battle march a lover true — 
 Can hear, perchance, his last adieu, 
 
 Nor own her share of pain. 
 
 Through this mixed crowd of glee and 
 
 game 
 The king to great Lord Marmion came. 
 While, reverent, all made room. 
 An easy task it was, I trow, 
 King James's manly form to know, 
 Although, his courtesy to show. 
 He doff"ed to Marmion bending low 
 
 His broidered cap and plume. 
 For royal were his garb and mien : 
 
 His cloak of crimson velvet piled. 
 
 Trimmed with the fur of marten wild, 
 His vest of changeful satin sheen, 
 
 The dazzled e^ye beguiled ; 
 His gorgeous collar hung adown. 
 Wrought with the badge of Scotland's 
 
 crown. 
 The thistle brave of old renown ; 
 His trusty blade, Toledo right. 
 Descended from a baldric bright ; 
 White were his buskins, on the heel 
 His spurs inlaid of gold and steel ; 
 His bonnet, all of crimson fair. 
 Was buttoned with a ruby rare : 
 And Marmion deemed he ne'er had seen 
 A prince of such a noble mien. 
 
 The monarch's form was middle size. 
 For feat of strength or exercise 
 
 Shaped in jn-oportion fair ; 
 And hazel was his eagle eye. 
 And auburn of the darkest dye 
 His short curled beard and hair. 
 Light was his footstep in the dance, 
 
 And firm his stirrup in the lists ; 
 And, oh ! he liad that mei'ry glance 
 
 That seldom ladj^'s heart resists. 
 Liglitly from fair to fair he flew. 
 And loved to plead, lament and sue, — 
 Suit lightly won and short-lived pain. 
 For monarchs seldom sigh in vain. 
 
 I said he joyed in lianquet bower ; 
 But, mid his mirth, 't was often strange 
 How suddenly his cheer would change, 
 
 His look o'ercast and lower, 
 If in a sudden turn he felt 
 The pressure of his iron belt. 
 That bound his breast in penance pain, 
 In memory of his father slain. 
 Even so 't was strange how evermore. 
 Soon as the passing pang was o'er. 
 Forward he rushed with double glee 
 Into the sti'eam of revelry. 
 
 Thus dim-seen object of affright 
 Startles the cour.ser in his fliglit. 
 And half he halts, half springs aside. 
 But feels the quickening spur applied. 
 And, straining on the tightened rein. 
 Scours doubly swift o'er hill and plain. 
 
 O'er James's heart, the courtiers say, 
 Sir Hugh the Heron's wife held sway ; 
 
 To Scotland's court sliecame. 
 To be a hostage for her lord. 
 Who Cessford's gallant heart had gored. 
 And with the king to make accord 
 
 Had sent liis lovely dame. 
 Nor to that lady free alone 
 Did the gay king allegiance own ; 
 
 For the fair Queen of France 
 Sent him a turquoise ring and glove. 
 And charged him, as her knight and love, 
 
 For her to break a lance. 
 And strike three strokes with Scottish 
 
 brand. 
 And march three miles on Southron land 
 And bid the banners of his band 
 
 In English breezes dance. 
 And thus for France's queen he drest 
 His manly limbs in mailed vest, 
 And thus admitted English fair 
 His inmost councils still to share. 
 And thus for both he madly planned 
 The ruin of himself and land ! 
 
 And yet, the sooth to tell. 
 Nor England's fair nor France's queen 
 Were worth one pearl-drop, bright and 
 sheen. 
 
 From Margaret's eyes that fell, — 
 His own Queen Margaret, who in Litli- 
 
 gow's bower 
 All lonely sat and wept the weary hour. 
 
 The queen sits lone in Lithgow pile. 
 
 And weeps the weary day 
 The war against her native soil. 
 Her monarch's risk in battle broil, — 
 And in gay Holy-Rood the while 
 Dame Heron rises with a smile 
 
 Upon the harp to pla}^ 
 Fair was her rounded arm, as o'er 
 
 The sti'ings her fingers flew ; 
 And as she touched and tuned them all, 
 Ever her bosom's rise and fall 
 
 Was plainer given to view ; 
 For, all for heat, was laid aside 
 Her wimple, and her hood untied. 
 And first she pitched her voice to sing. 
 Then glanced her dark eye on the king, 
 And then around the silent ring, 
 And laughed, and blushed, and oft did 
 say 
 
SCOTT 
 
 141 
 
 Her pretty oath, by yea and nay. 
 
 She could not. would not, durst not play ! 
 
 At length, upon the liarp, with glee, 
 
 Mingled with arch simplicity, 
 
 A soft yet lively air she rung. 
 
 While thus the wily lady sung : — 
 
 LOCHINVAR 
 
 LADY heron's SONG 
 
 Oh ! young Lochinvar is come out of tlie 
 
 west, 
 Througli all the wide Border his steed 
 
 was the best ; 
 And save his good broadsword he 
 
 weapons had none. 
 He rode all unarmed and he rode all 
 
 alone. 
 So faithful in love and so dauntless in 
 
 war. 
 There never was knight like the young 
 
 Lochinvar. 
 
 He stayed not for brake and he stopped 
 not for stone. 
 
 He swam the Eske river where ford there 
 was none. 
 
 But ere he alighted at Netherby gate 
 
 The bride had consented, tlie gallant 
 came late : 
 
 For a laggard in love and a dastard in 
 war 
 
 Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Loch- 
 invar. 
 
 So boldly he entered tlie Netherby Hall, 
 Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and 
 
 brothers, and all : 
 Then spoke the bride's father, his hand 
 
 on his sword. — 
 For the poor craven bridegroom said 
 
 never a word, — 
 ' Oil ! come ye in peace here, or come ye 
 
 in war, 
 Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord 
 
 Locliinxar ■? ' — 
 
 ■ I long wooed your daughter, my suit 
 
 you denied ; 
 Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs 
 
 like its tide — • 
 And now am I come, with this lost love 
 
 of mine, 
 To lead but one measure, drink one cup 
 
 of wine. 
 There are maidens in Scotland more 
 
 lovely by far. 
 That would gladly be bride to the young 
 
 Lochinvar.' 
 
 The bride kissed the goblet ; tiie knight 
 
 took it up, 
 He quaffed oft' the wine, and he threw 
 
 down the cup. 
 She looked down to blush, and she looked 
 
 up to sigh. 
 With a smile on her lips and a tear in 
 
 her eye. 
 He took her soft hand ere her mother 
 
 could bar, — 
 ' Now tread we a measure ! ' said 3a>ung 
 
 Lochinvar. 
 
 So stately his form, and so lovely her 
 
 face, 
 That never a hall such a galliard did 
 
 grace ; 
 While her mother did fret, and her 
 
 father did fume. 
 And the bridegroom stood dangling his 
 
 bonnet and plume ; 
 And the bride-maidens whispered 
 
 ' 'Twere better by far 
 To have matched our fair cousin with 
 
 young Lochinvar.' 
 
 One touch to her hand and one word in 
 
 her ear. 
 When they reached the hall-door, and 
 
 the charger stood near ; 
 So light to the croupe the fair lady he 
 
 swung. 
 So light to the saddle before her he 
 
 sprung ! 
 "She is won ! we are gone, over bank. 
 
 bush, and scaur ; 
 Tliey'U have fleet stecnls that follow,' 
 
 quoth young Lochinvar. 
 
 There was mounting 'mong Graemes of 
 
 the Netherby clan ; 
 Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they 
 
 rode and they ran : 
 Thei-e was racing and chasing on Can- 
 
 nobie Lee, 
 But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did 
 
 they see. 
 So daring in love and so dauntless in 
 
 war. 
 Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young 
 
 Lochinvar ? 
 
 The monarch o'er the siren hung. 
 And beat the measure as she sung ; 
 And. pressing closer and more near, 
 He whispered praises in her ear. 
 In loud applause the courtiers vied. 
 And ladies winked and spoke aside. 
 The witching dame to Marmion 
 threw 
 
142 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 A glance, where seemed to reign 
 Tlie pride that claims apphiuses due, 
 And of her royal conquest too 
 A real or feigned disdain • 
 Familiar was the look, and told 
 Marmion and slie were friemls of old. 
 The king observed their meeting eyes 
 With something like displeased sur- 
 prise ; 
 For monarchs ill can rivals brook, 
 Even in a word, or smile, or look. 
 Straight took he forth the parchment 
 
 broad 
 Which Marmion's high commission 
 
 showed : 
 " Our Borders sacked by many a raid. 
 Our peaceful liege-men robbed," he said, 
 " On day of truce our warden slain. 
 Stout Barton killed, his vessels ta'en — 
 Unworthy were we here to reign, 
 Should these for vengeance cry in vain ; 
 Our full dehance, hate, and scoi-n, 
 Our herald has to Henry borne." 
 
 He paused, and led wliere Douglas stood 
 And with stern eye tlie pageant viewed ; 
 I mean that Douglas, sixth of yore, 
 Wlio coronet of Angus bore. 
 And, wlien his blood and heart were 
 
 higli. 
 Did the tliird James in camp defy. 
 And all liis minions led to die 
 
 On Lauder's drear}' fiat. 
 Princess and favorites long grew tame. 
 And trembled at tlie homelv name 
 
 Of Archibald Bell-the-Cat ; 
 The same who left the dusky vale 
 Of Hermitage in Liddisdale, 
 
 Its dungeons and its towers. 
 Where Bothwell's turrets brave the air, 
 And Bothwell bank is blooming fair, 
 
 To fix his princel}' bowers. 
 Though now in age he liad laid down 
 His armor for the peaceful gown, 
 
 And for a staflf I lis brand. 
 Yet often would flasli fortli the fire 
 That could in j'outh a monarcli's ire 
 
 And minion's pride withstand ; 
 And even that day at council board. 
 
 Unapt to soothe his sovereign's mood. 
 
 Against the war iia<l Angus stood, 
 And chafed his royal lord. 
 
 His giant-form, like ruined tower. 
 Though fallen its muscles' brawny vaunt. 
 Huge-boned, and tall, and grim, and 
 gaunt. 
 
 Seemed o'er the gaudy scene to lower ; 
 His locks and beard in silver grew, 
 His eyebrows kept tlieir sable hue. 
 
 Near Douglas when the monarch stood. 
 His bitter speech he thus pursued : 
 " Lord Marmion, since these letters say 
 That in the North you needs must stay' 
 
 While slightest hopes of peace remain. 
 Uncourteous speech it were and stern 
 To say — Return to Lindisfarne, 
 
 Until ni)^ herald come again. 
 Then rest you in Tantallon hold ; 
 Your host shall be the Douglas bold, — 
 A chief uidike his sires of old. 
 He wears their motto on his blade. 
 Their blazon o'er his towers displayed. 
 Yet loves his sovereign to oppose 
 More than to face his country's foes. 
 
 And, I bethink me, by Saint Stephen, 
 
 But e'en this morn to me was given 
 A prize, the first fruits of the war, 
 Ta'en by a galley from Dunbar, 
 
 A bevy of the maids of heaven. 
 Under your guard these holy maids 
 Shall safe return to cloister shades, 
 And, while they at Tantallon stay, 
 Requiem for Cochran's soul may say." 
 And with the slaughtered favorite's 
 
 name 
 Across the monarch's brow there came 
 A cloud of ire, remorse, and shame. 
 
 In answer nought could Angus speak. 
 His proud heart swelled well-nigh to 
 
 break ; 
 He turned aside, and down his cheek 
 
 A burning tear there stole. 
 His hand the monarch sudden took. 
 That sight his kind lieart could not 
 brook : 
 
 " Now, by the Bruce's soul, 
 Angus, my hasty speech forgive ! 
 For sure as doth his spirit live. 
 As he said of the Douglas old, 
 
 I well may say of you, — 
 That never king did .subject hold. 
 In speech more free, in war more bold, 
 
 ]\Iore tender and more true ; 
 Forgive me, Douglas, once again." — 
 And, while the king his hand did strain, 
 Tlie old man's tears fell down like rain. 
 To seize the moment Marmion tried, 
 And whispered to the king aside : 
 " Oh ! let such tears unwonted plead 
 For respite short from dubious deed ! 
 A child will weep a bramble's smart, 
 A maid to see her sparrow part, 
 A stripling for a woman's heart ; 
 But woe awaits a country when 
 Slie sees the tears of bearded men. 
 Then, oh ! what omen, dark and liigh, 
 When Douglas wets his manly eye ! " 
 
SCOTT 
 
 143 
 
 Displeased was James that stranger 
 
 viewed 
 And tampered with his changing mood. 
 " Laugh those that can, weep those that 
 
 may." 
 Thus did the fiery monarcli say, 
 " Southward I march by break of day ; 
 And if witliin Tantallon strong 
 The good Lord ]Marmion tarries long. 
 Percliance our meeting next may fall 
 At Tamworth in his castle-hall." — 
 The hauglity Marmion felt the taunt. 
 And answered grave the royal vaunt : 
 " Much honored were my humble liume. 
 If in its lialls King James should come ; 
 But Nottiygliani has archers good. 
 And Yorkshire men are stern of mood, 
 Northumbrian prickers wild and rude. 
 On Derby Hills llie patlis are steep. 
 In Ouse and Tyne the fords are deep ; 
 And many a banner will be torn. 
 And many a kniglit to earth be borne, 
 And many a sheaf of arrows spent. 
 Ere Scotland's king shall cross the Trent : 
 Yet pause, brave prince, while yet you 
 
 may ! "— 
 The monarcli lightly turned away. 
 And to his nobles loud did call. 
 " Lords, to the dance, — a hall ! a hall ! " 
 Himself liis cloak and sword flung by. 
 And led Dame Heron gallantly : 
 And minstrels, at the royal order. 
 Rung out • Blue Bonnets o'er the Border.' 
 
 Leave we these revels now to tell 
 Wliat to Saint Hilda's maids befell, 
 Whose galley, as they sailed again 
 To Wliitby, by a Scot was ta'en. 
 Now at Dun-Edin did they bide 
 Till James should of their fate decide. 
 
 And soon by his command 
 Were gently summoned to prepare 
 To journey under Marmion's care, 
 As escort lionored. safe, and fair. 
 
 Again to English land. 
 The abbess told, her chaplet o'er, 
 Nor knew wliich Saint she should 
 
 implore ; 
 For. when slie thought of Constance, sore 
 
 She feared Lord Marmion's mood. 
 And judge what Clara must have felt ! 
 The sword that hung in Marmion's belt 
 
 Had drunk De Wilton's blood. 
 Unwittingly King James had given, 
 
 As guard to Whitby's shades, 
 Tlie man most dreaded under heaven 
 
 By these defenceless maids ; 
 Yet wliat petition could avail. 
 Or who would listen to the tale 
 
 Of woman, prisoner, and nun, 
 Mid bustle of a war begun ? 
 Tliey deemed it hopeless to avoid 
 The convoy of their dangerous guide. 
 
 Their lodging, .so the king assigned, 
 To Marmion's as tlieir guardian, joined ; 
 And thus it fell that, passing nigli. 
 The Palmer caught the abbess' eye. 
 
 Who warned him by a scroll 
 She had a secret to reveal 
 That mucli concerned the Church's weal 
 
 And health of sinner's soul ; 
 And, with deep charge of secrecy, 
 
 She named a place to meet 
 Within an open balcony. 
 That hung from dizzy pitch and high 
 
 Above the stately street. 
 To which, as common to each home. 
 At night they might in secret come. 
 
 At night in secret there thej' came, 
 
 The Palmer and tlie holy dame. 
 
 The moon among the clouds rode high, 
 
 And all the city hum was by. 
 
 Upon the street, \\'here late before 
 
 Did din of war and warriors roar. 
 
 You miglit have heard a pebble fall, 
 A beetle lium, a cricket sing, 
 An owlet flap his boding wing 
 
 On Giles's steeple tall. 
 The antique buildings, climbing high. 
 Whose Gothic frontlets sought the sky, 
 
 Were here wrapt deep in sliade ; 
 There on their brows the moonbeam 
 
 broke 
 Through the faint wreaths of silvery 
 smoke, 
 
 And on the casements played. 
 And other light was none to see. 
 
 Save torches gliding far. 
 Before some chieftain of degree 
 Who left the royal revelry 
 
 Tobowne him for the war. — 
 A solemn .scene the abbess cliose, 
 A solemn hour, her secret to disclose. 
 
 " O holj' Palmer ! " she began, — 
 •'For sure lie must be .sainted man. 
 Whose blessed feet liavetrod the ground 
 Where the Redeemer's tomb is found, — 
 For his dear Churcli's sake, my tale 
 Attend, nor deem of light avail, 
 Though I must speak of worldly love, — 
 How vain to those wlio wed above ! — 
 De Wilton and Lord Marmion wooed 
 Clara de Clare, of Gloster's blood ; — 
 Idle it were of Whitby's dame 
 To say of that same blood I came ; — 
 
144 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 And once, when jealous rage was higli, 
 Lord Marmion said despiteously, 
 Wilton w;is traitor in his heart, 
 And had made league witli Martin 
 
 Swart 
 When he came here on Simnel's part. 
 And only cowardice did restrain 
 His rebel aid on Stokefield's plain, — 
 And down he threw his glove. The 
 
 thing 
 Was tried, as wont, before the king ; 
 Where frankly did De Wilton own 
 That Swart in Guelders he had known. 
 And that between them then there 
 
 went 
 Somfe scroll of courteous compliment. 
 For this he to his castle sent ; 
 But when his messenger returned. 
 Judge how De Wilton's fury burned ! 
 For in his packet there were laid 
 Letters that claimed disloyal aid 
 And proved King Henry's cause be- 
 trayed. 
 His fame, thus blighted, in the field 
 He strove to clear by spear and 
 
 shield ; — 
 To clear his fame in vain he strove. 
 For wondrous are His ways above ! 
 Perchance some form was unol)served. 
 Perchance in prayer or faith he 
 
 swerved. 
 Else how could guiltless champion quail, 
 Or how tlie blessed ordeal fail '? 
 
 " His squire, who now De Wilton saw 
 As recreant doomed to suffer law. 
 
 Repentant, owned in vain 
 That while he had the scrolls in care 
 A stranger maiden, passing fair. 
 Had drenched him with a beverage 
 rare ; 
 
 His words no faitli could gain. 
 With Clare alone he credence won, 
 Who, rather than wed Marmion, 
 Did to Saint Hilda's shrine repair, 
 To give our house her livings fair 
 And die a vestal votaress there. 
 The impulse from the earth was given. 
 But bent her to the patiis of heaven. 
 A pui'er heart, a lovelier maid. 
 Ne'er sheltered her in Whitby's shade, 
 No. not since Saxon Edelfled ; 
 Only one trace of earthly stain, 
 
 That for her lover's loss 
 She cherishes a sorrow vain. 
 
 And murmurs at the cross. — 
 And then her heritage : — it goes 
 
 Along the banks of Tame ; 
 Deep fields of grain the reaper mows, 
 
 In meadows rich the heifer lows. 
 The falconer and huntsuian knows 
 
 Its woodlands for the game. 
 Shame were it to Saint Hilda dear, 
 And I, her humble votaress here, 
 
 Sliould do a deadl}^ sin. 
 Her temple spoiled before mine e3'es, 
 If tliis false Marmion sucli a prize 
 
 By my consent should win ; 
 Yet liath our boisterous monarch sworn 
 Tliat Clare shall from our house be torn. 
 And grievous cause have I to fear 
 Such mandate doth Lord Marmion bear. 
 
 " Now, prisoner, helpless, and betrayed 
 To evil power, I claim tliine aid. 
 
 By every step that thou hast trod 
 To holy shrine and grotto dim. 
 By every martyr's tortured limb,. 
 By angel, saint, and serapliim, 
 
 And by the Church of God ! 
 For mark : when Wilton was betrayed, 
 And with his squire forged letters laid, 
 She wasj alas ! that sinful maid 
 
 By whom the deed was done, — 
 Oh ! shame and horror to be said ! 
 
 She was — a perjured nun ! 
 No clerk in all the land like her 
 Traced quaint and varj'ing character. 
 Percliance you may a marvel deem, 
 
 That Marmion 's paramour — 
 For sucii vile thing she was — should 
 scheme 
 
 Her lover's nuptial hour ; 
 But o'er him thus she hoped to gain. 
 As jH-ivy to his honor's stain, 
 
 Illimitable power. 
 For this slie secreth^ retained 
 
 Each proof that miglit the plot reveal, 
 
 Instructions with his hand and seal ; 
 And thus Saint Hilda deigned. 
 
 Through sinners' perfidy impure, 
 
 Her house's glory to secure 
 
 And Clare's immortal weal. 
 
 " 'T were long and needless liere to tell 
 How to my hand tl>ese papers fell ; 
 
 With me they must not stay. 
 Saint Hilda keep her abbess true ! 
 Who knows what outrage he might do 
 
 While journeying by the way ? — 
 
 blessed Saint, if e'er again 
 
 1 venturous leave thy calm domain. 
 To travel or by land or nuiin. 
 
 Deep penance may I pay ! — 
 Now, saintly Palmer, mark my prayer : 
 I give this packet to thy care, 
 For thee to stop they will not dare ; 
 
 And oh ! with cautious speed 
 
SCOTT 
 
 '45 
 
 To Wolsey's hand tlie papers bring, 
 That he may sliow them to tlie king : 
 
 And for thy well-earned meed. 
 Thou holy man. at Wiiitby's slirine 
 A weekly mass shall still be thine 
 
 While priest can sing and read.— 
 What ail'st thou ?— Speak ! "—For as he 
 
 took 
 The charge a strong emotion shook 
 
 His frame, and ere reph' 
 They Iieard a faint yet shrilly tone, 
 Like distant clarion feeblj^ blown, 
 
 Tliat on the breeze did die ; 
 And loud the abbess shrieked in fear, 
 ' ' Saint Withold. save us ! — Wliat is here ; 
 
 Look at yon City Cross ! 
 See on its Ijattled tower appear 
 Phantoms, that scutcheons seem to rear 
 
 And blazoned banners toss ! " — 
 
 Dun-Edin's Cross, a pillared stone, 
 
 Rose on a turret octagon ; — 
 
 But now is razed that monument, 
 
 Wlience royal edict rang. 
 .And voice of Scotland's law was sent 
 
 In glorious ti'umpet-clang. 
 Oh ! be his tomb as lead to lead 
 Upon its dull destroyers head ! — 
 A minstrel's malison is said. — 
 Then on its battlements tliey saw 
 A vision, passing Natiire's law. 
 
 Strange, wild, and dimly seen ; 
 Figures that seemed to rise and die, 
 Gibber and sign, advance and Hy. 
 Wliile nought confirmed coidd ear or eye 
 
 Discern of sound or mien. 
 Yet darkly did it seem as there 
 Herahls and pursuivants prepare, 
 With trumpet sound and blazon fair, 
 
 A summons to proclaim ; 
 But indistinct the pageant proud. 
 As fancy forms of midnight cloud 
 When flings the moon upon her shroud 
 
 A wavering tinge of flame : 
 It flits, expands, and shifts, till loud. 
 From midmost of the spectre crosvd. 
 
 This awful summons came : — 
 
 " Prince, prelate, potentate, and j:»eer. 
 Whose names I now sliall call. 
 
 Scottish or foreigner, give ear ! 
 
 Subjects of him who sent me liere. 
 
 At liis tribunal to appear 
 I summon one and all : 
 
 I cite you by each deadly sin 
 
 That e'er hath soiled your liearts within ; 
 
 I cite you by each brutal lust 
 
 Tliat e'er defiled your earthly dust, — 
 By wrath, by pride, by fear, 
 
 By each o'erniastering passion's tone. 
 By the dark grave and dying gi-oan ! 
 When forty days are passed and gone, 
 I cite you, at your monarch's throne 
 
 To answer and appear." — 
 Then thundered forth a roll of names : — 
 Tiie first was thine, unhappy James ! 
 
 Then all thy nobles came ; 
 Crawford. Glencairn, Montrose, Argyle, 
 Ross, Bothwell, Forbes, Lennox, Lyle, — 
 Why should I tell their separate style ? 
 
 Each chief of birth and fame. 
 Of Lowland. Highland. Border. Isle. 
 Foredoomed to Flodden's carnage i)ile, 
 
 Was cited there by name : 
 And Marmion, Lord of Fontenaye, 
 Of Lutterward. and Scrivelbaye ; 
 De Wilton, erst of Aberley, 
 The self-same thundering voice diel 
 say.— 
 
 But then another spoke : 
 ■' Th}' fatal summons I deny 
 And thine infernal lord defy, 
 Appealing me to Him on high, 
 
 Who burst the sinner's yoke." 
 At that dread accent, with a scream, 
 Parted the pageant like a dream, 
 
 Tlie summoner was gone. 
 Prone on her face the abbess fell. 
 And fast, and fast, her beads did tell ; 
 Her nuns came, startled by the yell. 
 
 And found her there alone. 
 Slie marked not, at the scene aghast. 
 What time or liow the Palmer passed. 
 
 Shift we the scene. — The camp doth 
 move ; 
 
 Dun-Edin's streets are empty now. 
 Save whfen. for weal of those they love. 
 
 To pray the prayer and vow the vow. 
 The tottering child, the anxious fair. 
 The gray -haired sire, with pious care. 
 To chapels and to shrines repair. — 
 Where is the Palmer now? and where 
 The abbess, Marmion, and Clare ? — 
 Bold Douglas ! to Tantallon fair 
 
 Tiiey journey in thy charge : 
 Lord Marmion rode on his right hand. 
 The Palmer still was with the band : 
 Angus, like Lindesay, did command 
 
 That none should roam at large. 
 But in that Palmer's altered mien 
 A wondrous change might now be seen ; 
 
 Freely he spoke of war. 
 Of marvels wrovight by single hand 
 AVhen lifted for a native land, 
 And still looked high, as if he planned 
 
 Some desperate deed afar. 
 His courser would he feed and stroke, 
 
146 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 And, tucking up ]iis sable frock, 
 Would first his mettle bold provoke, 
 
 Then soothe or quell his pride. 
 Old Hubert said that never one 
 He saw, except Lord Marniion, 
 
 A steed so fairly ride. 
 
 Some half-hour's march behind thei'e 
 came, 
 By Eustace governed fair 
 A troop escorting Hilda's dame, 
 With all her nuns and Clare. 
 No audience had Lord Marmion sought ; 
 Ever he feared to aggravate 
 Clara de Clare's suspicious hate ; 
 And safer 't was, he thought. 
 To wait till, from the nuns rejnoved, 
 The influence of kinsmen loved. 
 And suit by Henry's self approved, 
 Her slow consent had wrouglit. 
 His was no flickering flame, that dies 
 Unless when fanned by looks and sighs 
 And lighted oft at lady's eyes ; 
 He longed to stretch his wide command 
 O'er luckless Clara's amj^le land : 
 Besides, when Wilton with him vied, 
 Although the pang of liumbled piide 
 The place of jealousy supplied, 
 Yet conquest, by that meanness won 
 He almost loathed to think upon, 
 Led him, at times, to hate the cause 
 Which made him burst through honor's 
 
 laws. 
 If e'er he loved, 'twas her alone 
 Who died within that vault of stone. 
 
 And now, when close at hand they saw 
 North Berwick's town and lofty Law, 
 Fitz-Eustace bade them pause awhile 
 Before a venerable pile 
 
 Whose turrets viewed afar 
 The lofty Bass, the Lambie Isle, 
 
 The ocean's peace or war. 
 At tolling of a bell, forth came 
 The convent's venerable dame, 
 And prayed Saint Hilda's abbess rest 
 With her, a loved and honored guest, 
 Till Douglas should a bark prepare 
 To waft her back to Wliitb}^ fair. 
 Glad was the abbess, you may guess, 
 And thanked the Scottisli prioress ; 
 •And tedious were to tell, I ween. 
 The courteous speech that passed be- 
 tween. 
 
 O'erjojed the nuns their palfreys 
 leave ; 
 But when fair Clara did intend, 
 Like them, from horseback to descend, 
 
 Fitz-Eustace said : "I grieve. 
 
 Fair lady, grieve e'en from my heart, 
 Such gentle company to part ; — 
 
 Think not discoiirtesj% 
 But lords' commands must be obeyed, 
 And Marmion and tlie Douglas said 
 
 That j'ou must wend with me. 
 Lord Marmion hatli a letter broad. 
 Which to tlie Scottish earl he showed, 
 Commanding that beneath his care 
 Witliout delay you sliall repair 
 To your good kinsman. Lord Fitz-Clare." 
 
 Tlie startled abbess loud exclaimed ; 
 But slie at whom the blow was aimed 
 Grew pale as death and cold as lead, — 
 Slie deemed she heard her death-doom 
 
 read. 
 ' ' Cheer thee, my cliild ! " the abbess said , 
 " Tliey dare not tear thee from mj' h;iiid. 
 To ride alone witli armed band.'" — 
 
 " Nay, holy mother, nay," 
 Fitz Eustace said, " the lovely Clare 
 Will be in Lady Angus' care, 
 
 In Scotland while we stay ; 
 And when we move an easy ride 
 Will bring us to the English side. 
 Female attendance to provide 
 
 Befitting Gloster's heir ; 
 Nor thinks nor dreams my noble lord, 
 By slightest look, or act, or word. 
 
 To harass Lady Clare. 
 Her faithful guardian he will be, 
 Nor sue for slightest courtesy 
 
 Tliat e'en to stranger falls. 
 Till lie shall place her safe and fi-ee 
 
 Within her kinsman's lialls." 
 He spoke, and blushed with earnest 
 
 grace ; 
 His faith was painted on his face, 
 
 And Clare "s worst fear relieved. 
 The Lady Abbess loud exclaimed 
 On Henry, and the Douglas blamed. 
 
 Entreated, tlireatened. grieved. 
 To martyr, saint, and prophet prayetl. 
 Against Lord Marniion inveighed. 
 And called the prioress to aid, 
 To curse with candle, bell, and boolc. 
 Her head the grave Cistertian shook : 
 " The Douglas and the king," she said, 
 " In their commands will be obeyed ; 
 Grieve not, nor dream that harm can 
 
 fall 
 The maiden in Tantallon Hall."' 
 
 The abbess, seeing strife was vain. 
 Assumed her wonted state again, — 
 
 For much of state she had. — 
 Composed her veil, and raised lier head. 
 And " Bid," in solemn voice she said. 
 
SCOTT 
 
 147 
 
 '♦ Thy master, bold and bad. 
 The records of liis house turn o'er, 
 And, when lie shall there written see 
 That one of his own ancestry 
 Drove the monks forth of Coven tr}-, 
 Bid him his fate exploie ! 
 
 Prancing in pride of earthly trust, 
 His cliarger hurled liim to the dust. 
 And, by a base plebeian thrust, 
 He died his band before. 
 
 God judge 'twixt Marmion and me : 
 He is a chief of high degree, 
 And I a poor recluse, 
 
 Yet oft in holy writ we see 
 Even such weak minister as me 
 May the oppressor bruise ; 
 
 For thus, inspired, did Judith slay 
 
 The niiglity in his sin, 
 And Jael thus, and Deborah " — 
 Here hasty Blount broke in : 
 " Fitz-Eustace, we must marcli our band ; 
 Saint Anton fire thee ! wilt tliou stand 
 All day, with bonnet in thy hand. 
 
 To hear tlie lady preacii V 
 By this good light ! if thus we stay, 
 Lord Marmion for our fond delay 
 
 Will sharper sermon teach. 
 Come, don thy cap and mount thy horse : 
 The dame must patience take perforce." 
 
 "Submit we then to force," said Clare, 
 " But let this barbarous lord des^wiir 
 
 His purposed aim to win ; 
 Let him take living, land, and life, 
 But to be Marmion's wedded wife 
 In me were deadly sin : 
 And if it be the king's decree 
 That I must find no sanctuary 
 In that inviolable dome 
 Where even a homicide might come 
 
 And safely rest his head. 
 Though at its open portals stood, 
 Thirsting to pour forth blood for blood, 
 
 The kinsmen of the dead, 
 Yet one asylum is my own 
 
 Against the dreaded hour, — 
 A low, a silent, and a lone. 
 
 Where kings have little power. 
 One victim is before me there. — 
 Mother, your blessing, and in prayer 
 Remember your unhappy Clare ! " 
 Loud weeps the abbess, and bestows 
 
 Kind blessings many a one ; 
 Weeping and wailing loiid arose. 
 Round patient Clare, the clamorous woes 
 
 Of every simple nun. 
 His ej^es the gentle Eustace dried, 
 And scarce rude Blount the sight could 
 bide. 
 
 Then took the squire her rein, 
 And gently led away her steed, 
 And by each courteous word and deed 
 
 To cheer her strove in vain. 
 
 But scant three miles the band had rode. 
 
 When o'er a height they passed, 
 And, sudden, close before them showed 
 
 His towers Tantallon vast, 
 Broad, massive, high, and stretching far, 
 And held impregnable in war. 
 On a projecting rock they rose. 
 And round three sides the ocean flows. 
 The fourth did battled walls enclose 
 
 And double mound and fosse. 
 F>y narrow drawbridge, outworks strong. 
 Til rough studded gates, an entrance 
 long. 
 
 To the main court they cross. 
 It was a wide and stately square ; 
 Around were lodgings fit and fair, 
 
 And towers of various form, 
 Wliich on the court projected far 
 And broke its lines quadrangular. 
 Here was square keep, there turret higli, 
 Or pinnacle that sought the sky. 
 AVlience oft the warder could descry 
 
 The gathering ocean-storm. 
 
 Here did they rest. — The princely care 
 Of Douglas why should I declare, 
 Or say they met reception fair '? 
 
 Or why the tidings say. 
 Which varying to Tantallon came, 
 By hurrying posts or fleeter fame. 
 
 With ever}^ varying dfiy ? 
 And, first, they heard King James had 
 won 
 
 Etall, and Wark, and Ford ; and then. 
 
 That Norham Castle strong was ta'en. 
 At that sore marvelled Marmion, 
 And Douglas hoped his monarch's hand 
 Would soon subdue Northumberland ; 
 
 But whispered news there came. 
 That while his host inactive lay. 
 And melted by degrees away. 
 King James was dallying off the day 
 
 With Heron's wily dame. 
 Such acts to chronicles I yield ; 
 
 Go seek them there and see : 
 Mine'is a tale of Flodden Field, 
 
 And not a history. — 
 At length they heard the Scottish host 
 On that higli ridge had made their post 
 
 Which frowns o'er Millfield Plain ; 
 And that brave Surrey many a band 
 Had gathered in tiie Sontliern land. 
 And marched into Nortliumberlaud, 
 
 And camp at Wooler ta'en. 
 
148 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Marmion, like chai-gei- in the stall. 
 That hears, without, the trumpet-call, 
 
 Began to chafe and swear : — 
 " A sorry thing to hide my head 
 In castle, like a fearful maid, 
 
 When such a field is near. 
 Needs must I see this battle-day ; 
 Death to my fame if such a fray 
 Were fouglit, and Marmion awny ! 
 
 The Douglas, too, I wot not why, 
 
 Hath bated of liis courtesy ; 
 No longer in his halls I'll stay : " 
 Tlien bade his band they should array 
 For march against the dawning day. 
 
 CANTO SIXTH 
 
 THE BATTLE 
 
 While great events were on the gale. 
 And each hour brought a varying tale. 
 And the demeanor, changed and cold, 
 Of Douglas fretted Marmion bold, 
 And, like the impatient steed of war, 
 He snuffed the battle from afar, 
 And hopes were none that back again 
 Herald should come from Terouenne, 
 Where England's king in leaguer lay. 
 Before decisive battle-day. — 
 While these tilings were, the mournful 
 
 Clare 
 Did in the dame's devotions share ; 
 For the good countess ceaseless prayed 
 To Heaven and saints her sons to aid. 
 And with short iiiterval did pass 
 From prayer to book, from book to mass. 
 And all in liigli baronial pride, — 
 A life both dull and dignified : 
 Yet. as Lord Marmion nothing pressed 
 Upon her intervals of rest. 
 Dejected Clara well could bear 
 The formal state, the lengthened prayer, 
 Tliough dearest to her wounded heart 
 The hours tliat siie might spend apart. 
 
 I said Tantallon's dizzy steep 
 Hung o'er the margin of the deep. 
 Many a rude tower and rampart tliere 
 Repelled tlie insult of the air. 
 Wliich. when the tempest vexed the sky, 
 Half breeze, half spray, came whistling 
 
 by. 
 Above the rest a turret square 
 Did o'er its Gothic entrance bear. 
 Of sculpture rude, a stony sliield ; 
 The Blood}' Heart was in the field. 
 And in the cliief three mullets stood, 
 Tlie cognizance of Douglas blood. 
 Tlie turret lield a narrow stair. 
 Which, mounted, gave you access where 
 
 A parapet's embattled row 
 
 Did seaward round tlie castle go. 
 
 Sometimes in dizzy steps descending, 
 
 Sometimes in narrow circuit bending. 
 
 Sometimes in platform broad extending. 
 
 Its varying circle did combine 
 
 Bulwark, and bartizan, and line. 
 
 And bastion, tower, and vantage-coign. 
 
 Above the booming ocean leant 
 
 The far-projecting battlement ; 
 
 The billows burst in ceaseless flow 
 
 UlK)ii the precipice below. 
 
 Where'er Tantallon faced the land. 
 
 Gate-works and walls were strongly 
 
 manned ; 
 No need upon the sea-girt side : 
 The steepy lock and frantic tide 
 Ap))roach of human step denied. 
 And thus these lines and ramparts rude 
 Were left in deepest solitude. 
 
 And, for they were so lonely, Clare 
 Would to these battlements repair, 
 And muse upon her sorrows there, 
 
 And list the sea-bird's cry, 
 Or slow, like noontide ghost, would 
 
 glide 
 Along the dark-gray bulwarks' side. 
 And ever on the heaving tide 
 
 Look down with weary eye. 
 Oft did the cliff and swelling main 
 Recall tlie thoughts of Whitley's fane, — 
 A home slie ne'er might see again ; 
 
 For she liad laid adown. 
 So Douglas bade, the hood and veil, 
 jVnd frontlet of the cloister pale. 
 
 And Benedictine gown : 
 It were unseemly sight, he said, 
 A novice out of convent shade. — 
 Now her bright locks with sunny glow 
 Again adorned her brow of snow ; 
 Her mantle rich, whose borders round 
 A deep and fretted broidery bound. 
 In golden foldings souglit the ground ; 
 Of holy ornament, alone 
 Remained a cross with ruby stone ; 
 
 And often did she look 
 On th.at which in her hand she bore, 
 AVith velvet bound and broidered o'er, 
 
 Her breviary book. 
 In such a place, so lone, so grim, 
 At dawning pale or twilight dim, 
 
 It fearful would have been 
 To meet a form so richly dressed. 
 With book in hand, and cross on breast, 
 
 And such a woful mien. 
 Fitz-Eustace, loitering with his bow, 
 To practise on tlie gull and crow, 
 Saw her at distance gliding slow, 
 
SCOTT 
 
 149 
 
 And did by Mary swear 
 Some lovelorn fay she miglit liave been, 
 Or in romance some spell-bound queen, 
 For ne'er in work-day world was seen 
 
 A form so witching fair. 
 
 Once walking thus at evening tide 
 It clianced a gliding sail slie spied, 
 And sighing thouglit — ■" The abbess there 
 Perchance does to her home repair ; 
 Her peaceful rule, wliere Duty free 
 Walks hand in liand with Charity. 
 Where oft Devotion's tranced glow 
 Can such a glimpse of heaven bestow 
 Tliat the enraptured sisters see 
 Higli vision and deep mystery, — 
 The very form of Hilda fair. 
 Hovering upon the sunny air. 
 And smiling on her votaries' prayer. 
 Oil ! wherefore to my duller eye 
 Did still tlie Saint her form deny ? 
 Was it that, seared by sinfid scorn. 
 My heart could neither melt nor burn? 
 Or lie my warm affections low 
 With him that taught them first to 
 
 glow ? 
 Yet, gentle abbess, well I knew 
 To pay thy kindness grateful due. 
 And well could brook the mild com- 
 mand 
 That ruled thy simple maiden band. 
 How different now, condemned to biile 
 My doom from this dark tyrant's pride ! — 
 But Marmion has to learn ere long- 
 That constant mind and liate of wrong 
 Descended to a feeble girl 
 From Red de Clare, stout Gloster's Earl ; 
 Of sucli a stem a sapling weak. 
 He ne'er shall bend, although he break. 
 
 " But see ! — wliat makes tliis armor 
 
 here ? " — 
 For in lier path tliere lay 
 Targe, corselet, helm ; she viewed them 
 
 near. — 
 " The breastplate pierced ! — A3% much I 
 
 fear, 
 Weak fence wert thou 'gainst foeman's 
 
 spear 
 That hath made fatal entrance here, 
 
 A.S these dark blood-gouts say. — 
 Tlius Wilton! Oh! not corslet's ward, 
 Not truth, as diamond pure and liard. 
 Could be tliy manly bosom's guard 
 
 On j'on disastrous day ! " — 
 Slie raised her eyes in mournful mood, — 
 Wilton liimself before her stood ! 
 It might have seemed Ins passing ghost. 
 For every youthful grace was lost, 
 
 And joy unwonted and surprise 
 
 Gave tlieir strange wildness to his 
 
 eyes.— 
 Expect not, noble dames and lords, 
 That I can tell such scene in words : 
 Wiiat skillful limner e'er would choose 
 To paint the rainbow's varying hues, 
 Unless to mortal it were given 
 To dip his brush in dyes of heaven ? 
 Far less can my weak line declare 
 
 Each changing passion's shade : 
 Brightening to rapture from despair, 
 Sorrow, surprise, and ])ity tliere, 
 And joy with her angelic air. 
 And hope that paints the future fair 
 
 Their varying hues displayed ; 
 Each o'er its rival's ground extending. 
 Alternate conquering, shifting, blend- 
 ing, 
 Till all fatigued the conflict yield, 
 And mighty love retains the field. 
 Shoi'tly I tell what then lie said, 
 By many a tender word delayed, 
 And modest blush, and bursting sigh, 
 And question kind, and fond reply ; — 
 
 DE WILTON'S HISTORY 
 
 •' Forget we that disastrous day 
 When senseless in the lists I lay. 
 
 Thence dragged, — but how I cannot 
 
 k'UOW 
 
 For sense and recollection fled, — 
 
 I found me on a jiallet low 
 
 Within my ancient beadsman's shed. 
 
 Austin, — remember'st thou, my Clare, 
 How thou didst blush wlien the old man, 
 
 When first our infant love began, 
 
 Said we would make a matchless 
 pair ■? — 
 ]\Ienials and friends and kinsmen fled 
 l^'rom the degraded traitor's bed — 
 Heotdy held my liurning head, 
 And tended me for many a day 
 While wounds and fever held their sway. 
 But far more needful was his care 
 When sense returned to wake despair 
 
 For I did tear the closing wound, 
 
 And dash me frantic on tlie ground, 
 If e'er I heard the name of Clare. 
 At length, to calmer reason brought. 
 Much by his kind attendance wrouglit, 
 
 With him I left my native strand, 
 And, in a palmer's weeds arrayed 
 My hated nauie and form to shade, 
 
 I journeyed many a land. 
 No more a lord of rank and birth. 
 But mingled with the tliegs of earth. 
 
 Oft Austin for my reason feared, 
 
ISO 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 When I would sit, and deeply brood 
 On dark revenge and deeds of blood, 
 
 Or wild mad sclienies upreared. 
 My friend at length fell sick, and said 
 
 God would remove him soon ; 
 And while upon his dying bed 
 
 He begged of me a boon — 
 If e'er my deadliest enemy 
 Beneath my brand should conquered lie, 
 Even then my merc)^ should awake 
 And spare his life for Austin's sake. 
 
 " Still restless as a second Cain, 
 
 To Scotland next my route was ta'en, 
 
 Full well tlie patlis I knew. 
 Fame of my fate made various sound, 
 That deatli in pilgrimage I found, 
 That I had perished of m}^ wound. — 
 
 None cared which tale was true ; 
 And living eye could never guess 
 De Wilton in his palmer's dress, 
 For now that sable slough is shed, 
 And trimmed my shaggy beard and 
 
 head , 
 I scarcely know me in the glass. 
 A chance most wondrous did provide 
 That I should be that barons guide — 
 
 I will not name his name ! — 
 Vengeance to God alone belongs ; 
 But, when I think on all my wrongs, 
 
 My blood is liquid flame ! 
 And ne'er the time shall I forget 
 When, in a Scottish hostel set, 
 
 Dark looks we did excliange : 
 What were his thoughts I cannot tell, 
 But in my bosom mustered Hell 
 
 Its plans of dark revenge. 
 
 " A word of vulgar augury 
 That broke from me, I .scarce knew 
 why, 
 
 Brought on a village tale. 
 Which wrought upon his moody sprite, 
 Antl sent liim armed fortli by night. 
 
 I borrowed steel and mail 
 And weapons from liis sleeping band ; 
 
 And, passing from a postern door, 
 We met and countered, hand to hand, — 
 
 He fell on Gifford-moor. 
 For the death-stroke my brand I drew, — 
 Oh ! then my hehned head lie knew, 
 
 The palmer's cowl was gone. — 
 Then had tluee inches of my blaile 
 The heavy debt of vengeance paid, — 
 My hand the thovight of Austin stayed ; 
 
 I left liim there alone, — 
 O good old man ! even from the grave 
 Thy spirit could thy master save : 
 If i had slain my foeman, ne'er 
 
 Had Whitby's abbess in her fear 
 Given to my hand this packet dear, 
 Of power to clear my injured fame 
 And vindicate De Wilton's name. — 
 Perchance you heard tlie abbess tell 
 Of the strange pageantry of liell 
 
 That broke our secret speecli — 
 It rose from the infernal shade. 
 Or featly was some juggle played, 
 
 A tale of peace to teach. 
 Appeal to Heaven I judged was best 
 Wlien my name came aniong the rest. 
 
 '• Now here witliin Tantallon hold 
 
 To Douglas late my tale I told. 
 
 To whom my house was known of old. 
 
 Won by my proofs, his falcliion bright 
 
 Tliis eve anew shall d»il> me knight. 
 
 Tliese were the arms that once did turn 
 
 The tide of tight on Otterburne, 
 
 And Harry Hotspur forced to yield 
 
 When the Dead Douglas won tlie field. 
 
 These Angus gave — his armorers care 
 
 Ere morn shall every breach repair ; 
 
 For nought, lie said, was in his halls. 
 
 But ancient armor on the walls. 
 
 And aged chargers in the stalls, 
 
 And women, priests, and gray-haired 
 
 men ; 
 The rest were all in Twisel glen. 
 And now I watch my armor here. 
 By law of arms, till midnight's near ; 
 Then, once again a belted knight, 
 Seek Surrey's camp with dawn of liglit. 
 
 " There soon again we meet, my Clare ! 
 This baron means to guide thee there : 
 Douglas reveres his king's command. 
 Else would he take thee from his band. 
 And there thy kinsman Surrey, too. 
 Will give De Wilton justice due. 
 Now meeter far for martial broil. 
 Firmer my liml)s and strung by toil. 
 Once more'' — " O Wilton ! must we then 
 Risk new-found liappiness again. 
 
 Trust fate of arms once more ? 
 And is tliere not an humble glen 
 
 Where we, content and poor. 
 Might build a cottage in the shade, 
 A shepherd thou, and I to aid 
 
 Thy task on dale and moor ? — 
 That redilening brow ! — too well I know 
 Not even thy Clare can peace bestow 
 
 While falsehood stains thy name : 
 Go then to figlit ! Clare bids thee go ! 
 Clare can a warrior's feelings know 
 
 And weep a warrior's shame. 
 Can Red Earl Gill^ert's spirit feel. 
 Buckle the spurs upon thy heel 
 
SCOTT 
 
 151 
 
 And belt thee with thy brand of steel, 
 And send thee forth to fame ! " 
 
 That night upon the rocks and baj^ 
 The midnight moonbeam slumbering 
 
 lay, 
 And poured its silver light and pure 
 Through loophole and through embra- 
 sure 
 
 Upon Tantallon tower and hall : 
 But chief where arciied windows wide 
 Illuminate the chapeTs pride 
 
 The sober glances fall. 
 Much was there need ; though seamed 
 
 vvnth scars. 
 Two veterans of the Douglas' wars, 
 
 Though two gray priests were tliere, 
 And each a blazing torch held high. 
 You could not by their blaze descry 
 
 The chapel's carving fair. 
 Amid tliat dim and smok}' liglit. 
 Checkering the silvery moonshine bright, 
 
 A bishop by the altar stood, 
 
 A noble lord of Douglas blood. 
 With mitre slieen and rocliet white. 
 Yet showed Ids meek and thoughtful eye 
 But little pride of prelacy ; 
 More pleased that in a barbarous age 
 He gave rude Scotland Virgil's page 
 Than that beneath his rule he held 
 The bishopric of fair Dunkeld. 
 Beside him ancient Angus stood. 
 Doffed his furred gown and sable hood ; 
 O'er his huge form and visage pale 
 He wore a cap and shirt of mail. 
 And leaned iiis large and wrinkled hand 
 Upon the inige and sweejiing brand 
 Which wont of j'ore in battle fray 
 His foeman's limbs to shred away. 
 As wood-knife lops the sai)ling spray. 
 
 He seemed as, from the tomks around 
 Rising at judgment-day. 
 
 Some giant Douglas may be found 
 In all his old array ; 
 So pale his face, so huge his limb, 
 So old his arms, his look so grim. 
 
 Then at the altar Wilton kneels. 
 And Clare the spurs bound on his heels : 
 And tliink what next he must have felt 
 At buckling of the falchion belt ! 
 
 And judge how Clara changed her hue 
 While fastening to her lover's side 
 A friend, which, thougli in danger tried, 
 
 He once had found luitrue ! 
 Then Douglas struck Itim with his blade : 
 "Saint Michael and Saint Andrew aid, 
 
 I dub thee knight. 
 Arise, Sir Ralph, De Wilton's heir ! 
 
 For king, for church, for lady fair, 
 
 See that thou fight." 
 And Bishop Gawain, as he rose. 
 Said : " Wilton ! grieve not for thy woes, 
 
 Disgrace, and trouble ; 
 For He who honor best bestows 
 
 May give thee double." 
 De Wilton sobbed, for sob he must : 
 " Where'er I meet a Douglas, trust 
 
 That Douglas is my brother ! " 
 " Nay, nay," old Angus said, " not so ; 
 To Surrey's camp thou now must go. 
 
 Thy wrongs no longer smother. 
 I have two sons in yonder field ; 
 And, if thou meet'st them under shield, 
 Upon tlie?« bravelj' — do thy worst, 
 And foul fall him that blenches first ! " 
 
 Not far advanced was morning day 
 When Marmion did his troop array 
 
 To Surrey's camp to ride : 
 He had safe-conduct for his band 
 Beneath the royal seal and hand, 
 
 And Douglas gave a guide. 
 The ancient earl with stately grace 
 Would Clara on her palfrey place. 
 And whispered in an undertone, 
 " Let the hawk stoop, his prey is flown." 
 The train from ovit the castle drew. 
 But Marmion stopped to bid adieu : 
 
 " Though something I might plain," he 
 said, 
 " Of cold respect to stranger guest, 
 Sent hither by your king's behest. 
 
 While in Tantallon's towers I .stayed. 
 Part we in friendship from your land. 
 And, noble earl, receive my hand." — 
 But Douglas round him drew his cloak. 
 Folded his arms, and thus lie spoke : — 
 " My manors, halls, and bowers shall still 
 Be open at my sovereign's will 
 To each one whom he lists, howe'er 
 Unmeet to be tiie owner's peer. 
 My castles are my king's alone. 
 From turret to foundation-stone — 
 Tlie hand of Douglas is his own, 
 And never shall in friendly grasp 
 The hand of such as Marmion clasp." 
 
 Burned Marmion's swarthy cheek like 
 
 fire 
 And shook his verj- frame for ire. 
 And — " This to me ! " he said, 
 " An 't were not for thy hoary beard. 
 Such hand as Marmion's had not spai'ed 
 
 To cleave the Douglas' head ! 
 And first I tell thee, haughty peer. 
 He who does England's message liere. 
 Although the meanest in her state, 
 
152 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 May well, proud Angus, be thy mate ; 
 And. Douglas, more I tell tliee here, 
 
 Even in thy pitch of pride. 
 Here in thy hold, thy vassals near. — 
 Nay. never look upon your lord, 
 And laj^ your hands upon vour sword, — 
 
 I tell thee, thou "rt defied ! 
 And if thou saidst I am not peer 
 To any lord in Scotland here, 
 Lowdand or Highland, far or near, 
 
 Lord Angus, thou hast lied I " 
 On the earl's cheek the flush of rage 
 O'ercame the ashen line of age : 
 Fierce he broke forth. — *' And darest thou 
 
 then 
 To beard the lion in his den , 
 
 The Douglas in his hall ? 
 And hopest thou hence unscathed to 
 
 go ?— 
 No, by Saint Bride of Both well, no ! 
 Up drawbridge, grooms — what, warder, 
 ho! 
 
 Let the portcullis fall, — " 
 Lord Marmion turned. — well was his 
 
 need. — 
 And dashed the rowels in his steed. 
 Like arrows tlirough the archway sprung 
 The ponderous grate behind him rung ; 
 To pass there w^as such scanty room, 
 The bars descending razed his illume. 
 
 The steed along the drawbridge flies 
 Just as it trembled on tlie rise ; 
 Not lighter does the swallow skim 
 Along the smooth lake's level brim : 
 And wdien Lord Marmion reached his 
 
 band, 
 He halts, and turns with clenched hand, 
 And shout of loud defiance pours. 
 And shook his gauntlet at the towers. 
 ' ' Horse ! horse ! " the Douglas cried , • ' an d 
 
 chase ! " 
 But soon he reined his fury's pace : 
 " A royal messenger lie came. 
 Tliuugli most unworthy of the name. — 
 A letter forged ! Saint Jude to sneeil ! 
 Did ever knight so foul a deed ? i 
 
 1 Lest the reader should partake of the Earl's 
 astonishment and consider the crime as incon- 
 sistent with the manners of the period, I have to 
 remind him of the numerous forgeries (partly 
 executed by a female assistant ) devised by 
 Kobert of Artois, to forward his suit against the 
 Countess Matilda ; which, being detected, occa- 
 sioned his flight into England, and proved the 
 remote cause of Edward the Third's memorable 
 wars in France. John Harding, also, was ex- 
 pressly hired by Edward IV. to foitre such docu- 
 ments as might appear to estabhsli the claim of 
 foiilty asserted over Scotland by the English 
 mouarchs. {Scott's note.) 
 
 At first in heart it liked me ill 
 When the king praised his clerkly skill. 
 Tlianks to Saint Bothan. son of mine, 
 Save Gawain, ne'er could pen a, line ; 
 So swore I, and I swear it still, 
 Let my boy-bishop fret his fill. — 
 Saint Mary mend my fiery mood I 
 Old age ne'er cools the Douglas blood, 
 I thought to slay him where he stood. 
 'T is pity of him too," he cried : 
 • Bold can he speak and fairly ride, 
 I warrant him a warrior tried." 
 With this his mandate he recalls, 
 And slowly seeks his castle halls. 
 
 Tiie day in Marmion's journey w^ore ; 
 Yet, ere his passion's gust was o'er. 
 Tliey crossed the heights of Stanrig-moor, 
 His troop more closely there he scanned, 
 And missed the Palmer from the band. 
 " Palmer or not." young Blount did say, 
 " He parted at the peep of day ; 
 Good sooth, it was in strange array." 
 "In what array?" said Marmion quick. 
 " My lord, I ill can spell the trick ; 
 Btit all night long wdth clink and bang . 
 Close to my couch did hammers clang ; 
 At dawn the falling drawbridge rang, 
 And from a loophole while I peep. 
 Old Bell-the-Cat came from the keep. 
 Wrapped in a gown of saljles fair. 
 As fearfid of the morning air : 
 Beneath, wdien that was blown aside, 
 A rusty shirt of mail I spied, 
 B}' Archibald won in bloody work 
 Against the Saracen and Turk ; 
 Last night it hung not in the liall ; 
 I thought some marvel would l)efall. 
 And next I saw them saddled lead 
 Old Cheviot forth, the earl's best st(>ed, 
 A. matchless liorse, tlioughsomethiiigold. 
 Prompt in his paces, cool and bold. 
 I lieard tiie Sherifl: Sholto say 
 Tlie earl did much the Master pray 
 To use him on the battle-day. 
 But he preferred" — " Nay, Henr3\ cease ! 
 Thou sworn horse-courser, hold thy 
 
 peace. — 
 Eustace, thou bear'st a brain — I pray, 
 What did Blount see at break of day ? " — 
 
 •' In brief, my lord, we both descried — 
 For then I stood by Henry's side — 
 The Palmer mount and outwards ride 
 
 Upon the earl's own favourite steed. 
 All sheathed he was in armour bright, 
 And much resembled that same knight 
 Subdued by you in ("otswold figlit ; 
 
 Lord Angus wished him speed." — 
 
SCOTT 
 
 153 
 
 Tlie instant that Fitz-Eustace spoke, 
 A sudden light on Marmion broke : — 
 '• Ah ! dastard fool, to reason lost ! " 
 He muttered ; •' "T was nor fay nor ghost 
 I met upon the moonlight wold, 
 But living man of earthly mould. 
 
 O dotage blind and gross ! 
 Had I but fought as wont, one thrust 
 Had laid De Wilton in the dust, 
 
 My patli no more to cross. — 
 How stand we now ?^he told his tale 
 To Douglas, and witli some avail : 
 
 'T was therefore gloomed his rugged 
 brow. — 
 Will Surrey dare to entertain 
 "Gainst Marmion charge disproved and 
 vain ? 
 
 Small risk of that, I trow. 
 Yet Clare's sharp questions must I sluai. 
 Must separate Constance from the nun — 
 Oh ! what a tangled web we weave 
 When first we practise to deceive ! 
 A Palmer too ! — no wonder wliy 
 I felt rebuked beneath his ej'e ; 
 I naight have known there was but one 
 Whose look could quell Lord Marmion." 
 
 Stung with these thoughts, he urged to 
 
 speed 
 His troop, and reached at eve the Tweed, 
 Where Lennel's convent closed tlieir 
 
 marcli. 
 Tiiere now is left but one frail arch, 
 
 Yet mourn thou not its cells ; 
 Our time a fair exchange has made : 
 Hard by, in hospitable shade 
 
 A reverend pilgrim dwells. 
 Well worth the whole Bernardine brood 
 That e'er wore sandal, frock, or Iiood. 
 Yet did Saint Bernard's abbot there 
 Give Marmion entertainment fair, 
 And lodging for his train and Clare. 
 Next morn the baron climbed the tower. 
 To view afar the Scottish power, 
 
 Encamped on Elodden edge : 
 Tlic wliite pavilions made a sliow 
 Like remnants of the winter snow 
 
 Along the dusky ridge. 
 Long Marmion looked : — at length his 
 
 eye 
 Unusual movement might descry 
 
 Amid the shifting lines ; 
 The Scottish host di'awn out appears, 
 For, flashing on the hedge of spears, 
 
 Tlie eastern sunbeam shines. 
 Their fi-ont now deepening, now extend- 
 ing. 
 Their flank inclining, wheeling, bend- 
 ing, 
 
 Now drawing back, and now descend- 
 ing. 
 The skilful Marmion well could know 
 The}" watched the motions of some foe 
 Who traversed on the plain below. 
 
 Even so it was. From Flodden ridge 
 The Scots beheld the English host 
 Leave Barmore-wood, their evening 
 
 post. 
 And lieedful watched them as they 
 crossed 
 Tlie Till by Twisel Bridge.i 
 
 High sight it is and haughty, while 
 They dive into the deep defile ; 
 Beneath the caverned cliff they fall, 
 Beneath the castle's airy wall. 
 By rock, by oak, by hawthorn-tree. 
 Troop after troop are disappearing ; 
 Troop after troop their banners rear- 
 ing 
 Upon the eastern bank you see ; 
 Still pouring down the rockj^ den 
 
 Where flows the sullen Till. 
 And rising from the dim-wood glen. 
 Standards on standards, men on men, 
 
 In slow succession still. 
 And sweeping o'er the Gothic arch, 
 And pressing on, in ceaseless march, 
 
 To gain the opposing hill. 
 That morn, to many a trumpet clang, 
 Twisel ! thy rock's deep echo rang, 
 x\nd many a chief of birth and rank. 
 Saint Helen ! at thy fountain drank. 
 Thy hawthorn glade, wliich now we see 
 In spring-tide bloom so lavishly. 
 Had then from many an axe its doom. 
 To give the marching columns room. 
 And why stands Scotland idly now, 
 Dark Flodden ! on thy airy brow, 
 
 ' On the eveniiiR previous to the. memorable 
 l);ittle of Floflrlen, SiuTRv's headquarters were 
 at Bannore-wood, and King James held an in- 
 accessible position on the ridge of Flodden-hiU, 
 one of the last and lowest eminences detached 
 from the ridge of Cheviot. The Till, a deep and 
 slow river, winded between the armies. On the 
 morning of the 9th September, 1.513, Surrey 
 marched in a northwesterly direction, and 
 crossed the Till, with his van and artillery, at 
 Twifel-bridge, nigh where that river joins the 
 Tweed, his rear-guard column passing about a 
 mile higher, by a ford. This movement had 
 the double effect of placing his army between 
 King James and hi? supplies from Scotland 
 and of striking the Scottish monarch with sur- 
 prise, as he seems to have relied on the depth 
 of the river in liis front. But as the passage, 
 both over the bridge and through the ford, was 
 difficult and slow, it seems possible that the 
 English might have been attacked to great ad- 
 vantage, while struggling with these natural ob- 
 stacles. — {Scott). 
 
154 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Since England gains the pass the while, 
 And struggles through the deep defile ? 
 Wiiat checks the fiery soul of James ? 
 Why sits that champion of the dames 
 
 Inactive on his steed, 
 And sees, between him and his land. 
 Between him and Tweed's southern 
 strand, 
 
 His host Lord Surrey lead ? 
 What vails the vain knight-errant's 
 
 brand ? — 
 O Douglas, for thy leading wand ! 
 
 Fierce Randolph, for thy speed ! 
 Oh ! for one hour of Wallace wight, 
 Or well-skilled Bruce, to rule the fight 
 And cry, ' ' Saint Andrew and our right ! " 
 Another sight liad seen that morn, 
 From Fate's dark book a leaf been torn, 
 And Flodden had been Bannock- 
 bourne ! — 
 The precious hour has passed in vain. 
 And Englatid's host has gained the plain. 
 Wheeling their march and circling still 
 Around the base of Flodden hill. 
 
 Ere 3'et the bands met Marmion's eye, 
 Fitz-Eustace shouted loud and high, 
 " Hark ! hark ! my lord,an English drum! 
 And see ascending squadrons come 
 
 Between Tweed's river and the hill. 
 Foot, horse, and cannon ! Hap what hap. 
 My basnet to a prentice cap, 
 
 Lord Surrey's o'er the Till ! — 
 Yet more ! yet more ! — how fair arrayed 
 They file from out the hawthorn shade, 
 
 And sweep so gallant by ! 
 With all their banners bravely spread. 
 
 And all their armor flashing high. 
 Saint George might waken from the 
 dead, 
 
 To see fair England's standards fl}'.'" — 
 "Stint in thy prate," quoth Blount, 
 
 " thou 'dst best. 
 And listen to our lord's behest." — 
 With kindling brow Lord Marmionsaid, 
 '■ This instant be our band arrayed ; 
 The river must be quickly crossed. 
 That we may join Lord Surrey's host. 
 If fight King James, — as well I trust 
 That fight he will, and fight he must,— 
 The Lady Clare behind our lines 
 Shall tarry while the battle joins." 
 
 Himself he swift on horseback threw, 
 Scarce to the abbot bade adieu, 
 Far less would listen to his prayer 
 To leave behind the helpless Clare. 
 Down to the Tweed liis band he drew, 
 And muttered as the flood they view, 
 
 " The pheasant in the falcon's claw. 
 He scarce will yield to please a daw ; 
 Lord Angus may the abbot awe, 
 
 So Clare shall bide with me." 
 Then on that dangerous ford and deep 
 Where to the Tweed Leafs eddies creep, 
 
 He ventured desperately : 
 And not a moment will he bide 
 Till squire or groom before him ride ; 
 Headmost of all he stems the tide. 
 
 And stems it gallantly. 
 Eustace lield Clare upon her horse, 
 
 Old Hvibert led her rein. 
 Stoutly they braved the current's course, 
 And, though far dowMiward driven per- 
 force. 
 
 The southern bank they gain. ' 
 Behind them straggling came to shore, 
 
 As best thej"^ might, the train : 
 Each o'er his head his yew-bow bore, 
 
 A caution not in vain ; 
 Deep need that day that every string. 
 By wet unharmed, should sharply ring. 
 A moment then Lord Marmion stayed. 
 And breathed his steed, his men arrayed. 
 
 Then forward moved his band. 
 Until, Lord Surrey's rear-guard won, 
 He halted by a cross of stone. 
 That on a hillock standing lone 
 
 Did all the field command. 
 
 Hence might they see the full array 
 Of either host for deadlj^ fray ; 
 Their marshalled lines stretched east 
 and west. 
 
 And fronted north and south. 
 And distant salutation passed 
 
 From the loud cannon movith ; 
 Not in the close successive rattle 
 That breathes the voice of modern batt le. 
 
 But slow and far between. 
 The hillock gained. Lord Marmion 
 
 stayed : 
 " Here, by this cross," he gentlj* said, 
 
 " You well may view the scene. 
 Here shalt thou tarry, lovely Clare : 
 Oh ! think of Marmion in thy prayer ! — 
 Thou wilt not ? — well, no less my care 
 Shall, watchful, for thy weal prepare. — 
 You, Blount and Eustace, are her guard. 
 
 With ten picked archers of my train ; 
 With England if the day go hard. 
 
 To Berwick .speed amain. — 
 But if weconcpier, criiel maid, 
 My spoils shall at j^our feet be laid, 
 
 When here we meet again." 
 He waited not for answer there, 
 And would not mark the maid's despair, 
 
 Nor heed the discontented look 
 
SCOTT 
 
 ^55 
 
 From either squire, but spurred amain. 
 And, dashing through the battle-plain, 
 His way to Surrey took. 
 
 " The good Lord Marmion, by my life ! 
 
 Welcome to danger's ln)ur ! — 
 Short gi'eeting serves in time of strife. — 
 
 Thus have I ranged mj^ power : 
 Myself will rule this central host, 
 
 Stout Stanley fronts their right, 
 My sons command tlie vaward post, 
 
 With Brian Tunstall, stainless knight ; 
 
 Lord Dacre. with his horsemen liglit, 
 
 Sliall be in rearward of tlie figlit. 
 And succor those that need it most. 
 
 Now. gallant Marmion. well I know, 
 
 Would gladly to the vanguard go ; 
 Edmund, the Admiral. Tunstall there. 
 With thee their charge will blithely 
 
 share ; 
 There fight tliine own i-etaiuers too 
 Beneath De Biu-g. tliy steward true." 
 " Thanks, noble Surrey ! " Marmion said, 
 Nor further greeting there he paid, 
 But, parting like a thunderbolt. 
 First in the vanguard made a halt. 
 
 Where such a siiout there rose 
 Of"' Marmion ! Marmion ! " that the cry, 
 Up Flodden mountain shrilling high, 
 
 Startled the Scottish foes. 
 
 Blount and Fitz-Eustace rested still 
 With Lady Clare upon the liill. 
 On whicli — for far tlie day was spent — 
 The western sunbeams now were bent : 
 Tlie cry they lieard. its meaning knew. 
 Could plain their distant comrades view : 
 
 Sadly to Blount did Eustace say, 
 " Unworthy office here to stay ! 
 No hope of gilded spurs to-day. — 
 But see ! look up — on Flodden bent 
 The Scottish foe has fired his tent." 
 
 And sudden, as he spoke, 
 From the sharp ridges of tlie hill. 
 All downward to the banks of Till, 
 
 Was wreathed in sable smoke. 
 Volumed and vast, and rolling far. 
 The cloud enveloped Scotland's war 
 
 As down the hill they broke ; 
 Nor martial shout, nor Jiiinstrel tone. 
 Announced their march ; their tread 
 
 alone. 
 At times one warning trumpet blown. 
 
 At times a stifled hum. 
 Told England, from his mountain-throne 
 
 King James did rushing come. 
 Scarce could they hear or see their foes 
 Until at weapon-point they close. — 
 They close in clouds of smoke and dust. 
 
 With sword-sway and with lance's 
 thrust ; 
 
 And such a yell was there, 
 Of sudden and portentous birth. 
 As if men fought upon the earth. 
 
 And fiends in upper air : 
 Oh ! life and death were in the shout, 
 Recoil and rally, charge and rout, 
 
 And triumph and despair. 
 Long looked the anxious squires ; their 
 
 eye 
 Could in the darkness nought descry. 
 
 At length the freshening western blast 
 Aside the shroud of battle cast ; 
 And first the ridge of mingled spears 
 Above the brightening cloud appears. 
 And in the smoke the pennons flew, 
 As in the storm the white seaniew. 
 Then marked they, dashing broad and 
 
 far, 
 The broken billows of the war. 
 And plumed crests of chieftains brave 
 Floating like foam upon the wave ; 
 
 But nought distinct they see : 
 Wide raged the battle on the plain ; 
 Spears shook and falchions flashed 
 
 amain ; 
 Fell England's arrow-flight like rain ; 
 Crests rose, and stooped, and rose again, 
 
 Wild and disorderl3^ 
 Amid the scene of tumult, high 
 They saw Lord Marniion's falcon fly ; 
 And stainless Tuiistall's banner white. 
 And Edmund Howard's lion bright. 
 Still bear them bravely in the fight, 
 
 Althougli against them come 
 Of gallant Gordons many a one. 
 And many a stubborn Badenoch-man, 
 And many a rugged Border clan. 
 
 With Huntly and with Home. — 
 
 Far on the left, unseen the while, 
 Stanley broke Lennox and Argyle. 
 Though there the western mountaineer 
 Rushed with bare bosom on the spear. 
 And flung the feeble targe aside. 
 And with both hands the broadsword 
 
 plied. 
 ' T was vain. — But Fortune, on the right. 
 With fickle smile cheered Scotland's 
 
 fight. 
 Then fell that spotless banner white. 
 
 The Howard's lion fell ; 
 Yet still Lord Marniion's falcon flew 
 With wavering flight, while fiercer grew 
 
 Around the battle-yell. 
 The Border slogan rent tiie sky • 
 A Home ! a Gordon ! was the cry : 
 
IS6 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Loud were the clanging blows ; 
 Advanced, — forced back, — now low, 
 now high. 
 
 The pennon snnk and rose : 
 As bends the bark's mast in the gale, 
 When rent are rigging, shrouds, and sail, 
 
 It wavered mid the foes. 
 No longer Blount the view could bear : 
 " By heaven and all its saints ! I swear 
 
 I will not see it lost ! 
 Fitz-Eustace. you witli Lady Clare 
 May bid j'our beads and patter prayer, — 
 
 I gallop to the host." 
 And to the fray he rode amain, 
 Followed by all the archer train. 
 The fiery youth, with desperate charge. 
 Made for a space an opening large, — 
 
 The rescued banner rose, — 
 But darkly closed the war around. 
 Like pine-tree rooted from the ground 
 
 It sank among the foes._ 
 Then Eustace mounted too, — yet stayed, 
 As loath to leave the helpless maid. 
 
 When, fast as shaft can fly, 
 Bloodshot his eyes, his nostrils spread. 
 The loose rein dangling from his head, 
 Housing and saddle bloody red, 
 
 Lord Marmion's steed rushed by ; 
 And Eustace, maddening at the sight, 
 
 A look and sign to Clara cast 
 
 To mark he would return in haste, 
 Then plunged into the fight. 
 
 Ask me not what the maiden feels. 
 
 Left in that dreadful hour alone : 
 Perchance her reason stoops or reels ; 
 Perchance a courage, not her own, 
 
 Braces her mind to desperate tone. — 
 The scattered van of England wheels ; — 
 
 She only said, as loud in air 
 The tumult roared. '• Is Wilton there? '" — 
 
 They fly, or, maddened by despair, 
 
 Fight but to die. — " Is Wilton there V '" 
 With tliat, straight up the hill there rode 
 
 Two horsemen drenched with gore. 
 And in their arms, a helpless load, 
 
 A wounded knight they bore. 
 His hand still strained the broken bnind ; 
 His arms where smeared with blood and 
 
 sand. 
 Dragged from among the horses' feet, 
 With dinted shield and helmet beat. 
 The falcon-crest and plumage gone, 
 Can tliat be haughty Mavmion ! . . . 
 Young Blount his armor did unlace, 
 Ami. gazing on his ghastly face. 
 
 Said, " By Saint George, he's gone ! 
 That spear-wound has our master sped, 
 And see the deep cut on his head ! 
 
 Good-night to Marmion.'" — 
 " Unnurtured Blount ! th}' brawling 
 
 cease : 
 He opes his eyes," said Eustace ; 
 " peace ! " 
 
 When, doffed his casque, he felt free air, 
 
 Around gan Marmion wildly stare : 
 
 ' • Where's Harry Blount ? Fitz-Eustace 
 
 where ? 
 Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare ! 
 Redeem my pennon, — charge again ! 
 Cry, • Marmion to the rescue ! ' — Vain ! 
 Last of my race, on battle-plain 
 That shout shall ne'er be heard again ! — 
 Yet my last thought is England's — fly. 
 To Dacre bear my signet-ring : 
 Tell him his squadrons up to bring. — 
 Fitz-Eustace. to Lord Surrey hie : 
 Tunstall lies dead upon the field. 
 His lifeblood stains the spotless shield : 
 Edmund is down ; my life is reft ; 
 The Admiral alone is left. 
 Let Stanley charge with spur of fire. — 
 With Chester charge, and Lancashire, 
 Full upon Scotland's central host. 
 Or victory and England's lost. — 
 ]\Iust I bid twice ? — hence, varlets ! fly ! — 
 Leave Marmion here alone — to die." 
 They parted, and alone he lay ; 
 Clare drew her from the sight away. 
 Till pain wrung forth a lowly moan, 
 And half he murnuired, " Is there none 
 
 Of all my halls have nurst, 
 Page, squire, or groom, one cv;p to bring 
 Of blessed water from tlie spring. 
 To slake my d^ang thirst ! " 
 
 O Woman ! in our hours of ease 
 Uncertain, coy, and hard to i<lease. 
 And variable as the shade 
 By the light quivering aspen made ; 
 When pain and anguish wring the 
 
 brows, 
 A ministering angel thou ! — ■ 
 Scarce were the piteous accents said. 
 When with the baron's casque the maid 
 
 To the nigli streamlet ran : 
 Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears ; 
 The plaintive voice alone she hears, 
 
 Sees but the dying man. 
 She stooped her by the runnel's side, 
 
 But in abhorrence backward drew ; 
 For, oozing from the mountain's side 
 Where raged the war. a dark-red tide 
 
 Was curdling in the streamlet blue. 
 Where shall she turn ? — behold her 
 mark 
 
 A little fountain cell, 
 
SCOTT 
 
 ^57 
 
 Where water, clear as diamond spark. 
 
 In a stone basin fell. 
 Above, some half-worn letters say, 
 
 2)iinft. weari5. pilgrim. J)rinh. anD. 
 
 prav). 
 3for. tbe. l^inD. soul, of, Sib^l. ©re^. 
 iMbo. built. tbi6. cross. an&. well. 
 
 Slie rilled the helm and back she hied, 
 And with snrprise and joy espied 
 
 A monk supporting Marmion's liead ; 
 A pious mail, whom duty brought 
 To dubious %'erge of battle fought. 
 
 To shrive tiie dying, bless the dead. 
 
 Deep drank Lord Marmion of the wave, 
 And. as she stooped his brow to lave — 
 •• Is it the hand of Clare," he said, 
 " Or injured Constance, bathes my 
 head ? " 
 
 Then, as remembrance rose, — 
 " Speak not to me of shrift or prayer ! 
 
 I must redress her woes. 
 Short space, few words, are mine to 
 
 spare ; 
 Forgive and listen, gentle Clare ! " 
 
 " Alas ! '■ siie said, " the while. — 
 Oh ! tliink of your immortal weal ! 
 In vain for Constance is your zeal I 
 
 She — died at Holy Isle." — 
 Lord Marmion started from the ground 
 As light as if he felt no wound, 
 Tiiough in the action burst the tide 
 In torrents from liis wounded side. 
 " Tlien it was truth," lie said — *' I knew 
 That tlie dark presage nivist be true. — 
 I would the Fiend, to whom belongs 
 Tiie vengeance due to all her wrongs, 
 
 Would spare me but a day ! 
 For wasting fire, and dying groan. 
 And priests slain on the altar stone, 
 
 Might bribe him for delay. 
 It may not be ! — this dizzy trance — 
 Curse on yon base marauder's lance. 
 And doubly cursed my failing brand ! 
 A sinful heart makes feeble hand." 
 Then fainting down on eartli he sunk, 
 Supported by the trembling monk. 
 
 Witli fruitless labor Clara bound 
 
 And strove to standi the gushing 
 
 wound : 
 The monk with unavailing cares 
 Exhausted all the Church's prayers. 
 Ever, lie said, that, close and near, 
 A lady's voice was in his ear. 
 And tliat the priest he could not hear ; 
 
 For that she ever sung. 
 " In the lost battle borne down by the fly- 
 ing. 
 
 Where mingles icar's rattle with groans 
 of the dying ! " 
 
 So the notes rung. — 
 " Avoid thee, Fiend ! — with cruel hand 
 Shake not the dying sinner's sand ! — 
 Oh ! look, my son, upon yon sign 
 Of the Redeemer's grace divine ; 
 
 Oh ! think on faith and bliss ! — 
 By many a death-bed I have been, 
 And many a sinner's jjarting seen. 
 
 But never aught like this." 
 Tlie war. that for a space did fail. 
 Now trebly thundering swelled tlip 
 gale, 
 
 And " Stanley ! " was the cry. — 
 A light on Marmion's visage s})read, 
 
 And fired his glazing e3'e ; 
 With dying hand above his head 
 He shook the fragment of his blade. 
 
 And shouted " Victory ! — 
 Charge, Chester, charge ! On, Stanlej^ 
 
 on ! " 
 Were the last words of Marmion. 
 
 By this, though deep the evening fell. 
 Still rose the battle's deadly swell, 
 For still the Scots around their king. 
 Unbroken, fought in desperate ring. 
 Where's now their victor vaward wing. 
 
 Where Huntley, and where HomeV — 
 Oh ! for a blast of tliat dread horn, 
 On Fontarabian echoes borne. 
 
 That to King Charles did come. 
 When Rowland brave, and Olivier,' 
 And every paladin and peer. 
 
 On Roncesvalles died ! 
 Such blasts might warn tliem, not in 
 
 vain, 
 To quit the plunder of tlie slain 
 And turn the doubtful day again, 
 
 While yet on Flodden side 
 Afar the Royal Standard flies. 
 And round it toils and lileeds and dies 
 
 Our Caledonian pride ! 
 In vain the wish — for far away. 
 While spoil and havoc mark their wa}'. 
 Near Sibyl's Cross the plundereis stray.— 
 '* O lady," cried the monk, '• away ! " 
 
 And placed her on her steed, 
 And led her to the chapel fair 
 
 Of Tilmouth upon Tweed. 
 There all the night they spent in prayer. 
 And at the dawn of morning there 
 She met her kinsman, Lord Fitz-Clare. 
 
 But as they left the darkening heath 
 More desperate grew the strife of death. 
 Tlie English shafts in volleys hailed. 
 In headlong charge their horse assailed ; 
 
iS8 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Front, flank, and rear, the squadrons 
 
 sweep 
 To break tlie Scottish circle deep 
 
 That fought around their king. 
 But yet, though thick the shafts as snow, 
 Tliough charging knights like whirl- 
 winds go, 
 Though billmen ply the ghastly blow. 
 
 Unbroken was the ring ; 
 The stubborn spearmen still made good 
 Their dark impenetrable wood, 
 Each stepping where liis comrade stood 
 
 The instant that he fell. 
 No thouglit was there of dastard flight ; 
 Linked in the serried phalanx tiglit. 
 Groom fought like noble, squire like 
 kniglit, 
 
 As fearlessly and well, 
 Till utter darkness closed her wing 
 O'er their thin host and wounded king. 
 Then skilful Surre3''s sage commands 
 Led back from strife his shattered bands ; 
 
 And from the charge they chew. 
 As mountain-waves from wasted lands 
 
 Sweep back to ocean blue. 
 Tlien did their loss his foemen know ; 
 Tlieir king, their lords, their mightiest 
 
 low. 
 They melted from the field, as snow. 
 When streams are swoln and south winds 
 blow. 
 
 Dissolves in silent dew. 
 Tweed's echoes heard the ceaseless plash. 
 
 While many a broken band 
 Disordered through lier currents dash. 
 
 To gain tlie Scottish land ; 
 To town and tower, to down and dale. 
 To tell red Flodden's dismal tale. 
 And raise the universal wail. 
 Tradition, legend, tune, and song 
 Shall many an age that wail prolong ; 
 Still from the sire the son shall hear 
 Of tlie stern strife and carnage drear 
 
 Of Flodden's fatal field. 
 Where shivered was fair Scotland's S'pear 
 
 And broken was her shield ! 
 
 Day dawns upon the mountain's side. — 
 There, Scotland ! lay thy bravest pride. 
 Chiefs, knights, and nobles, many a one ; 
 The sad survivors all are gone. — 
 View' not tliat corpse inistrustfull}^ 
 Defaced and mangled though it be ; 
 Nor to j^on Border castle high 
 Look northward with upbraiding eye ; 
 
 Nor cherish hope in vain 
 That, journeying far on foreign strand. 
 The Royal Pilgrim to his land 
 
 May yet return again. 
 
 He saw the wreck his rashness wrought ; 
 Reckless of life, lie desperate fought, 
 
 And fell on Floddeu plain : 
 And well in death his trusty brand, 
 Firm clenched within his manly hand. 
 
 Beseemed the monarch slain. 
 But oil ! how changed since yon blithe 
 
 night ! — 
 Gladly I turn me from the sight 
 Unto my tale again. 
 
 Short is my tale : — Fitz-Eustaoe' care 
 A pierced and mangled bodj' bare 
 To moated Lichfield's lofty pile ; 
 And tliere. beneatli the southern aisle, 
 A tomb with Gothic sculpture fair 
 Did long Lord Marmion's image bear. — 
 Now vainly for its site you look ; 
 "T was levelled wlien fanatic Brook 
 The fair cathedi'al stormed and took. 
 But, thanks to Heaven and good Saint 
 
 Chad, 
 A guerdon meet the spoiler had ! — 
 There erst was martial ]\Iarmion found. 
 His feet upon a couchant hound. 
 
 His hands to heaven upraised ; 
 And all around, on scutcheon rich. 
 And tablet carved, and fretted niche. 
 
 His arms and feats were blazed. 
 And yet, though nil was carved so fair. 
 And priests for Marmion breathed tlie 
 
 prayer. 
 The last Lord Marmion lay not there. 
 From Ettrick woods a peasant swain 
 Followed his lord to Flodden plain, — 
 One of those flowers whom plaintive laj' 
 In Scotland mourns as " wede away : " 
 Sore wounded, Sibyl's Cross he spied. 
 And dragged him to its foot, and died 
 Close by the noble Marmion's side. 
 The spoilers stripped and gashed tlie 
 
 slain. 
 And thus their corpses were mista'en ; 
 And thus in the proud baron's tomb 
 The lowly woodsman took the room. 
 
 Less easy task it were to show 
 
 Lord J\Iarmion's nameless grave and low. 
 
 They dug his grave e'en where he lay. 
 
 But every mark is gone : 
 Time's wasting hand lias done away 
 The simple Cross of Sibyl Grey, 
 
 And broke her font of stone ; 
 But yet from out the little hill 
 Oozes the slender springlet still. 
 
 Oft halts the stranger there. 
 For thence may best his curious eye 
 The memorable field descry ; 
 
 And shepherd boys repair 
 
 
SCOTT 
 
 159 
 
 To seek tlie water-flag and rush. 
 And rest tliem b}^ the hazel bush, 
 
 And plait tlieir garhuids fair, 
 Nor dream tiiey sit upon the grave 
 That holds the bones of Marmion 
 
 brave. — 
 When thou shalt find tlie little hill, 
 With thy heart commune and be still. 
 If ever in temptation strong 
 Thou left'st tlie right path for the 
 
 wrong. 
 If every devious step thus trod 
 Still led thee further from the road. 
 Dread thou to speak presumptuous doom 
 On noble Marmion's lowly tomb ; 
 But say, '" He died a gallant knight. 
 With sword in hand, for England's 
 
 right." 
 
 I do not rliyme to that dull elf 
 
 Who cannot image to hiniself 
 
 That all through Flodden's dismal niglit 
 
 Wilton was foremost in the fight, 
 
 That when brave Surrey's steed was 
 
 slain 
 'Twas Wilton mounted liim again ; 
 'Twas Wilton's brand that deepest hewed 
 Amid the spearmen's stubborn wood : 
 Unnamed by Holinshed or Hall, 
 He was the living soul of all ; 
 That, after fight, his faith made plain. 
 He won his rank and lands again. 
 And charged his old paternal shield. 
 With bearings won on Flodden Field. 
 Nor sing I to that simple maid 
 To whom it must in terms be said 
 That king and kinsmen did agree 
 To bless fair Clara's constancy ; 
 Who cannot, unless I relate. 
 Paint to her mind the bridal's state.— 
 That Wolsey's voice the blessing spoke, 
 More, Sands, and Denny, passed the joke; 
 That bluff King Hal the curtain drew, 
 And Katherine's hand the stocking 
 
 threw ; 
 And afterwards, for many a day, 
 That it was held enough to say. 
 In blessing to a wedded pair, 
 '■ Love they like Wilton and like Clare ! " 
 November, ISOG— January, JSOS. 
 February 23, 1808. 
 
 SOLDIER, REST! THY WARFARE 
 O'ER 
 
 Soldier, rest ! thy warfare o'er, 
 
 Sleep the sleep that knows not break- 
 ing ; 
 Dream of battled fields no more. 
 
 Days of danger, nights of waking. 
 In our isle's enchanted hall. 
 
 Hands unseen thy couch are strewing, 
 Fairy strains of music fall. 
 
 Every sense in slumber dewing. 
 Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er. 
 Dream of fighting fields no more ; 
 Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking. 
 Morn of toil, nor night of waking. 
 
 No rude sound shall reach thine ear, 
 
 Armor's clang, or war-steed ciiamping, 
 Trump nor pibroch summon here 
 
 Mustering clan or squadron tramping. 
 Yet the lark's shrill fife may come 
 
 At the daybreak from the fallow, 
 And the bittern sound his drum, 
 
 Booming from t he sedgy shallow. 
 Ruder sounds shall none be near. 
 Guards nor warders challenge here. 
 Here's no war-steed's neigh and champ- 
 ing. 
 Shouting clans or squadrons stamping. 
 
 Huntsman, rest ! tliy chase is done ; 
 
 While our slumbrous spells assail }'e, 
 Dream not, with the rising sun. 
 
 Bugles here shall sound reveille. 
 Sleep ! the deer is in his den ; 
 
 Sleep ! thy hounds are by thee lying : 
 Sleep ! nor dream in yonder glen 
 
 How thy gallant steed laj^ dying. 
 Huntsman, rest ! thy chase is done ; 
 Think not of the rising sun. 
 For at dawning to assail j^e 
 Here no bugles sound reveille. 
 
 From The Lady of the Lake, 1810. 
 
 HAIL TO THE CHIEF WHO IN 
 TRIUMPH ADVANCES ! 
 
 Hail to the Chief who in triumph ad- 
 vances ! 
 Honored and blessed be the ever-green 
 Pine ! 
 Long may the tree, in his banner that 
 glances, 
 Flourish, the shelter and grace of our 
 line ! 
 Heaven send it happy dew, 
 Earth lend it saj) anew, 
 Gayly to bourgeon and broadly to grow, 
 While every Highland glen 
 Sends our shout back again. 
 " Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho ! 
 ieroe ! '' 
 
 Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the 
 fountain, 
 
i6o 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Blooming at Beltane, in winter to 
 fade ; 
 When tlie wliirlwind has stripped every 
 leaf on the mountain. 
 The more shall Clan -Alpine exult in 
 her shade. 
 Moored in the rifted rock. 
 Proof to tlie tempest's sliock. 
 Firmer lie roots him the ruder it blow : 
 Mejiteitli and Breadalbane, then 
 Eclio bis praise again. 
 " Roderigli Vich Alpine dhu, ho ! 
 ieroe I " 
 
 Proudly our pibroch has tin-illed in Glen 
 Fruin, 
 And Bannochar's groans to our slogan 
 replied : 
 Glen-Luss and Ross-dhu. they are smok- 
 ing in ruin. 
 And the best of Loch Lomond lie 
 dead on her side. 
 Widow and Saxon maid 
 Long shall lament our raid. 
 Think of Clan-AliMne with fear and 
 
 with woe : 
 Lennox and Leven-glen 
 
 Shake wben the}' liear again, 
 " Roderigh Vich Alpine dliu, ho ! 
 ieroe ! " 
 
 Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the 
 Higlilands ! 
 Stretch to your oars for the ever-green 
 Pine ! 
 O that tbe rosebud that graces j'on is- 
 lands 
 Were wreathed in a garland around 
 him to twine ! 
 O that some seedling gem, 
 Worthy such noble stem 
 Honored and blessed in their shadow 
 might grow ! 
 Loud should Clan- Alpine then 
 Ring from her deepmost glen. 
 " Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho ! 
 ieroe ! "' 
 
 From The Lady of the Lake. 
 
 CORONACH 
 
 He is gone on the mountain. 
 
 He is lost to the forest. 
 Like a summer-dried fountain. 
 
 When our need was the sorest. 
 The font, reappearing, 
 
 Fiom the rain-drops shall borrow, 
 But to us comes no clieering, 
 
 To Duncan no mori-ow ! 
 
 Tlie hand of the reaper 
 
 Takes the ears that are hoary. 
 But tlie voice of the weeper 
 
 Wails manhood in glory. 
 The autumn winds rushing 
 
 Waft the leaves that are searest. 
 But our flower was in flushing. 
 
 When blighting was nearest. 
 
 Fleet foot on the correi, 
 
 Sage counsel in cumber, 
 Red hand in the foraA', 
 
 How sound is th}' slumber ! 
 Like the dew on the mountain. 
 
 Like the foam on tlie river. 
 Like the bubble on the fountain, 
 
 Thou art gone, and forever ! 
 
 From The Lady of the Lake. 
 
 HARP OF THE NORTH, FAREWELL ! 
 
 Harp of the North, farewell ! The hills 
 grow dark, 
 On purple peaks a deeper shade de- 
 scending ; 
 In twilight copse the glow-worm lights 
 her spark. 
 The deer, half-seen, are to the covert 
 wending. 
 Resume thy wizard elm ! the fountain 
 lending. 
 And the wild breeze, thy wilder min- 
 strel sj-^ ; 
 Thy numbers sweet with nature's vespers 
 blending. 
 With distant echo from the fold and 
 lea. 
 And herd-boy's evening pipe, and hum 
 of housing bee. 
 
 Yet, once again, farewell, thou Minstrel 
 Harp ! 
 Yet, once again, forgive my feeble 
 sway, 
 And little reck I of the censure sharp 
 
 May idly cavil at an idle lay. 
 Much have I owed thj' strains on life's 
 long wa.y. 
 Through secret woes the world has 
 never known. 
 When on the weary night dawned 
 wearier day. 
 And bitterer was the grief devoured 
 alone. — 
 That I o'erlive such woes, Enchantress ! 
 is thine own. 
 
 Hark ! as my lingering footsteps slow 
 retire, 
 
SCOTT 
 
 ibi 
 
 Some spirit of the Air lias waked thy 
 string ! 
 T'is now a seraph bokl, with touch of 
 fire, 
 'Tis now the brush of Fairy's frolic 
 . wing. 
 
 Receding now, the dying numbers ring 
 Fainter and fainter down the rugged 
 dell; 
 And now the mountain breezes scarcely 
 bring 
 A wandering witch-note of the distant 
 spell — 
 And now, 't is silent all ! — Enchantress, 
 fare thee well ! 
 Conclusion of The Lady of the Lake. 
 
 BRIGNALL BANKS 
 
 During the composition of Rokeby Scott wrote 
 to Morritt : " There are two or three Songs, and 
 particularly one in Praise of Brignall Banks, 
 which I trust you will like — because, entre nous, 
 I like them myself One of them is a little dash- 
 ing banditti song, called and entitled Allen-a- 
 Dale." 
 
 O, Brignall banks are wild and fair, 
 
 And Greta woods are green. 
 And you may gather garlands tliere 
 
 Would grace a summer queen. 
 And as I rode by Dalton-hall, 
 
 Beneath the turrets high, 
 A maiden on the castle wall 
 
 Was singing merrily : 
 " O, Brignall banks are fresh and fair, 
 
 And Greta woods are green ; 
 I 'd rather rove with Edmund there 
 
 Than reign our English queen." 
 
 "If, maiden, thou wouldst wend Avith 
 me. 
 
 To leave botli tower and town. 
 Thou first must guess what life lead we 
 
 That dwell by dale and down. 
 And if thou canst that riddle read. 
 
 As read full well you may, 
 Tlien to the greenwood shalt thou speed, 
 
 As blithe as Queen of May." 
 Yet sung she, " Brignall banks are fair, 
 
 And Greta woods are green ; 
 r d rather rove wnth Edmund there 
 
 Tlian reign our English queen. 
 
 " I read you, by your bugle horn, 
 
 And by j^our palfrey good, 
 I read you for a ranger sworn 
 
 To keep the king's greenwood." 
 ■' A ranger, lady, winds liis horn, 
 
 And 'tis at peep of light ; 
 His blast is heard at merry morn, 
 
 And mine at dead of night." 
 II 
 
 Yet sung she, " Brignall banks are fair, 
 
 And Greta woods are gay ; 
 I would I were with Edmund there. 
 
 To reign his Queen of May ! 
 
 " With burnished brand and musketoon 
 
 So gallantly you come, 
 I read you for a bold dragoon. 
 
 That lists the tuck of drum." 
 '• I list no more the tuck of drum, 
 
 No more the trumpet hear ; 
 But when the beetle sounds his hum. 
 
 My comrades take the spear. 
 And O, though Brignall banks be fair, 
 
 And Greta woods be gay. 
 Yet mickle must the maiden dare 
 
 Would reign my Queen of May ! 
 
 •' Maiden ! a nameless life I lead, 
 
 A nameless death I'll die ; 
 The fiend whose lantern lights the mead 
 
 Were better mate than I ! 
 And when I'm with my comrades met 
 
 Beneath the greenwood bough. 
 What once we were we all forget, 
 
 Nor think what we are now. 
 Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair, 
 
 And Greta woods are green. 
 And }"ou may gather garlands there 
 
 Would grace a svimmer queen.'' 
 
 From Rokeby, 1813. 
 
 ALLEN- A-D ALE 
 
 ALLRN-a-Dale has no fagot for burning, 
 Allen-a-Dale has no furrow for turning, 
 Allen a-Dale has no fleece for the spin- 
 ning, 
 Yet Allen -a-Dale has red gold for the 
 
 winning. 
 Come, read me my riddle ! come, heark- 
 en my tale ! 
 And tell me the craft of bold Allen-a-Dale, 
 
 The Baron of Ravensworth prances in 
 pride. 
 
 And he view^s his domains upon Arkin- 
 dale side. 
 
 The mere for his net and the land for 
 his game. 
 
 The chase for the wild and the park for 
 the tame : 
 
 Yet the fish of the lake and the deer of 
 the vale 
 
 Are less free to Lord Dacre than Allen- 
 a-Dale ! 
 
 Allen-a-Dale was ne'er belted a knight. 
 Though his spur be as sharp and his 
 blade be as bright ; 
 
l62 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Allen-a-Dale is no baron or lord, 
 
 Yet twenty tall yeomen will draw at his 
 
 word ; 
 And the Ijest of our nobles his bonnet 
 
 will vail, 
 Who at Rere-cross on Stanmore meets 
 
 Allen-a-Dale ! 
 
 Allen-a-Dale to his wooing is come ; 
 The mother, she asked of his household 
 
 and home : 
 "Though the castle of Richmond stand 
 
 fair on the hill. 
 My hall," quoth bold Allen, "shows 
 
 gallanter still ; 
 'Tis the blvie vault of heaven, with its 
 
 crescent so pale 
 And with all its bright spangles ! " said 
 
 Allen-a-Dale. 
 
 The father was steel and the mother 
 was stone ; 
 
 They lifted the latch and they bade him 
 be gone ; 
 
 But loud on the morrow their wail and 
 their cry : 
 
 He had laughed on the lass with his 
 bonny black eye, 
 
 And she fled to the forest to hear a love- 
 tale. 
 
 And the youth it was told by was Allen- 
 a-dale ! 
 
 From Rokeby, 1813. 
 
 HIE AWAY, HIE AWAY 
 
 Hie away, hie awaj-, 
 Over bank and over brae, 
 Wiiere the copsewood is tiie greenest. 
 Where tlie fountains glisten sheenest, 
 Where the lady-fern grows strongest, 
 Where the morning dew lies longest. 
 Where the black-cock sweetest sips it. 
 Where the fairy latest trips it : 
 
 Hie to haunts right seldom seen. 
 Lovely, lonesome, cool, and green. 
 Over bank and over brae, 
 Hie away, hie away. 
 
 From Waverley, 1814. 
 
 TWIST YE, TWINE YE ! EVEN SO 
 
 Twist ye, twine ye ! even so, 
 Mingle shades of joy and woe, 
 Hope and fear and peace and strife, 
 In the thread of human life. 
 
 While the mystic twist is spinning. 
 And the infant's life beginning, 
 
 Dimly seen through twilight bending, 
 Lo, what varied shapes attending I 
 
 Passions wild and follies vain, 
 Pleasures soon exchanged for pain ; 
 Doubt and jealousy and fear, • 
 
 In the magic dance appear. 
 
 Now they wax and now they dwindle. 
 Whirling with the whirling spindle, 
 Twast ye, twine ye ! even so 
 Mingle human bliss and woe. 
 
 From Guy Mannering, 1815. 
 
 WASTED, WEARY, WHEREFORE 
 STAY 
 
 Wasted, weary, wherefore stay, 
 Wrestling tlius with earth and clay ? 
 From the body pass away ; — 
 
 Hark ! the mass is singing. 
 
 From thee doff thy mortal weed, 
 Mary Mother be thy speed, 
 Saints to help thee at thy need ; — 
 Hark ! the knell is ringing. 
 
 Fear not snow-drift driving fast, 
 Sleet or hail or levin blast ; 
 Soon the shroud shall lap thee fast, 
 And the sleep be on thee cast 
 
 That shall ne'er know waking. 
 
 Haste thee, haste thee, to be gone, 
 Earth flits fast, and time draws on, — 
 Gasp thy gasp, and groan thy groan, 
 Daj' is near the breaking. 
 From G^ly Mannering. 
 
 JOCK O' HAZELDEAN 
 
 " Why weep ye by the tide, ladie ? 
 
 Why weep ye by the tide ? 
 I'll wed ye to my youngest son, 
 
 And ye sail be his bride : 
 And ye sail be his bride, ladie, 
 
 Sae comely to be seen " — 
 But aye she loot the tears down fa' 
 
 For Jock o' Hazeldean. 
 
 " Now let this wilfu' grief be done. 
 
 And dry that cheek so pale ; 
 Young Frank is chief of Errington 
 
 And lord of Langley-dale ; 
 His step is first in peaceful ha'. 
 
 His sword in battle keen " — 
 But aye she loot the tears down fa' 
 
 For Jock o' Hazeldean. 
 
SCOTT 
 
 163 
 
 *' A chain of gold ye sail not lack, 
 Nor braid to bind your hair ; 
 Nor mettled hound, nor managed 
 hawk. 
 Nor palfrey fresh and fair ; 
 And you, the foremost o' tliem a', 
 
 Shall ride our forest queen." — 
 But aye she loot the tears down fa' 
 For Jock o' Hazeldean. 
 
 Tlie kirk was decked at morning-tide, 
 
 The tapers glimmered fair ; 
 The priest and bridegroom wait the 
 bride, 
 
 And dame and knight are there. 
 They sought her baitli by bower a)id 
 ha' ; 
 
 The ladie was not seen ! 
 She's o'er the Border and awa' 
 
 Wi' Jock o' Hazeldean. 1816. 
 
 PIBROCH OF DONALD DHU 
 
 Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, 
 
 Pibrocli of Donuil, 
 Wake thy wild voice anew, 
 
 Summon Clan Conuil. 
 Come away, come away, 
 
 Hark to tlie summons ! 
 Come in your war array, 
 
 Gentles and commons. 
 
 Come from deep glen and 
 
 From mountain so rocky, 
 The war-pipe and petinon 
 
 Are at Inverlocliy. 
 Come every hill-plaid and 
 
 True heart that wears one. 
 Come every steel blade and 
 
 Strong hand that bears one. 
 
 Leave untended tlie herd. 
 
 The flock without shelter ; 
 Leave the corpse uninterred, 
 
 The bride at th(> altar : 
 Leave the deer, leave the steer, 
 
 Leave nets and l)arges : 
 Come with your fighting gear, 
 
 Broadswords and targes. 
 
 Come as the Avinds come when 
 
 Forests are rended ; 
 Come as the waves come when 
 
 Navies are stranded : 
 Faster come, faster come, 
 
 Faster and faster, 
 Chief, vassal, page and groom, 
 
 Tenant and master. 
 
 Fast they come, fast they come ; 
 
 See how they gather ! 
 Wide waves the eagle plume, 
 
 Blended with heather. 
 Cast your plaids, draw your blades, 
 
 Forward each man set ! 
 Pibroch of Donuil Dim, 
 
 Knell for the onset ! 1816. 
 
 TIME 
 
 " Why sit'st thou by that ruined hall, 
 Thou aged carle so stern and gray ? 
 
 Dost thou its former pride recall. 
 Or ponder how it passed away ? " 
 
 " Know'st thou not me?" the Deep 
 Voice cried : 
 
 " So long enjoyed, so oft misused — 
 Alternate, in thy fickle pride. 
 
 Desired, neglected, and accused ! 
 
 " Before my breath, like blazing flax, 
 Man and his marvels pass away ! 
 
 And changing empires wane and wax. 
 Are founded, flourish, and decay. 
 
 "Redeem mine hours — the space is 
 brief — 
 While in my glass the sand-grains 
 shiver. 
 And measureless thy joy or grief, 
 When Time and thou shalt part for- 
 ever ! " 
 
 From The Antiquary, 1816. 
 
 CAVALIER SONG 
 
 AxD what though winter will pinch 
 severe 
 Through locks of gray and a cloak 
 that 's old. 
 Yet keep up thy heart, bold cavalier. 
 For a cup of sack shall fence the cold. 
 
 For time will rust the brightest blade, 
 And years will break the strongest 
 bow "; 
 Was never wight so starkly made. 
 But time and years would overthrow. 
 From Old Mortality, 1816. 
 
 CLARION 
 
 Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife ! 
 
 To all the sensual world proclaim, 
 One crowded hour of glorious life 
 
 Is worth an age without a nanie. 
 From Old Mortality, 1816. 
 
164 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 THE SUN UPON THE WEIRDLAW 
 HILL 
 
 "It was while struggling with such languor, 
 ou one lovely evening of this autumn [1H17J, 
 that he composed the following beautiful verses. 
 They mark tlie very spot of their birth,— namely, 
 the then naked height overhanging the northern 
 side of the tiauldshields Loch, from which Mel- 
 rose Abbey to the eastward, anil the hills of Et- 
 trick and Yarrow to the west, are now visible 
 over a wide range of rich woodland,— all the 
 work of the poet's hand." Lockhart's Life of 
 Scott, Chapter 39. 
 
 The sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill 
 
 In Ettrick's vale is sinking sweet ; 
 The westland wind is liush and still, 
 
 The lake lies sleeping at my feet. 
 Yet not the landscape to mine eye 
 
 Bears those bright hues that once it 
 bore, 
 Though evening witli her ricliest dye 
 
 Flames o'er the hills of Ettrick's shore. 
 
 With listless look along the plain 
 
 I see Tweed's .silver current glide, 
 And coldly mark the holy fane 
 
 Of Melrose rise in ruined pride. 
 The quiet lake, the balmy air, 
 
 The hill, the stream, the tower, the 
 tree — 
 Are they still such as once they were, 
 
 Or is the dreary change in me ? 
 
 Alas ! the warped and broken board. 
 
 How can it bear tlie jjainter's dye ? 
 The harp of strained and tuneless chord. 
 
 How to the minstrers skill reply ? 
 To acliing eyes each landscape lowers. 
 
 To feverish pulse each gale blows 
 chill ; 
 And Araby's or Eden's bowers 
 
 Were barren as this moorland hill. 
 
 1817. 
 
 PROUD MAISIE 
 
 Proud Maisie is in the wood, 
 
 Walking .so early ; 
 Sweet Robin sits on the bush. 
 
 Singing so rarely. 
 
 " Tell me, thou bonny bird, • 
 
 When shall I miarry me ? " 
 " Wlien six braw gentlemen 
 
 Kirk ward shall carry ye." 
 
 " Who makes the bridal bed. 
 
 Birdie, say truly ? " 
 " The gray-headed .sexton 
 
 That delves the grave duly. 
 
 " The glow-worm o'er grave and stone 
 
 Shall light thee steady. 
 Tlie owl from the steeple .sing, 
 
 'Welcome, proud lady.'" 
 
 From The Heart of Midlothian, 1818. 
 
 TRUE-LOVE, AN THOU BE TRUE 
 
 True-love, an thou be true. 
 
 Thou hast ane kittle part to play. 
 
 For fortune, fashion, fancy, and thou 
 Maun strive for many a day. 
 
 I've kend by mony a friend's tale. 
 Far better by this heart of mine, 
 
 Wliat time and change of fancy avail', 
 A true love-knot to untwine. 
 
 From The Bride of Lammermoo-, 1819. 
 
 REBECCA' S HYMN 
 
 When Israel of the Lord beloved 
 
 Out from the land of bondage came. 
 Her fathers' God before lier moved. 
 
 An awful guide in smoke and flame. 
 By day, along the astonislied lands 
 
 The cloudy pillar glided slow ; 
 By niglit, Arabia's crimsoned sands 
 
 Returned the fiery column's glow. 
 
 There rose the choral hymn of prai.se. 
 
 And trump and timbrel answered 
 keen. 
 And Zion's daughters poured their lays, 
 
 Witli priest's and warrior's voice* be- 
 tween. 
 No portents now our foes amaze. 
 
 Forsaken Israel wanders lone : 
 Onr fathers woidd not know Thy ways. 
 
 And Thou hast left tlieni to their own. 
 
 But present still, though now unseen. 
 
 When briglitly shines the prosperous 
 day. 
 Be thoughts of Thee a cloudy screen 
 
 To teni|)er the deceitful ray ! 
 And O, when stoops on Judah's path 
 
 In sliade and storm the fretjuent 
 night. 
 Be Thou, long-suffering, slow to wrath, 
 
 A burning and a sliining light ! 
 
 Our harps we left by Babel's streams, 
 The tyrant's jest, the Gentile's scorn ; 
 
 No censer round our altar beams, 
 
 And mute are timbrel, harp, and horn, 
 
 But Tliou hast .said, Tlie blood of goat, 
 Tlie flesh of rams I will not prize ; 
 
SCOTT 
 
 165 
 
 A contrite heuit, a humble thought, 
 Are mine accepted sacrifice. 
 
 From IvanJioe, 1818. 
 
 BORDER BALLAD 
 
 March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale, 
 
 Why the deil dinna ye march forward 
 
 in order ? 
 
 Blarch, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale, 
 
 All the Blue Bonnets are bound for 
 
 the border. 
 
 Many a banner spread, 
 Flutters al)o\ e your head, 
 Many a crest that is famous in story, 
 Mount and make ready tlien, 
 Sons of the mountain glen. 
 Fight for the Queen and our okl Scot- 
 tish glory. 
 
 Come from the hills where your hirsels 
 are grazing. 
 Come from the glen of the buck and 
 the roe ; 
 Come to tlie crag where the beacon is 
 blazing. 
 Come with the buckler, the lance, and 
 the bow. 
 
 Trumpets are sounding. 
 War-steeds are bounding. 
 Stand to your arms and march in good 
 order ; 
 
 England shall many a dav 
 Tell of the bloody fray, 
 When tlie Blue Bonnets came over the 
 the Border. 
 
 From TJic Monastery, 1820. 
 
 LIFE 
 
 Youth ! thou wear'st to manhood now ; 
 
 Darker lip and darker brow. 
 
 Statelier step, more iiensive mien, 
 
 In thy face and gait are seen : 
 
 Thou must now brook midnight 
 
 watches. 
 Take thy food and sport by snatches ! 
 For the gambol and the jest 
 Thou wert wont to love tlie best, 
 Graver follies must thou follow. 
 But as senseless, false, and hollow. 
 
 From The Abbot, 1820. 
 
 COUNTY GUY 
 
 Ah ! County Guy, the hour is nigh, 
 
 The sun has left the lea, 
 The orange flower perfumes the bower, 
 
 The breeze is on the sea. 
 
 The lark his lay who thrilled all day 
 Sits hushed his partner nigh : 
 
 Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour, 
 But where is County Guy? 
 
 The village maid steals through the 
 shade, 
 
 Her shepherd's suit to hear ; 
 To beauty shy by lattice high, 
 
 Sings high-born Cavalier. 
 The star of Love, all stars above 
 
 Now reigns o'er earth and sky ; 
 And high and low the influence know — 
 
 But wiiere is County Guy ? 
 
 From Quentiu Duncard, 1823. 
 
 BONNY DUNDEE 
 
 To the liOrds of Convention 't was Clav- 
 
 er"se who sp'oke, 
 " Ere the King's crown shall fall there 
 
 are crowns to be broke ; 
 So let each Cavalier who loves honor 
 
 and me. 
 Come follow the bonnet of Bonny Dun- 
 dee. 
 Come fill up my cup, come fill up 
 
 my can. 
 Come saddle your horses and call up 
 
 your men ; 
 Come open the West Port and let 
 
 me gang free. 
 And it 's room for the bonnets of 
 Bonny Dundee ! " 
 
 Dundee he is mounted, he rides up the 
 
 street, 
 The bells are rung backward, the drums 
 
 they are beat ; 
 But the Provost, douce man, said, " Just 
 
 e'en let him be. 
 The Gude Town is weel quit of that Deil 
 
 of Dundee." 
 Come fill up my cup, etc. 
 
 As he rode down the sanctified bends of 
 
 the Bow, 
 Ilk carline was flyting and shaking her 
 
 pow ; 
 But the young plants of grace they 
 
 looked couthie and slee. 
 Thinking luck to thy bonnet, thou 
 
 Bonny Dundee ! 
 Come fill up my cup, etc. 
 
 With sour-featured W^higs the Grass- 
 market was crammed, 
 
 As if half the West had set tryst to be 
 hanged ; 
 
i66 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 There was spite in each look, there was 
 
 fear in each e'e, 
 As they watched for the bonnets of 
 
 Bonny Dundee. 
 Come fill up my cup, etc. 
 
 These cowls of Kilmarnock had spits 
 and had spears, 
 
 And lang-hafted gullies to kill cava- 
 liers ; 
 
 But they shrunk to close-heads and the 
 causeway was free. 
 
 At the toss of the bonnet of Bonny Dun- 
 dee. 
 Come fill up my cup, etc. 
 
 He spurred to the foot of the proud 
 
 Castle x'ock. 
 And with the gay Gordon he gallantly 
 
 spoke ; 
 " Let Mons Meg and her marrows speak 
 
 twa words or three. 
 For the love of the bonnet of Bonny 
 
 Dundee." 
 Come fill up ray cup, etc. 
 
 The Gordon demands of him which way 
 
 he goes — 
 "Where'er shall direct me the shade of 
 
 Montrose ! 
 Your Grace in short space shall hear 
 
 tidings of me. 
 Or that low lies the bonnet of Bonny 
 
 Dundee. 
 Come fill up my cup, etc. 
 
 "There are liills beyond Pentland and 
 lands beyond Fortli, 
 
 If there's lords in the Lowlands, tliere's 
 chiefs in tlie North ; 
 
 There are wild Duniewassals three thou- 
 sand times three, 
 
 Will ciy hoigh /• for the bonnet of Bonny 
 Dundee. 
 Come fill up my cup, etc. 
 
 " There's brass on the target of barkened 
 bull-hide ; 
 
 There's steel in the scabbard that dangles 
 beside ; 
 
 The brass shall be burnislied, the steel 
 sliall flash free. 
 
 At a toss of the bonnet of Bonny Dun- 
 dee. 
 Come fill up my cup, etc. 
 
 "Away to the hills, to the caves, to the 
 
 rocks — 
 Ere I own an usurper, I'll couch with the 
 
 fox ; 
 And tremble, false Wliigs, in the midst 
 
 of your glee, 
 You have not seen the last of my bonnet 
 
 and me ! " 
 Come fill up my cup, etc. 
 
 He waved his proud liand and the 
 
 trumpets were blown. 
 The kettle-drums clashed and the horse- 
 men rode on. 
 Till on Ravelston's cliffs and on Cler- 
 
 miston's lee 
 Died away the wild war-notes of Bonny 
 Dundee. 
 Come fill up my cup, come fill up 
 
 ni)"^ can. 
 Come saddlp the horses and call up 
 
 the men. 
 Come open your gates and let me 
 
 gae free. 
 For its vip witli the bonnets of 
 Bonny Dundee ! 
 
 December, lS-25. 1830. 
 
 HERE'S A HEALTH TO KING 
 CHARLES 
 
 Bring tlie bowl wliich you boast, 
 
 Fill it up to the brim ; 
 'T is to him we love most. 
 
 And to all who love liim. 
 Brave gallants, stand up, 
 
 And avaunt ye, base carles ! 
 Were there death in the cup. 
 
 Here's a health to King Cliarles. 
 
 Though he wanders through dangers, 
 
 iJnaided, unknown. 
 Dependent on strangers, 
 
 Estranged from his own ; 
 Tliough 't is under our breatli, 
 
 Amidst forfeits and perils, 
 Here's to honor and faith. 
 
 And a health to King Charles I 
 
 Let such honors abound 
 
 As tlie time can afford, 
 The knee on the ground. 
 
 And tiie hand on the sword ; 
 But the time sliall come round 
 
 When, 'mid Lords, Dukes, and Earls, 
 Tlie loud trumpet shall sound. 
 
 Here's a healtli to King Charles ! 
 
 From Woodstock, 1836. 
 
BYRON 
 
 LIST OF REFERENCES 
 
 Editions 
 
 * *The standard edition is that published by Murray, London, 1898- 
 1904, in 13 voUimes: Letters and Journals, 6 volumes, edited by R. E. 
 Prothero ; Poetical Works, 7 volumes, edited by E. II. Coleridge. 
 
 Poetical Works, Riverside Edition, 5 volumes, Houghton & Mifflin. 
 Poetical Works, Oxford Edition, 1 volume. * Poetical Works, Cambridge 
 Edition, edited by Paul E, More (the best one- volume edition). 
 
 Biography 
 
 * Moore (Thomas), The Letters and Journals of Lord Byron, with 
 Notices of his Life, 1830, (the standard biography, though unreliable on 
 many points). Galt (John), Life of Lord Byron, 1830 (based in part on 
 Moore's Life). Moistdot (Armand), Histoire de la Vie et des Ecrits de Lord 
 Byron, Paris, 1860. Lescure (Adolphe), Lord Byron, Histoire d'un Homme, 
 Paris, 1866. Elze (Karl), Lord Byron, Berlin, 1870 ; English translation, 
 London, 1872. Castelar (Emilio), Vida de Lord Byron, Madrid, 1873 ; 
 English translation, London, 1875. * Nichol (John), Byron (English 
 Men of Letters Series), 1880 (the best brief biography). Jeaffrkson 
 (J. C), The Real Lord Byron, 1883. Noel (Roden), Lord Byron (Great 
 Writers Series), 1887. Ackermann (Richard), Lord Byron, sein Leben, 
 seine Werke, Heidelberg, 1901. 
 
 Personal Reminiscences and Early. Criticism 
 
 Medwin (Thomas), Conversations of Lord Byron, 1824. Dallas 
 (R. C), Recollections of Lord Byron, from 1808 to 1814, 1824. Gamba 
 (Pietro), A Narrative of Lord Byron's Last Journey to Greece, 1825. 
 Hunt (Leigh), Lord Byron and some of his Contemporaries, 1828. Hunt 
 (Leigh), Autobiography. Grimm (Hermann), Fiinfzehn Essays : Lord 
 Byron und Leigh Hunt. 
 
 Macaulay (T. B.), Edinburgh Review, 1831 : Moore's Life of Byron. 
 Also in his Essays. Disraeli (B.), Venetia (Portrait of Byron). Jeffrey 
 (Lord Francis), Edinburgh Review : No. 38, Art. 10, Childe Harold ; No. 
 42, Art. 2, The Giaour ; No. 45, Art. 9, The Corsair and Bride of Abydos ; 
 
 167 
 
1 68 BRITISH POETS 
 
 No. 54, Art. 1, Byron's Poetry ; No. 56, Art. 7, Manfred ; No. 58, Art. 2, 
 Beppo ; No. 70, Art. 1, Marino Faliero ; No. 72, Art. 5, Byron's Tragedies. 
 Also in his Critical Essays. Southey (R.), Essays, 1832. De QirmoEY 
 (T.), Reminiscences. Trelawney (E. J.), Recollections of Shelley and 
 Byron, 1858. Guiccioli (Countess), Lord Byron juge par les Temoins de 
 sa Vie, Paris, 1868 ; English translation by Jerningham — My Recollec- 
 tions of Lord Byron and Those of Eye- Witnesses of His Life — London, 
 1869. Pkocter (B. W.), Autobiography. Hugo (V.), Litterature et 
 Philosophic, 1834. 
 
 Later Criticism, etc. 
 
 ^Arxold (M.), Essays in Criticism. Barbey D'Aurevilly (Jules), 
 Litterature etrangere. Blaze de Bury (Henri j. Tableaux Romantiques 
 de Litterature et d'Art. Braxdes (G. M. C), Shelley und Lord Byron : 
 Zwei litterarische Charakterbilder, * Braxdes (G. M. C), Die Haupt- 
 stronmngen in der Litteratur des neunzehnten Jahrhunderts, Vol. IV. 
 Chestertox (G. K.), Twelve Tjq^es : The Optimism of Byron. Darmes- 
 teter (James), Essais de Litterature anglaise. Dowdex (Edward), The 
 French Revolution and English Literature : Essay VI. Dowdex (Ed- 
 ward), Studies in Literature : French Revolution and Literature. Hut- 
 Tox (R. H.), Essays in Literary Criticism. KiX(iSLEY (Charles), Works : 
 Thoughts on Shelley and Byron. Loforte-Roxdi (Andrea), Nelle Let- 
 terature straniere. Mazzixi (G.), Essays. * IMore (Paul E.), Atlantic 
 Monthly, Dec, 1898 : The Wholesome Revival of Byron. Noel (R.), 
 Essays on Poetry and Poets : Lord Byron and His Times. * Morley 
 (John), Miscellanies, Vol. I. Ossoli (Margaret F.), Art, Literature and 
 the Drama. Rossetti (W. M.) Lives of Famous Poets. * Schmidt 
 (Julian), Portraits aus dem neunzehnten Jahrhundert: Lord Byron. 
 SwixBURXE (A. C), Miscellanies : Wordsworth and Byron. * Swixburxe 
 (A. C), Essays and Studies. * Symoxds (J. A.), In Ward's English Poets, 
 Vol. IV. * Taixe (H.), History of English Literature, Vol. IV. * Trext 
 (W. P.), Authority of Criticism : The Byron Revival. * Watts-Duxtox 
 (T.), In Chambers' New Cyclopaedia of English Literature. * Woodberry 
 (G. E.), Makers of Literature. 
 
 Brooks (S. W.), English Poets. Caixe (T. Hall), Cobwebs of Criti- 
 cism. Coukthope (William J.), Liberal 3Iovement in English Literature. 
 Dawsox (W. J.), Makers of Modern English. Devey (J.), Modern 
 English Poets. Dixox (W. M.), English Poetry. Friswell (J. H.), Es- 
 says on English Writers. Haxcock (A. E.), French Revolution and the 
 English Poets. Hayward (A.), Sketches of Eminent Statesmen and 
 Writers, with other Essays. Mexgix (Urbain), L'ltalie des Romantiques. 
 MixTO (W.), The Georgian Era. Moxti (Giulio), Studi Critici. Moir 
 (D. M.), Sketches of the Poetical Literature of the Past Half-Century, 
 1851. Nadal (E. S.), Essays at Home. Nisard (Desire), Portraits et 
 Etudes d'Histoire litteraire. Reed (H.), Lectures on the British Poets. 
 Sauxders (F.), Famous Books. Schuyler (Eugene), Italian Influences. 
 
BYRON 169 
 
 Sharp (R. F.), Architects of English Literature. Street (J. S.), Boole of 
 Essays. Swanwick (A.), Poets the Interpreters of Their Age. Tucker- 
 MAX (Henry T.), Notes on the Poets. 
 
 Bvron's Influence ox the Continent 
 
 See Brandes, Elze, Castelar, Taine, Mengin, Monti, Nisard, Mon- 
 dot, Lesoure, Hugo, etc., above ; and Lamartine and Gautier, below. 
 
 AcKERMANN (Richai'd), Lord Byron : sein Leben, seine Werke, sein 
 Einfluss auf die Deutsche Litteratur. Clark (W. J.), Byron und die Ro- 
 niantische Periode in Frankreich (Inaugural Dissertation). Dumas, 
 Memoires, Vol. IX, Chap. 6, 7 and 8. * Goethe, Conversations with 
 Eckermann. Hohenhauskn (E. P. A.), Rousseau, Gothe, Byron, ein 
 Kritisch-literarischer Umriss aus Ethischchristlichem Standpunkt. Lam- 
 artine, Le dernier Chant de Childe Harold. Lorenzo y d'AvoT (Man- 
 uel), Shakespere, Lord Byron, y Chateaubriand, como modelos de la Ju- 
 ventud Literaria. Melchior (Felix), Heinrich Heine's Verhaltnis zu 
 Lord Byron. Muoni (Guido), La Fania del Byron, e il Byronismo in Italia. 
 MussET (A. de). La Coupe et les Levres (Dedicace), Lettre a Lamartine, 
 Namouna, etc. Pichot, (A.), Essai sur la Vie, le Caractere, et le Genie de 
 Lord Byron. Pons (Gaspard de), Annales romantiques, 1826: Bona- 
 parte et Byron. Sainte-Beuve, Chateaubriand et son Groupe litteraire, 
 Vol. I., Chap. 15. Sand (George), Histoire de ma Vie, Vol. III. Stend- 
 hal, Racine et Shakespeare. Schmidt (G. B. O.), Rousseau und Byron : 
 Ein Beitrag zur Vergleichenden Litteratur-Geschichte des Revolutions- 
 zeitalters. Weddigen (Friedrich H. O.), Lord Byron's Einfluss auf die 
 Europaischen Litteraturen der Neuzeit. 
 
 Tributes in Verse, etc. 
 
 Lamartine, Meditations poetiques, 1820 : L'Homme, a Lord Byron. 
 Shelley, Julian and Maddalo, 1818; Fragment to Byron, 1818; Sonnet 
 to Byron, 1821. Keats, Sonnet to Byron. Gautier, Poesies, Vol. I. 
 LAN(i, Letters to Dead Authors. Watson (William), Epigrams : Byron 
 the Voluptuary. 
 
 Bibliography 
 
 * Coleridge (E. II.), in Vol. VII. of his edition of the Poetical Works. 
 Anderson (J. P.), Appendix to Noel's Life of Byron. 
 
BYRON 
 
 LACHIN Y GAIR 
 
 Away, ye gaj' landscapes, ye gardens 
 of roses ! 
 In you let the minions of luxury rove ; 
 Restore nie the rocks, where the snow- 
 flake reposes. 
 Though still they are sacred to freedom 
 and love : 
 Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy moun- 
 tains, 
 Round their white summits though 
 elements war ; 
 Tliough cataracts foam 'stead of smooth- 
 flowing fovmtains, 
 I sigli for the valley of dark Loch na 
 Garr. 
 
 Ah ! there my young footsteps in infancy 
 wander'd ; 
 My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was 
 the plaid ; 
 On cliieftains long perish'd my memorj' 
 ponder'd, 
 As daily I strode throvigh the pine- 
 cover'd glade ; 
 I sought not my home till the day's 
 dying glory 
 Gave place to the rays of the bright 
 polar star ; 
 For fancy was cheer'd by traditional 
 story, 
 Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch 
 na Garr. 
 
 "Shades of the dead ! have I not heard 
 your voices 
 Rise on the night-rolling breath of the 
 gale?" 
 Surely the soul of the hero rejoices, 
 And rides on the wind, o'er his own 
 Highland vale. 
 Round TjOcIi na Garr while the stormy 
 mist gathers. 
 Winter presides in his cold icy car : 
 Clouds there encircle the forms of my 
 fathers ; 
 They dwell in the tempests of dark 
 Loch na Garr. 
 
 " lU-starr'd, though brave, did no visions 
 foreboding 
 Tell you that fate had forsaken your 
 cause ? " 
 Ah ! were you destined to die at Culloden, 
 Victory crown'd not your fall with 
 applause : 
 Still were you happy in death's earthly 
 slumber. 
 You rest with your clan in the caves of 
 Brae mar ; 
 The pibroch resounds, to the piper's loud 
 number. 
 Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch 
 na Garr. 
 
 Years have roU'd on, Lochna Garr, since 
 I left you. 
 Years must elapse ere I tread you 
 again : 
 Nature of verdure and fiow'rs has bereft 
 you, 
 Yet still are you dearer than Albion's 
 plain. 
 England ! thy beauties are tame and 
 domestic 
 To one who has roved o'er the moun- 
 tains afar : 
 Oh for the crags that are wild and 
 majestic ! 
 The steep frowning glories of dark 
 Loch na Garr. 1807.1 
 
 MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART 
 
 Zw)7 jxov, aaq ayanCt 
 
 Maid of Athens, ere we part. 
 Give, oh, give me back my heart I 
 Or, since that has left mj^ breast, 
 Keep it now, and take the rest 1 
 Hear my vow before I go, 
 7iurj finv, (Taf ayanu. 
 
 'The dates for Byron's poems are made up 
 chiefly from the very full accounts of their writ- 
 ing and publication given in the notes to E. H. 
 Coleridge's splendid edition. 
 
 170 
 
BYRON 
 
 171 
 
 By those tresses unconfined, 
 Woo'd b}' each ^gean wind ; 
 By those lids wliose jetty fringe 
 Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge ; 
 By those wild eyes like the roe, 
 'Lidii fioh, aaq dyani). 
 
 By that lip I long to taste ; 
 By that zone-encircled waist ; 
 By all the token-flowers tliat tell 
 What words can never speak so well ; 
 By love's alternate joy and woe, 
 'Ai',)!/ noil, (T«f 11} mro). 
 
 Maid (jf Alliens ! I am gone: 
 
 Think of me, sweet! wlien alone. 
 
 Tliougli I fly to Istambol, 
 
 Athens liolds my heart and soul ; 
 
 Can I cease to love tliee ? No ! 
 
 '/j(',)r/ fKiii, craf ayano). ISIO. 1812. 
 
 AND THOU ART DEAD, AS YOUNG 
 AND FAIR 
 
 " Heu, qiianto minus est cum reliquis vorsari 
 quain tui meminisse ! " 
 
 And thou art dead, as young and fair 
 
 As aught of mortal birtli ; 
 And form so soft, and charms so rare. 
 
 Too soon return'd to Earth ! 
 Thougli Earth received them in her bed 
 And o'er the spot tlie crowd may tread 
 
 In carelessness or mirth, 
 Tliere is aii eye which could not brook 
 A moment on that grave to look. 
 
 I will not ask wliere tliou liest low. 
 
 Nor gaze upon the spot ; 
 Tliere flowers or weedsat vvill may grow, 
 
 So 1 behold them not : 
 It is enough for me to jiiove 
 That what I loved, and lung must love, 
 
 Like common earth can rot ; 
 To me there needs no stone to tell, 
 ' Tis Nothing that I loved so well. 
 
 Yet did I love thee to the last 
 
 As fervently as thou, 
 Who didst not change through all the 
 past, 
 
 And canst not alter now. 
 The love whei'e Death has set his seal. 
 Nor age can chill, nor rival steal, 
 
 Nor falsehood disavow : 
 And, what were Avorse, thou c^anst not 
 
 see 
 Or wrong, or change, or fault in me. 
 
 The better days of life were ours ; 
 
 The worst can be but mine ; 
 The sun that cheers, the storm that 
 lowers. 
 
 Shall never more be thine. 
 The silence of that dreamless sleep 
 I envy now too much to weep ; 
 
 Nor need I to repine. 
 That all those charms have pass'd away ; 
 I might have watch'd through long 
 decay. 
 
 The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatcliM 
 
 Must fall the earliest prey ; 
 Though by no hand untimely snatch'd. 
 
 The leaves must drop away ; 
 And yet it were a greater grief 
 To watch it withering leaf by leaf. 
 
 Than see it pluck'd to-day ; 
 Since earthly eye but ill can bear 
 To trace the change to foul from fair. 
 
 I know not if I could have borne 
 
 To see thy beauties fade ; 
 The night that follow'd such a morn 
 
 Had worn a deeper shade ; 
 Thy day without a cloud hath pass'd. 
 And thou wert lovely to the last ; 
 
 Extinguish'd, not decay'd ; 
 As stars that shoot along the sky 
 Shine brightest as they fall from high. 
 
 As once I wept, if I coiild weep. 
 
 My tears might well be shed. 
 
 To think I was not near to keep 
 
 One vigil o'er thj" bed ; 
 To gaze, how fondly ! on thy face, 
 To fold thee in a faint embrace, 
 
 Uiihold thy drooping head ; 
 And show that love, however vain, 
 Nor thou nor I can feel again. 
 
 Yet how much less it were to gain, 
 
 Tliougli thou hast left me free, 
 Tlic loveliest things that still remain. 
 
 Than thus remember thee ! 
 The all of thine that cannot die 
 Through dark and dread Eternity 
 
 Returns again to me. 
 And more thy buried love endears 
 Than aught except its living years. 
 
 February, ISI'2. 1812. 
 
 WHEN WE TWO PARTED 
 
 When we two parted 
 InsileiK^e and tears, 
 
 Half broken-hearted 
 To sever for years, 
 
172 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Pale grew thy cheek and cold, 
 
 Colder thy kiss ; 
 Truly that hour foretold 
 
 Sorrow to this. 
 
 The dew of the morning 
 
 Sunk chill on my brow — 
 It felt like the warning 
 
 Of what I feel now. 
 Tliy vows are all broken, 
 
 And light is thy fame : 
 I iiear thy name spoken, 
 
 And share in its shame. 
 
 They name thee before me, 
 
 A knell to mine ear ; 
 A shudder conies o'er me — 
 
 Why wert thou so dear ? 
 They know not I knew thee, 
 
 Who knew thee too well : 
 Long, long shall I rue thee, 
 
 Too deejily to tell. 
 
 In secret we met — 
 
 In silence I grieve, 
 That thy heart could forget, 
 
 Thy spirit deceive. 
 If I should meet thee 
 
 After long years, 
 How should I greet thee ? — 
 
 With silence and tears. 
 
 1816. 
 ^ THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS 
 
 A TURKISH TALE 
 
 " Had we never loved so kindly, 
 Had we never loved so blindly, 
 Never met or never parted. 
 We had ne'er been broken-hearted." — Burns. 
 
 CANTO THE FIRST 
 
 Know ye the land where the cypress and 
 
 myrtle 
 Ai-e emblems of deeds that are done in 
 
 their clime ? 
 Where the rage of the vulture, the love 
 
 of the turtle, 
 Now melt into sorrow, now madden to 
 
 crime ! 
 Know ye the land of the cedar and vine, 
 Where the flowers ever blossom, the 
 
 beams ever shine : 
 Where the light wings of Zephyr, op- 
 
 press'd witli perfume. 
 Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gill in her 
 
 bloom ; 
 Where the citron and olive are fairest of 
 
 fruit, 
 
 And the voice of the nightingale never 
 is mute : 
 
 Where the tints of the earth, and the 
 hues of the sky. 
 
 In color though varied, in beauty may 
 vie. 
 
 And the purple of ocean is deepest in 
 dye ; 
 
 Where the virgins are soft as the ro.ses 
 they twine. 
 
 And all, save the spirit of man, is divine ? 
 
 'T is the clime of the East ; 't is the land 
 of the Sun — 
 
 Can he smile on such deeds as his chil- 
 dren have done ? 
 
 Oh ! wild as the accents of lovers' fare- 
 well 
 
 Are the hearts which they bear, and the 
 tales which they tell. 
 
 Begirt with manj^ a gallant slave, 
 Apparell'd as becomes the brave. 
 Awaiting each his lord's behest 
 To guide his steps, or guard his rest. 
 Old Giaffir sate in his Divan : 
 
 Deep tliought was in his aged eye ; 
 And though the face of Mussulman 
 
 Not oft betrays to standers by 
 Tlie mind within, well skill'd to hide 
 All but unconquerable pride. 
 His pensive cheek and pondering brow 
 Did more than he was wont avow. 
 
 " Let the chamber be clear'd." — The 
 
 train disappearVl. — 
 " Now call me the chief of the Haram 
 
 guard." 
 With Giaffir is none but his only son. 
 And the Nubian awaiting the sire's 
 
 award. 
 " Haroun — when all the crowd that wait 
 Are pass'd be3'()nd tlie outer gate, 
 (Woe to tlie head whose ej'e beheld 
 My child Zuleika's face unveil'd !) 
 Hence, lead 1113^ daughter from her 
 
 tower ; 
 Her fate is fix'd this very hour : 
 Yet not to her repeat my tliought ; 
 By me alone be dutj' taught ! " 
 
 '• Pacha ! to hear is to obey." 
 No more must slave to despot say — 
 Tlien to tlie tower had ta'en his way. 
 But here young Selim silence brake, 
 
 First lowly rendering reverence meet ; 
 And downcast look'd and gently spake. 
 
 Still standing at the Pacha's feet : 
 For son of Moslem must expire. 
 Ere dare to sit before his sire ! 
 
BYRON 
 
 173 
 
 " Father ! for fear that thou sliouldst 
 
 chide 
 My sister, or her sable guide, 
 Know — for the fault, if fault there be, 
 Was mine, tiien fall thy frowns on me — 
 So lovelily the morning shone. 
 
 That — let the old and weary slee]3— 
 I could not ; and to view alone 
 
 The fairest scenes of land and deep, 
 Witli none to listen and reply 
 To thouglits with which my heart beat 
 
 high 
 Were irksome — for whate'er my mood. 
 In sooth I love not solitude ; 
 I on Zuleika's slumber broke, 
 
 And, as thou knowest that for me 
 
 Soon turns the Haram's grating key, 
 Before the guardian slaves awoke 
 We to the cypress groves had flown. 
 And made earth, main, and heaven our 
 
 own ! 
 There linger'd we, beguiled too long 
 Witli Mejnoun's tale, or Sadi's song ; 
 Till I, who heard the deep tambour 
 Beat thy Divan's approaching hour, 
 To thee, and to my duty true, 
 Warn'd by the sound, to greet thee 
 
 flew ; 
 But tliere Zuleika wanders yet — 
 Nay, Fatlier, rage not — nor forget 
 Tliat none can pierce tliat secret bovver 
 But those who watch the woman's 
 tower." 
 
 " Son of a slave'' — the Pacha said — 
 " From unbelieving mother bred. 
 Vain were a father's hope to see 
 Avight til at beseems a man in thee. 
 Thou, when thine arm should bend the 
 bow. 
 And hurl the dart, and curb the steed. 
 Thou, Greek in soul if not in creed, 
 ]\Iust pore where babbling waters flow. 
 And watch unfolding roses blow. 
 Would that yon orb, whose matin glow 
 Thy listless ej^es so much admire, 
 Would lend thee something of his fire ! 
 Thou, who wouldst see this battlement 
 By Christian cannon piecemeal rent ; 
 Nay, tamely view old Stamljol's wall 
 Before the dogs of Moscow fall, 
 Nor strike one stroke for life and death 
 Against the curs of Nazareth ! 
 Go — let thy less than woman's hand 
 Assume the distaff" — not the brand. 
 But, Harovin ! — to my daughter speed ! 
 And hark — of thine own head take heed — 
 If thus Zuleika oft takes wing — 
 Ihou see'st yon bow — it hath a string ! " 
 
 No sound fromSelim's lip was heard. 
 
 At least that naet old Giafflr's ear. 
 But every frown and every word 
 Pierced keener than a Christian's sword. 
 
 "Son of a slave! — rei^roacli'd with 
 fear ! 
 
 Tliose gibes had cost another dear. 
 Son of a slave ! — -and icko my sire ? " 
 
 Thus held his tlioiights tlieir dark 
 career ; 
 And glances ev'n of more than ire 
 Flash forth, tlien faintly disappear. 
 Old Giaffir gazed upon his son 
 
 And started ; for within his eye 
 He read how much his wrath had done ; 
 He saw rebellion there begun : 
 
 " Come hither, boy — what, no reply? 
 I mai'k thee — and I know thee too ; 
 But there be deeds thou dar'st not do : 
 But if thy beard had manlier length. 
 And if thy hand had skill and strength, 
 I'd joj- to see thee break a lance, 
 Albeit against my own perchance." 
 
 As sneeringly these accents fell, 
 On Selim's eye he fiercely gazed : 
 
 That eye return'd him glance for glance 
 And proudly to his sii'e's was raised, 
 
 Till Giaffir"s quail'd and shrunk as- 
 kance — 
 And why — lie felt, but durst not tell. 
 " Much I misdoubt this wayward bo}^ 
 Will one day work me more annoy : 
 I never loved him from his birth. 
 And — but his arm is little worth, 
 And scarcely in the chase could cope 
 With timid fawn or antelope. 
 Far less would venture into strife 
 Where man contends for fame and life — 
 I would not trust that look or tone : 
 No — -nor the blood so near my own. 
 That blood — he hath not heard — no 
 
 more — 
 I'll watch him closer than before. 
 He is an Arab to my sight. 
 Or Christian crouching in the fight — 
 But hark ! — I hear Zuleika's voice ; 
 
 Like Houris' hymn it meets mine ear ; 
 She is the ofi'spring of my choice ; 
 
 Oh ! more than ev'n her mother dear. 
 With all to hope, and nought to fear — 
 My Peri ! ever welcome here ! 
 Sweet, as the desert fountain's wave 
 To lips just cool'd in time to save — 
 
 Sucli to my longing sight art thou ; 
 Nor can tliey waft to Mecca's shrine 
 More thanks for life, than I for tliine. 
 
 Who blest thy birth and bless thee 
 now." 
 
174 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Fair, as the first that fell of womankind, 
 When on that dread yet lovely serpent 
 
 smiling, 
 Whose image then was stamp'd upon 
 
 her mind — 
 But once beguil'd — and ever more be- 
 guiling ; 
 Dazzling, as that, oh ! too transcendent 
 
 vision 
 To Sorrow's phantom-peopled slumber 
 
 given, 
 When heart meets heart again in dreams 
 
 Elysian, 
 And paints the lost on Earth revived 
 
 in Heaven ; 
 Soft, as the memory of buried love ; 
 Pure, as the prayer which Childhood 
 
 wafts above 
 Was she — tlie daughter of that rude old 
 
 Chief, 
 Who met the maid with tears — but not 
 
 of grief. 
 
 Who hath not proved how feebly words 
 
 essay 
 To fix one spark of Beauty's heavenly 
 
 ray ? 
 Who doth not feel, until his failing 
 
 sight 
 Faints into dimness with its own de- 
 light, 
 His changing cheek, his sinking heart 
 
 confess 
 The might, the majesty of Loveliness? 
 Such was Zuleika, such around her 
 
 shone 
 Tlie nameless charms unmark'd by her 
 
 alone — 
 The liglit of love, the purity of grace, 
 The mind, the Music breathing from 
 
 her face. 
 The heart whose softness harmonized 
 
 the whole. 
 And oh ! that eye was in itself a Soul ! 
 
 Her graceful arms in meekness bending 
 
 Across her gently budding breast ; 
 At one kind word those arms extending 
 To clas]) the neck of him who blest 
 His cliild caressing and carest, 
 Zuleika came — and Giaflfir felt 
 His purpose half within him melt : 
 Not that against her fancied weal 
 His lieart tliough stern could ever feel ; 
 Affection chain'd her to that lieart ; 
 Ambition tore the links apart. 
 
 " Zuleika ! child of gentleness ! 
 How dear this very day must tell, 
 
 When I forget my own distress, 
 In losing what I love so well. 
 To bid thee with another dwell : 
 Another ! and a braver man 
 Was never seen in battle's van. 
 We Moslem reck not much of Ijlood ; 
 
 But yet the line of Carasman 
 Unclianged, unchangeable hath .stood 
 First of the bold Timariot bands 
 That won and well can kee]i their lands. 
 Enough that he wJio comes to woo 
 Is kinsman of the Bey Oglou : 
 His years need scarce a thought employ ; 
 I wovild not have thee wed a boj'. 
 And thou shalt have a noble dower : 
 And his and mj' united pou er 
 Will laugh to scorn the death-firman, 
 Which others tremble but to scan, 
 And teach the messenger what fate 
 The bearer of such boon may wait. 
 And now tliou know'st thy father's will : 
 
 All that thy sex hath need to know : 
 'T was mine to teach obedience still — 
 The way to love, thy lord may show." 
 
 In silence bow'd th« virgin's head ; 
 
 And if her eye was fiU'd with tears 
 That stifled feeling dare not shed. 
 And changed lier cheek from pale to 
 red. 
 
 And red to pale, as through her ears 
 Those winged words like arrows s|)ed. 
 
 What could such be but maiden tears 'i 
 So briglit the tear in Beauty's eye, 
 Love half regrets to kiss it drj' ; 
 So sweet the blush of Bashfulness, 
 Even Pity scarce can wisli it less ! 
 Whate'er it was the sire forgot ; 
 Or if remember'd, mark'd it not ; 
 Thrice clapp'd his hands, and call'd his 
 steed, 
 
 Resigti'd his gem-adorn'd chibouque, 
 And mounting featly for the mead, 
 
 With Maugrabee and Mamaluke, 
 
 His way amid his Delis took. 
 To witness many an active deed 
 With sabre keen, or blunt jerreed. 
 The Kislar only and his Moors 
 Watch well the Haram"s mass}^ doors. 
 
 His head was leant upon his hand. 
 
 His eye look'd o'er the dark blue 
 water 
 That swiftly glides and gently swells 
 Between the Avi riding Dardanelles ; 
 But yet he saw nor sea nor strand, 
 Nor even his Pacha's turban'd band 
 
 Mix in tlie game of mimic slaughter, 
 Careering cleave the folded felt. 
 
BYRON 
 
 175 
 
 Witli sabre stroke right sharply dealt ; 
 Nor inark'd the javelin-darting ci'owd 
 Nor heard their Ollahs wild and loud — 
 He thought but of old Giaftir's 
 daughter ! 
 
 No word from Selim's bosom broke ; 
 One sigh Zuleika's thought bespoke : 
 Still gazed lie through the lattice grate, 
 Pale, mute, and mournfully sedate. 
 To him Zuleika's eye was turn'd. 
 But little from his aspect learn'd : 
 Equal her grief, yet not the same ; 
 Her heart confess'd a gentler flame : 
 But yet that heart, alarm'd or weak, 
 She knew not why, forbade to speak. 
 Yet speak she must — but when essay ? 
 "How strange he thus should turn 
 
 away ! 
 Not thus we e'er before have met ; 
 Nor thus shall be our parting yet." 
 Thrice paced she slowly through tlie 
 room, 
 And watch'd his eye — it still was fix'd : 
 She snatch'd the urn wherein was 
 mix'd 
 The Persian Atar-gul's perfume, 
 And sprinkled all its odoi's o'er 
 The pictured roof and marble floor : 
 The drops, that through his glittering 
 
 vest 
 The playful girl's appeal address'd. 
 Unheeded o'er his bosom flew, 
 As if that breast were marble too. 
 " What, sullen j-et ? it must not be — 
 Oh ! gentle Selim, this from thee ! " 
 She saw in curious order set 
 
 The fairest flowers of eastern land — 
 *' He loved them once : may touch them 
 yet. 
 If offer'd by Zuleika's hand." 
 The childish thought was hardly brea- 
 thed 
 Before the rose was pluck'd and wrea- 
 thed ; 
 The next fond moment saw her seat 
 Her fairy form at Selim's feet : 
 " This rose to calm my brother's cares 
 A message from the Bulbul bears ; 
 It says to-night he will prolong 
 For Selim's ear his sweetest song ; 
 And though his note is somewhat sad. 
 He'll try for once a strain more glad, 
 With some faint hope liis alter.'d lay 
 May sing these gloomy thoughts away. 
 
 " What ! not i-eceive my foolish flower ? 
 
 Nay then I am indeed unblest : 
 On me can thus thy forehead lower ? 
 
 And know'st thou not who loves thee 
 best? 
 Oh, Selim dear ! oh, more than dearest ! 
 Say, is it me thou hat'st or f earest ? 
 Come, lay tliy head upon my breast, 
 And I will kiss thee into rest, 
 Since words of mine, and songs must 
 
 fail, 
 Ev'n from my fabled nightingale. 
 I knew our sire at times was stern. 
 But this from thee had yet to learn : 
 Too well I know lie loves thee not ; 
 But is Zuleika's love forgot ? 
 Ah ! deem I right ? the Pacha's \Aan — 
 Tliis kinsman Bey of Carasman 
 Perhaps may prove some foe of thine. 
 If so, I swear by Mecca's shrine, — 
 If shrines that ne'er approach allow 
 To woman's step, admit her vow, — 
 Without thy free consent, command. 
 The Sultan should not have mj'^ hand! 
 Think'st thou that I could bear to part 
 With thee, and learn to halve my heart ? 
 Ah ! were I several from thy side. 
 Where were thy friend — and who my 
 
 guide ? 
 Years have not seen, Time shall not see. 
 The hour that tears my soul from thee : 
 Ev'n Azrael, from his deadly quiver 
 
 When flies that shaft, and fly it must, 
 That parts all else, sliall doom for ever 
 
 Our hearts to undivided dust ! " 
 
 He lived, he breatlied, he moved, he felt; 
 He raised the maid from where she 
 
 knelt ; 
 His trance was gone, his keen eye shone 
 W^itli thoughts that long in darkness 
 
 dwelt : 
 With thoughts that burn — in rays that 
 
 melt. 
 As the stream late conceal'd 
 
 By the fringe of its willows. 
 When it ruslies reveal'd 
 
 In the light of its billows ; 
 As the bolt bursts on high 
 
 From the black cloud that bound it, 
 Flash'd the soul of that eye 
 
 Throvigh the long lashes round it. 
 A war-horse at the trumiieVs sound, 
 A lion roused by heedless hound, 
 A tyrant waked to sudden strife 
 By graze of ill-directed knife. 
 Starts not to more convulsive life 
 Than he, who heard that vow, display'd. 
 And all, before repress'd, betray'd : 
 '• Now thou art mine, for ever mine, 
 With life to keep, and scarce with life 
 resign ; 
 
176 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Now thou art mine, that sacred oath. 
 Though sworn by one, liath bound us 
 
 both. 
 Yes, fondly, wisely hast thou done ; 
 That vow hath saved more heads than 
 
 one : 
 But blench not thou — tliy simplest tress 
 Claims more from me than tenderness ; 
 I would not wrong the slenderest hair 
 That clusters round tliy foreliead fair, 
 For all the treasures buried far 
 Within the caves of Istakar. 
 This morning clouds upon me lower'd. 
 Reproaches on my head were shower'd. 
 And Giaffir almost call'd me coward ! 
 Now I have motive to be brave ; 
 The son of his neglected slave. 
 Nay, start not, 'twas the term he gave. 
 May show, though little apt to vaunt, 
 A heart his words nor deeds can daunt. 
 His son, indeed ! — 5^et, thanks to thee, 
 Perchance I am, at least shall be ; 
 But let our plighted secret vow- 
 Be only known to us as now. 
 I know tiie wretch who dares demand 
 From Giaffir tliy reluctant hand ; 
 More ill-got wealth, a meaner soul 
 Holds not a Musselim's control : 
 Was he not bred in Egripo ? 
 A viler race let Israel show ! 
 But let that jiass — to none be told 
 Our oath ; the rest shall time unfold. 
 To me and mine leave Osman Bey ; 
 I've partisans for peril's day : 
 Think not I am what I ajipear ; 
 I've arms, and friends, and vengeance 
 
 near." 
 
 " Tliink not thou art what thou appearst ! 
 
 My Selim, thou art sadly changed : 
 This morn I saw thee gentlest, dearest ; 
 
 But now thou'rt from thyself es- 
 tranged. 
 jMy love thou surely knew'st before, 
 It ne'er was less, nor can be more. 
 To see thee, hear thee, near thee stay. 
 
 And hate the night I know not why, 
 Save that we meet not but b}' day ; 
 
 With thee to live, with thee to die, 
 
 I dare not to my hope deny : 
 Thy clieek, thine eyes, thy lips to kiss. 
 Like this — and this — no more tl)an this ; 
 For, Allah ! sure thy lips are flame : 
 
 What fever in thy veins is flushing? 
 My own liave nearly cauglit the same. 
 
 At least I feel my cheek, too. blushing. 
 To soothe thy sickness, watch thy health, 
 Partake, but never waste thy wealth. 
 Or stand with smiles unmurmuring by. 
 
 And lighten half thy poverty ; 
 Do all but close thy dying eje. 
 For that I could not live to try ; 
 To tliese alone my thoughts aspire .:- 
 More (^an I do ? or thou require 'i 
 But, Selim, tliou must answer why 
 We need so mucli of mystery ? 
 The cause I cannot dream nor tell. 
 But be it, since thousay'st 'tis well ; 
 Yet what tliou mean'st by ' arms ' and 
 
 ' friends,' 
 Beyond my weaker sense extends. 
 I meant that Giaffir should have heard 
 
 The very vow I plighted tliee ; 
 His wrath would not revoke my word : 
 
 But surely he would leave me free. 
 
 Can this fond wish seem strange in 
 me. 
 To be wliat I have ever been ? 
 What other hath Zuleika seen 
 From simple childhood's earliest hour? 
 
 What other can she seek to see 
 Than tliee, companion of her bower, 
 
 Tlie partner of her infancy ? 
 These clierish'd tlioughts with life begun, 
 
 Say, why must I no more avow ? 
 Wliat change is wrought to make me 
 shun 
 
 The truth ; my pride, and thine till 
 now ? 
 To meet the gaze of stranger's eyes 
 Our law, our creed, our God denies ; 
 Nor shall one wandering thought of mine 
 At such, our Prophet's will, re])ine: 
 No ! happier made by that deci-ee, 
 He left me all in leaving thee. 
 Deep were my anguish, thus comijell'd 
 To wed with one I ne'er beheld : 
 This wherefore should I not reveal ? 
 Why wilt thou urge me to conceal ? 
 I know the Pacha's haughty mood 
 To thee liath never boded good ; 
 And he so often storms at nought, 
 Allah ! forbid that e'er he ought ! 
 And why I know not, but within 
 My heart concealment weighs like sin. 
 If then such secrecy be crime. 
 
 And such it feels while Ivirking here ; 
 Oh, Selim ! tell me yet in time. 
 
 Nor leave me tluis to thoughts of fear. 
 Ah ! yonder see the Tchocadar, 
 My fatlier leaves the mimic war ; 
 I tremble now to meet Ins eye — 
 Say, Selim, canst thou tell me why ? " 
 
 " Zuleika — to thy tower's retreat 
 Betalve thee — Giaffir I can greet ! 
 And now with him I fain must prate 
 Of firmans, imposts, levies, state. 
 
BYRON 
 
 177 
 
 There's fearful news from Danube's 
 
 banks, 
 Our Vizier nobly thins his ranks. 
 For which the Giaour may give him 
 
 thanks ! 
 Our Sultan hath a shorter way 
 Sucli costly triumph to repay. 
 But, mark me, wlien the twilight' drum 
 Hath warn'd the troops to food and 
 sleep, 
 Unto th}^ cell will Selim come : 
 Then softly from the Haram creep 
 Where we may wander by the deep : 
 Our garden battlements are steep ; 
 Nor these will rash intruder climb 
 To list our words, or stint our time ; 
 And if he doth. I want not steel 
 Which some have felt, and more may 
 
 feel. 
 Then shalt thou learn of Selim more 
 Than thou hast heard or thought before : 
 Trust me, Zuleika — fear not me ! 
 Thou know'st I hold a Haram key." 
 " Fear thee, my Selim ! ne'er till now 
 Did word like this " 
 
 " Delay not thou : 
 I keep the key — and Haroun's guard 
 Have some, and hope of more reward. 
 To-night, Zuleika, thou shalt hear 
 My tale, my jiurpose, and my fear : 
 I am not, love ! what I ajjpear." 
 
 CANTO THE SECOND 
 
 The winds are high on Helle's wave, 
 
 As on tliat niglit of stormy water 
 When Love, who sent, forgot to save 
 The young, the beautiful, the brave. 
 
 The lonely hope of Sestos' davigliter. 
 Oh ! when alone along the sky 
 Her turret-torch was blazing high, 
 Thougli^'ising gale, and breaking foam. 
 And shrieking sea-birds warn'd him 
 
 liome ; 
 And clovids aloft and tides below. 
 With signs and sounds, forbade to go. 
 He could not see, he would not hear, 
 Or sound or sign foreboding fear ; 
 His eye but saw that light of love, 
 The only star it hail'd above ; 
 His ear bvit rang witli Hero's song, 
 " Ye waves, divide not lovers long ! " — 
 Tliat tale is old, but love anew 
 May nerve young hearts to prove as 
 true. 
 
 The winds are high, and Helle's tide 
 Rolls darklj^ heaving to the main ; 
 12 
 
 And Night's descending shadows hide 
 That field with blood bedew'd in 
 vain, 
 The desert of old Priam's pride ; 
 
 The tombs, sole relics of his reign. 
 All — save immortal dreams that could 
 
 beguile 
 The blind old man of Scio's rocky isle ! 
 
 Oh ! yet — for there my steps have been ; 
 These feet have press'd the sacred 
 shore, 
 These limbs that buoyant wave hath 
 
 borne — 
 Minstrel ! with thee to muse, to mourn, 
 
 To trace again those fields of yore, 
 Believing every hillock green 
 
 Contains no fabled hero's ashes. 
 And that around the undoubted scene 
 Thine own " broad Hellespont " still 
 dashes, 
 Be long mj' lot ! and cold were he 
 Who there could gaze denying thee ! 
 
 The night hath closed on Helle's stream, 
 
 Nor yet hath risen on Ida's hill 
 Tliat moon, which shone on his high 
 
 theme : 
 No warrior chides her peaceful beam 
 
 But conscious shepherds bless it still. 
 Their flocks are grazing on the mound 
 
 Of him who felt the Dardan's arrow : 
 That mighty heap of gather'd ground 
 Which Amnion's son ran proudly round, 
 By nations raised, by monarchscrown'd, 
 
 Is now a lone and nameless barrow ! 
 
 Within — thy dwelling-place how nar- 
 row ! 
 Without — can only strangers breathe 
 The name of him that was beneath : 
 Dust long outlasts the storied stone ; 
 But Thou— thy very dust is gone ! 
 
 Late, late to-night will Dian cheer 
 The swain, and chase the boatman's 
 
 fear ; 
 Till then — no beacon on the cliff 
 INIay shape the course of struggling skiff ; 
 The scatter'd lights that skirt the bay, 
 All, one by one, have died away ; 
 The only lamp of this lone hour 
 Is glimmering in Zuleika's tower. 
 Yes ! there is light in that lone chamber, 
 
 And o'er her silken ottoman 
 Are thrown the fragrant beads of anrber. 
 
 O'er which her fairy fingers ran ; 
 Near these, with emerald rays beset, 
 (How could she thus that gem forget ? ) 
 Her mother's sainted amulet, 
 
178 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Whereon engraved the Koorsee text, 
 Could smooth this life, and win the 
 
 next ; 
 And by her comboloio lies 
 A Koran of illumined dyes ; 
 And many a bright emblazon'd rhyme 
 By Persian scribes redeem'd from time ; 
 And o'er those scrolls, not oft so mute. 
 Reclines her now neglected lute ; 
 And round her lamp of fretted gold 
 Bloom flowers in urns of Cliina's mould ; 
 The ricliest work of Iran's loom. 
 And Sheeraz, tribute of perfume ; 
 All that can eye or sense delight 
 
 Are gather'd in that gorgeous room : 
 But yet it hath an air of gloom 
 She, of this Peri cell tlie sprite. 
 What doth she hence, and on so rude a 
 night ? 
 
 Wrapt in the darkest sable vest, 
 
 Which none save noblest Moslem wear. 
 To guard from winds of heaven the 
 breast 
 
 As heaven itself to Selim dear. 
 With cautious steps the thicket thread- 
 ing, 
 
 And starting oft, as through the glade 
 
 Tlie gust its lioUow meanings made, 
 Till on the smoother pathway treading, 
 More free her timid bosom beat. 
 
 The maid pursued her silent guide ; 
 And thougli her terror urged retreat, 
 
 How could she quit her Selim's side ? 
 
 How teach lier tender lips to chide ? 
 
 They reach'd at length a grotto, hewn 
 
 By nature, but enlai'ged by art. 
 Where oft her lute she wont to tune, 
 
 And oft her Koran conn'd ajDart ; 
 And oft in youthful reverie 
 She dream'd wliat Paradise might be : 
 Where woman's parted soul shall go 
 Her Propliet had disdain'd to show ; 
 But Selim's mansion was secure, 
 Nor deem'd slie, could lie long endure 
 His bower in other worlds of bliss 
 Without her, most beloved in this ! 
 Oh ! who so dear witli him could dwell ? 
 What Houri soothe him half so well ? 
 
 Since last she visited the spot 
 
 Some change seem'd wrought within tlie 
 
 grot : 
 It might be only that the night 
 Disguised things seen by better liglit : 
 That brazen lamp but dimly tlirew 
 A ray of no celestial hue ; 
 But in a nook within the cell 
 
 Her eye on stranger objects fell. 
 
 There arms were piled, not such as wield 
 
 The turban'd Delis in the field ; 
 
 But brands of foreign blade and hilt. 
 
 And one was red — perchance with guilt ! 
 
 Ah ! how without can blood be spilt ? 
 
 A cup too on the board was set 
 
 Tliat did not seem to hold sherbet. 
 
 Wliat may this mean ? she turn'd to see 
 
 Her Selim — " Oh ! can this be he ? " 
 
 His robe of pride was thrown aside, 
 
 His brow no high-crown'd turban bore. 
 But in its stead a shawl of red, 
 Wreathed lightly round, his temples 
 wore : 
 That dagger, on whose hilt the gem 
 Were worthj^ of a diadem. 
 No longer glitter'd at his waist, 
 Where pistols unadorn'd were braced ; 
 And from his belt a sabre swung. 
 And from his shoulder loosely hung 
 Tlie cloak of white, the thin capote 
 That decks the wandering Candiote ; 
 Beneath — his golden plated vest 
 Clung like a cuirass to liis breast ; 
 The greaves below his knee that wound 
 With silvery scales were sheathed and 
 
 bound. 
 But were it not that high command 
 Spake in his eye, and tone, and hand, 
 All that a careless eye could see 
 In him was some young Galiongee.^ 
 
 " I said I was not Avhat I seem'd ; 
 
 And now thou see'st my words were 
 true : 
 I have a tale thou hast not dream'd, 
 
 If sooth — its truth must others rue. 
 My story now 't were vain to hide, 
 I must not see thee Osman's bride : 
 But had not thine own lips declared 
 How much of that young hearl^I shared, 
 I could not, must not, yet have shown 
 The darker secret of my own. 
 In this I speak not now of love ; 
 That, let time, truth, and peril prove: 
 But first— Oh ! never wed another — 
 Z.uleika ! I am not thy brother ! " 
 
 " Oh ! not my brother ! — yet unsay — 
 God ! am I left alone on earth 
 
 To mourn — I dare not curse — the day 
 That saw my solitary birtli ? 
 
 Oil ! thou wilt love me now no more ! 
 My sinking heart foreboded ill ; 
 
 But know me all I was before, 
 
 ^ A Turkisli sailor. 
 
BYRON 
 
 179 
 
 Tliy sister — friend — Zuleika still. 
 Tliou led'st me iiere perchance to kill ; 
 
 If thou hast cause for vengeance, see ! 
 My breast is offer'd — take thy fill ! 
 
 Far better with the dead to be 
 
 Than live thus nothing now to tliee ! 
 Perhaps far worse, for now I know 
 Why Griaffir alway seem'd thy foe ; 
 And I, alas ! am Giaffir's cliild, 
 For whom thou wertcontemn'd, reviled. 
 If not thy sister — wouldst thou save 
 My life, oh ! bid me be thy slave ! " 
 
 " My slave, Zuleika ! — nay, I'm thine : 
 
 But, gentle love, this transport calm. 
 Thy lot shall yet be link'd with mine ; 
 I swear it by our Prophet's shrine, 
 
 And be that thought thy sorrow's 
 balm. 
 So may the Koran verse display'd 
 Upon its steel direct my blade. 
 In danger's hour to guard us both, 
 As I preserve that awful oatli ! 
 The name in which thy heart hath prided 
 
 Must change ; but, my Zuleika, know, 
 That tie is widen'd, not divided, 
 
 Although thy Sire's my deadliest foe. 
 My father was to Giaffir all 
 
 Tliat Selim late was deem'd to thee : 
 That brother wrought a brotlier's fall. 
 
 But spared, at least, my infancy ; 
 And luU'd me with a vain deceit 
 That yet a like return may meet. 
 He rear'd me, not with tender help, 
 
 But like the nephew of a Cain ; 
 He watched me like a lion's whelp. 
 
 That gnaws and yet may break his 
 chain. 
 
 My father's blood in every vein 
 Is boiling ; but for thy dear sake 
 No present vengeance will I take ; 
 
 Though here I must no more I'emain. 
 But first, beloved Zuleika ! hear 
 How Giaffir wrought this deed of fear. 
 
 " How first their strife to rancor grew, 
 
 If love or envy made them foas, 
 It matters little if I knew ; 
 In fiery spirits, slights, though few 
 
 And thoughtless, will disturb repose. 
 In war Abdallah's arm was strong, 
 Remember'd yet in Bosniac song, 
 And Paswan's rebel hordes attest 
 How little love they bore such guest : 
 His death is all I need relate, 
 The stern effect of Giafiir's hate ; 
 And how my birth disclosed to me, 
 Whate'er beside it makes, hath made me 
 free. 
 
 " When Paswan, after years of strife. 
 At last for power, but first for life, 
 In Widdin's walls too proudly sate. 
 Our Pachas rallied round the state ; 
 Nor last nor least in high command, 
 Each brother led a sej^arate band ; 
 They gave their horse-tails ^ to the wind, 
 
 And mustering in Sophia's plain 
 Their tents were pitch'd, their post as- 
 sign'd ; 
 
 To one, alas ! assign'd in vain ! 
 What need of words ! the deadly bowl, 
 
 By Giaffir's order drugged and given, 
 With venoni subtle as his soul, 
 
 Dismiss'd Abdallah's hence to heaven. 
 Reclined and feverish in the bath, 
 
 He, when the hunter's sport was up, 
 But little deem'd a brother's wrath 
 
 To quench his thirst had such a cup : 
 The bowl a bribed attendant bore ; 
 He drank one draught, nor needed more ! 
 If thou my tale, Zuleika. doubt. 
 Call Haroun — he can tell it out. 
 
 " The deed once done, and Paswan's feud 
 In part suppress'd, though ne'er subdued, 
 
 Abdallah's Pachalick was gain'd : — 
 Thou know'st not wliat in our Divan 
 Can wealth procure for worse than man — 
 
 Abdallah's honors were obtain'd 
 By him a brother's mvirder stain'd ; 
 'T is true, the purchase nearly drain'd 
 His ill got treasure, soon replaced. 
 Wouldst question whence ? Survey the 
 
 waste, 
 And ask the squalid peasant how 
 His gains repaj^ his broiling brow ! — 
 Why me the stern usurper spared. 
 Why thus with me his palace shared, 
 I know not. Shame, regret, remorse, 
 And little fear from infant's force ; 
 Besides, adoption as a son 
 By him whom Heaven accorded none, 
 Or some unknown cabal, caprice. 
 Preserved me thus ; — but not in peace : 
 He cannot curb his haughty mood. 
 Nor I forgive a fatlier's blood. 
 
 "Within thy father's house are foes ; 
 
 Not all who break his bread are true ; 
 To these sliould I my birth disclose, 
 
 His days, his very hours were few ; 
 They only want a heart to lead, 
 A hand to point them to the deed. 
 But Haroun only knows, or knew. 
 
 This tale, whose close is almost nigh : 
 
 1 " Horse-tail," the standard of a pacha. 
 
 (Bi/ron.) 
 
i8o 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 He in Abdallah's palace grew, 
 And held that post in his Serai 
 Wiiich holds lie here — he saw him die ; 
 
 But what could single slavery do ? 
 
 Avenge his lord ? alas ! too late ; 
 
 Or sa%'e his son from such a fate ? 
 
 He chose the last, and when elate 
 
 With foes subdued, or friends betray'd, 
 
 Proud Giaffir in higli triumph sate. 
 
 He led me lielpless to his gate, 
 And not in vain it seems essay'd 
 To save the life for which he pray'd. 
 
 The knowledge of my birth secured 
 From all and each, bnt most from me ; 
 
 Thus Giaffir 's safety was insured. 
 Removed he too from Roumelie 
 
 To this our Asiatic side, 
 
 Far from ovir seats bj' Danube's tide. 
 With none but Haroun, wlio retains 
 
 Such knowledge — and that Nubian feels 
 A tyrant's secrets are but cliains. 
 
 From which the captive gladly steals, 
 
 And this and more to me reveals : 
 
 Such still to guilt just Alia sends — 
 
 Slaves, tools, accomplices — no friends ! 
 
 " All this, Zuleika, harshly sounds ; 
 
 But harsher still my tale must be : 
 Howe'er my tongue th}"^ softness wounds. 
 
 Yet I must prove all truth to thee. 
 
 I saw thee start this garb to see, 
 Yet is it one I oft have worn. 
 
 And long must wear : this Galiongee, 
 To whom thy plighteel vow is sworn, 
 
 Is leader of those pirate hordes. 
 
 Whose laws and lives are on their 
 swoids ; 
 To hear whose desolating tale 
 Would make thy waning cheek more 
 
 pale : 
 Those arms thou see'st my band have 
 
 brought. 
 The hands that wield are not remote : 
 This cup too for the rugged knaves 
 
 Is fill'd — once quaflf'd, they ne'er repine : 
 Our prophet might forgive tlie slaves : 
 
 They're only infidels in wine. 
 
 " What could I be? Proscribed at home, 
 
 And taunted to a wisli to roam ; 
 
 And listless left — for Giaffir's fear 
 
 Denied the courser and the spear — 
 
 Though oft— Oh, Mahomet ! how oft— 
 
 In full Divan the despot scoff'd, 
 
 As if my weak unwilling hand 
 
 Refused the bridle or the brand : 
 
 He ever went to war alone. 
 
 And pent me here untried — unknown ; 
 
 To Haroun's care with women left, 
 
 By hope unblest, of fame bereft, 
 While thou — wliose softness long en- 
 dear 'd, 
 Tliough it unmann'd me, still had 
 
 cheer "d — 
 To Brusa's walls for safety sent, 
 Awaited'st there the field's event. 
 Haroun, who saw iwy spirit pining 
 Beneath inaction's sluggisli yoke, 
 His captive, though with dread resign- 
 ing, 
 My thraldom for a season broke. 
 On promise to return before 
 The day wlien Giaffir's charge was o'er. 
 'T is vain — my tongue cannot impart 
 My almost drunkenness of heart, 
 When first this liberated eye 
 Survey'd Earth, Ocean, Sun, and Skj', 
 As if my spirit pierced tliem thi-ough, 
 And all their inmost wonders knew ! 
 One word alone can paint to thee 
 That more than feeling — I was Free ! 
 E'en for thy presence ceased to pine ; 
 The World — nay, Heaven itself was 
 mine ! 
 
 " The shallop of a trusty Moor 
 Convey'd me fi'om tliis idle shore ; 
 I long'd to see tlie isles that gem 
 Old Ocean's purple diadem : 
 I sought by turns, and saw tliem all : 
 
 But when and where I join'd the 
 crew. 
 With whom I'm pledged to rise or fall. 
 
 When all that we design to do 
 Is done, 't will then be time more meet 
 To tell thee, when the tale's complete. 
 
 " 'T is true, they are a lawless brood. 
 But rougli in form, nor mild in mood ; 
 And every creed, and every race. 
 With tliem hath found — may find a 
 
 place ; 
 But open speech, and ready hand. 
 Obedience to their cliief's command ; 
 A soul for every enterprise. 
 That never sees withterrors eyes ; 
 Friendship for each, and faith to all. 
 And vengeance vow'd for those wlio fall. 
 Have made them fitting instruments 
 For more than ev'n my own intents. 
 And some — and I have studied all 
 
 Distinguish'd from the vulgar rank, 
 But cliiefly to my council call 
 
 Tlie wisdom of the cautious Frank — 
 And some to higlier thoughts aspire. 
 
 The last of Lambro's patriots there 
 
 Anticipated freedom share ; 
 And oft around the cavern fire 
 
BYRON 
 
 i8i 
 
 On visionary sclienies debate, 
 To snatch the Ra^'ahs from tlieir fate. 
 So let them ease tlieir hearts witli prate 
 Of equal rights, vvliich man ne'er knew ; 
 I have a love for freedom too. 
 Ay I let me like the ocean-Patriarch roam 
 Or only know on laud the Tartar's home ! 
 My tent on shore, my galley on the sea. 
 Are more than cities and Serais to me : 
 Borne by my steed, or wafted by my sail, 
 Across the desert, or before the gale. 
 Bound wliere thou wilt, my barb ! or 
 
 glide, my prow ! 
 But be the star that guides the wanderer. 
 
 Thou ! 
 Thou, my Zuleika, share and bless my 
 
 bark ; 
 The Dove of peace and promise to mine 
 
 ark! 
 Or, since that hope denied in worlds oi 
 
 strife. 
 Be thou the rainbow to the storms of 
 
 life! 
 The evening beam that smiles the clouds 
 
 aw;iy. 
 And tints to-morrow with prophetic ray ! 
 Blest— as the ^luezzin's strain from Mec- 
 ca's wall 
 To pilgrims pure and prostrate at his 
 
 call : 
 Soft — as the melody of youthful days. 
 That steals the trembling tear of si^eecli- 
 
 less praise ; 
 Dear — as his native song to Exile's ears. 
 Shall sound each tone tliy long-loved 
 
 voice endears. 
 For thee in tiiose bright isles is built a 
 
 bower 
 Blooming as Aden in its e;irliest hoTir. 
 A thousand swords, witli Selim's heart 
 
 and hand, 
 Wait — wave — defend — destroy — at thy 
 
 command ! 
 Girt b}"^ my band, Zuleika at my side. 
 The spoil of nations shall bedeck my 
 
 bride. 
 The Haram's languid years of listless ease 
 Are well resign'd for cares — for joj\slike 
 
 tliese : 
 Not blind to fate. I see, where'er I rove, 
 Unnumber'd perils — l)ut one only love ! 
 Yet well my toils shall tliat fond brejist 
 
 repay. 
 Though fortune frown, or falser friends 
 
 betray. 
 How dear the dream in darkest hours 
 
 of ill, 
 Siiould all be changed, to find theefaitii- 
 
 ful still ! 
 
 Be but thy soul, like Selim's, firmly- 
 shown ; 
 
 To thee be Selim's tender as thine own ; 
 
 To soothe each sorrow: share in each de- 
 light. 
 
 Blend every thought, do all — but dis- 
 unite ! 
 
 Once free, 'tis mine our horde again to 
 guide ; 
 
 Friends to each other, foes to aught be- 
 side : 
 
 Yet there we follow but the bent assign'd 
 
 By fatal Nature to man's warring kind : 
 
 Mark ! where his carnage and his con- 
 quests cease ! 
 
 He makes a solitude, and calls it — peace ! 
 
 I, like the rest, must use my skill or 
 strengtli. 
 
 But ask no land beyond my sabre's 
 lengtli : 
 
 Power swa.ys but by division — her re- 
 source 
 
 The blest alternative of f laud or force ! 
 
 Ours be the last ; in time deceit may- 
 come 
 
 Wlien cities cage us in a social home : 
 
 There ev'n thy soul might err — how oft 
 the heart 
 
 Corruption shakes which peril could not 
 part ! 
 
 And woman, more than man, when 
 deatli or woe. 
 
 Or even Disgrace, would lay her lover 
 low, 
 
 Sunk in the lap of Luxury will shame — 
 
 Away suspicion ! — not Zvileika's name ! 
 
 But life is hazai'd at the best ; and here 
 
 No more remains to win, and much to 
 fear : 
 
 Yes, fear ! tlie doubt, the drea<l of los- 
 ing thee. 
 
 By Osman's power, and Giaffir's stern 
 decree. 
 
 Tliat dread shall vanish witli tlie favour- 
 ing gale. 
 
 Which Love to-night hatli promised to 
 my sail : 
 
 No danger daunts the pair his smile hath 
 blest. 
 
 Their steps still roving, but their hearts 
 at rest. 
 
 With tliee all toils are sweet, each clime 
 hath charms ; 
 
 Earth — sea alike — our world witiiin our 
 arms ! 
 
 Ay — let the loud winds whistle o'er the 
 deck, 
 
 So that those arms cling closer round 
 my neck : 
 
l82 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 The deepest murmur of this lip shall be. 
 
 No sigh for safety, but a prayer for thee ! 
 
 The war of elements no fears impart 
 
 To Love, whose deadliest bane is human 
 Art: 
 
 Tliei'e lie the only rocks our course can 
 check ; 
 
 Here moments menace — there are years 
 of wreck ! 
 
 But hence ye thoughts that rise in Hor- 
 ror's shape ! 
 
 This hour bestows, or ever bars, escape. 
 
 Few words remain of mine my tale to 
 close ; 
 
 Of thine but one to waft us from our 
 foes ; 
 
 Yea — foes — to me will Giaflfir's hate de- 
 cline ? 
 
 And is not Osman, who would part us, 
 thine ? 
 
 " His head and faith from doubt and 
 
 death 
 Retui'n'd in time my guard to save ; 
 Few heard, none told, thato'er the wave 
 From isle to isle I roved the while ; 
 And since, though parted from my band. 
 Too seldom now I leave tlie land, 
 No deed they've done, nor deed shall do. 
 Ere I have heard and doom'd it too : 
 I form the plan, decree the spoil, 
 ' Tis fit I of tener share the toil. 
 But now too long I've held tliine ear ; 
 Time presses, floats my bark, and here 
 We leave behind but liate and fear. 
 To-morrow Osman with his train 
 Arrives — to-niglit must break thy chain : 
 And wouldst thou save that haughty 
 
 Bey,— 
 Perchance his life who gave thee 
 
 thine, — ■ 
 With me this hour away — away ! 
 
 But yet, though thou art pliglited 
 
 mine, 
 Wouldst thou recall thy willing vow, 
 Appall'd by trutlis imparted now, 
 Here rest I — not to see thee wed : 
 But be that peril on my head ! " 
 
 Zuleika, mute and motionless, 
 Stood like tliat statue of distress, 
 When, her last hope for ever gone, 
 Tlie mother liarden'd into stone : 
 All in the maid that eye could see 
 Was but a younger Niobe. 
 But ere her lip, or even her eye. 
 Essay 'd to speak, or look reply. 
 Beneath tJie garden's wicket porch 
 Far flash'd on high a blazing torch ! 
 
 Another — and anotlier — and another — 
 ' ' Oh ! fly — no more — yet now my more 
 
 than brother ! " 
 Far, wide, tluough every thicket spread 
 The fearful lights are gleaming red ; 
 Nor these alone — for each right hand 
 Is ready with a sheathless brand. 
 Thej^ part, pursue, return, and wheel 
 With searching flambeau, shining steel ; 
 And last of all. his sabre waving. 
 Stern Giaffir in his fury raving : 
 And now almost they touch the cave — • 
 Oh ! must that grot be Selim's grave ? 
 
 Dauntless he stood — '"Tis come — soon 
 
 past — 
 One kiss, Zuleika — 'tis my last : 
 
 But yet my band not far from shore 
 May hear this signal, see the flash ; 
 Yet now too few — the attemi)t were 
 rash : 
 
 No matter — yet one effort more." 
 Forth to tlie cavern moutli he stept ; 
 
 His pistol's echo rang on high, 
 Zuleika started not, nor wept. 
 
 Despair benumb'd her breast and 
 eye ! — 
 "They hear me not, or if they ply 
 Their oars 'tis but to see me die ; 
 That sound hath drawn my foes more 
 
 nigh. 
 Then f(jrth my father's scimitar, 
 Thou ne'er hast seen less equal war ! 
 Farewell, Zuleika ! — sweet ! retire : 
 
 Yet staj'' within—here linger safe, 
 
 At thee his rage will only cluife. 
 Stir not — lest even to thee percliance 
 Some erring blade or ball should glance. 
 Fear'st thou for him? — may I expire 
 If in tliis sti"ife I seek th}' sire ! 
 No— tliougli by him that poison pour'd ; 
 No— though again he call me coward ! 
 P>ut tamely shall I meet their steel? 
 No — as each crest save his may feel ! " 
 
 One bound he made, and gain'd the 
 sand : 
 
 Already at his feet hath sunk 
 The foremost of the prying band, 
 
 A gasping head, a quivering trunk : 
 Another falls — bvit round him close 
 A swarming circle of his foes ; 
 From right to left his path lie cleft. 
 
 And almost met the meeting wave : 
 His boat appears— -not five oars' length — 
 His comrades strain with desperate 
 strength — 
 
 Oh ! are they yet in tiiue to save ? 
 
 His feet the foremost breakers lave ; 
 
BYRON 
 
 183 
 
 His band are plunging in the bay, 
 Their sabres glitter through the spray ; 
 Wet — wild — unwearied to the strand 
 They struggle — now they touch the land ! 
 They come — 'tis but to add to slaughter — 
 His heart's best blood is on the water. 
 
 Escaped from shot, unharm'd by steel, 
 Or scarcely grazed its force to feel, 
 Had Selim won, betray 'd, beset, 
 To where the strand and billows met ; 
 There as his last step left the land — 
 And the last death-blow dealt his hand — 
 Ah ! wherefore did he turn to look 
 
 For her his eye but sougJit in vain ? 
 That pause, that fatal gaze he took, 
 Hath doom'd his death, or fix'd his 
 chain. 
 Sad proof, in peril and in pain, 
 How late will Lover's hope remain ! 
 His back was to the dashing spray : 
 Behind, but close, his comrades lay. 
 When, at the instant, hiss'd the ball— 
 " So may the foes of Giaffir fall ! " 
 Whose voice is heard ? whose carbine 
 
 rang? 
 Whose bullet through the night-air sang. 
 Too nearly, deadly aim'd to err ? 
 'Tis thine — Abdallah's Murderer ! 
 The father slowly rued thy hate. 
 The son hath found a quicker fate : 
 Fast from his breast the blood is bub- 
 bling, 
 The whiteness of the sea-foam troub- 
 ling— 
 If aught his lips essay 'd to groan. 
 The rushing billows choked the tone ! 
 
 Morn slowly rolls the clouds away ; 
 
 Few trophies of the fight are there : 
 The shouts that shook the midnight-bay 
 Are silent ; but some signs of fray 
 
 That strand of strife may bear. 
 And fragments of each shiver 'd brand 
 Steps stamp'd ; and dash'd into the sand 
 The print of many a struggling hand 
 
 May there be mark'd ; nor far remote 
 
 A broken torch, an oarless boat ; 
 And tangled on the weeds that heap 
 The beach where shelving to the deep 
 
 There lies a white capote ! 
 'T is rent in twain — one dark-red stain 
 The wave yet ripples o'er in vain ; 
 But where is he who wore ? 
 Ye ! who would o'er his relics weep. 
 Go. seek them where the surges sweep 
 Their burthen round Sigaeuni's steep 
 
 And cast on Lemnos' shore : 
 The sea-birds shriek above the prey. 
 
 O'er which their hungry beaks delay, 
 
 As shaken on his restless pillow, 
 
 His head heaves with the heaving 
 
 billow ; 
 That hand, whose motion is not life, 
 Yet feebly seems to menace strife. 
 Flung by the tossing tide on high, 
 
 Then levell'd with the wave — 
 What recks it, though that corse shall 
 lie 
 
 Witliin a living grave? 
 Tlie bird that tears that prostrate form 
 Hath only robb'd the meaner worm ; 
 The only lieart, the only eye 
 Had bled or wept to see him die. 
 Had seen those scatter'd limbs composed, 
 
 And mourn'd above his turban-stone, 
 That heart hath burst— that eye was 
 closed — 
 
 Yea — closed before his own ! 
 
 By Helle's stream there is a voice of wail ! 
 And woman's eye is wet — man's cheek 
 
 is pale : 
 Zuleika ! last of Giaffir's race, 
 Tliy destined lord is come too late : 
 He sees not — ne'er shall see thy face ! 
 
 Can he not hear 
 The loud Wul-wuUeh warn his distant 
 
 ear? 
 Thy liandmaids weeping at the gate, 
 The Koran-chanters of the hymn of fate. 
 The silent slaves with folded arms that 
 
 wait, 
 Sighs in the hall, and shrieks upon the 
 
 gale. 
 
 Tell him thy tale ! 
 Thou didst not view thy Selim fall ! 
 That fearful moment wlien he left the 
 
 cave 
 
 Thy heart grew chill: 
 He was thy hope — thy joy — thy love — 
 
 thine all. 
 And that last thought on him thou 
 
 couldst not save 
 Sufficed to kill ; 
 Burst forth in one wild cry — and all was 
 
 still. 
 Peace to thy broken heart, and virgin 
 
 grave ! 
 Ah ! happy ! but of life to lose the worst 1 
 That grief — though deep — though fatal— 
 
 was thy first ! 
 Thrice happy ne'er to feel nor fear the 
 
 force 
 Of absence, shame, pride, hate, revenge, 
 
 remorse ! 
 And, oh ! that pang wh^J'e more thaa 
 
 madness lies ! 
 
i84 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 The worm that will not sleep — and never 
 
 dies ; 
 Thought of the gloomy day and ghastly 
 
 night, 
 That dreads the darkness, and yet loathes 
 
 the light, 
 That winds around, and tears the quiver- 
 ing heart ! 
 Ah I wherefore not consume it — antl 
 
 depart ! 
 Woe to tliee, rash and unrelenting chief ! 
 Vainly thou heaj)'st the dust upon tliy 
 
 head. 
 Vainly the sackclotli o'er thy limbs 
 
 dost spread : 
 By that same hand Abdallah — Selim : 
 
 bled. 
 Now let it tear thy beard in idle grief . 
 Thy pride of heart, thy bride forOsman's 
 
 bed, 
 She, whom thy sultan had but seen to 
 
 wed. 
 Thy Daughter's dead ! 
 Hope of thine age, thy twilight's lonely 
 
 beam. 
 The Star hath set that shone on Helle's 
 
 stream. 
 What quench'd its ray ? — the blood that 
 
 thou hast shed ! 
 Hark ! to the hurried question of Despair : 
 •'Where is my child?" — an Echo an- 
 swers — " Where ? " 
 
 Within the place of thousand tombs 
 
 That shine beneath, while dark above 
 The sad but living cypress glooms 
 
 And withers not, though branch and 
 leaf 
 Are stamp'd with an eternal grief. 
 
 Like early unrequited Love, 
 One spot exists, wliich ever blooms, 
 
 Ev"n in that deadly grove — 
 A single rose is shedding there 
 
 Its lonelj' lustre, meek and pale : 
 It looks as planted by Despair — 
 
 So white — so faint — the slightest gale 
 Might wliirl the leaves on high : 
 
 And j^et, though storms and blight 
 assail, 
 And hands more rude than wintry sky 
 
 May wring it from the stem — in vain — 
 
 To-morrow sees it bloom again : 
 The stalk some spirit gently rears, 
 And waters witli celestial tears. 
 
 For well maj' maids of Helle deem 
 That this can he no earthly flower, 
 Which mocks the tempest's withering 
 
 hour. 
 And buds unshelter'd by a bower ; 
 
 Nor droops though Spring refuse her 
 shower. 
 
 Nor woos the summer beam : 
 To it the livelong night there sings 
 
 A bird unseen — but not remote : 
 Invisible his airy wings, 
 But soft as harp that Hovu-i strings 
 
 His long entrancing note ! 
 It were the Bulbul ; but his throat, 
 
 Thovigh mournful, pours not such a 
 strain : 
 For they who listen cannot leave 
 TJie spot, but linger there and grieve, 
 
 As if they loved in vain ! 
 And j^et so sweet tlie tears they slied, 
 'Tis sorrow so unmix'd with dread. 
 They scarce can bear the morn to lai-eak 
 
 That melanchoiy spell, 
 And longer yet would weep and wake, 
 
 He sings so wild and well ! 
 But when the day-blush bursts from high 
 
 Expires that magic melody. 
 And some liave been who could believe, 
 (So fondly j'outhfvil dreams deceive, 
 
 Yet harsh be they that blame.) 
 That note so piercing and jjrofound 
 Will shape and sj'llable its sound 
 
 Into Zuleika's name. 
 'Tis from her cypress summit heard, 
 That melts in air the liquid word : 
 'T is from her lowly virgin earth 
 That white rose takes its tender birth. 
 There late was laid a marble stone : 
 Eve saw it placed — the Morrow gone ! 
 It was no mortal arm that bore 
 That deep-fix'd pillar to the shore ; 
 For there, as Helle's legends tell. 
 Next morn ' twas found where Selim fell ; 
 Lash'd by the tumbling tide, whose wave 
 Denied his bones a holier grave ; 
 And there by night, reclined, ' t is said, 
 Is seen a ghastly turban'd head : 
 
 And hence extended by the billow, 
 
 ' Tis named the " Pirate-phantom's pil- 
 low ! " 
 
 Where first it laj' that mourning flower 
 
 Hath flourish 'd ; flourislielh this hour, 
 Alone and dewy, coldly pure and ])ale : 
 As weeping Beauty's clieek at Sorrow's 
 tale ! 
 
 November, 1S13. November 29, 1813. 
 
 ODE TO NxVPOLEON BUONAPARTE 
 
 " Expende Annibalem :— quot libras in duce 
 
 s\imrno 
 Invenies ? " — Juvenal, Sat. x. 
 
 'T IS done — but yesterday a King ! 
 And arm'd with Kings to strive — 
 
BYRON 
 
 185 
 
 And now thou ait a nameless thing : 
 
 So abject — yet alive ! 
 Is this the man of thousand thrones, 
 Wlio strew'd our earth with hostile 
 bones, 
 
 And can he thus survive ? 
 Since lie, miscalled the Morning Star, 
 Nor man nor fiend hath fallen so far. 
 
 Ill-minded man ! why scourge thy kind 
 
 Who bow'd so low the knee ? 
 By gazing on thyself grown blind, 
 
 Thou taught'st the rest to see. 
 With might unquestiouxl, — power to 
 
 save, — 
 Thine only gift hath been the grave, 
 
 To those that worsliipp'd thee ; 
 
 Nor till tliy fall could mortals guess 
 Ambition's less than littleness ! 
 
 Thanks for tliat lesson — It will teach 
 
 To after- warriors more, 
 Tlian high Pliilosophy can preach, 
 
 And vainly preach'd before. 
 That s[)ell upon the minds of men 
 Breaks never to unite again, 
 
 That led them to adore 
 Those Pagod things of sabre sway 
 With fronts of brass, and feet of clay. 
 
 The triumph and the vanitj'. 
 
 The rapture of the strife — 
 The earthquake voice of Victory, 
 
 To thee the breath of life ; 
 Tlie sword, the sceptre, and that sway 
 Which man seem'd made but to obey, 
 
 Wherewitli renown was rife — 
 All quell'tl ! — Dark Spirit ! wliat must be 
 The madness of thj^ memory ! 
 
 Tiie Desolator desolate ! 
 
 The Victor overthrown! 
 The Arbiter of others' fate 
 
 A Suppliant for liis own ! 
 Is it some yet imperial liope 
 That with such change can calmU'cope ? 
 
 Or dread of death alone ? 
 To die a prince — or live a slave — 
 Thy choice is most ignobly brave ! 
 
 He who of old would rend the oak, 
 Dream'd not of the rebound : 
 
 Chain'd by the truidc lie vainly broke — 
 Alone^liow look"<l lie round ? 
 
 Tliou, in the sternness of thy strength. 
 
 An equal deed hast done at length. 
 And darker fate hast found : 
 
 He fell, the forest prowlers' prey ; 
 
 But thuu must eat thy heart away ! 
 
 The Roman, when his burning heart 
 
 Was slaked witli blood of Rome, 
 Threw down the dagger — dared depart, 
 
 In savage grandeur, home — 
 He dared depart in utter scorn 
 Of men that such a yoke liad borne, 
 
 Yet left him sucli a doom ! 
 His only glory was that hour 
 Of self-upheld abaiidon'd power. 
 
 The Spaniard, 1 wlienthe lust of sway 
 Had lost its quickening spell. 
 
 Cast crowns for rosaries away, 
 An empire for a cell ; 
 
 A strict accountant of his beads, 
 
 A subtle disputant on creeds, 
 His dotage trifled well : 
 
 Yet better liad he neither known 
 
 A bigot's shrine, nor desjiot's throne. 
 
 But thou — from thy reluctant hand 
 
 The thunderbolt is wrung — 
 Too late thou leav'st the high command 
 
 To wliich tiiy \veakness clung ; 
 All Evil Spirit as tliou art. 
 It is enough to grieve the heart 
 
 To see tliine own unstrung ; 
 To think tliat God's fair world liatli been 
 The footstool of a thing so mean ; 
 
 And Earth hath spilt her blood for him, 
 
 Who thus can lioard liis own ! 
 And Monarchs bow'd the trembling 
 limb, 
 And thank'd him for a throne ! 
 Fair Freedom ! we may liold thee dear. 
 When thus thy mightiest foes their fear 
 
 In humblest gnise have sliown. 
 Oh ! ne'er may tyrant leave behind 
 A brighter name to lure mankind ! 
 
 Thine evil deeds are writ in gore. 
 
 Nor written tluis in vain — 
 Thy triumphs tell of fame no more, 
 
 Or deepen every stain : 
 If thou hadst died as honor dies. 
 Some new Napoleon miglit arise. 
 
 To shame tlie world again — 
 But who would soar the solar height, 
 To set in such a starless night ? 
 
 Weigh'd in the balance, hero dust 
 
 Is vile as vulgar clay ; 
 Thy scales, Mortality ! are just 
 
 To all that pass away : 
 But yet methought the living great 
 Some higher sparks should animate. 
 
 To dazzle and dismay : 
 
 ' The Emperor Charles V. 
 
i86 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Nor deeni'd Contempt could thus make 
 
 mirth 
 Of these, the Conquerors of the earth. 
 
 And she, proud Austria's mournful 
 flower, 
 
 Thy still imperial bride ; 
 How bears her breast the torturing 
 hour ? 
 
 Still clings she to thy side ? 
 Must she too bend, must slie too share 
 Thy late repentance, long despair. 
 
 Thou throneless Homicide ? 
 If still she loves thee, hoard tliatgem, — 
 'T is worth thy vanish "d diadem ! 
 
 Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle, 
 
 And gaze upon the sea ; 
 That element may meet thy smile — 
 
 It ne'er was ruled by thee ! 
 Or trace with thine all idle hand 
 In loitering mood upon the sand 
 
 That Earth is now as free ! 
 That Corinth's pedagogue ^ hath now 
 Transferr'd his by-word to thy brow. 
 
 Thou Timour ! in his captive's cage 
 
 What thoughts will there be thine, 
 Wliile brooding in thy prison'd rage ? 
 But one — " The world loas mine ! " 
 Unless, like he of Babylon, 
 All sense is w-ith thy sceptre gone. 
 
 Life will not long confine 
 That spirit pour'd so widely forth — 
 So long obey'd — so little worth ! 
 
 Or, like the thief of fire from heaven. 
 
 Wilt thou withstand the shock ? 
 And share wath him, the unforgiven, 
 
 His vulture and his rock ! 
 Foredoom'd by God — by man accurst, 
 And that last act, tliough not thy worst, 
 
 The very Fiend's arch mock ; 
 He in his fall preserved his pride 
 And, if a mortal, had as proudly died ! 
 
 There was a day — there was an houi". 
 
 While earth was Gaul's — Gaul thine — 
 When that immeasurable power 
 
 Unsated to resign 
 Had been an act of purer fame 
 Than gathers round Marengo's name. 
 
 And gilded thy decline. 
 Through the long twilight of all time, 
 Despite some passing clouds of crime. 
 
 * Dionysius the younger, tyrant of Syracuse, 
 who after his second banishment earned his 
 living by teaching, in Corinth. 
 
 But thou forsooth must be a king, 
 
 And don tlie purple vest. 
 As if tliat foolish robe could wring 
 
 Remembrance from thy breast. 
 Where is that faded garment ? where 
 The gewgaws thou wert fond to wear, 
 
 The star, the string, the crest ? 
 Vain froward child of empire ! say, 
 Are all thy playthings snatched away ? 
 
 Wliere may the wearied eye repose 
 
 AVhen gazing on the Great ; 
 Where neither guilty glory glow^s, 
 
 Nor despicable state ? 
 Yes — one — the first — the last — the best — 
 The Cincinnatus of the West, 
 
 Whom envy dared not hate, 
 Bequeath'd the name of Washington, 
 To make man blush there was but one ! 
 Ajyril 9-10, 18U. April 16, 1814. 
 
 SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY 
 
 She walks in beauty, like the night 
 Of cloudless climes and starry skies ; 
 
 And all that's best of dark and bright 
 Meet in her aspect and her eyes : 
 
 Thus mellow'd to that tender light 
 Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 
 
 One shade the more, one ray the less. 
 Had half impair'd the nameless grace 
 
 Wliich waves in every raven tress. 
 Or softly lightens o'er her face ; 
 
 Where thoughts serenely sweet express 
 How pure, how dear their dwelling- 
 place. 
 
 And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, 
 
 So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, t 
 
 The smiles that win, the %ints that 
 glow. 
 But tell of days in goodness spent, 
 A mind at peace with all below, 
 A heart whose love is innocent ! 
 
 June 12, ISU. 1815. 
 
 OH ! SNATCH'D AWAY IN 
 BEAUTY'S BLOOM 
 
 Oh ! snatch'd away in beauty's bloom. 
 On thee shall press no ponderous tomb ; 
 But on thy turf shall roses rear 
 Their leaves, the earliest of the year ; 
 And the wild cypress wave in tender 
 gloom : 
 
 And oft by yon blue gushing stream 
 Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head, 
 
BYRON 
 
 187 
 
 And feed deep thought with many a 
 
 dream. 
 And lingering pause and lightly 
 
 tread : 
 Fond wretcli ! as if her step disturb'd 
 
 the dead ! 
 
 Away ! we know that tears are vain. 
 That death nor heeds nor hears dis- 
 tress : 
 Will this unteach us to complain ? 
 
 Or make one mourner weep the less? 
 And thou — who tell'st me to forget. 
 Thy looks are wan, tliine eves are wet. 
 ISI4 or 1815. April 23, 1815. 
 
 THE DESTRUCTION OF 
 SENNACHERIB 
 
 The Assyrian came down like the wolf 
 on tlie fold, 
 
 And his cohorts were gleaming in pur- 
 ple and gold ; 
 
 And the sheen of tlieir spears was like 
 stars on the sea. 
 
 When the blue wave rolls nightly on 
 deep Galilee. 
 
 Like tlie leaves of the forest when Sum- 
 mer is green , 
 
 That host with tlieir banners at sunset 
 were seen : 
 
 Like the leaves of the forest when Au- 
 tumn hatli blown, 
 
 That host on the morrow lay wither'd 
 and strown. 
 
 For the Angel of Death spread his wings 
 
 on the blast, 
 And breathed in the face of the foe as 
 
 he pass'd ; • 
 
 And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd 
 
 deadly and chill. 
 And their hearts but once heaved, and 
 
 for ever grew still ! 
 
 And there lay the steed with his nostril 
 all wide. 
 
 But through it there roll'd not the breath 
 of his pride ; 
 
 And the foam of his gapping lay white 
 on the turf. 
 
 And cold as the spray of the rock-beat- 
 ing surf. 
 
 And there lay t!ie rider distorted and 
 
 pale. 
 With the dew on his brow, and the rust 
 
 on his mail,: 
 
 And the tents were all silent, the ban- 
 ners alone. 
 
 The lances unlifted, the trumi)et un- 
 blown. 
 
 And the widows of Ashur are loud in 
 
 their wail, 
 And the idols are broke in the temple of 
 
 Baal ; 
 And the might of the Gentile, unsmote 
 
 by the sword, 
 Hath melted like snow in the glance of 
 
 the Lord ! 
 
 Febniari/ 17, ISlo. 1815. 
 
 SONG OF SAUL BEFORE HIS LAST 
 BATTLE 
 
 Warriors and chiefs ! should the shaft 
 
 or the sword 
 Pierce me in leading the host of the 
 
 Lord, 
 Heed not the corse, though a king's, in 
 
 your path : 
 Bury your steel in the bosoms of Gath ! 
 
 Thou who art bearing my buckler and 
 
 bow, 
 Shovild the soldiers of Saul look away 
 
 from tlie foe, 
 Stretch me that moment in blood at thy 
 
 feet ! 
 Mine be the doom which they dared not 
 
 to meet. 
 
 Farewell to others, but never we part. 
 
 Heir to my roj'alty, son of my heart ! 
 
 Bright is the diadem, boundless the 
 sway. 
 
 Or kingly the death, which awaits us to- 
 day ! 1S15. 1815. 
 
 STANZAS FOR MUSIC 
 
 " O Lachrymarum fons, tenero sacrns 
 Ducentium ortus ex aniino : quater 
 Felix ! in imo qui scatentem 
 Pectore te, pia Nymplia, sensit." 
 
 Gray's Poemata. 
 
 There's not a joy the world can give like 
 
 that it takes away. 
 When the glow of early thought declines 
 
 in feeling's dull decay ; 
 'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the 
 
 blush alone, which fades so fast. 
 But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere 
 
 youth itself be past. 
 
 Then the few whose spirits float above the 
 wreck of happiness 
 
BRITISH POETS 
 
 Are driven o'er tlie shoals of guilt or 
 
 ocean of excess : 
 The magnet uf their course is gone, or 
 
 only points in vain 
 The shore to vvliich their shiver'd sail shall 
 
 never stretch again. 
 
 Then the mortal coldnes'S of tlie soul like 
 death itself conies down ; 
 
 It cannot feel for otliers' woes, it dare not 
 dream its own ; 
 
 That heavy chill has frozen o'er the foun- 
 tain of our tears, 
 
 And though tlie eye may sparkle still, "t is 
 w^here the ice appears. 
 
 Though wit may flash from fluent lips, 
 
 and mirth distract tlie breast, 
 Through midnight liours that yield no 
 
 more their former hope of rest ; 
 'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd 
 
 turret wreath, 
 All green and wildly fresh without, but 
 
 worn and gray beneath. 
 
 Oh could I feel as I have felt, — or be what 
 
 I have been. 
 Or weep as I could once have wept o'er 
 
 many a vanish'd scene ; 
 As springs in deserts found seem sweet, 
 
 all brac-kish though they \h\ 
 So, midst tlie witlier'd waste of life, those 
 
 tears would flow to me. 
 
 3Iarch, IS 15. 1816. 
 
 FARE THEE WELL 
 
 "Alas ! they liad been friends in youth ; 
 But whispering tongues can poison truth 
 And constancy lives in reahus above ; 
 And Ufe is thorny ; and youth is vain ; 
 And to be vvrotli witli one we love. 
 Doth work like madness in the brain ; 
 
 But never either found another 
 To free the hollow heart from paininjr — 
 They stood aloof, the scars remaining. 
 Like cliffs which had been rent asunder ; 
 A dreary sea now flows between. 
 But neither heat, not frost, nor thunder, 
 Shall wholly do away, I ween, 
 The marks of that which once hath been." 
 Coleeidge's Christabel. 
 
 Fare thee well ! and if for ever, 
 Still for ever, fare thee well : 
 
 Even thongli unforgiving, never 
 ' Gainst thee sliall my heart rebel. 
 
 Would that breast were bared before thee 
 Where thj' head so oft hath lain. 
 
 While that placid sleep came o'er thee 
 Which thou ne'er canst know again : 
 
 Would that breast, by thee glanced over, 
 Every inmost thought could show ! 
 
 Then thou wouldst at last discover 
 'T was not well to spurn it so. 
 
 Though the world for this commend 
 thee — 
 
 Though it smile upon the blow, 
 Even its praises must offend thee, 
 
 Founded on another's woe : 
 
 Though iny many faults defaced me, 
 
 Could no other arm be found. 
 Than the one whicli once eml)raced me, 
 
 To inflict a cureless wound ? 
 
 Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not ; 
 
 Love may sink Iw slow decay. 
 But by sudden wrench, believe not 
 
 Hearts can thus be torn away : 
 
 Still thine own its life retaineth, 
 
 Still must mine, though bleeding, beat; 
 
 And the undying thought which paineth 
 Is — that we no more may meet. 
 
 These are words of deeper sorrow 
 Than the wail above the dead ; 
 
 Botli shall live, but everj' morrow 
 Wake us from a widow'd bed. 
 
 And when thou wouldst solace gather. 
 When our child's fir.st accents flow, 
 
 Wilt thou teach her to say " Father ! " 
 Though his care she must forego 'i 
 
 When her little hands shall press thee, 
 When her lip to thine is press'd. 
 
 Think of him whose prayer shall bless 
 thee. 
 Think of him thy love had bless'd ! 
 
 Should her lineaments resemble 
 
 Those thou never more may'st see. 
 
 Then thj- heart will softly tremble 
 With a i5ulse yet true to me. 
 
 All ni}"^ faults perchance thou knowest, '\ 
 All my madness none can know ; ' 
 
 All my lioi)es, where'er thou goest, 
 Wither, yet with thee the}' go. 
 
 Every feeling hath been shaken ; 
 
 Pride, wliich not a world could bow. 
 Bows to thee — by thee forsaken, 
 
 Even my soul forstikes me now : 
 
 But 't is done — all words are idle^ 
 Words from me are "ainer still ; 
 
 But the thoughts we cannot bridle 
 Force their way w'ithout the will. 
 
BYRON 
 
 Fare thee well ! thus disunited, 
 
 Tom from every nearer tie, 
 Sear"d in lieart, and lone, and blighted. 
 
 More than this 1 scarce can die. 
 
 March IS, ISIG. April 4, 1816. 
 
 STANZAS FOR MUSIC 
 
 There be none of Beauty's daughters 
 
 With a magic like tliee ; 
 And like music on tlie waters 
 
 Is thy sweet voice to me : 
 When, as if its sound were causing 
 The charmed ocean's pausing. 
 The waves lie still and gleaming, 
 And the luU'd winds seem di-eaming ; 
 
 And the midnight moon is weaving 
 Her bright chain o'er the deep ; 
 
 VVliose breast is gently heaving. 
 As an infant's asleep : 
 
 So the spirit bows befoi'e tliee. 
 
 To listen and adore thee ; 
 
 With a full but soft emotion. 
 
 Like the swell of .Summer's ocean. 
 
 March 28, 1816. 1816. 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 
 CANTO THE THIRD 
 
 " Afln que cette application vous format de 
 peiiser a. autre chose ; 11 n'y aen verite de reniede 
 ([ue celul-lil et le temv>s." Leitie da Roi de 
 Priisse a D'Alemberi, Sept. 7, 177(i. 
 
 Is tliv face like thy mother's, my fair 
 
 'cliild! 
 Ada ! sole daughter of my house and 
 
 heart ? 
 When last I saw thy young blue eyes 
 
 tliey smiled. 
 And then we parted, — not as now we 
 
 part, 
 But with a hope. — 
 
 Awaking with a start. 
 The waters heave around me ; and on 
 
 higli 
 The winds lift up their voices : I depart. 
 Whither I know not ; but the hour's 
 
 gone by. 
 When Albion's lessening shores could 
 
 grieve or glad mine eye. 
 
 Once more upon the waters ! yet once 
 
 more ! 
 And the waves bound beneath me as a 
 
 steed 
 That.knows his rider. Welcome to their 
 
 roar I 
 
 Swift be their guidance, wheresoeer it 
 lead ! 
 
 Tliougii the strain'd mast should quiver 
 as a reed. 
 
 And the rent canvas fluttering strew the 
 gale. 
 
 Still must I on ; for I am as a weed. 
 
 Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam to 
 sail 
 
 Where'er the surge may sweep, the tem- 
 pest's breath prevail. 
 
 In my youth's summer I did sing of One, 
 The wandering outlaw of his own dark 
 
 mind ; 
 Again I seize the theme, then but begun. 
 And bear it with me, as the rushing 
 
 wind 
 Bears the cloud onwards : in that Tale I 
 
 find 
 Tlie furrows of long thought, and dried- 
 
 up teai's. 
 Which, ebbing, leave a sterile track be- 
 hind. 
 O'er which all heavily the journeying 
 
 years 
 Plod the last sands of life, — where not a 
 
 flower appears. 
 
 Since my young days of passion — joy. or 
 
 pain. 
 Perchance my heart and harp have lost 
 
 a string. 
 And both may jar : it may be, that in vain 
 I would essay as I have sung to sing. 
 Yet, though a dreary strain, to this I 
 
 cling ; 
 So that it wean me from the weary dream 
 Of selfish grief or gladness — so it fling 
 Forgetf ulness around me — it shall seem 
 To me, though to none else, a not un- 
 grateful theme. 
 
 He, who grown aged in this world of 
 
 woe , 
 In deeds, not years, piercing the de])ths 
 
 of life. 
 So that no wonder waits him ; nor below 
 Can love or sori-ow, fame, ambition, 
 
 strife. 
 Cut to his heart again with the keen 
 
 knife 
 Of silent, sharp endurance : he can tell 
 Why thouglit seeks refuge in lone caves, 
 
 yet rife 
 With airv images, and shapes which 
 
 dwell 
 Still uiiitnpair'd, though old, in the soul's 
 
 haunted cell. 
 
I go 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 'T is to create, and in creating live 
 A being more intense that we endow 
 With form ourfanc}', gaining as we give 
 The life we image, even as I do now. 
 What am I ? Nothing : but not so art 
 
 tliou, 
 Soul of my thought ! with whom I tra- 
 verse earth. 
 Invisible but gazing, as I glow 
 Mix'd with thy spirit, blended with thy 
 
 birtii, 
 And feeling still with thee in my crush'd 
 feelings' dearth. 
 
 Yet must I think less wildly ; — I have 
 thouglit 
 
 Too long and darkly, till my brain be- 
 came, 
 
 In its own eddy boiling and o'erwrought, 
 
 A whirling gulf of phantasy and flame : 
 
 And thus, untaught in youth my heart 
 to tame. 
 
 My springs of life were jjoisou'd. 'T is 
 too late ! 
 
 Yet am I changed ; though still enough 
 the same 
 
 In strength to bear what time cannot 
 abate, 
 
 And feed on bitter fruits without ac- 
 cusing Fate. 
 
 Something too much of this : — but now 
 
 't is past, 
 And the spell closes with its silent seal. 
 Long absent Harold re-appoars at last ; 
 He of the breast which fain no more 
 
 would feel. 
 Wrung with the wounds wliich kill not 
 
 but ne'er heal ; 
 Yet Time, who changes all, had alter'd 
 
 him 
 In soul and aspect as in age : years steal 
 Fire from the mind as vigor from the 
 
 limb ; 
 And life's enchanted cup but sparkles 
 
 near the brim. 
 
 His had been quaff'd too quickly, and he 
 
 found 
 The dregs were wormwood, — but he 
 
 fiU'd again, 
 And from a purer fount, on holier ground 
 And deem'd its spring perpetual ; but in 
 
 vain ! 
 Still round him clung invisibly a chain 
 Which gjill'd for ever, fettering though 
 
 unseen. 
 And heavy though it clank'd not ; worn 
 
 witli pain, 
 
 Which pined although it spoke not, and 
 
 grew keen, 
 Entering with everj^ step he took through 
 
 many a scene. 
 
 Secure in guarded coldness, he had mix'd 
 Again in fancied safety with his kind, 
 And deem'd his spirit now so firmly fix'd 
 And sheath'd with an invulnerable mind, 
 That, if no joj', no sorrow lurk'd behind ; 
 And he, as one, might 'midst the many 
 
 stand 
 Unheeded, searching through the crowd 
 
 to find 
 Fit speculation ; such as in strange land 
 He found in wonder-works of God and 
 
 Nature's hand. 
 
 But who can view the ripen'd rose, nor 
 
 seek 
 To wear it ? who can curiously behold 
 The smoothness and the sheen of beauty's 
 
 cheek. 
 Nor feel the heart can never all grow 
 
 old? 
 Who can contemplate Fame through 
 
 clouds unfold 
 The star which rises o'er her steep, nor 
 
 climb ? 
 Harold, once more within the vortex, 
 
 roU'd 
 On with the giddy circle, chasing Time, 
 Yet with a nobler aim than in his youth's 
 
 fond prime. 
 
 But soon he knew himself the most unfit 
 Of men to herd with Man-; with whom he 
 
 held 
 Little in common ; untaught to submit 
 His thoughts to others, though his soul 
 
 was quell'd 
 In youth by his own thoughts ; still un- 
 
 compell'd. 
 He would not yield dominion of his 
 
 mind 
 To spirits against whom hisownrebell'd ; 
 Proud though in desolation ; which 
 
 could find 
 A life within itself, to breathe without 
 
 mankind. 
 
 Where rose the mountains, there to him 
 
 were friends ; 
 Where roll'd the ocean, thereon was liis 
 
 home ; 
 Where a blue sky, and glowing clime, 
 
 extends, 
 He had the passion and the power to 
 
 roam ; 
 
BYRON 
 
 191 
 
 The desert, forest, cavern, breaker's foam, 
 Were unto him companionship ; they 
 
 spake 
 A mutual language, clearer than the 
 
 tome 
 Of his land's tongue, whicli he would oft 
 
 forsake 
 For Nature's pages glass'd by sunbeams 
 
 on the lake. 
 
 Like the Chaldean, he could watch the 
 
 stars. 
 Till he liad peojiled them with beings 
 
 bright 
 As their own beams ; and earth, and 
 
 eartliborn jars. 
 And human frailties, were forgotten 
 
 quite : 
 Could he have kept his spirit to that flight 
 He had been happy ; but this clay will 
 
 sink 
 Its spark immortal, envying it the liglit 
 To which it mounts, as if to break the 
 
 link 
 That keeps us from 3'on heaven which 
 
 woos us to its brink. 
 
 But in Man's dwellings he became a 
 
 thing 
 Restless and worn, and stern and weari- 
 some, 
 Droop'd as a wild-born falcon with dipt 
 
 wing. 
 To whom the boundless air alone were 
 
 home : 
 Then came his fit again, which to o'er- 
 
 come, 
 As eagerly the barr'd-up bird will beat 
 His breast and beak against his wiry 
 
 dome 
 Till the blood tinge his plumage, so the 
 
 heat 
 Of his impeded soul would through his 
 
 bosom eat. 
 
 Self -exiled Harold wanders forth again, 
 With nought of hope left, but with less 
 
 of gloom ; 
 The very knowledge that he lived in vain, 
 That all was over on this side the tomb. 
 Had made Despair a smilingness assume, 
 Which, though 't were wild, — as on the 
 
 plundei"'d wreck 
 When mariners would madly meet their 
 
 doom 
 With draughts intemperate on the sink- 
 ing deck, — 
 Did yet inspire a cheer, which he forbore 
 to chock. 
 
 Stop ! — for thy tread is on an Empire's 
 
 dust ! 
 An Earthquake's spoil is sepulchred 
 
 below ! 
 Is the spot mark'd with no colossal bust? 
 Nor column trophied for triuin])halshow ? 
 None ; but the moral's truth tells simpler 
 
 so, 
 As the ground was before, thus let it 
 
 be :— 
 How that red I'ain hath made the harvest 
 
 grow ! 
 And is this all the world has gain'd by 
 
 thee. 
 Thou first and last of fields ! king-making 
 
 Victory ? 
 
 And Harold stands upon this place of 
 
 skulls, 
 The grave of France, the deadly Water- 
 loo ! 
 How in an hour the power which gave 
 
 annuls 
 Its gifts, transferring fame as fleeting 
 
 too ; 
 In •' pride of place " liere last the eagle 
 
 flew. 
 Then tore with bloody talon the rent 
 
 plain, 
 Pierced by the shaft of banded nations 
 
 through ; 
 Ambition's life and labors all were vain ; 
 He wears the sliatter'd links of the 
 
 world's broken chain. 
 
 Fit retribution ! Gaul may champ the 
 bit 
 
 And foam in fetters ; — but is Earth more 
 free ? 
 
 Did nations combat to make One sub- 
 mit ; 
 
 Or league to teach all kings true sov- 
 ereignty ? 
 
 What ! shall reviving Thraldom again 
 be 
 
 The patch'd-up idol of enlighten'd days ? 
 
 Sliall we, who struck the Lion down, 
 shall we 
 
 Pay the Wolf homage ? proffering lowly 
 gaze 
 
 And servile knees to thrones ? No ; 
 prove before ye praise ! 
 
 If not, o'er one fallen despot boast no 
 
 more ! 
 In vain fair cheeks were furrow'd with 
 
 hot tears 
 For Europe's flowers long rooted up 
 
 before 
 
igi 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 The trampler of her vineyards ; in v.iiii 
 
 years 
 Of death, depopulation, bondage, fears. 
 Have all been borne, and broken by the 
 
 accord 
 Of roused-np millions ; all that most 
 
 endears 
 Glory, is v^dien the myrtle wreathes a 
 
 sword 
 Such as Harmoilius drew on Athens' 
 
 tyrant lord. 
 
 There was a sound of revelry by night 
 And Belgium's capital had gather'd 
 
 then 
 Her Beauty and her Cliivalry, and bright 
 The lamps shone o'er fair women and 
 
 brave men ; 
 A thousand hearts beat happily ; and 
 
 when 
 Music arose with its voluptuous swell. 
 Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which 
 
 spake again, 
 And all went merry as a marriage bell ; 
 But hush ! hark ! a deep sound strikes 
 
 like a rising knell ! 
 
 Did ye not hear it ? — No ; 'twas but the 
 
 wind. 
 Or the car rattling o'er the stony 
 
 street ; 
 On with the dance ! let joy be uncon- 
 
 fined ; 
 No sleep till morn, when Youth and 
 
 Pleasure meet 
 To chase tlie gh)wing Hours witli flying 
 
 feet — 
 But hark ! — that heavy sound breaks in 
 
 once more. 
 As if the clouds its echo would repeat ; 
 And nearer, clearer, deadlier than be- 
 fore ! 
 Arm ! Arm ! it is — it is — the cannon's 
 
 opening roar ! 
 
 Within a window'd niche of that high 
 hall 
 
 Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain ; he 
 did hear 
 
 That sound the first amidst the fes- 
 tival, 
 
 And caught its tone with Death's pro- 
 phetic ear ; 
 
 And when they smiled because he 
 deeni'd it near. 
 
 His heart more truly knew that peal 
 too well 
 
 Which stretch'd his father on a bloody 
 bier, 
 
 And roused tlie vengeance blood alone 
 
 could quell ; 
 He rvisird into the field, and, foremost 
 
 fighthig, fell. 
 
 Ah ! tlien and there was hurrying to 
 
 and fro, 
 And gathering tears, and tremblings 
 
 of distress, 
 And cheeks all pale, which but an 
 
 hour ago 
 Blush'd at the praise of their own love- 
 liness ; 
 And there were sudden partings, sucli 
 
 as ])ress 
 The life from out young hearts, and 
 
 choking sighs 
 Which ne'er might be repeated ; who 
 
 could guess 
 If ever more should ineet those mutual 
 
 eyes, 
 Since upon night so svveet such awful 
 
 morn could rise ! 
 
 And there was mounting in hot haste : 
 the steed, 
 
 The mustering squadron, and the clat- 
 tering car. 
 
 Went pouring forward witli impetuous 
 speed , 
 
 And swiftly forming in the ranks of 
 war ; 
 
 And the deep thunder peal on peal afar ; 
 
 And near, the beat of tlie alarming 
 drum 
 
 Rovised up the soldier ere tlie morning 
 star ; 
 
 Wliile throng'd the citizens with ter- 
 ror dumb. 
 
 Or whispering, with wliite lips — "Tlie 
 foe, they come ! they come ! " 
 
 And wild and high tlie " Cameron's 
 
 gathering " rose ! 
 The war-note of Locliiel. which Albyn's 
 
 hills 
 Have heard, and heard, too, have her 
 
 Saxon foes : — 
 How in the noon of night that pibroch 
 
 thrills. 
 Savage and shrill ! But with the breath 
 
 wliich fills 
 Tiieir mountain-pipe, so fill the moun- 
 taineers 
 Witli tlie fierce native daring which 
 
 instils 
 The stirring memory of a thousand 
 
 years. 
 And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each 
 
 clansman's ears ! 
 
 4 
 
BYRON 
 
 193 
 
 And Ardennes waves above them her 
 
 green leaves. 
 Dewy with nature's tear-drops as they 
 
 pass. 
 Gi'ieving. if aught inanimate e'er grieves, 
 Over tlie unreturning brave, — alas ! 
 Ere evening to be trodden like the grass 
 Which now beneath them, but above 
 
 sliall grow 
 In its next verdure, when this fiery mass 
 Of living valor, rolling on the foe 
 And burning with high hope shall 
 
 moulder cold and low. 
 
 Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, 
 Last eve in Beauty's circle proudlj^ gay, 
 The midnight brought the signal-sound 
 
 of strife. 
 The morn the marshalling in arms, — 
 
 tlie day 
 Battle's magnificently stern array ! 
 The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which 
 
 when rent 
 Tlie earth is cover'd thick vfith other 
 
 clay, 
 Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd 
 
 and pent. 
 Rider and horse. — friend, foe, — in one 
 
 red burial blent ! 
 
 Tlieir pi-aise is hymn'd by loftier harps 
 
 til an mine : 
 Yet one I would select from that proud 
 
 throng, 
 Partly because they blend me with his 
 
 line, 
 And partly that I did his sire some wrong. 
 And partly that bright names will hallow 
 
 song ; 
 And his was of the bravest, and when 
 
 shower'd 
 The deatli -bolts deadliest the thinn'd 
 
 files along. 
 Even wliere the tliickest of war's tem- 
 pest lo\ver"d. 
 They reach'd no noisier breast than thine, 
 
 young gallant Howard ! 
 
 There have been tears and breaking 
 
 hearts for thee, 
 And mine were nothing had I such to 
 
 give ; 
 But wlien I stood beneath the fresh 
 
 green tree. 
 Which living waves where thou didst 
 
 cease to live, 
 And saw around me tlie wide field revive 
 With fruits and fertile promise, and the 
 
 Spring 
 
 13 
 
 Came forth her work of gladness to 
 
 contrive, 
 With all her reckless birds upon the 
 
 wing. 
 I turn'd from all she brought to those 
 
 she could not bring. 
 
 I turn'd to tliee, to thousands, of wliom 
 
 each 
 And one as all a ghastly gap did make 
 In his own kind and kindred, whom to 
 
 teach 
 Forgetfulness were mercy for their sake ; 
 The Archangel's trump, not Glory's, 
 
 must awake 
 Those whom they thirst for ; though the 
 
 sound of Fame 
 May for a moment soothe, it cannot 
 
 slake 
 The fever of vain longing, and the name 
 So honor'd but assumes a stronger, 
 
 bitterer claim. 
 
 They mourn, but smile at length ; and, 
 smihng, mourn : 
 
 The tree will wither long before it fall ; 
 
 Tlie hull drives on, though mast and 
 sail be torn ; 
 
 The roof-tree smks, but moulders on 
 the hall 
 
 In massy lioariness ; the ruin'd wall 
 
 Stands when its wind-worn battlements 
 are gone ; 
 
 The bars survive the captive tliey en- 
 thral ; 
 
 The day drags through, though storms 
 keep out the sun ; 
 
 And thus the heart will break, yet bro- 
 kenly live on : 
 
 Even as a broken mirror, which the glass 
 In every fragment multiplies ; and makes 
 A thousand images of one that was. 
 The same, and still the more, the more 
 
 it breaks ; 
 And thus the heart will do which not 
 
 forsakes, 
 Living in shatter'd guise ; and still, and 
 
 cold. 
 And bloodless, with its sleepless sorrow 
 
 aches. 
 Yet withei's on till all without is old. 
 Showing no visible sign, for such things 
 
 are untold. 
 
 There is a very life in our despair. 
 Vitality of poison, — a quick root 
 Which feeds these deadly branches ; for 
 it were 
 
194 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 As nothing did we die ; but Life will suit 
 Itself to Sorrow's most detested fruit, 
 Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's 
 
 shore, 
 All ashes to the taste : Did man compute 
 Existence by enjoyment, and count o'er 
 Such hours 'gainst years of life, — say, 
 
 would he name threescore ? 
 
 The Psalmist number'd out the years of 
 
 man : 
 Tliey are enough ; and if tliy tale be 
 
 true. 
 Thou, who didst grudge him even that 
 
 fleeting span. 
 More than enough, thou fatal Waterloo ! 
 Millions of tongues record thee, and 
 
 anew 
 Their children's lips shall eclio them, 
 
 and say — 
 " Here, where the sword united nations 
 
 drew, 
 Our countrymen w^ere warring on that 
 
 day ! " 
 And this is mucii, and all which will not 
 
 pass away. 
 
 There sunk the greatest, nor the worst 
 of men. 
 
 Whose spirit, antithetically mixt. 
 
 One moment of the miglitiest, and again 
 
 On little objects with like firmness fixt ; 
 
 Extreme in all things ! liadst thou been 
 betwixt. 
 
 Thy throne had still beentliine, or never 
 been ; 
 
 For daring made thy rise as fall : thou 
 seek'st 
 
 Even now to re-assume tiie imperial 
 mien. 
 
 And shake again the world, the Thun- 
 derer of the scene ! 
 
 Conqueror and captive of the earth art 
 
 tliou ! 
 She trembles at thee still, and thy wild 
 
 name 
 Was ne'er more bruited in men's minds 
 
 than now 
 That thou art nothing, save the jest of 
 
 Fame. 
 Who woo'd thee once, thy vassal, and 
 
 became 
 The flatterer of tliy fierceness, till thou 
 
 wert 
 A god unto thyself ; nor less the sajne 
 To the astounded kingdoms all inert. 
 Who deem'd thee for a time whate'er 
 
 thou didst assert. 
 
 Oh, more or less than man — in high or 
 
 low. 
 Battling with nations, flying from the 
 
 field; 
 Now making monarchs ' necks tliy foot- 
 stool, now 
 More than thy meanest soldier taught 
 
 to yield ; 
 An empire thou couldst crush, command, 
 
 rebuild. 
 But govern not thy pettiest passion, nor. 
 However deeply in men's spirits skill'd. 
 Look tlirough thine own, nor curb the 
 
 lust of war, 
 Nor learn that tempted Fate will leave 
 
 the loftiest star. 
 
 Yet well thy soul hath brook'd the turn- 
 ing tide 
 
 With that untaught innate pliilosophy, 
 
 Wiiich, be it wisdom, coldness, or deep 
 pride. 
 
 Is gall and wormwood to an enemy. 
 
 When the whole host of hatred stood 
 hard by. 
 
 To watch and mock thee shrinking, thou 
 hast smiled 
 
 With a sedate and all-enduring eye ; — 
 
 Wlien Fortune fled her spoil'd and 
 favorite child. 
 
 He stood unbow'd beneath the ills upon 
 him piled. 
 
 Sager than in thy fortvmes : for in them 
 
 Ambition steel'd thee on too far to sliow 
 
 That just habitual scorn, which could 
 contemn 
 
 Men and their thoughts ; ' twas wise to 
 feel, not so 
 
 To wear it ever on thy lip and brow. 
 
 And s]nirn the instruments tliou wert to 
 use 
 
 Till they were turn'd unto thine over- 
 throw : 
 
 "Tis but a worthless world to win or lose ; 
 
 So hath it proved to thee, and all such 
 lot who choose. 
 
 If. like a tower upon a headland rock. 
 Thou hadst been made to stand or fall 
 
 alone. 
 Such scorn of man had help'd to brave 
 
 the shock ; 
 But men's thoughts were the steps which 
 
 paved thy throne. 
 TJieir admiration tiiy best weapon shone ; 
 The part of Philip's son was thine, not 
 
 then 
 (Unless aside tiiy purple had been 
 
 thrown) 
 
BYRON 
 
 195 
 
 Like stern Diogenes to mock at men ; 
 For sceptred cynics eartli wei"e far too 
 wide a den. 
 
 But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell. 
 And there hath been thy bane ; there is a 
 
 fire 
 And motion of the soul which will not 
 
 dwell 
 In its own narrow being, but aspire 
 Beyond the fitting medium of desire ; 
 And, but once kindled, quenchless ever- 
 more, 
 Preys upon high adventui-e, nor can tire 
 Of aught but rest ; a fever at the core, 
 Fatal to liini who bears, to all who ever 
 bore. 
 
 This makes the madmen who have made 
 
 men mad 
 By their contagion ;. Conquerors and 
 
 Kings, 
 Founders of sects and systems, to whom 
 
 add 
 Sophists, Bards, Statesmen, all unquiet 
 
 things 
 Which stir too strongly the soul's secret 
 
 springs. 
 And are themselves the fools to those 
 
 they fool ; 
 Envied, yet how uTienviable ! what stings 
 Are theirs ! One breast laid open were a 
 
 school 
 Which would unteacli mankind the lust 
 
 to shine or rule : 
 
 Their breath is agitation, and their life 
 A storm whereon they ride, to sink at 
 
 last. 
 And yet so nursed and bigoted to strife. 
 That should their days, surviving perils 
 
 past. 
 Melt to calm twilight, they feel overcast 
 With sorrow and supineness, and so die ; 
 Even as a flame unfed, which runs to 
 
 waste 
 With its own flickering, or a sword laid 
 
 by, 
 Which eats into itself, and rusts inglori- 
 
 ously. 
 
 He who ascends to mountain-tops, shall 
 
 find 
 The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds 
 
 and snow ; 
 He who surpasses or subdues mankind 
 Must look down on the hate of tiiose 
 
 below. 
 Though high above the sun of glory glow, 
 
 And far beneath the earth and ocean 
 
 spread, 
 Roundhim are icy rocks, and loudly blow 
 Contending tempests on his naked head, . 
 And thus reward tlie toils which to those 
 
 summits led. 
 
 Away with these ! true Wisdom's world 
 
 will be 
 Within its own creation, or in thine. 
 Maternal Nature ! for wlio teems like 
 
 thee. 
 Thus on the banks of thy majestic Rhine ? 
 There Harold gazes on a work divine, 
 A blending of all beauties ; streams and 
 
 dells. 
 Fruit, foliage, crag, wood, cornfield, 
 
 mountain, vine, 
 And chiefless castles breathing stern 
 
 farewells 
 From gray but leafy walls, where Ruin 
 
 greenly dwells. 
 
 And there they stand, as stands a lofty 
 
 mind. 
 Worn, but unstoopingto the baser crowd, 
 All tenantless, save to tlie crannying 
 
 wind. 
 Or holding dark communion with the 
 
 cloud. 
 There was a day when they were young 
 
 and proud ; 
 Banners on high, and battles pass'd 
 
 below ; 
 But they wlio fought are in a bloody 
 
 shroud. 
 And those which waved are shredless 
 
 dust ere now. 
 And tlie bleak battlements shall bear no 
 
 future blow. 
 
 Beneath those battlements, within those 
 
 walls, 
 Power dwelt amidst her passions ; in 
 
 Ijroud state 
 Each robber chief upheld his armed halls, 
 Doing liis evil will, nor less elate 
 Than mightier Iieroes of a longer date. 
 What want these outlaws conquerors 
 
 should have 
 But history's purchased page to call them 
 
 great ? 
 A wider space, an ornamented grave ? 
 Their liopes were not less warm, their 
 
 souls were full as brave. 
 
 In their baronial feuds and single fields. 
 Wliat deeds of prowess unrecorded died ! 
 And Love, which lent a blazon to their 
 shields, 
 
196 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 With emblems well devised by amorous 
 pride, 
 
 Through all the mail of iron hearts 
 would glide ; 
 
 But still their flame was fierceness, and 
 drew on 
 
 Keen contest and destruction near allied, 
 
 And many a tower for some fair mis- 
 chief won. 
 
 Saw the discolor'd Rhine beneath its 
 ruin run. 
 
 But Thou, exulting and abounding 
 
 river ! 
 Making thy waves a blessing as they 
 
 flow 
 Through banks whose beauty would 
 
 endure for ever 
 Could man but leave thy bright crea- 
 tion so, 
 Nor its fair promise from the surface 
 
 mow 
 With the sharp scythe of conflict, — 
 
 then to see 
 Thy valley of sweet waters, were to 
 
 know 
 Earth paved like Heaven ; and to seem 
 
 such to me, 
 Even now w^hat wants thy stream ? — 
 
 that it should Lethe be. 
 
 A thousand battles have assail'd thy 
 banks, 
 
 But these and half their fame have 
 pass'd away. 
 
 And Slaughter heap'd on high liis welter- 
 ing ranks ; 
 
 Their very graves are gone, and what 
 are they ? 
 
 Thy tide wash'd down tlie blood of 
 yesterday, 
 
 And all was stainless, and on th}^ clear 
 stream 
 
 Glass'd, with its dancing liglit, the 
 sunny ray ; 
 
 But o'er the blacken'd memory's blight- 
 ing dream 
 
 Thy waves would vainly roll, all sweep- 
 ing as they seem. 
 
 Thus Harold inly said, and pass'd along. 
 Yet not insensible to all which here 
 Awoke the jocund birds to early song 
 In glens which might have made even 
 
 exile dear : 
 Though on his brow were graven lines 
 
 austere. 
 And tranquil sternness, which had ta'en 
 
 the place 
 
 Of feelings fierier far but less severe, 
 Joy was not alwajs absent from his face. 
 But o'er it in such scenes would steal 
 with transient trace. 
 
 Nor was all love shut from him, though 
 
 his days 
 Of passion had consumed them.selves to 
 
 dust. . 
 It is in vain that we would coldly gaze 
 On such as smile upon us ; the heart 
 
 must 
 Leap kindly back to kindness, though 
 
 disgust 
 Hath wean'd it from all worldlings : thus 
 
 he felt, 
 For there was soft remembrance, and 
 
 sweet trust 
 In one fond breast, to which his own 
 
 would melt. 
 And in its tenderer hour on that his 
 
 bosom dwelt. 
 
 And he had learn'd to love, — I know not 
 why. 
 
 For this in such as him seems strange of 
 mood, — 
 
 The helpless looks of blooming infancy, 
 
 Even in its earliest nurture ; what sub- 
 dued, 
 
 To change like this, a mind so far im- 
 bued 
 
 With scOTn of man, it little boots to 
 know ; 
 
 But thus it was : and though in solitude 
 
 Small power the nipp'd affections have 
 to grow, 
 
 In him this glow^'d wdien all beside had 
 ceased to glow. 
 
 And there was one soft breast, as hath 
 been said. 
 
 Which unto his was bovmd by stronger 
 ties 
 
 Than the church links withal ; and, 
 though unwed. 
 
 That love was pure, and, far above dis- 
 guise, 
 
 Had stood the test of mortal enmities 
 
 Still undivided, and cemented more 
 
 By peril, dreaded most in female ej'es ; 
 
 But this was firm, and from a foreign 
 shore 
 
 Well to that heart might his these ab- 
 sent greetings pour ! 
 
 The castled crag of Drachenfels 
 Frowns o'er the wide and winding 
 Rhine, 
 
BYRON 
 
 197 
 
 Whose breast of waters broadly swells 
 Between the banks whicli bear the 
 
 vine, 
 And hills all rich with blossoni'd trees, 
 And fields which promise corn and 
 
 wine. 
 And scatter'd cities crowning these, 
 Whose far white walls along them 
 • shine. 
 Have strew'd a scene, which I should 
 
 see 
 With double joy wert tliou with me. 
 
 And peasant girls, with deep blue 
 
 eyes. 
 And hands which offer early flowers, 
 Walk smiling o'er this paradise ; 
 Above, the frequent feudal towers 
 Through green leaves lift their walls 
 
 of gray ; 
 And many a rock which steeply 
 
 lowers. 
 And noble arch in proud decay, 
 Look o'er this vale of vintage-bowers ; 
 But one thing want these banks of 
 
 Rhine, — 
 Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine ! 
 
 I send the lilies given to me ; 
 Though long before thy hand they 
 
 touch, 
 I know tliat they must wither'd be. 
 But yet reject tiiem not as sucii ; 
 For i have cherish'd them as dear. 
 Because they yet may meet thine eye, 
 And guide th}^ soul to mine even here. 
 When thou behold'st them drooping 
 
 nigh. 
 And know'st them gather'd by the 
 
 Rhine. 
 And offer'd from my heart to thine ! 
 
 The river nobly foams and flows. 
 The charm of this enchanted ground. 
 And all its thousand turns disclose 
 Some fresher beauty varying round : 
 Tlie haughtiest breast its wish miglit 
 
 bound 
 Through life to dwell delighted here ; 
 Nor could on earth a spot be found 
 To nature and to me so dear. 
 Could thy dear eyes in following mine 
 Still sweeten more these banks of 
 
 Rhine ! 
 
 By Coblentz, on a rise of gentle ground, 
 Tliere is a small and simple pyramid. 
 Crowning the summit of the verdant 
 mound ; 
 
 Beneath its base are heroes' ashes hid, 
 Our enemy's — but let not that forbid 
 Honor to Marceau ! o'er whose early 
 
 tomb 
 Tears, big tears, gush'd from the rough 
 
 soldier's lid. 
 Lamenting and yet envying such a 
 
 doom. 
 Falling for France, whose rights he 
 
 battled to resume. 
 
 Brief, brave, and glorious was his young 
 
 career, — 
 His mourners were two hosts, his friends 
 
 and foes ; 
 And fitly may the stranger lingering 
 
 here 
 Pray for his gallant spirit's bright repose ; 
 For he was Freedom's champion, one of 
 
 those. 
 The few in number, who had not 
 
 o'erstept 
 The charter to chastise which she be- 
 stows 
 On such as wield her weapons ; he had 
 
 kept 
 The wdiiteness of his soul, and thus men 
 
 o'er him wept. 
 
 Here Elu'enbreitstein, with hershatter'd 
 
 wall 
 Black with the miner's blast, upon her 
 
 height 
 Yet shows of what she was, when shell 
 
 and ball 
 Rebounding idlv on her strength did 
 
 light : 
 A tower of victory ! from whence the 
 
 flight 
 Of baffled foes was watch'd along the 
 
 plain : 
 But Peace destroy 'd what War could 
 
 never bliglit. 
 And laid those jjroud roofs bare to Sum- 
 mer's rain — 
 On wliich the iron shower for years had 
 
 pour'd in vain. 
 
 Adieu to thee, fair Rhine ! How long 
 
 delighted 
 The stranger fain would linger on liis 
 
 way ! 
 Thine is a scene alike where souls united 
 Or lonely Contemplation thus might 
 
 stray ; 
 And could the ceaseless vultures cease 
 
 to prey 
 On self-condemning bosoms, it wei'e 
 
 here, 
 
198 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Whei'e Nature, nor too sombre nor too 
 
 Wild but not rude, awful j^et not austere, 
 Is to the mellow Earth as Autumn to 
 the year. 
 
 Adieu to thee again ! a vain adieu ! 
 
 There can be no farewell to scene like 
 thine ; 
 
 The mind is color'd by thy every hue ; 
 
 And if reluctantly the eyes resign 
 
 Their cheiisli'd gaze upon thee. lovely 
 Rhine ! 
 
 'T is witli the thankful heart of parting 
 praise ; 
 
 More might\^ spots may rise, more glar- 
 ing sliine, 
 
 But none unite in one attaching maze 
 
 The brilliant, fair, and soft, — the glories 
 of old days. 
 
 The negligently gi'and, the fruitful 
 
 bloom 
 Of coming ripene.ss, the white city's 
 
 sheen, 
 The rolling stream, the precipice's 
 
 gloom , 
 The forest's growth, and Gothic walls 
 
 between. 
 The wild rocks shaped as they had 
 
 turrets been, 
 In mockery of man's art ; and these 
 
 withal 
 A race of faces happy as the .scene, 
 Whose fertile bounties here extend to all. 
 Still springing o'er thy banks, though 
 
 Empires near them fall. 
 
 But these recede. Above me are the 
 
 Alps, 
 The palaces of Nature, whose A^ast walls 
 Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy 
 
 scalps. 
 And throned Eternity in icy halls 
 Of cold sublimity, wliere forms and falls 
 The avalanche — the thunderbolt of 
 
 snow ! 
 All that expands the spirit, yet appalls. 
 Gather around these summits, as to 
 
 show 
 How Earth may pierce to Heaven, j^et 
 
 leave vain man below. 
 
 But ere these matchless heights I dare 
 
 to scan. 
 There is a spot should not be pass'd in 
 
 vain, — 
 Morat ! the proud, the patriot field ! 
 
 where man 
 
 May gaze on ghastly tropliies of the slain. 
 
 Nor blush for those who conquer'd on 
 that plain ; 
 
 Here Burgundy bequeath'd his tomb- 
 less host, 
 
 A bony heap, through ages to remain. 
 
 Themselves their monument ; — the 
 Stygian coast 
 
 Unsepulchred they roam'd, and shi'iet'd 
 each wandering ghost. 
 
 While Waterloo with Cannte's carnage 
 
 vies. 
 Morat and Marathon twin names shall 
 
 stand ; 
 They were true Glory's stainless vic- 
 tories. 
 Won by the unambitious heart and 
 
 hand 
 Of a proud, brotherly, and civic band. 
 All unbought qhampions in no princely 
 
 cavise 
 Of vice-entail'd Corruption ; they no 
 
 land 
 Doom'd to bewail tlie blasphemy of 
 
 laws 
 Making kings" rights divine, by some 
 
 Draconic clause. 
 
 By a lone wall a lonelier column rears 
 A gray and grief- worn aspect of old 
 
 days ; 
 'T is the last remnant of the wi-eck of 
 
 years, 
 And looks as with the wikl-bewilder'd 
 
 gaze 
 Of one to stone converted by amaze, 
 Yet still with consciousness ; and there 
 
 it stands 
 Making a marvel that it not decays. 
 When the coeval pride of human hands. 
 Levell'd Adventicuni,! hath strew'd her 
 
 subject lands. 
 
 And there — oh ! sweet and sacred be 
 the name !— 
 
 Julia — the daughter, the devoted— gave 
 
 Her youth to Heaven ; her heart, be- 
 neath a claim 
 
 Nearest to Heaven's, broke o'er a father's 
 grave. 
 
 Justice is sworn 'gainst tears, and hers 
 would crave 
 
 The life she lived in ; but the judge was 
 just. 
 
 And then she died on him she could 
 not save. 
 
 > The Roman capital of Helvetia ; now Aven- 
 clies. 
 
BYRON 
 
 199 
 
 Their tomb was simple, and without 
 
 a bust. 
 And held within their urn one mind, 
 
 one heart, one dust. 
 
 But these are deeds which should not 
 
 pass away. 
 And names that must not wither, 
 
 though the eartli 
 Forgets her empires with a just decay. 
 The enslavers and the enslaved, their 
 
 death and birth ; 
 The liigh, the mountain-majestyof worth 
 Should be, and shall, survivor of its woe, 
 And from its immortality look forth 
 In the sun's face, like yonder Alpine 
 
 snow. 
 Imperishably pure beyond all things 
 
 below. 
 
 Lake Leman woos me with its crystal 
 
 face, 
 Tlie mirror where the stars and moun- 
 tains view 
 The stillness of their aspect in each trace 
 Its clear depth yields of their far 
 
 lieight and hue ; 
 Tliere is too much of man here, to look 
 
 through 
 With a fit mind the might which I 
 
 behold ; 
 But soon in me shall Loneliness renew 
 Thoughts hid, but not less cherish'd 
 
 than of old. 
 Ere mingling with the herd had penn'd 
 
 me in their fold. 
 
 To fly from, need not be to hate, man- 
 kind : 
 All are not fit with them to stir and toil. 
 Nor is it discontent to keep tlie )nind 
 Deep in its fountain, lest it overboil 
 lu the hot throng, where we become 
 
 the spoil 
 Of our infection, till too late and long 
 We may deplore and struggle with tlie 
 
 coil. 
 In wretched interchange of wrong for 
 
 wrong 
 Midst a contentious world, striving 
 where none are strong. 
 
 There, in a moment we may plunge our 
 
 years 
 In fatal penitence, and in the blight 
 Of our own soul turn all our blood to 
 
 tears. 
 And color things to come with hues 
 
 of Night ; 
 
 The race of life becomes a hopeless 
 
 flight 
 To those who walk in darkness : on the 
 
 sea 
 The boldest steer but where their ports 
 
 invite ; 
 But there are wanderers o"er Eternity 
 Whose bark drives on and on, and 
 
 anchor 'd ne'er shall be. 
 
 Is it not better, then, to be alone. 
 And love Earth only for its earthly sake? 
 By the blue rushing of the ari-owy Rhone, 
 Or the pure bosom of its nursing lake, 
 Which feetls it as a motlier who doth 
 
 make 
 A fair but froward infant her own care. 
 Kissing its cries away as these awake ; — 
 Is it not better thus our lives to wear, 
 Than join the crushing crowd, doom'd 
 
 to inflict or bear ? 
 
 I live not in myself, but I become 
 Portion of that around me ; and to me 
 Higli mountains are a feeling, but the 
 
 hum 
 Of human cities torture : I can see 
 Nothing to loathe in natui-e, save to be 
 A link reluctant in a fleslily chain, 
 Class'd among creatures, when the soul 
 
 can flee. 
 And with the sky, the peak, the heaving 
 
 plain 
 Of ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not 
 
 in vain. 
 
 And thus I am absorb'd, and tliis is life : 
 I look upon the peopled desert past. 
 As on a place of agony and strife. 
 Where, for some sin, to sorrow I was 
 
 cast. 
 To act and suffer, but remount at last 
 With a fresh pinion ; which I feel to 
 
 spring. 
 Though young, yet waxing vigorous as 
 
 the blast 
 Which it would cope with, on de- 
 lighted wing. 
 Spurning the clay-cold bonds which 
 round our being cling. 
 
 And when, at length, the mind shall be 
 
 all free 
 From what it hates in this degraded 
 
 foi'm. 
 Reft of its carnal life, save what shall be 
 Existent happier in the fly and worm — 
 When elements to elements conform. 
 And dust is as it should be, shall I not 
 
BRITISH POETS 
 
 Feel all I see, less dazzling, but more 
 
 warm ? 
 The bodiless thought ? the Spirit of each 
 
 spot? 
 Of which, even now, I share at times 
 
 the immortal lot? 
 
 Are not the mountains, waves, and skies, 
 a part. 
 
 Of me and of my soul, as I of them ? 
 
 Is not the love of these deep in my heart 
 
 With a pure passion ? should I not con- 
 temn 
 
 All objects, if compared with these ? and 
 stem 
 
 A tide of suffering, rather than forego 
 
 Such feelings for the hard and worldly 
 phlegm 
 
 Of those whose eyes are only turn'd 
 below. 
 
 Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts 
 which dare not glow ? 
 
 But this is not my theme ; and I return 
 To that which is immediate, and require 
 Tliose who find contemplation in the urn. 
 To look on One, whose dust was once all 
 
 fire. 
 A native of the land where I respire 
 Tlie clear air for a while — a passing guest 
 Where he became a being. — whose desire 
 Was to be glorious ; 't was a foolish 
 
 quest. 
 The which to gain and keep, he sacrificed 
 
 all rest. 
 
 Here the self-torturing sophist, wild 
 
 Rousseau, 
 The apostle of affliction, he who threw 
 Enchantment over liassion, and from woe 
 Wrung overwhelming eloquence, first 
 
 drew 
 The breath which made him wretched ; 
 
 yet he knew 
 How to make madness beautiful and cast 
 O'er erring deeds and thoughts a heav- 
 enly hue 
 Of words, like sunbeams, dazzling as 
 
 they past 
 The eyes, which o'er them shed tears feel- 
 ingly and fast. 
 
 His love was passion's essence : — as a tree 
 On fire by liglitning, with ethereal flame 
 Kindled he was, and blasted ; for to be 
 Thus, and enamor'd, were in him the 
 
 same. 
 But his was not the love of living dame. 
 Nor of the dead who rise upon our 
 
 dreams, 
 
 But of ideal beauty, whicti became 
 In him existence, and o'erflowing teems 
 Along his burning page, distemper'd 
 though it seems. 
 
 This breatlaed itself to life in Julie, this 
 Invested her with all that's wild and 
 
 sweet ; 
 This hallow'd, too, the memorable kiss 
 Which every morn his fever'd lip would 
 
 greet, 
 From hers, who but with friendship his 
 
 would meet ; 
 But to that gentle touch through brain 
 
 and breast 
 Flash'd the thi-ill'd spirit's love-devour- 
 ing heat ; 
 In that absorbing sigh perchance more 
 
 blest 
 Than vulgar minds may be with all they 
 
 seek possest. 
 
 His life was one long war with self- 
 
 sought foes. 
 Or friends by him self-banish'd ; for liis 
 
 mind 
 Had grown Suspicion's sanctuary, and 
 
 chose. 
 For its own cruel sacrifice, the kind, 
 'Gainst whom he raged with fury strange 
 
 and blind. 
 But he was phrensied, — wherefore, who 
 
 may know ? 
 Since cause might be which skill could 
 
 never find ; 
 But he was phrensied by disease or woe, 
 To that worst pitch of all, which wears 
 
 a reasoning show. 
 
 For then he was inspired, and from him 
 
 came. 
 As from the Pj^thian's mystic cave of 
 
 yore, 
 Those oracles which set the world in 
 
 flame, 
 Nor ceased to burn till kingdoms were 
 
 no more : 
 Did he not this for France ? which lay 
 
 before 
 Bow'd to the inborn tyranny of years ? 
 Broken and trembling to the yoke she 
 
 bore. 
 Till by the voice of him and his compeers 
 Roused up to too much wrath, which fol- 
 lows o'ergrown fears ? 
 
 They made themselves a fearful monu- 
 ment ! 
 
 The wreck of old opinions — things 
 which grew, 
 
BYRON 
 
 20I 
 
 Breathed from tlie birth of time : the 
 
 veil they rent, 
 Aud what behind it lay, all earth shall 
 
 viev\'. 
 But good with ill they also overthrew. 
 Leaving but ruins, wlierewith to rebuild 
 Upon the same foundation, and renew 
 Dungeons and thrones, which the same 
 
 hour refill' d. 
 As heretofore, because ambition was self- 
 
 will'd. 
 
 But tliis will not endure, nor be endured ! 
 Mankind have felt tlieir strength, and 
 
 made it felt. 
 They might have used it better, but, 
 
 allured 
 By their new vigor, sternly have they 
 
 dealt 
 On one another ; pity ceased to melt 
 With her once natural charities. But 
 
 they. 
 Who in oppression's darkness caved had 
 
 dwelt, 
 They were not eagles, nourish'd with 
 
 the day : 
 What marvel then, at times, if they 
 
 mistook tlieir prey ? 
 
 What deep wounds ever closed with- 
 out a scar ? 
 The heart's bleed longest, and but heal 
 
 to wear 
 That which disfigures it ; and they who 
 
 war 
 With their own hopes, and have been 
 
 vanquish'd, bear 
 Silence, but not submission : in his 
 
 lair 
 Fix'd Passion holds his breath, until 
 
 tlie hour 
 Wliich shall atone for years ; none need 
 
 despair : 
 It came, it cometh, and will come, — 
 
 the power 
 To punish or forgive — in one we shall be 
 
 slower. 
 
 Clear, placid Leman ! thy contrasted 
 
 lake. 
 With the wild world I dwelt in, is a 
 
 thing 
 Which warns me, with its stillness, to 
 
 forsake 
 Earth's troubled waters for a purer 
 
 spring. 
 This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing 
 To waft me from distraction ; once I 
 
 loved 
 
 Torn ocean's I'oar, but thy soft mur- 
 muring 
 
 Sounds sweet as if a Sister's voice re- 
 proved. 
 
 That I witii stern delights should e'er 
 have been so moved. 
 
 It is the hush of night, and all between 
 Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, 
 
 yet clear, 
 Mellow'd and mingling, yet distinctly 
 
 seen, 
 Save darken'd Jura, whose capt heights 
 
 appear 
 Precipitovisly steep ; and drawing near, 
 There breathes a living fi'agrance from 
 
 the shore, 
 Of flowers yet fresh with childhood ; on 
 
 the ear 
 Drops the light drip of the suspended 
 
 oar. 
 Or chirps the grasshopper one good- 
 night carol more ; 
 
 He is an evening reveller, who makes 
 His life an infancy, and sings his fill ; 
 At intervals, some bird from out the 
 
 brakes 
 Starts into voice a moment, then is 
 
 still. 
 There seems a floating whisper on the 
 
 hill. 
 But that is fancy, for the starlight dews 
 All silently their tears of love instil. 
 Weeping themselves away, till they 
 
 infuse 
 Deep into nature's breast the spirit of 
 
 her hues. 
 
 Ye stars ! which are the poetry of 
 
 heaven ! 
 If in yovir bright leaves we would read 
 
 the fate 
 Of men and empires, — 'tis to be for- 
 given. 
 That in our aspirations to be great. 
 Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state, 
 And claim a kindred with you ; for ye 
 
 are 
 A beauty and a mystery, and create 
 In us such love and reverence from 
 
 afar, 
 That fortune, fame, power, life, have 
 named themselves a star. 
 
 AH heaven and earth are still — though 
 
 not in sleep, 
 But breathless, as we grow when feeling 
 most ; 
 
202 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 And silent, as we stand in thoughts too 
 
 deep : — 
 All heaven and earth are still : From the 
 
 high host 
 Of stars, to the luU'd lake and moun- 
 tain coast, 
 All is concenter'd in a life intense, 
 Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost. 
 But hath a part of being, and a sense 
 Of tliat which is of all Creator and de- 
 fence. 
 
 Then stii's the feeling infinite, so felt 
 In solitude, where we are least alone ; 
 A truth, which through our being then 
 
 doth melt, 
 A.nd purifies from self : it is a tone. 
 The soul and source of music, which 
 
 makes known 
 Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm 
 Like to the fabled Cytherea's zone, 
 Binding all things with beauty : — 
 
 't would disarm 
 The spectre Deatli, had he substantial 
 
 power to harm. 
 
 Not vainly did the early Persian make 
 His altar the high places, and the peak 
 Of earth-o'ergazing mountains, and 
 
 thus take 
 A fit and unwall'd temple, there to seek 
 The Spirit, in whose honor shrines are 
 
 weak, 
 Uprear'd of human hands. Come, and 
 
 compare 
 Columns and idol-dwellings, Goth or 
 
 Greek, 
 With Nature's realms of worship, earth 
 
 and air. 
 Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe 
 thy prayer ! 
 
 The skj^ is changed ! — and such a change ! 
 
 Oh niglit. 
 And storm, and darkness, ye are won- 
 drous strong. 
 Yet lovely in your strength, as is the 
 
 light 
 Of a dark eye in woman ! Far along. 
 From peak to peak, the rattling crags 
 
 among 
 Leaps the live thunder ! Not fi'om one 
 
 lone cloud. 
 But every mountain now hath found 
 
 a tongue. 
 And Jura answers, through her misty 
 
 shroud . 
 Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her 
 
 aloud ! 
 
 And this is in the night : — Most glorious 
 night ! 
 
 Thou wert not sent for slumber ! let 
 me be 
 
 A sharer in thy fierce and far delight, — 
 
 A portion of the tempest and of thee ! 
 
 How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric 
 sea. 
 
 And the big rain comes dancing to tlie 
 earth ! 
 
 And now again 'tis black, — -and now, the 
 glee 
 
 Of the loud hills shakes with its moun- 
 tain-mirth. 
 
 As if they did rejoice o'er a young earth- 
 quake's birth. 
 
 Now, where the swift Rlione cleaves 
 his waj"^ between 
 
 Heights wliicli appear as lovers who 
 have parted 
 
 In hate, whose mining depths so inter- 
 vene, 
 
 That they can meet no more, though 
 broken-hearted ; 
 
 Tliough in their souls, which thus each 
 other thwarted, 
 
 Love was the very root of the fond rage 
 
 Which blighted their life's bloom, and 
 then dejsarted : 
 
 Itself expired, but leaving them an age 
 
 Of years all winters, — war within them- 
 selves to wage : 
 
 Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath 
 
 cleft his way. 
 The mightiest of the storms hath ta'en 
 
 his stand : 
 For here, not one, but many, make 
 
 their play. 
 And fling their thunder-bolts from hand 
 
 to hand. 
 Flashing and cast around ; of all tlie 
 
 band, 
 Tlie brightest through tliese parted hills 
 
 hath fork"d 
 His lightnings, — as if he did understand, 
 That in such gaps as desolation work'd. 
 There the hot shaft should blast what- 
 ever therein lurk'd. 
 
 Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, 
 
 lightnings ! ye ! 
 With night, and clouds, and thunder, 
 
 and a soul 
 To make these felt and feeling, well 
 
 may be 
 Things that have made me watchful ; 
 
 the far roll 
 
BYRON 
 
 203 
 
 Of your departing voices, is the knoll 
 Of what in me is sleepless. — if I rest. 
 But where of ye, O tempests ! is the 
 
 goal ? 
 Are ye like those within the human 
 
 breast ? 
 Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, 
 
 some high nest ? 
 
 Could I embody and unbosom now 
 That which is most within me, — could 
 
 I wreak 
 My thoughts upon expression, and tlius 
 
 throw 
 Soul, lieart, mind, passions, feelings, 
 
 strong or weak, 
 All that I would liave sought, and all I 
 
 seek. 
 Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe — 
 
 into one word, 
 And that one word were Liglitning, I 
 
 . would S]ieak ; 
 But as it is, I live and die unheard. 
 With a most voiceless thouglit, sheatli- 
 
 ing it as a sword. 
 
 The morn is up again, the dewy morn. 
 With breath all incense, and with 
 
 cheek all bloom, 
 Laughing the clouds away with playful 
 
 scorn. 
 And living as if earth contained no 
 
 tomb. — 
 And glowing into day : we may resume 
 Tlie march of our existence : and thus I, 
 Still on thy shores, fair Lenian ! may 
 
 find room 
 And food for meditation, nor pass by 
 31uch, that maj^ give us pause, if pon- 
 
 der'd fittingly. 
 
 C'larens ! sweet Clarens. birthplace of 
 
 deep Love ! 
 Thine air is tlie young breatli of pas- 
 sionate tliought : 
 Thy trees take root in Love ; the snows 
 
 above 
 Tlie very Glaciers have his colors 
 
 cauglit. 
 And sunset into rose-hues sees them 
 
 wrought 
 By rays which aleep there lovinglj^ ; the 
 
 rocks. 
 The permanent crags, tell here of Love, 
 
 who sought 
 In them a refuge from the worUlly 
 
 shocks. 
 Which stir and sting the soul with hope 
 
 that woos, then mocks. 
 
 Clarens ! by heavenly feet thy paths are 
 
 trod, — 
 Undying Love's, who here ascends a 
 
 throne 
 To which the steps are mountains ; 
 
 where the god 
 Is a pervading life and light, — so shown 
 Not on those summits solely, nor alone 
 In the still cave and forest ; o'er the 
 
 flower 
 His eye is sparkling, and his breath hath 
 
 blown. 
 His soft and summer breath, whose 
 
 tender povt^er 
 Passes the strength of storms in their 
 
 most desolate hour. 
 
 All things are here of him ; from the 
 
 black pines. 
 Which are his shade on higli, and tlie 
 
 loud roar 
 Of torrents, where he listeneth, to the 
 
 vines 
 Which slope his green path downward 
 
 to the shore, 
 Where the bow'd waters meet him, and 
 
 adore. 
 Kissing his feet with murmurs ; and the 
 
 wood. 
 The covert of old trees, with trunks all 
 
 lioar, 
 Bvit light leaves, young as joy, stands 
 
 where it stood. 
 Offering to him, and his, a populous 
 
 solitude ; 
 
 A populous solitude of bees and birds. 
 And fairy-form'd and many color'd 
 
 things. 
 Who worship him with notes more sweet 
 
 than words. 
 And innocently open their glad wings, 
 Fearless and full of life : the gush of 
 
 springs. 
 And fall of lofty fountains, and the bend 
 Of stirring branches, and the bud which 
 
 brings 
 The swiftest thought of beauty, here 
 
 extend. 
 Mingling, and made by Love, imto one 
 
 mighty end. 
 
 He who hath loved not, here would learn 
 
 that lore. 
 And make his heart a spirit ; he who 
 
 knows 
 That tender mystery, will love the more ; 
 For this is Love's recess, where vain men's 
 
 woes, 
 
204 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 And the world's waste, have driven him 
 
 far from those, 
 For 't is his natui-e to advance or die ; 
 He stands not still, but or decays, or 
 
 grows 
 • Into a boundless blessing, which may vie 
 With the immortal lights, in its eternity ! 
 
 'T was not for fiction chose Rousseau 
 
 this spot. 
 Peopling it witli affections ; but he found 
 It was the scene whicli Passion must allot 
 To the mind's purified beings ; "t was the 
 
 ground 
 Where early Love his Psyche's zone 
 
 unbound. 
 And hallow'd it with loveliness ; 't is lone. 
 And wonderful, and deep, and hath a 
 
 sound. 
 And sense, and sight of sweetness ; here 
 
 the Rhone 
 Hath sijread himself a couch, the Alps 
 
 have rear'd a throne. 
 
 Lausanne ! and Ferney ! ye have been 
 
 the abodes 
 Of names which unto you bequeath'd 
 
 a name ; 
 Mortals, who sought and found, by 
 
 dangerous roads, 
 A path to perpetuity of fame : 
 They were gigantic minds, and their 
 
 steep aim 
 Was, Titan-like, on daring doubts to pile 
 Thoughts which should call down 
 
 thunder, and the flame 
 Of Heaven again assail'd, if Heaven the 
 
 while 
 On man and man's research could deign 
 
 do more tlian smile. 
 
 The one^ was fire and fickleness, a child 
 Most mutable in wishes, but in mind 
 A wit as various, — gay, grave, sage, or 
 
 wild, — 
 Historian, bard, philosopher, combined ; 
 He multiplied himself among mankind, 
 The Proteus of their talents : But his own 
 Breathed most in ridicule, — which, as 
 
 the wind, 
 Blew where it listed, laying all things 
 
 prone, — 
 Now to o'erthrow a fool, and now to 
 
 shake a throne. 
 
 The other,2 deep and slow, exhausting 
 thought, 
 
 * Voltaire. 
 
 » Gibbon. 
 
 And hiving wisdom with each studious 
 
 year, 
 In meditation dwelt, with learning 
 
 wrouglit, 
 And shaped his weapon with an edge 
 
 severe. 
 Sapping a solemn creed with solemn 
 
 sneer ; 
 Tlie lord of irony, — that master-spell. 
 Which stung his foes to wrath, which 
 
 grew from fear. 
 And doom'd him to the zealot's ready 
 
 Hell, 
 Which answers to all doubts so elo- 
 quently well. 
 
 Yet, peace be with their ashes, — for by 
 
 them. 
 If merited, the penalty is paid ; 
 It is not ours to judge, — far less con- 
 demn ; 
 The hour must come when such things 
 
 shall be made 
 Known unto all, or hope and dread 
 
 all ay 'd 
 By slumber, on one pillow, in the dust. 
 Which, thvis much we are sure, must 
 
 lie decay'd ; 
 And when it sliall revive, as is our 
 
 trust, 
 'Twill be to be forgiven, or suffer what 
 
 is just. 
 
 But let me quit man's works, again to 
 
 read 
 His Maker's, spread around me, and 
 
 suspend 
 This page, which from mj^ reveries I feed. 
 Until it seems prolonging witiiout end. 
 The clouds above me to the white Alps 
 
 tend. 
 And I must pierce them, and survey 
 
 whate'er 
 May be permitted, as my steps I bend 
 To their most great and growing region, 
 
 where 
 The earth to her embrace compels the 
 
 powers of air. 
 
 Italia ! too, Italia ! looking on thee. 
 Full flashes on the soul the light of ages, 
 Since the fierce Carthaginian almost 
 
 won thee, 
 To the last halo of the chiefs and sages 
 Who glorify thy consecrated pages ; 
 Thou wert the throne and grave of 
 
 empires ; still. 
 The fount at which the panting mind 
 
 assuages 
 
BYRON 
 
 205 
 
 Her thirst of knowledge, quaffing there 
 
 her fill, 
 Flows from the eternal source of Rome's 
 
 imperial hill. 
 
 Thus far have I proceeded in a theme 
 Renew'd witli no kind auspices : to feel 
 We are not what we have been, and to 
 
 deem 
 We are not what we should be, and to 
 
 steel 
 The heart against itself ; and to conceal. 
 What a proud caution, love, or hate, or 
 
 auglit. — 
 Passion or feeling, purpose, grief or 
 
 zeal,— 
 Which is the tyrant spirit of our 
 
 thought, 
 Is a stern task of soul : — No matter, — it 
 
 is taught. 
 
 And for tliese words, thus woven into 
 
 song. 
 It may be that they are a harmless 
 
 wile,— 
 The coloring of the scenes which fleet 
 
 along. 
 Which I would seize, in passing, to be- 
 guile 
 My breast, or that of others, for a wliile. 
 Fame is tlie thirst of youth, but I am 
 
 not 
 So young as to regard men's frown or 
 
 smile. 
 As loss or guerdon of a glorious lot : 
 I stood and stand alone, — remember'd or 
 
 forgot. 
 
 I have not loved the world, nor tlie world 
 
 me ; 
 I have not flatter'd its rank breath, nor 
 
 bow'd 
 To its idolatries a patient knee. 
 Nor coin'd my cheek to smiles, nor cried 
 
 aloiid 
 In worship of an echo ; in tlie crowd 
 Tiiey could not deem me one of such ; I 
 
 stood 
 Among them; bvit not of them ; in a 
 
 shroud 
 Of thoughts which were not their 
 
 thoughts, and still could. 
 Had I not filed my minel, which thus 
 
 itself subdvied. 
 
 I have not loved the world, nor the world 
 
 me, — 
 But let U8 part fair foes ; I do believe. 
 Though I have found them not, that 
 
 there may be 
 
 Words which are tilings, hopes which 
 will not deceive. 
 
 And virtvies which are merciful, nor 
 weave 
 
 Snares for the failing ; I would also 
 deem 
 
 O'er others' griefs that some sincerely 
 grieve ; 
 
 That two, or one, are almost what the)' 
 seem. 
 
 That goodness is no name, and hap- 
 piness no dream 
 
 My daughter ! witli tliy name this song 
 
 begun ; 
 My daughter ! witli thy name thus much 
 
 shall end ; 
 I see thee not, I hear thee not, but none 
 Can be so wrapt in thee ; thou art the 
 
 friend 
 To whom the shadows of far years ex- 
 tend ; 
 Albeit ni)' brow thou never shouldst 
 
 behold. 
 My voice shall with thy future visions 
 
 blend, 
 And reach into th}- heart, when mine is 
 
 cold, 
 A token and a tone, even from thy 
 
 father's mould. 
 
 To aid thy mind's development, to watch 
 Thy dawn of little jovs, to sit and see 
 Almost thy very growth, to view thee 
 
 catch 
 Knowledge of objects, — wonders 3'et to 
 
 thee ! 
 To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee. 
 And print on thy soft cheek a parent's 
 
 kiss, — 
 This, it should seem, was not reserved 
 
 for me ; 
 Yet tliis was in my natuj'e : as it is, 
 I know not what is there, yet something 
 
 like to this. 
 
 Yet, though dull Hate as duty should 
 
 be taught, 
 I know that thou wilt love me ; though 
 
 my name 
 Should be shut from thee, as a spell still 
 
 fraught 
 With desolation, and a broken claim ; 
 Though the grave closed between us, — 
 
 't were tlie same, 
 I know that thou wilt love me ; though 
 
 to drain 
 My blood from out thy being were an 
 
 aim, 
 
2o6 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 And an attainment, — all would be in 
 
 vain. — 
 Still tliou wouldst love me, still that 
 
 more than life retain. 
 
 The child of love, though born in bit- 
 terness, 
 And nurtured in convulsion. Of thy sire 
 These were the elements, and thine no 
 
 less. 
 As yetsucliare around tliee, but thy fire 
 Shall be more temper *d, and thy hope 
 
 far higher. 
 Sweet be thy cradled slumbers ! O'er 
 
 the sea 
 And from tlie mountains where I now 
 
 respire, 
 Fain would I waft such blessing upon 
 
 thee, 
 As with a sigh, I deem thou might'st 
 
 have been to me. 
 May-June, ISIG. November 18, 1816. 
 
 SONNET ON CHILLON. 
 
 Eternal Spirit of tlie chainless Mind ! 
 Brightestin dungeons. Libert}' ! thuu;ut. 
 For there thy habitation is the iieart — 
 The heart which love of thee alone can 
 
 bind ; 
 And when thy sons to fetters are con- 
 
 sign'd — 
 To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless 
 
 gloom. 
 Their country conquers with their mar- 
 tyrdom. 
 And Freedom's fame finds wings on 
 
 every wind. 
 Cliillon ! thy prison is a holy place. 
 And thy sad floor an altar — for 't was 
 
 trod, 
 Until his very steps have left a trace 
 Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod. 
 By Bonnivard ! May none those marks 
 
 eff'ace ! 
 For they appeal from tyranny to God. 
 
 June, 1810. December 5, 1816. 
 
 THE PRISONER OF CHILLON 
 
 My hair is gra)% but not with years, 
 Nor grew it white 
 In a single night. 
 As men's have grown from sudden fears : 
 My limbs are bow'd, thougli not with 
 toil. 
 But rusted with a vile repose. 
 For they have been a dungeon's spoil. 
 And mine has been the fate of those 
 
 To whom the goodly earth and air 
 
 Are baun'd, and barr'd — forbidden fare ; 
 
 But this was for my father's faith- 
 
 I suflfer'd chains and courted death ; 
 
 Tliat father perisli'd at tlie stake 
 
 For tenets he would not forsake ; 
 
 And for the same liis lineal race 
 
 In darkness found a dwelling-place ; 
 
 We were seven — who now .are one. 
 
 Six in youth, and one in age, 
 Finish'd as they had begun. 
 
 Proud of Persecution's rage ; 
 One in^ire. and two in fieltl 
 Tlieir belief with blood have seaTil, 
 Dying as their father died, 
 For the God their foes denied ; 
 Tliree were yi a dungeon cast. 
 Of whom this wreck is left the last. 
 
 There are seven pillars of Gothic mould. 
 In Chillon's dungeons deep and old. 
 There are seven columns, massy and 
 
 giay. 
 Dim with a dull imprison'd ray, 
 A sunbeam whicrh hath lost its waj^ 
 And through the crevice and the cleft 
 Of the thick wall is fallen and left ; 
 Creeping o'er the floor so damp, 
 Like a marsli's meteor lamp : 
 And in each pillar there is a ring. 
 
 And in each ring there is a chain ; 
 That iron is a cnnkering thing. 
 
 For in these lindis its teeth rem;iin. 
 With marks tluit will not wear away. 
 Till I have done with this new day. 
 Which now is ])ainful to these eyes. 
 Which have not seen tlie sun so rise 
 For ,years — I cannot count tliem o'er, 
 I lost their long and heavy score. 
 When my last brotlier droop'd and died, 
 And I. lay living by his side. 
 
 They chain'd us each to a column stone. 
 And we were tliree — yet, each alone. 
 We could not move a single pace. 
 We could not see each other's face. 
 But with that pale and livid light 
 That made us strangers in our siglit : 
 And thus together — yet apart. 
 Fetter 'd in hand, but join'd in heart, 
 'T was still some solace, in the dearth 
 Of the pure elements of earth. 
 To hearken to each other's speech. 
 And each turn comforter to each 
 With some new hope, or legend old, 
 Or song heroically bold ; 
 But even these at length grew cold. 
 Our voices took a dreiiry tone. 
 An echo of the dungeon stone, 
 
BYRON 
 
 207 
 
 A grating sound, not full and free, 
 As they of yore were wont to be ; 
 It might be fancy, but to nie 
 They never sounded like our own. 
 
 I was the eldest of the three. 
 And to uphold and cheer the rest 
 I ought to do — and did my best — 
 And each did well in his degree. 
 
 The youngest, wliom my father loved, 
 Because our mother's brow was given 
 To him. with eyes as blue as heaven — 
 For liim my soul was sorely moved ; 
 And truly might it be distress'd 
 To see such bird in such a nest ; 
 For he was beautiful as day — 
 (When day was beautiful to me 
 As to young eagles, being Ifree) — 
 A polar day, which will not see 
 A sunset till its summer's gone. 
 
 Its sleepless summer of longliglit. 
 The snow-clad offspring of the sun : 
 
 And thus he was as pure and bright, 
 And in his natural spirit gay. 
 With tears for nought but others' ills. 
 And then they flow'd like mountain rills. 
 Unless he could assuage the woe 
 Which he abliorr'd to view below. 
 
 The other was as pure of mind. 
 But form'd to combat with Iiis kind ; 
 Strong in his frame, and of a mood 
 Which 'gainst the world in war liad 
 
 stood. 
 And perish'd in the foremost rank 
 
 With joy : — but not in cliains to pine : 
 His spirit wither'd with their clank, 
 
 I saw it silently decline — 
 
 And so perchance in sooth did mine : 
 But yet I forced it on to cheer 
 Those relics of a home so dear. 
 He was a hunter of the hills. 
 
 Had follow'd there tlie deer and wolf ; 
 
 To him his dungeon was a gulf. 
 And fetter'd feet the worst of ills. 
 
 Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls : 
 A thousand feet in depth below 
 Its massy waters meet and flow ; 
 Tlius much the fathom-line was sent 
 From Chillon's snow-white battlement. 
 
 Which round about the wave inthrals : 
 A double dungeon wall and wave 
 Have made — -and like a living grave 
 Below the surface of the lake 
 The dark vault lies wherein we lay. 
 We heard it ripple night and day ; 
 
 Sounding o'er our heads it knock'd ; 
 And I have felt the winter's spray 
 
 Wash though the bars when winds were 
 high 
 
 And wanton in the happy sky ; 
 
 And then the very rock hath rock'd. 
 And I have felt it shake, unshock'd 
 
 Because I could have smiled to see 
 
 The death that would have set me free. 
 
 I said my neai'er brother pined, 
 I said his mighty heart declined. 
 He loathed and put away his food ; 
 It was not that "twas coarse and rude, 
 For we were vised to hunter's fare, 
 And for the like had little care : 
 The milk drawn from the mountain goat 
 Was changed for water from the moat. 
 Our bread was such as captives' tears 
 Have moisten'd many a tiiousand years, 
 Since man first pent his fellow men 
 Like brutes within an iron den ; 
 But what were these to us or him ? 
 These wasted not his heart or limb ; 
 My brother's soul was of that mould 
 Which in a palace had grown cold. 
 Had his free breathing been denied 
 The range of the steep mountain's side ; 
 But why delay the truth ? — he died. 
 I saw, and could not liold his head. 
 Nor reach his dying hand — nor dead, — • 
 Though hard I strove, but strove in vain 
 To rend and gnash my bonds in twain. 
 He died, and they unlock'd his chain. 
 And scoop'd for him a shallow grave 
 Even from the cold earth of our cave, 
 I begg'd them as a boon to lay 
 His corse in dust whereon the day 
 Might shine — it was a foolish thought, 
 But then within my brain it wrought. 
 That even in death his freeborn breast 
 In such a dungeon could not I'est. 
 I might have spared my idle prayer — : 
 They coldly laugh'd, and laid him there : 
 The flat and turfless earth above 
 The being we so much did love ; 
 His empty chain above it leant, 
 Such luurder's fitting monument ! 
 
 But he, the favorite and the flower. 
 Most cherish'd since his natal hour, 
 His mother's image in fair face, 
 The infant love of all his race. 
 His martyr'd father's dearest thought 
 My latest care, for whom I sought 
 To hoard my life, that his might be 
 Less wretched now, and one day free ; 
 He, too. who yet had held untired 
 A spirit natural or inspired — 
 He, too, was struck, and day by day 
 Was wither'd on the stalk awav. 
 
2o8 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Oh, God ! it is a fearful tiling 
 
 To see the human soul take wing 
 
 In any sliape, in any mood : 
 
 I've seen it rushing forth in blood, 
 
 I've seen it on tlie breaking ocean 
 
 Strive with a swoln convulsive motion, 
 
 I've seen the sick and ghastly bed 
 
 Of Sin delirious with its dread : 
 
 But these were horrors — this was woe 
 
 Unmix'd with such — but sure and slow : 
 
 He faded, and so calm and meek, 
 
 So softly worn, so sweetly weak. 
 
 So tearless, yet so tender, kind. 
 
 And grieved for those he left behind ; 
 
 With all the while a cheek wliose bloom 
 
 Was as a mockery of the tomb. 
 
 Whose tints as gently sunk away 
 
 As a departing rainbow's ray ; 
 
 An eye of most transparent light, 
 
 That almost made the dungeon bright, 
 
 And not a word of murmur, not 
 
 A groan o'er his untimely lot, — 
 
 A little talk of better days, 
 
 A little hope my own to raise. 
 
 For I was sunk in silence — lost 
 
 In this last loss, of all the most^; 
 
 And then the sighs he would supjaress 
 
 Of fainting nature's feebleness, 
 
 More slowly drawn, grew less and less : 
 
 I listen'd, but I could not hear ; 
 
 I call'd, for I was wild with fear : 
 
 I knew 't was hopeless, but ni}' dread 
 
 Would not be thus admonished ; 
 
 I call'd, and thought I heard a sound — 
 
 I burst my chain with one strong bound. 
 
 And rush'd to him : — I found him not, 
 
 /only stirr'd in this black spot, 
 
 7 only lived, /only drew 
 
 The accursed breath of dungeon-dew ; 
 
 The last, the sole, the dearest link 
 
 Between me and the eternal brink, 
 
 Wiiich bound me to my failing race, 
 
 Was broken in this fatal place. 
 
 One on the earth, and one beneath— 
 
 My brothers — both had ceased to breathe : 
 
 I took that hand which lay so still, 
 
 Alas ! my own was full as chill ; 
 
 I had not strength to stir, or strive. 
 
 But felt that I was still alive — 
 
 A frantic feeling, when we know 
 
 That what we love shall ne'er be so. 
 
 I know not why 
 
 I could not die, 
 I had no earthly hope but faith, 
 And that forbade a selfish death. 
 
 What next befell me then and there 
 
 I know not well — I never knew — 
 
 First came the loss of light, and air, 
 
 And then of darkness too : 
 I had no thought, no feeling — none — ■ 
 Among the stones I stood a stone, 
 And was, scarce conscious what I wist, 
 As shrubless crags within the mist ; 
 For all was blank, and bleak, and gray : 
 It was not night, it was not day ; 
 It was not even the dungeon-light. 
 So hateful to my heavy sight. 
 But vacancy absorbing space. 
 And fixedness without a place ; 
 There were no stars, no earth, no time. 
 No check, no change, no good, no crime, 
 But silence, and a stirless breath 
 Which neither was of life nor death ; 
 A sea of stagnant idleness. 
 Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless! 
 
 A light broke in upon my brain, — 
 
 It was the carol of a bird : 
 It ceased, and then it came again. 
 
 The sweetest song ear ever heard. 
 And mine was thankful till my eyes 
 Ran over with the glad surprise. 
 And they that moment could not see 
 I Vk^as the mate of misery ; 
 But then by dull degrees came back 
 My senses to their wonted track ; 
 I saw the dungeon walls and fioor 
 Close slowly rovmd me as before, 
 I saw the glinamer of the sun 
 Creeping as it before had done. 
 But through the crevice where it came 
 That bird was perch'd, as fond and tame. 
 
 And tamer than upon the tree ; 
 A lovely bird, with azure wings, 
 And song that said a thousand things. 
 
 And seem'd to say them all for me ! 
 I never saw its like before, 
 I ne'er shall see its likeness more : 
 It seem'd like me to want a mate, 
 But was not half so desolate, I 
 
 And it was come to love me when ! 
 
 None lived to love me so again, | 
 
 And cheering from my dungeon's brink. ^ 
 Had brought me back to feel and think. i 
 I know not if it late were free, ' 
 
 Or broke its cage to perch on mine. 
 But knowing well captivity. 
 
 Sweet bird ! I could not wish for thine ! 
 Or if it were, in winged guise, 
 A visitant fi-om Paradise ; 
 For — Heaven forgive that thought ! the 
 
 while 
 Which made me both to weep and 
 
 smile — 
 I sometimes deem'd that it might be 
 My brotlier's soul x^ome down to me ; 
 But then at last away it flew. 
 
BYRON 
 
 209 
 
 And then 'twas mortal well I knew, 
 For he would never thus have tlown, 
 And left me twice so doubly lone, 
 Lone as the corse witliin its shroud, 
 Lone as a solitary cloud, — 
 
 A single cloud on a sunny day, 
 While all the rest of heaven is clear, 
 A frown upon the atmosphere, 
 Tliat liath no business to appear 
 
 When skies are. blue, and earth is gay. 
 
 A kind of change came in my fate. 
 My keepers grew compassionate ; 
 I know not what liad made them so, 
 They were inured to sights of woe. 
 But so it was : — my broken chain 
 With links unfasten'd did remain. 
 And it was liberty to stride 
 Along my cell from side to side, 
 And up and down, and then athwart. 
 And tread it over every part ; 
 And round the pillars one by one. 
 Returning where my walk begun, 
 Avoiding only, as I trod. 
 My brothers' graves without a sod ; 
 For if I tliought with heedless tread 
 My step profaned their lowly bed. 
 My breath came gaspingly and tliick. 
 And my crush'd heart fell blind and 
 sick. 
 
 I made a footing in the wall. 
 
 It was not tlierefrom to escape, 
 For I had buried one and all 
 
 Who loved me in a human shape ; 
 And the whole earth would henceforth 
 
 be 
 A wider prison unto me : 
 No child, no sire, no kin liad I, 
 No partner in my misery ; 
 I thought of this, and I was glad, 
 For thought of them liad made me mad ; 
 But I was curious to ascend 
 To my barr'd windows, and to bend 
 Once more, upon the mountains high, 
 The quiet of a loving eye. 
 
 I saw them, and they were the same, 
 They were not changed like me in frame ; 
 I saw their thousand years of snow 
 On high — their wide long lake below. 
 And the bine Rhone in fullest flow ; 
 I heard the torrents leap and gush 
 O'er channell'd rock and broken bush ; 
 I saw the wliite-wall'd distant town. 
 And whiter sails go skimming down ; 
 And then tliere was a little isle. 
 Which in my very face did smile. 
 The only one in view ; 
 
 14 
 
 A small green isle, it seem'd no more, 
 Scarce broader than my dungeon floor, 
 But in it there were three tall trees, 
 And o'er it blew the mountain breeze. 
 And by it there were waters flowing, 
 "And on it there were young flowers 
 growing. 
 Of gentle breath and hue. 
 Tlie fish swam by the castle wall. 
 And they seem'd joyous each and all ; 
 The eagle rode the rising blast, 
 Methought he never flew so fast 
 As then to me he seem'd to fly ; 
 And then new tears came in m}' eye. 
 And I felt troubled — and would fain 
 I had not left my recent chain ; 
 And when I did descend again, 
 The darkness of my dim abode 
 Fell on me as a heavy load ; 
 It was as is a new-dug grave. 
 Closing o'er one we sought to save, — 
 And yet m}-- glance, too much opprest, 
 Had almost need of such a rest. 
 
 It might be months, or years, or daj^s, 
 
 I kept no count, I took no note, 
 I had no hope my eyes to raise, 
 
 And clear them of their dreary mote ; 
 At last men came to set me free ; 
 
 I ask'd not why, and reck'd not where ; 
 It was at length the same to me, 
 Fetter'd or fetterless to be, 
 
 I learn'd to love despair. 
 And thus when they appeared at last, 
 And all my bonds aside were cast. 
 These heavy walls to me liad grown 
 A hermitage — and all my own ! 
 And half I felt as they were come 
 To tear me from a second home : 
 Witli spiders I had friendship made. 
 And watch'd them in their sullen trade, 
 Had seen the mice by moonlight play. 
 And why should I feel less than they ? 
 We were all inmates of one place, 
 And I, the monarch of each race. 
 Had power to kill — yet, strange to tell ! 
 In quiet we had learn'd to dwell ; 
 My very chains and I grew friends, 
 So much a long communion tends 
 To make us what we are : — even I 
 Regain'd my freedom with a sigh. 
 
 Jane 27-29-Jaly 10, ISIG. December 5, 
 
 1816. 
 
 STANZAS TO AUGUSTA 
 
 Though the day of my destiny's over. 
 And the star of my fate hatii declined, 
 
 Tliy soft heart refused to discover 
 
 The faults which so many could find. 
 
BRITISH POETS 
 
 Though thy soul with my grief was ac- 
 quainted, 
 It shrunk not to share it with me, 
 And the love which my spirit liath 
 painted 
 It never hath found but in thee. 
 
 Then when nature around me is smiling, 
 
 The last smile winch answers to mine, 
 I do not believe it beguiling. 
 
 Because it reminds me of tliine ; 
 And when winds are at war with the 
 ocean . 
 
 As the breasts I believed in with me. 
 If their billows excite an emotion. 
 
 It is tliat they bear me from thee. 
 
 Though the rock of my last hope is 
 shiver'd. 
 And its fi'agments are sunk in the 
 wave, 
 Though I feel that my soul is delivered 
 
 To pain — it shall not be its slave. 
 There is many a pang to pursue me : 
 They may crush, but they shall not 
 contemn ; 
 They may torture, but shall not subdue 
 me ; 
 'Tis of thee that I think — not of them. 
 
 Thougli human, thou didst not deceive 
 me. 
 Though woman, thou didst not forsake. 
 Though loved, thou forborest to grieve 
 me, 
 Though slander'd, thou never couldst 
 shake ; 
 Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim 
 me, 
 Though parted, it was not to fl}'. 
 Though watchful, 'twas not to defame 
 me. 
 Nor, mute, that the world might belie. 
 
 Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it. 
 
 Nor the war of the many with one ; 
 If my soul was not fitted to prize it, 
 
 'Twas folly not sooner to shun : 
 And if dearly that error hath cost me, 
 
 And more than I once could foresee, 
 I have found tliat. whatever it lost me, 
 
 It could not deprive me of thee. 
 
 From the wreck of the past, which hath 
 perish'd. 
 Thus much I at least may recall. 
 It hath taught me that what I most 
 cherish'd 
 Deserved to be dearest of all : 
 
 In the desert a fountain is springing. 
 In the wide waste there still is a tree, 
 
 And a bird in the solitude singing, 
 Which speaks to my spirit of thee. 
 July -24. ISIG. December 5, 1816. 
 
 EPISTLE TO AUGUSTA 
 
 My sister ! my sweet sister ! if a name 
 Dearer and purer were, it should be 
 
 thine ; 
 Mountains and seas divide us, but I claim 
 No tears, but tenderness to answer mine: 
 Go where I will, to me thou art the 
 
 same — 
 A loved regret which I would not resign. 
 There yet are two things in my des- 
 tiny,— 
 A world to roam through, and a home 
 with thee. 
 
 The first were nothing— had I still the 
 
 last, 
 It vere the liaven of my happiness ; 
 But other claims and other ties thou hast. 
 And mine is not the wish to make them 
 
 less. 
 A strange doom is thy father's son's, and 
 
 past 
 Recalling, as it lies beyond redress ; 
 Reversed for him our grandsire's fate of 
 
 yore,— 
 He had no rest at sea, nor I on shore. 
 
 If my inheritance of storms hath been 
 In other elements, and on the rocks 
 Of perils, overlook'd or unforeseen, 
 I have sustain'd my share of worldly 
 
 shocks. 
 The fault was mine ; nor do I seek to 
 
 screen 
 My errors with defensive paradox ; 
 I have been cunning in mine overthrow. 
 The careful pilot of my proper woe. 
 
 Mine were my faults, and mine be their 
 
 reward. 
 My whole life was a contest, since the 
 
 day 
 That gave me being, gave me that which 
 
 marr'd 
 The gift, — a fate, or will, that wallcM 
 
 astray ; 
 And I at times have found the struggle 
 
 hard. 
 And thought of shaking off my bonds of 
 
 clay : 
 But now I fain would for a time survive. 
 If but to see what next can well arrive. 
 
BYRON 
 
 211 
 
 Kingdoms and empires in my little daj' 
 I have outlived, and yet I am not old ; 
 And when I look on this, the petty spray 
 Of my own years of trouble, which have 
 
 roll'd 
 Like a wild bay of breakers, melts away: 
 Something — I know not wliat — does still 
 
 upliold 
 A spirit of slight patience ; — not in vain, 
 Even for its own sake, do we purchase 
 
 pain. 
 
 Perhaps the workings of defiance stir 
 Within me — -or perliaps a cold despair, 
 Brouglit on when ills liabitually recur, — 
 Perhaps a kinder clime, or purer air, 
 (For even to this may change of soul 
 
 refer. 
 And with light armor we may learn to 
 
 bear,) 
 Have taught me a strange quiet, which 
 
 was not 
 Tlie chief companion of a calmer lot. 
 
 I feel almost at times as I have felt 
 
 In happy childhood ; trees, and flowers, 
 
 and brooks, 
 Whicli do remember me of where I dwelt 
 Ere my j^oung mind was sacrificed to 
 
 books. 
 Come as of yore upon me. and can melt 
 My lieart with recognition of tlieir looks; 
 And even at moments I could tliink I 
 
 see 
 Some living thing to love — but none like 
 
 thee. 
 
 Here are the Alpine landscapes which 
 
 create 
 A fund for contemplation ; — to admire 
 Is a brief feeling of a trivial date ; 
 But something worthier do such scenes 
 
 inspire ; 
 Here to be lonely is not desolate, 
 For much I view which I could most de- 
 sire. 
 And, above all, a lake I can behold 
 Lovelier, not dearer, than our own of old. 
 
 Oh that thou wertbiit with me ! — but I 
 
 grow 
 The fool of my own wishes, and forget 
 The solitude whicli I liave vaunted so 
 Has lost its praise in this but one regret; 
 There may be others which I less may 
 
 show ! — 
 I am not of the plaintive mood, and yet 
 I feel an ebb in my philosophy, 
 And the tide rising in my alter'd eye. 
 
 I did remind thee of our own dear Lake 
 By the old Hall which may be mine no 
 
 more. 
 Leman's is fair ; but think not I forsake 
 Tlie sweet remembi'ance of a dearer 
 
 shore : 
 Sad havoc Time must with my memory 
 
 make. 
 Ere that or thou can fade these eyes 
 
 before ; 
 Though, like all things which I have 
 
 loved, thej^ are 
 Resign'd for ever, or divided far. 
 
 The world is all before me ; I but ask 
 Of Nature that with which she will 
 
 comply— 
 It is but in lier summer's sun to bask, 
 To mingle with the quiet of her sky. 
 To see her gentle face witliout a mask, 
 And never gaze on it with apathy. 
 She was my early friend, and now shall 
 
 be 
 My sister — till I look again on thee. 
 
 I can reduce all feelings but this one ; 
 And tliat I would not ; — for at length 
 
 I see 
 Such scenes as those wherein my life 
 
 begun. 
 The earliest — even the only paths for 
 
 me — 
 Had I but sooner learnt the crowd to 
 
 shun, 
 I had been better tlian I now can be ; 
 The passions which have torn me would 
 
 have slept ; 
 I had not suffer'd and thou hadst not 
 
 wept. 
 
 Witli false Ambition what had I to do ? 
 Little with Love, and least of all with 
 
 Fame ; 
 And yet they came unsought, and with 
 
 me grew. 
 And made me all which they can make 
 
 — a name. 
 Yet tliis was not the end I did pursue ; 
 Surely I once beheld a nobler aim. 
 But all is over — I am one the more 
 To baffled millions which have gone 
 
 before. 
 
 And for the future, this world's future 
 
 may 
 From me demand but little of my care ; 
 I have outlived myself by many a da}^ ; 
 Having survived so many things that 
 
 were ; 
 
BRITISH POETS 
 
 My years have been no slumber, but the 
 
 prey 
 Of ceaseless vigils ; for I had the share 
 Of life which mii^^lit liave fiUM a century, 
 Before its fourth in time had pass'd 
 
 me by. 
 
 And for the lemnant which may be to 
 
 come 
 I am content ; and for the past I feel 
 Not thankless, — for within the crowded 
 
 sum 
 Of struggles, happiness at times would 
 
 steal, 
 And for the present, I would uot benumb 
 My feelings furtlier. — Nor shall I conceal 
 Tliat with all this I still can look arouml. 
 And worship Nature with a thought 
 
 profound. 
 
 For thee, my own sweet sister, in thy 
 
 heart 
 I know mj^self secure, as thou in mine ; 
 We were and are — I am, even as thou 
 
 art — 
 Beings who ne'er each other can resign : 
 It is the same, together or apart, 
 From life's commencement to its slow 
 
 decline 
 We are entwined — let death come slow 
 
 or fast. 
 The tie which bound the first endures 
 
 the last ! July, ISIG. 1830. 
 
 STANZAS FOR MUSIC 
 
 They say that Hope is happiness : 
 
 But genuine Love must prize the ])ast. 
 
 And Memory wakes the thoughts that 
 bless : 
 They rose the first — they set the last ; 
 
 And all that Memory loves the most 
 Was once our only Hope to be. 
 
 And all that Hope adored and lost 
 Hath melted into Memory. 
 
 Alas ! it is delusion all ; 
 
 The future cheats us from afar, 
 Nor can we be what we recall. 
 
 Nor dare we think on what we nre. 
 ?. . . 1821). 
 
 DAEKNESS 
 
 I HAD a dream, which was not all a 
 
 dream. 
 The bright sun was extinguish'd, and 
 
 the stars 
 
 beacons ; cities were 
 gather'd round their 
 other's 
 
 Did wander darkling in the eternal 
 
 space, 
 Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth 
 Swung blind and blackening "in the 
 
 moonless air ; 
 Morn came and went — and came, and 
 
 brought no day, 
 And men forgot their passions in the 
 
 dread 
 Of this their desolation : and all hearts 
 Were chillM into a selfish praver for 
 
 light ; 
 And they did live bj"^ watch fires— and 
 
 the thrones, 
 Tlie palaces of crowned kings — the huts, 
 Tiie habitations of all things which 
 
 dwell. 
 Were burnt for 
 I consumed, 
 
 And men were 
 
 blazing homes 
 To look once more into each 
 
 face ; 
 Happy were those who dwelt within the 
 
 eye 
 Of the volcanos, and their mountain- 
 
 toi'ch : 
 A fearful hope was all the world con- 
 tain 'd ; 
 Foi'ests were set on fire — but hour by 
 
 hour 
 Tliey fell and faded — and tiie crackling 
 
 trunks 
 Extinguish'd with a crash — and all was 
 
 black. 
 The brows of men by the despairing light 
 Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits 
 The flashes fell upon tliem ; some lay 
 
 down 
 And hid their eyes and wept ; and some 
 
 did rest 
 Their chins upon their clenched hands, 
 
 and smiled : 
 And others hurried to and fro, and fed 
 Their funeral piles with fuel, and look'd 
 
 up 
 With mad disquietude on the dull sky. 
 The pall of a past world ; and then again 
 With curses cast them down upon the 
 
 dust. 
 And gnasli'd their teeth and howl'd : the 
 
 wild birds shriek'd 
 And, terrified, did flutter on the ground. 
 And flap tlieir useless wings ; the wild- 
 est In-utes 
 Came tame and tremulous : and vipers 
 
 crawl'd 
 And twined themselves among the mul- 
 titude. 
 
BYRON 
 
 213 
 
 Hissing', but stingless — they were slain 
 
 for food ! 
 And War, which for a moment was no 
 
 more, 
 Did ghit himself again : — a meal was 
 
 bought 
 With blood, and each sate sullenly apart 
 Goi'ging himself in gloom : no love was 
 
 left: 
 All earth was but one thouglit — and that 
 
 was death 
 Immediate and inglorious ; and the pang 
 Of famine fed upon all entrails — men 
 Died, and their bones were tombless as 
 
 their flesh ; 
 The meagre by the meagre were de- 
 voured, 
 Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save 
 
 one. 
 And he was faithful to a corse, and 
 
 kept 
 The birds and beasts and famish'd men 
 
 at bay. 
 Till hunger clung them, or the dropping 
 
 dead 
 Lured their lank jaws ; himself sought 
 
 out no food. 
 But with a piteous and perpetual moan. 
 And a quick desolate cry, licking the 
 
 hand 
 Which answer'd not with a caress — he 
 
 died. 
 The crowd was famish'd by degrees ; but 
 
 two 
 Of an enormous city did survive, 
 And they were enemies : they met beside 
 Tlie dying embers of an altar-place 
 Where had been heap'd a mass of holy 
 
 things 
 For an unholy usage ; they raked up. 
 And shivering scraped with their cold 
 
 skeleton hands 
 The feeble ashes, and tlieir feeble breath 
 Blew for a little life, and made a flame 
 Which was a mockery ; then they lifted 
 
 Their eyes as it grew lighter, and iieheld 
 Each other's aspects — saw, andshriek'd, 
 
 and died — 
 Even of tlieir mutual hideousness they 
 
 died . 
 Unknowing who he was upon whose 
 
 brow 
 Famine liad written Fiend. The world 
 
 was void, 
 The populous and the powerful was a 
 
 lump, 
 Seasonless, lierbless, treeless, manless, 
 
 lifeless, 
 
 A lump of death — a cliaos of hard clay. 
 The rivers, lakes, and ocean all stood 
 
 still. 
 And nothing stirr'd within their silent 
 
 depths ; 
 Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea, 
 And their masts fell down piecemeal : 
 
 as thej^ drop]i*d 
 They slept on tlie abyss without a 
 
 surge — 
 The waves were dead ; the tides were in 
 
 their grave, 
 The moon, their mistress, had expired 
 
 before ; 
 The winds were wither'd in the stagnant 
 
 air, 
 And the clouds perish'd ; Darkness had 
 
 no need 
 Of aid from them — She was the Uni- 
 verse. 
 July, ISIG. December 5, 1816. 
 
 PROMETHEUS 
 
 TiTAX ! to whose immortal ej'es 
 
 Tlie sufferings of mortality. 
 
 Seen in their sad reality. 
 Were not as things that gods despise ; 
 What was thy pity's recompense ? 
 A silent sufi:ering, and intense ; 
 The rock, the vulture, and the chain, 
 All that the proud can feel of pain, 
 The agony they do not show, 
 The sufl'ocating sense of woe, 
 
 Which speaks but in its loneliness. 
 And then is jealous lest the sky 
 Should have a listener, nor will sigh 
 
 Until its voice is echoless. 
 
 Titan ! to thee tlie strife was given 
 Between the sulfering and the will, 
 Which torture where they cannot 
 kill ; 
 
 And the inexorable Heaven, 
 
 And the deaf t3'ranny of Fate, 
 
 The ruling principle of Hate, 
 
 Which for its pleasure doth create 
 
 The things it may annihilate. 
 
 Refused thee even the boon to die ; 
 
 The wretched gift eternity 
 
 Was thine — and thou hast borne it well. 
 
 All that the Thunderer wrung from 
 thee 
 Was liut the menace which flung back 
 On him the torments of thy rack ; 
 The fate thou didst so well foresee, 
 But would not to appense him tell ; 
 And in thy Silence was his Sentence, 
 And in his Soul a vain repentance. 
 
14 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 And evil dread so ill dissembled, 
 That in his hand tlie lightnings 
 trembled. 
 
 Thy Godlike crime was to be kind, 
 
 To render with thy precepts less 
 
 The sum of human wretchedness. 
 And strengtlien Man with liis own mind ; 
 But baffled as tliou wert from high, 
 Still in thy patient energy, 
 In the endurance, and re])ulse 
 
 Of thine impenetrable Spirit, 
 Which Earth and Heaven could not 
 convulse, 
 
 A mighty lesson we inherit: 
 Thou art a symbol and a sign 
 
 To Mortals of their fate and force ; 
 Like thee, Man is in part divine, 
 
 A troubled stream from a pin-e source ; 
 And Man in portions can foresee 
 His own funereal destiny ; 
 His wretchedness, and liis resistance, 
 And his sad unallied existence : 
 To which his Spirit may oppose 
 Itself — and equal to all woes. 
 
 And a firm will, and a deep sense. 
 Which even in torture can descry 
 
 Its own concenter'd recompense, 
 Triumphant wliere it dare defy. 
 And making Death a Victorv. 
 
 Juhj, IS 16. December, 1816. 
 
 SONNET TO LAKE LEMAN 
 
 Rousseau — Voltaire— our Gibbon — and 
 De Stael— 
 Leman ! these names are worthy of thy 
 
 shore. 
 Thy shore of names like these ! wert 
 thou no more 
 Their memory thy remembrance would 
 
 recall : 
 To them tliy banks were lovely as to 
 all. 
 But they liave made them lovelier, for 
 
 the lore 
 Of mighty minds doth hallow in tlie 
 core 
 Of human hearts the ruin of a wall 
 Where dwelt tlie wise and wondrous ; 
 but by thee 
 How much mure, Lake of Beauty I do 
 we feel, 
 In sweetly gliding o'er tliy crystal sea, 
 Tlie wild glow of that not ungentle zeal. 
 
 Which of the heirs of immortality 
 Is proud, and makes the breath of glory 
 real ! 
 July, 1S16. December 5, 1816. 
 
 MANFRED 
 
 A DRAMATIC POEM 
 
 "There are more things in heaven and earth, 
 Horatio, 
 Thau are dreamt of in your philosophy." 
 
 dkamatis pekson.e 
 
 Manfred 
 
 Chamois Hunter 
 
 Abbot of St. Maurice 
 
 Manuel 
 
 Herman 
 
 Witch of the Alps 
 
 Arimanes 
 
 Nemesis 
 
 The Destinies 
 
 Spirits, &c. 
 Tlie Scene of the Drama is amongst the 
 Higher Alps — partly in the Castle of 
 Manfred, and partly in the Moun- 
 tains. 
 
 ACT I 
 
 Scene I. — Manfred alone. — Scene, a 
 Gothic Gallery. — Time, Midnight. 
 
 Man. The lamp must be replenish'd, but 
 
 even then 
 It will not burn so long as I must watch : 
 My slumbers — if I slumber — are not sleep, 
 But a continuance of enduring thought, 
 Whi(;h then lean resist not : in my heart 
 Tliere is a vigil, and these ejes but close 
 To look within ; and j^ct I live, and bear 
 The asiiect and the form of breathing men. 
 But grief should be the instructor of the 
 
 wise ; 
 Sorrow is knowledge : they Avho know tlie 
 
 most 
 Must mourn the deepest o'er the fatal 
 
 truth, 
 Tlie Tree of Knowledge is not that of 
 
 Life. 
 Philosophy and science, and the springs 
 Of wonder, and the wisdom of the world, 
 I have essay'd, and in my mind there is 
 A power to make these subject to itself — 
 But they avail not : I have done men good, 
 And I have met with good even among 
 
 men — 
 But this avail'd not : I have had my foes. 
 And none have baffled, many fallen be- 
 fore me — 
 
BYRON 
 
 215 
 
 But this avail'd not : — Good, or evil, life, 
 Powers, passions, all I see in other beings. 
 Have been to nie as rain unto the sands. 
 Since that all-nameless hour. 1 have no 
 
 dread, 
 And feel the curse to liave no natural fear, 
 Nor fluttering throb, that beats with 
 
 hopes or wishes. 
 Or lurking love of something on tlie earth. 
 Now to my task.— 
 
 Mysterious agency ! 
 Ye spirits of the unbounded Universe ! 
 Whom I liave sought in darkness and in 
 
 light— 
 Ye, who do compass earth about, and 
 
 dwell 
 In subtler essence — ye, to whom tlietops 
 Of mountains inaccessible ai"e haunts. 
 And earth's and ocean's caves familiar 
 
 things — 
 I call upon ye by tlie written charm 
 Which gives me power upon you — Rise ! 
 
 Appear ! [A pause. 
 
 They come not yet. — Now by the voice 
 
 of him 
 Who is the first among you — by this sign. 
 Which makes you tremble — by tlie claims 
 
 of him 
 Who is undying, — Rise ! Appear ! 
 
 Appear! [^4 pan.se. 
 
 If it be so — Spirits of earth and air. 
 Ye shall not thus elude me : by a power. 
 Deeper than all yet urged, a tyrant-spell, 
 Which had its birtliplace in a star con- 
 
 demn'd. 
 The burning wreck of a demolisli'd 
 
 world, 
 A wandering liell in the eternal spnce ; 
 By the strong curse which is upon my 
 
 soul. 
 The thouglit which is within me and 
 
 around me, 
 I do compel ye to my will — Appear ! 
 
 [ ^4 stay is seen at the darker end 
 of the gallery : if is stationary ; and a 
 voice is Jieard singing. 
 
 First Spirit 
 
 Mortal ! to thy bidding liow'd. 
 From my mansion in the cloud. 
 Which the breath of twilight builds. 
 And the summer's sunset gilds 
 Witli the azure and vermilion. 
 Which is mix'd for my pavilion ; 
 Though thy quest may be forbidden, 
 On a star-beam I have ridilen : 
 To thine adjuration bow'd, 
 Mortal — be thy wish avow'd ! 
 
 Second Spirit 
 
 Mont Blanc is the monarch of moun- 
 tains ; 
 
 They crown'd him long ago 
 On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds, 
 
 With a diadem of snow. 
 Around his waist are foi'ests braced, 
 
 The Avalanche in liis hand ; 
 But ere it fall, that thundering ball 
 
 Must pause for my command. 
 The Glacier's cold and restless mass 
 
 Moves onward day by day ; 
 But I am he who bids it pass, 
 
 Or with its ice delay. 
 I am the spirit of the place. 
 
 Could make the mountain bow 
 And quiver to his cavern'd base — 
 
 And what with me wouldst TJiou ? 
 
 Third Spirit 
 
 In the blue depth of the waters, 
 
 Wliere tlie wave hath no strife. 
 Where the wind is a stranger. 
 
 And the sea-snake hath life, 
 Where the Mermaid is decking 
 
 Her green hair with shells. 
 Like the storm on tlie surface 
 
 Came the sound of thy spells ; 
 O'er my calm Hall of Coral 
 
 The deep echo roll'd — 
 To tlie Spirit of Ocean 
 
 Thy wishes unfold ! 
 
 Fourth Spirit 
 
 Wiiere the slumbering earthquake 
 
 Lies pillow'd on fire. 
 And the lakes of bitumen 
 
 Rise boilingly higlier ; 
 Where tlie roots of the Andes 
 
 Strike deep in the earth. 
 As their summits to heaven 
 
 Shoot soaringly forth ; 
 I have quitted my birthplace, 
 
 Thy bidding to bide — 
 Tliy spell hath subdued me. 
 
 Thy will be my guide ! 
 
 Fifth Spirit 
 
 I am the Rider of the wind, 
 
 The stirrer of the storm ; 
 The hurricane I left behind 
 
 Is yet with lightning warm ; 
 To speed to thee, o'er shore and sea 
 
 I swept upon the blast : 
 The fleet I met sail'd well, and yet 
 
 ' Twill sink ere night be past, 
 
2l6 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Sixth Spirit 
 
 My dwelling is the shadow of the night, 
 Why dotli thy magic torture me with 
 
 light ? 
 
 Seventh Spirit 
 
 The star whicli rules thy destiny 
 Was ruled, ere earth began, by me : 
 It was a world as fresh and fair 
 As e'er revolved round sun in air ; 
 Its course was free and regular, 
 Space bosom'd not a lovelier star. 
 The hour arrived — and it became 
 A wandering mass of shapeless flame, 
 A pathless comet, and a curse, 
 The menace of the universe ; 
 Still rolling on with innate force, 
 Witliout a sphere, without a course, 
 A bright deformity on high. 
 The monster of the upper sky ! 
 And thou ! beneath its influence boi-n — 
 Tliou worm ! whom I obey and scorn — 
 Forced by a power (which is not tliine, 
 And lent thee but to make thee mine) 
 For this brief moment to descend, 
 Wliere these weak spirits round thee bend 
 And paidey with a thing like thee — 
 What wouldst thou. Child of Clay ! with 
 me ? 
 
 The Seven Spirits 
 
 Earth, ocean, air, night, mountains, 
 winds, tliy star. 
 Are at thy beck and bidding, Child of 
 Clay! 
 Before thee at thy quest their spirits 
 are — 
 What wouldst thou with us, son of 
 mortals — say ? 
 
 ( Man. Jor"[etf Illness— — 
 
 First Sjririt. Of what — of wliom — and 
 
 why ? 
 Man. Of that w^hich is within me ; 
 read it there — 
 Ye know it. and I cannot utter it. 
 Spirit. We can but give thee that 
 which we pos.sess : 
 Ask of us subjects, sovereignty, the 
 
 power 
 O'er earth — the whole, or portion — or a 
 
 sign 
 Whicli shall control tlie elements, where- 
 of 
 We are tlie dominators, — each and all. 
 These shall be thine. 
 
 3Ian. Oblivion, self-oblivion ! 
 
 Can ye not wring from out tlie hidden 
 
 realms 
 Ye offer so profusely what I ask? 
 
 Spirit. It is not in our essence, in our 
 skill ; 
 Bat — thou may'st die. 
 jl/(t?i. Will deatli bestow it on me ? 
 Spirit. We are immortal, and do not 
 forget ; 
 We are eternal : and to us the past 
 Is, as the future, present. Art thou 
 answer'd ? 
 Man. Ye mock me — but the power 
 which brouglit ye here 
 Hath made you mine. Slaves, scoff not 
 
 at my will ! 
 The mind, the spirit, the Promethean 
 
 spark, 
 Tlie lightning of my being, is as bright. 
 Pervading, and far darting as your own, 
 And shall not yield to yours, though 
 
 coop'd in cla.y ! 
 Answer, or I will teach you what I nin. 
 Spirit. We answer as we answer'd ; 
 our reply 
 Is even in thine own words. 
 Man. Why say yo so ? 
 
 Spirit. If, as thou say'st, thine 
 essence be as ours. 
 We have replied in telling thee, the thing 
 Mortals call death hath nought to do 
 with us. 
 3Ian. I then havecall'dye from your 
 realms in vain ; 
 Ye cannot, or ye will not, aid me. 
 
 Spirit. Sa}', 
 
 What we possess we offer ; it is thine : 
 Bethink ere thou dismiss us ; ask again ; 
 Kingdom, and sway, and strength, and 
 
 length of days ■ 
 
 Man. Accursed! wliat have I to do 
 with days ? 
 They are too long alreadJ^ — Hence — be- 
 gone ! 
 Spirit. Yet pause : being heret- our 
 will would do tliee service ; 
 Bethink thee, is there then no other gift 
 Which we can make not worthless in 
 thine eyes ? 
 Man. No, none : yet stay — one mo- 
 ment, ere we part, 
 I would behold ye' face to face. I hear 
 Your voices, sweet and melancholy 
 
 sounds. 
 As music on the waters : and I see 
 The steady aspect of a clear large star : 
 But ni)tliiiig n\ore. Approach me as ye 
 
 are. 
 Or one, or all, in vour accustoni'd forms. 
 
BYRON 
 
 217 
 
 Spirit. We liave no foi'ins, beyond 
 the elements 
 Of which we are the mind and principle : 
 But choose a form — in that we will appear. 
 Man. I have no choice ; there is no 
 form on earth 
 Hideous or beautiful to me. Let him, 
 Who is most powerful of ye, take such 
 
 aspect 
 As unto him may seem most fitting — 
 Come ! 
 Seventh Spirit (appearing in the shape 
 of a beautiful female figure). Be- 
 hold ! 
 Mail. Oh God ! if it be thus, and thou 
 Art not a madness cind a mockery, 
 I yet might be most happy, I will clasp 
 thee, 
 
 And we again will be 
 
 [Tlie figtire vanishes. 
 My heart is crusli'd ! 
 
 [Manfred falls senseless. 
 
 (A voice is heard in the Incantation 
 lohich follows.) 
 
 When the moon is on tlie wave, 
 And the glow-worm in the grass. 
 
 And tlie meteor on tlie grave. 
 And the wisp on the morass ; 
 
 When the falling stars are shooting. 
 
 And tiie answer'd owls are hooting, 
 
 And the silent leaves are still 
 
 In the shadow of the hill, 
 
 Sliall my soul be upon thine, 
 
 With a power and with a sign. 
 
 Though tiiy slumber may be deep 
 Yet thy spirit shall not sleep ; 
 There are sliades which will not v.-inish. 
 There are thoughts thou canst not 
 
 banish ; 
 By a power to thee unknown, 
 Thou canst never be alone ; 
 Tliou art wrapt as with a shroud, 
 Thou art gather'd in a cloud ; 
 And for ever slialt thou dwell 
 In the spirit of this spell. 
 
 Though thou seest me not pass by, 
 Thou shalt feel me witli thine eye 
 As a thing that, though unseen, 
 Must be near thee, and hath been ; 
 And when in tliat secret dread 
 Thou hast turii'd around thy head, 
 Thou shalt marvel I am not 
 As thy shadow on the spot. 
 And the power which thou dost feel 
 Shall be what thou must conceal. 
 
 And a magic voice and verse 
 
 Hath baptized thee with a curse ; 
 
 And a spirit of the air 
 
 Hath begirt thee with a snare ; 
 
 In the wind there is a voice 
 
 Shall forbid thee to rejoice ; 
 
 And to thee shall night deny 
 
 All the quiet of her sky ; 
 
 And the day shall have a sun, 
 
 Which shall make thee wish it done. 
 
 From thy false tears I did distil 
 An essence which hath strength to kill ; 
 From thy own heart I then did wring 
 Tlie black blood in its blackest spring ; 
 From thy own smile I snatch'd the 
 
 snake, 
 For there it coil'd as in a brake ; 
 From thy own lip I drew the charm 
 Which gave all these their chiefest 
 
 harm ; 
 In proving every poison known, 
 1 found the strongest was thine own. 
 
 By thy cold breast and serpent smile, 
 By thy unfathom'd gulfs of guile, 
 By that most seeming virtuous eye. 
 By thy shut soul's hyj)ocrisy ; 
 By the perfection of thine art 
 Which pass'd for human thine own 
 
 heart ; 
 By thy deliglit in others' pain. 
 And by thy brotherhcxxl of Cain, 
 I call upon tliee ! and compel 
 Thyself to be thy proper Hell ! 
 
 And on thy head I pour the vial 
 
 Which doth devote tliee to this trial ; 
 
 Nor to slumber, nor to die, 
 
 Shall be in tliy destiny ; 
 
 Though thy death sliall still .seem near 
 
 To tliy wish, but as a fear ; 
 
 Lo ! the spell now works around tliee. 
 
 And the clankless chain hath bound thee; 
 
 O'er thy heart and bi'ain together 
 
 Hath the word been pass'd — now wither ! 
 
 Scene II 
 
 The Mountain of the Jungfrau. — Time, 
 Morning. — Manfred alone upon the 
 Cliffs. 
 Man. The sj^irits I have raised aban- 
 don me, 
 Tlie spells which I have studied baffle me, 
 Tlie remedy I reck'd of tortured me ; 
 I lean no more on suiierlmman aid ; 
 It hath no power upon tlie past, and foi' 
 The future, till the past be gulf'd in 
 darkness, 
 
:iS 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 It is not of my search. My mother 
 
 Earth ! 
 And thou fresh breaking Day, and you, 
 
 ye Mountains, 
 Why are ye beautiful ? I cannot love ye. 
 And thou, the bt ght eye of the universe, 
 Tliat openest over all. and unto all 
 Art a delight — thou shin'st not on my 
 
 heart. 
 And you, ye crags, upon whose extreme 
 
 edge 
 I stand, and on the torrent's brink be- 
 neath 
 Behold the tall pines dwindled as to 
 
 shrubs 
 In dizziness of distance ; when a leap, 
 A stir, a motion, even a breath, would 
 
 bring 
 My breast upon its rocky bosom's bed 
 To rest for ever — whei-efore do I pause ? 
 I feel the impulse — yet I do not plunge ; 
 I see the peril — yet do not recede ; 
 And my brain reels — and yet my foot is 
 
 firm : 
 Tliere is a power upon me which with- 
 holds. 
 And makes it my fatality to live, — 
 If it be life to wear within myself 
 This bai-renness of spirit, and to be 
 My own soul's sepulchre, for I have 
 
 ceased 
 To justify my deeds unto myself — 
 The last infirmity of evil. Ay, 
 Thou winged and cloud-cleaving minis- 
 ter, [An eagle jyasses. 
 Whose happy flight is highest into 
 
 heaven. 
 Well may'st thou swoop so near me — I 
 
 should be 
 Thy prey, and gorge thine eaglets ; thou 
 
 art gone 
 Where the eye cannot follow thee ; but 
 
 thine 
 Yet pierces downward, on ward, or above. 
 With a pervading vision. — Beautiful ! 
 How beautiful is all this visible world ! 
 How glorious in its action and itself ! 
 But we, who name oui'selves its sover- 
 eigns, we. 
 Half dust, half deity, alike unfit 
 To sink or soar, with our mix'd essence 
 
 make 
 A conflict of its elements, and breathe 
 The breath of degradation and of pride, 
 Contending with low wants and lofty 
 
 will. 
 Till our mortality predominates. 
 And men are— what they name not to 
 themselves. 
 
 And trust not to each other. Hark ! the 
 
 note, [The Shepherd's pipe in 
 
 the distance is heard. 
 
 The natural music of the mountain 
 
 reed 
 
 For here the patriarchal days are not 
 A pastoral fable — pipes in the liberal air, 
 Mix'd with the sweet bells of the saun- 
 tering lierd ; 
 My soul would drink those echoes. Oh, 
 
 that I were 
 Tlie viewless spirit of a loveh^ sound, 
 A living voice, a bi'eatliing harmony, 
 A boddess enjoyment — born and dying 
 With the blest tone which made me ! 
 
 Enter from beloio a Chamois Hunter. 
 
 Chamois Hunter. Even so 
 
 This way the chamois leapt : her nimble 
 
 feet 
 Have baffled me ; my gains to-day will 
 
 scarce 
 Repay my break-neck travail. — What is 
 
 here ? 
 Who seems not of my trade, and yet 
 
 hath reach'd 
 A height which none even of our moun- 
 taineers. 
 Save our best hunters, may attain : his 
 
 garb 
 Is goodly, his mien manly, and his air 
 Proud as a free-born peasant's, at this 
 
 distance : 
 I will approacli him nearer. 
 
 Man. (not perceiving the other). To be 
 
 thus — 
 Gray-liairVl with anguisii, like these 
 
 blasted pines. 
 Wrecks of a single winter, barkless, 
 
 branchlass, 
 A blighted trunk upon a cur.sed root, 
 Which but supplies a feeling to decay — 
 And to be thus, eternally but thus. 
 Having been otherwise ! now furrowd 
 
 o'er 
 With wrinkles, ploughed by moments, — 
 
 not by }■ ears, — 
 And hours, all tortured into ages — 
 
 hours 
 Which I outlive ! — Ye toppling crags of 
 
 ice ! 
 Ye avalanches, whom a breath draws 
 
 down 
 In mountainous o'erwhelming, come and 
 
 crush me ! 
 I hear ye momently above, beneath. 
 Crash with a frequent conflict ; but ye 
 
 pass. 
 
BYRON 
 
 2 ig 
 
 And only fall on things that still would 
 
 live ; 
 On the young nourishing forest, or the 
 
 hut 
 And hamlet of tlie harmless villager. 
 C. Him. Tlie mists begin to rise from 
 
 up the valley ; 
 I'll warn him to descend, or he may 
 
 chance 
 To lose at once his way and life together. 
 Man. The mists boil up around the 
 
 glaciers ; clouds 
 Rise curling fast beneath me, white and 
 
 sulphury, 
 Like foam from the roused ocean of deep 
 
 Hell, 
 Whose every wave breaks on a living 
 
 shore, 
 Heap'd witli the damn'd like pebbles. — 
 
 I am giddy. 
 C. Hun. I must approach him cau- 
 
 tiousl.y ; if near, 
 A sudden step will startle him, and he 
 Seems tottering already. 
 
 Man. Mountains have fallen. 
 
 Leaving a gap in the clouds, and with 
 
 the sliock 
 Rocking their alpine brethren ; filling 
 
 up . 
 
 The ripe green valleys with destruction s 
 
 splinters : 
 Damming the rivers with a sudden dash. 
 Which crush'd the waters into mist and 
 
 made 
 Their fountains find another channel — 
 
 thus. 
 Thus, in its old age, did Mount Rosen- 
 berg- 
 Why stood I not beneath it ? 
 
 C. Hnn. Friend! have a care. 
 
 Your next step may be fatal ! — for tiie 
 
 love 
 Of him who made you, stand not on that 
 
 brink ! 
 Man. (not hearing hhn). Such would 
 
 have been for me a fitting tomi) ; 
 My bones had then been quiet in their 
 
 deptli ; 
 They had not tlien been strewn upon the 
 
 rocks 
 For the wind's pastime — as thus — thus 
 
 they shall be — 
 In this one plunge. — Farewell, ye open- 
 ing lieavens ! 
 Look not upon me thus reproachfully — 
 You were not meant for me — Earth ! 
 
 take these atoms ! 
 [As Manfred is in act to spring from 
 
 the cliff, the Chamois Hunter 
 
 seizes and retains him with a sud- 
 den grasp. 
 C. Hun. Hold, madman ! — though 
 
 aweary of thy life, 
 Stain not our pure vales with thy guilty 
 
 blood : 
 Away with me 1 will not quit my 
 
 hold. 
 Man. I am most sick at heart — nay, 
 
 grasp me not — 
 I am all feebleness — the mountains 
 
 whirl 
 Spinning around me 1 grow blind 
 
 What art thou ? 
 C.Hun. I'll answer that anon. Away 
 
 with me — 
 The clouds grow thicker there — now 
 
 lean on me — 
 Place your foot here — here, take this 
 
 staff, and cling 
 A moment to that shrub — now give me 
 
 your hand, 
 And hold fast by my girdle — softly — 
 
 well — 
 The Chalet will be gain'd within an hour : 
 Come on, we'll quickly find a surer foot- 
 ing, 
 And something like a pathway, which 
 
 the torrent 
 Hath wash'd since winter. — Come, 't is 
 
 bravely done — • 
 You should have been a hunter. — Follow 
 
 me. 
 
 [As they descend the rocks with 
 difficulty, the scene closes. 
 
 ACT II 
 
 Scene I. — A Cottage amongst the Ber- 
 nese Alps. 
 
 Manfred and the Chamois Hunter. 
 
 C. Hun. No, no — yet pause^thou 
 
 must not yet go forth : 
 Thy mind and body are alike unfit 
 To trust each other, for some hours, at 
 
 least : 
 When thou art better, I will be tiiy 
 
 guide — 
 But whither? 
 
 Man. It imports not : I do know 
 
 My route full well, and need no further 
 
 guidance 
 C. Hun. Thy garb and gait bespeak thee 
 
 of high lineage — 
 One of tlie many chiefs, whose castled 
 
 crags 
 Look o'er the lower valleys — which of 
 
 these 
 
BRITISH POETS 
 
 May call thee lord ? I only know their 
 
 portals ; 
 My way of life leads me but rarely down 
 To bask by the huge hearths of those old 
 
 halls, 
 Carousing with the vassals ; but the paths, 
 Which step from out our mountains to 
 
 their doors, 
 I know from childhood — which of these 
 
 is thine ? 
 Man. No matter. 
 C. Him. Well, sir, pardon me the 
 
 question. 
 And be of better cheer. Come, taste my 
 
 wine ; 
 'Tis of an ancient vintage ; many a day 
 'T has tliaw'd my veins among our 
 
 glaciers 
 Let it do thus for tliine — Come, jilodge 
 
 me fairly. 
 Man. Away, away ! there's blood upon 
 
 the brim ! 
 Will it tlien never — never sink in the 
 
 earth ? 
 C. Hun. What dost thou mean ? thy 
 
 senses wander from thee. 
 Man. I say 'tis blood — my blood ! the 
 
 pure warm streani 
 Which ran in the veins of my fathers. 
 
 and in ours 
 When we were in our youth, and had 
 
 one heart. 
 And loved each other as we should not 
 
 love. 
 And this was shed : but still it rises up. 
 Coloring the clouds, that shut nie out 
 
 from heaven, 
 Where thou art not — and I shall never be. 
 C. Hun. Man of strange words, and 
 
 some half-maddening sin. 
 Which makes thee peo[ile vacancy, 
 
 whatever 
 Thy dread and sufferance be. there's 
 
 comfort yet — 
 The aid of holy men, and heavenly 
 
 patience — 
 Man. Patience and patience ! 
 
 Hence — that word was made 
 For brutes of burthen, not for birds of 
 
 prey ; 
 Preach it to mortals of a dust like 
 
 thine, — 
 I am not of thine order. 
 
 C. Hun. Tlianks to heaven ! 
 
 T would not be of tliine for tlie free fame 
 Of William Tell ; but whatsoe'er thine 
 
 ill. 
 It must lie borne, and these wild starts 
 
 are useless. 
 
 Man. Do I not bear it ? — Look on me — 
 
 I live. 
 C. Hun. This is convnlsion, and no 
 
 healthful life. 
 Man. I tell thee, man ! I have lived 
 
 many years. 
 Many long years, but they are nothing 
 
 now 
 To those which I must number : ages — 
 
 ages — 
 Space and eternity — and consciousness. 
 With the fierce thirst of death — and still 
 
 unslaked ! 
 C. Hun. Why. on thy brow the seal 
 
 of middle age 
 Ilath scarce been set ; I am thine elder 
 
 far. 
 Man. Think'st thou existence dotli 
 
 depend on time ? 
 It doth ; but actions are our epochs : mine 
 Have made my days and nights im- 
 perishable. 
 Endless, and all alike, as sands on the 
 
 shore. 
 Innumerable atoms ; and one desert, 
 lUirren and cold, on wliicli the wild 
 
 waves break. 
 But nothing rests, save carcasses and 
 
 wrecks , 
 Rocks and tlie salt-surf weeds of bitter- 
 ness. 
 C. Hun. Alas ! he's mad — but yet 
 
 I must not leave him. 
 3Ian. I would I were — for then the 
 
 things I see 
 Would be but a distemper'd dream. 
 
 C. Hun. Wliat is it 
 
 That thou dost see, or think thou look'st 
 
 upon ? 
 3Ian. Myself, and thee — a peasant of 
 
 the Alps — 
 Thy liumble virtues, hospitable home. 
 And spirit patient, pious, proud, ami 
 
 free ; 
 Thy self-respect, grafted on innocent 
 
 thoughts ; 
 The days of health, and nights of sleep ; 
 
 thy toils. 
 By danger dignified, yet guiltless ; hopes 
 Of cheerful old age and a quiet grave. 
 With cross and garland over its green 
 
 turf. 
 And thy grandchildren's love for epi- 
 
 ta]ih ; 
 This do I see — and then I look within — 
 It matters not — my soul wasscorch'd al- 
 ready ! 
 C. Hun. And wouldst thou then ex- 
 change thy lot for mine ? 
 
BYRON 
 
 221 
 
 Man. No, friend ! I would not wronjij 
 
 thee, nor exchange 
 My lot with living being : I can bear — 
 However wretcliedly, 'tis wtill to bear — 
 In life what others could not brook to 
 
 dream, 
 But perish in their slumber.. 
 
 C. Hun. And with this — 
 
 Tliis cautious feeling for anotlier's ])ain, 
 Canst thou be black with evil? — say not 
 
 so. 
 Can one of gentle thoughts have wreak'd 
 
 revenge 
 Upon his enemies ? 
 
 Man. Oh ! no, no. no ! 
 
 My injuries came down on those who 
 
 loved me — 
 On those whom I best loved : I never 
 
 quelled 
 An enemy, save in my just defence — 
 But my embrace was fatal. 
 
 C. Hun. Heaven give thee rest ! 
 
 And penitence restore thee to thj'self ; 
 My prayers shall be for thee. 
 
 Man. I need them not — 
 
 But can endure tliy pity. I depart — 
 'Tis time — farewell ! — Here's gold, and 
 
 thanks for thee — 
 No words — it is thy due. — Follow me 
 
 not — 
 I know 111}'' path — the mountain peril's 
 
 past: 
 And once again I charge thee, follow 
 , not ! [Exit Manfred. 
 
 Scene H 
 
 ^4 lower Valley in the Alps. — ^4 Cataract. 
 
 Enter Manfred. 
 
 It is not noon — the sunbow's rays still 
 
 arcli 
 The torrent with tlie many hues of 
 
 heaven. 
 And roll the sheeted silver's waving 
 
 column 
 O'er the crag's headlong perpendicular. 
 And fling its lines of foaming lightalong. 
 And to and Tro, like tiie pale courser's 
 
 tail. 
 The Giant steed, to be bestrode hy Death, 
 As told in tlie Apocalypse. No eyes 
 But mine now drink this sight of love- 
 liness ; 
 I should be sole in this sweet solitude, 
 And witii the Spirit of the place divide 
 The homage of these waters. — I will call 
 her. 
 
 [Manfred takes some of the zoater 
 ■into the palm of his Jutnd, and 
 flings it into the air, muttering the 
 adjuration. After a ixiuse, tlie 
 Witch of the Alps W.s-e.s beneath 
 the arch of the sunbow of the tor- 
 rent. 
 
 Beautiful Spirit ! with thy hair of light. 
 
 And tlazzling eyes of glory, in whose 
 form 
 
 The cliarms of eartli's least mortal 
 davighters grow 
 
 To an unearthly stature, in an essence 
 
 Of purer elements ; while the hues of 
 youth, — 
 
 Carnation'd like a sleeping infant's 
 cheek, 
 
 Rock'd by the beating of lier mother's 
 heart. 
 
 Or tlie rose tints, widcii summer's twi- 
 ligiit leaves 
 
 Upon the lofty glacier's virgin snow, 
 
 The blush of earth embracing with her 
 heaven — 
 
 Tinge thy celestial aspect, and make 
 tame 
 
 The beauties of the sunbow which bends 
 o'er thee. 
 
 Beautiful Spirit ! in thy calm clear brow. 
 
 Wherein is glass'd serenity of soul, 
 
 Wiiichof itself shows immortalit3% 
 
 I read that thou wilt pardon to a Son 
 
 Of Earth, whom the abstruser powers 
 l)erinit 
 
 At times to commune with them — if 
 that he 
 
 Avail him of his spells — to call thee 
 thus, 
 
 And gaze on thee a moment. 
 
 Witch. Son of Earth ! 
 
 I know thee, and the powers wliich give 
 thee power ; 
 
 I know thee for a man of many thoughts. 
 
 And deeds of good and ill, exti'etne in 
 both. 
 
 Fatal and fated in thy sufferings. 
 
 I have expected this — what wouldst thou 
 with me ? 
 ]\[an. To look upon thy beauty — noth- 
 ing further. 
 
 The face of the earth hath madden'd me, 
 and I 
 
 Take refuge in lier mysteries, and i)ierce 
 
 To the abodes of those who govern her — 
 
 But they can nothing aid me. I have 
 sought 
 
 From them what thej^ could not bestow, 
 and now 
 
 I search no further. 
 
BRITISH POETS 
 
 Witch. Wliat could be the quest 
 
 Which is not in the power of the most 
 
 powerful, 
 The rulers of the invisible ? 
 
 Man. A boon ; 
 
 But why should I repeat it? 'twere in 
 
 vain. 
 Witch. I know not that ; let thy lips 
 
 utter it. 
 3Iaii. Well, though it torture nie, 'tis 
 
 but tlie same ; 
 My pang sliall find a voice. From mj' 
 
 youth upwards 
 My spirit walk'd not with the souls of 
 
 men. 
 Nor look'd upon tlie earth with human 
 
 eyes ; 
 The thirst of their ambition was not 
 
 mine. 
 The aim of their existence was not 
 
 mine ; 
 My JoySi i»y griefs, my passions, and my 
 
 powers, 
 Made me a stranger ; though I wore the 
 
 form, 
 I had no sympathy with breathing flesh. 
 Nor midst tiie creatures of clay tliat 
 
 girded me 
 Was there but one who — but of her anon. 
 I said witli men, and with the thoughts of 
 
 men, 
 I held but slight communion ; but instead 
 My joy was in the wilderness. — to 
 
 bi"eathe 
 The difficult air of the iced mountain's 
 
 top, 
 Where tlie birds dare not build, nor in- 
 sect's wing 
 Flit o'er the herbless granite ; or to plunge 
 Into tlie toi'rent, and to roll along 
 On tlie swift whirl of tlie new breaking 
 
 wave 
 Of river-stream, or ocean, in their flow. 
 In these my early strength exulted ; or 
 To follow through the night the moving- 
 moon, 
 The stars and their development ; or 
 
 catcli 
 The dazzling lightnings till my eyes grew 
 
 dim ; 
 Or to look, list'ning, on the scattered 
 
 leaves. 
 While Autumn winds were at their even- 
 ing song. 
 These were my ])astimes. and to be alone; 
 For if the beings, of whom I was one. — 
 Hating to be so, — cross'd me in my path, 
 I felt myself degraded back to them. 
 And was all clay again. And then I tlived, 
 
 In my lone wanderings, to the caves of 
 
 death. 
 Searching its cause in its eff'ect ; and 
 
 drew 
 From wither'd bones, and skull, and 
 
 heap'd up dust, 
 Conclusions nio.st forbidden. Then I 
 
 pass'd 
 Tlie nights of j^ears in sciences untaught 
 Save in the old time ; and with time and 
 
 toil. 
 And terrible ordeal, and such penance 
 As in itself hath power upon the air. 
 And spirits that do coinpass air and 
 
 earth. 
 Space, and the peopled infinite, I made 
 Mine e^'es familiar with Eternity, 
 Such as, before me, did the Magi, and 
 He who from out their fountain dwell- 
 ings raised 
 Eros and Anteros, at Gadara, 
 As I do thee ; — and with my knowledge 
 
 grew 
 Tl\e thirst of knowledge, and the power 
 
 and joy 
 Of this most bright intelligence, until — 
 Witch. Proceed. 
 Man. Oh ! I but thus prolcng'd my 
 
 words. 
 Boasting these idle attributes, because 
 As I approach the core of 1113^ heart's 
 
 grief — 
 But to my task, I have not named to thee 
 Father or mother, mistress, friend, or 
 
 being. 
 With whom I wore the chain of human 
 
 ties ; 
 If I had such, they seem'd not such to me; 
 Yet there was one — 
 
 Witch. Spare not thyself — proceed. 
 Man. She was like me in lineaments ; 
 
 her ej'es. 
 Her hair, her features, all, to the very 
 
 tone 
 Even of her voice, they said were like 
 
 to mine ; 
 But soften'd all, and temper'd into 
 
 beauty : 
 She had the same lone thoughts and 
 
 wanderings, • 
 
 The quest of hidden knowledge, and a 
 
 mind 
 To comprehend the universe : nor these 
 Alone, but with them gentler powers 
 
 than mine. 
 Pity, and smiles, and tears — whicii I had 
 
 not ; 
 And tenderness — but that I had for her ; 
 Humilitv — and that I never had. 
 
BYRON 
 
 223 
 
 Her faults were mine — her virtues were 
 
 her own — 
 I loved her, and destroy'd lier ! 
 
 Witch. With thy liand ? 
 
 Man. Not witli my hand, but heart, 
 
 which broke her lieart ; 
 It gazed on mine, and wither'd. I have 
 
 shed 
 Blood, but not hers — and yet her blood 
 
 was shed ; 
 I saw — and could not stanch it. 
 
 Witch And for this — 
 
 A being of tlie race thou dost despise. 
 The order, which thine own would rise 
 
 above. 
 Mingling with us and ours, — thou dost 
 
 forego 
 The gifts of our great knowledge, and 
 
 shrink'st back 
 
 To recreant mortality Away ! 
 
 Man. Daughter of Air ! I tell thee, 
 
 since tiiat hour — 
 But words are breath — look on me in mj' 
 
 sleep, 
 Or watch my watcliings — Come and sit 
 
 by me ! 
 My solitude is solitude no more. 
 But peopled witli the Furies ; — I have 
 
 gnash'd 
 My teeth in darkness till returning morn, 
 Tl)en cursed myself till sunset ; — I liave 
 
 pray 'd 
 For madness as a blessing — 'tis denied 
 
 me. 
 I liave affronted death — but in tlie war 
 Of elements the waters shrunk from me. 
 And fatal things pass'd harmless ; the 
 
 cold liand 
 Of an all-pitiless demon held me back, 
 Back by a single hair, which would not 
 
 break 
 In fantasy, imagination, all 
 The affluence of my soul — wliich one day 
 
 was 
 A Croesus in creation — I plunged deep 
 But, like an ebbing wave, it dash'd me 
 
 back 
 Into the gulf of m3'unfatliom'd thought. 
 I plunged amidst mankind — Forgetful- 
 
 ness 
 I souglit in all, save where 'tis to be 
 
 found, 
 And that I have to learn ; my sciences. 
 My long-pursued and superhuman art. 
 Is mortal here : I dwell in my despair — 
 And live — and live for ever. 
 
 W^itcii. It may be 
 
 That I can aid thee. 
 
 Man. To do this thy power 
 
 Must wake the dead, or lay me low with 
 
 them. 
 Do so — in any shape — in any hour — 
 With any torture — so it be tlie last. 
 Witcli. That is not in my province ; 
 
 but if thou 
 Wilt swear obedience to my will, and do 
 My bidding, it may help thee to thy 
 
 wishes. 
 Man. I will not swear — Obey ! and 
 
 whom ? the spirits 
 Whose presence I command, and be the 
 
 slave 
 Of tliose who served me — Never ! 
 
 Witch. Is this all? 
 
 Hast tliou no gentler answer ? — Yet be- 
 think thee. 
 And pause ere thou rejectest. 
 Man. I have said it. 
 
 Witch. Enough ! I may retire then — 
 
 say ! 
 Man. Retire ! 
 
 [Tlie Witch disaji pears. 
 Man. (alone). We are the fools of time 
 
 and terror : Days 
 Steal on us, and steal from us ; yet we live, 
 Loathingour life,anddreadingstilltodie. 
 In all tlie days of this detested yoke — 
 This vital weight upon the struggling 
 
 heart. 
 Which sinks with sorrow, or beats quick 
 
 with pain. 
 Or joy that ends in agony or faintness — 
 In all the days of past and future, for 
 In life there is no i^resent, we can number 
 How few— how less than few — wherein 
 
 the soul 
 Forbears to pant for death, and yet draws 
 
 back 
 As from a stream in winter, though the 
 
 chill 
 Be but a moment's. I have one resource 
 Still in my science — I can call the dead. 
 And ask them what it is we dread to be : 
 Tlie sternest answer can but be tlie Grave, 
 And that is nothing. If tliey answer 
 
 not 
 
 The buried Prophet answered to the Hag 
 Of Endor ; and tlie Spartan Monarch 
 
 drew 
 From the Bj^zantine maid's unsleeping 
 
 spirit 
 An answer and his destiny — he .slew 
 Tliat which he loved, unknowing what 
 
 he slew. 
 And died unpardon'd — though he call'd 
 
 in aid 
 The Phyxian Jove, and in Phigalia 
 
 roused 
 
224 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Tlie Arcadian Evocators to compel 
 The indignant shadow to depose her 
 
 wrath, 
 Or fix her term of vengeance — she replied 
 In words of dubious import, bvit fulfiU'd. 
 If I had never lived, that which I love 
 Had still been living ; had I never loved, 
 Tliat which I love would still be beauti- 
 ful, 
 Happy and giving happiness. What is 
 
 slie ? 
 What is she now ? — a sufferer for ray 
 
 sins— 
 A tiling I dare not think upon — or noth- 
 ing. 
 Within few liours I shall not call in 
 
 vain — 
 Yet in this hour I dread the tiling I dare : 
 Until this hour I never shrunk to gaze 
 On spirit, good or evil — now I tremble, 
 And feel a strange cold thaw upon my 
 
 heart. 
 But I can act even what I most abhor. 
 And champion human fears. — Tlie night 
 approaches. [Exit. 
 
 Scene III 
 
 The Summit of the Jungfraii Mountain. 
 
 Enter First Destiny. 
 
 The moon is rising bi'oad, and round, and 
 
 bright ; 
 And here on snows, where never human 
 
 foot 
 Of common mortal trod, we nightly 
 
 tread. 
 And leave no traces : o'er the savage sea, 
 The glassy ocean of the mountain ice. 
 We skim its rugged breakers, which put 
 
 on 
 The aspect of a tumbling tempest's foam, 
 Frozen in a moment — a dead whirljjool's 
 
 image : 
 And this most steep fantastic pinnacle. 
 The fretwork of some earthquake — 
 
 where the clouds 
 Pause to repose themselves in passing 
 
 by- 
 Is sacred to our revels, or our vigils ; 
 Here do I wait my sisters, on oui' way 
 To the Hall of Arimanes, for to-niglit 
 Is our great festival — "t is strange they 
 
 come not. 
 
 A Voice without, .'<inging. 
 
 The Captive Usurper, 
 
 Hurl'd down fruiu the throne. 
 
 La}^ buried in torpor. 
 Forgotten and lone ; 
 I broke through his slumbers, 
 
 I shiver'd his chain, 
 I leagued liini with nmnbers — ■ 
 He's Tyrant again ! 
 With the blood of a million he'll answer 
 
 my care. 
 With a, nation's destruction — his fligiit 
 and despair. 
 
 Second Voice, without. 
 
 The ship sail'd on, the ship sail'd fast, 
 But I left not a sail, and 1 left not a 
 
 mast ; 
 There is not a plank of the hull or the 
 
 deck. 
 And there is not a wretch to lament o'er 
 
 his wreck ; 
 Save one, whom I held, as he swam, by 
 
 the hair. 
 And he was a subject well worthy my 
 
 care ; 
 A traitor on land, and a pirate at sea, — 
 But I saved him to wreak further havoc 
 
 for me ! 
 
 First Destiny, aitsivering. 
 
 The city lies sleeping ; 
 
 The morn, to deplore it, 
 Jlay dawn oir it weeping : 
 
 Sullenly, slowly. 
 The' black ])lague flew o'er it — 
 
 Thousands lie lowly ; 
 Tens of thousands siiall perish ; 
 
 The living shall ^y from 
 The sick they should cherish ; 
 
 But nothing can vanquish 
 The touch that they die from. 
 
 Sorrow and anguish, 
 And evil and dread. 
 
 Envelop a na,tion ; 
 The blest are the dead, 
 
 Who see not the sight 
 Of their own desolation ; 
 
 This work of a night — 
 This wreck of a realm — this deed of my 
 
 doing — 
 For ages I've done, and shall still be re- 
 newing ! 
 
 Enter the Second and Third Destinies 
 
 The Three. 
 
 Oar hands contain the hearts of men, 
 Our footsteps are their graves ; 
 
 We only give to take again 
 The spirits of our slaves ! 
 
BYRON 
 
 225 
 
 First Des. Welcome ! — ^Where's Nem- 
 esis ? 
 Second Des. At some great work; 
 
 But wh;it I know not, for m}' liands were 
 full. 
 Third Des. Behold she cometh. 
 
 Enter Nemesis. 
 
 First Des. Say, where hast thou been ? 
 My sisters and thyself are slow to-niglit. 
 Nem. I was detain'd repairing 
 shatter 'd thrones. 
 Marrying fools, restoring dynasties. 
 Avenging men upon their enemies. 
 And making them repent their own re- 
 venge ; 
 Goading the wise to madness ; from the 
 
 dull 
 Shaping out oracles to rule the world 
 Afresh, for tliey were waxing out of date, 
 And mortals dared to ponder for them- 
 selves, 
 To weigh kings in the balance, and to 
 
 si)eak 
 Of freedom, the forbidden fruit. — Away ! 
 We have outsfcay"d tlie hour — mount we 
 our clouds ! [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene IV 
 
 TJie Hall of Arimanes — Arimanes on his 
 TJirone, a Globe of Fire, surrounded 
 by tlie Spirits. 
 
 Hymn of the Spirits. 
 
 Hail to our I\Iaster ! — Prince of Earth 
 and Air ! 
 Who walks the clouds and waters — in 
 his hand 
 The sceptre of the elements, wliich tear 
 Themselves to chaos at his higli 
 command ! 
 He breatheth — and a tempest sliakes 
 the sea ; 
 He speaketh — and the clouds reply in 
 thunder ; 
 He gazetli — from his glance tlie sun- 
 beams flee ; 
 He moveth— earthquakes rend the 
 world asunder. 
 Beneath his footsteps the volcanoes rise ; 
 His shadow in the Pestilence ; his path 
 The comets herald through the crackling 
 skies ; 
 And planets turn to ashes at liis wrath. 
 To him War offers daily sacrifice ; 
 To him Death pays his tribute ; Life 
 is his, 
 
 15 
 
 With all its infinite of agonies — 
 And his the spirit of whatever is ! 
 
 Enter the Destinies and Nemesis! 
 
 First Des. Glory to Arimanes ! on tlie 
 
 earth 
 His power increaseth — both my sisters 
 
 did 
 His bidding, nor did I neglect my dut}' ! 
 Second Des. Glory to Arimanes ! we 
 
 who bow 
 The Jiecks of men, bow down before his 
 
 throne ! 
 lliird Des. Glory to Arimanes ! we 
 
 await His nod ! 
 Nem. Sovereign of Sovereigns ! we are 
 
 thine. 
 And all tliat liveth, more or less, is ours. 
 And most things wholly so ; still to 
 
 increase 
 Our power, increasing thine, demands 
 
 our cai'e. 
 And we are vigilant. Thy late commands 
 Have been fulfiU'd to the utmost. 
 
 Enter Manfred. 
 
 A Spirit. What is here ? 
 
 A mortal ! — Thou most rash and fatal 
 
 wretch. 
 Bow down and worship ! 
 
 Second Spirit. I do know the man — 
 A Magian of great power, and fearful 
 skill ! 
 Third Spirit. Bow down and worship, 
 slave ! — 
 What, know'st thou not 
 Thine and our Sovereign ? — Tremble, 
 and obey ! 
 All the Spirits. Prostrate thyself, and 
 til}' condemned clay. 
 Child of the Earth ! or dread the worst. 
 3Ian. I know it ; 
 
 And yet je see I kneel not. 
 
 Fourth Spirit. 'T will be taught thee, 
 il/au. 'T is taught already ; — many a 
 night on the earth, 
 On the bare ground, have I bow'd down 
 
 my face. 
 And strew'd my head with ashes ; I have 
 
 known 
 Tlie fulness of humiliation, for 
 I sunk before my vain despair, and knelt 
 To my own desolation. 
 
 Fifth Spirit. Dost thou dare 
 
 Refuse to Arimanes on liis throne 
 What the whole earth accords, behold- 
 ing not 
 
226 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 The terror of his glor}- ? — Crouch, I say. 
 Man. Bid him how down to that 
 
 which is above him, 
 The overruling Infinite — the Maker 
 Who made him not for worship — let 
 
 him kneel, 
 And we will kneel together. 
 
 The S23ii'its. Cx'ush the worm ! 
 
 Tear him in pieces ! — 
 First Des. Hence ! avaunt ! — • he's 
 
 mine. 
 Prince of the Powers invisible ! This 
 
 man 
 Is of no common order, as his port 
 And presence here denote ; his sufferings 
 Have been of an immortal nature, like 
 Our own ; his knowledge, and his powers 
 
 and will, 
 As far as is compatible with clay, 
 Which clogs the ethereal essence, have 
 
 been sucli 
 As clay hath seldom borne ; his aspira- 
 tions 
 Have been beyond the dwellers of the 
 
 earth, 
 And they have only taught him what 
 
 we know — 
 That knowledge is not happiness, and 
 
 science 
 But an excliange of ignorance for that 
 Which is another kind of ignorance. 
 This is not all — the passions, attributes 
 Of earth and lieaven, from which no 
 
 power, nor being. 
 Nor breath from the worm upwards is 
 
 exempt, 
 Have pierced his heai't, and in their 
 
 consequence 
 Made him a thing which I, who pity not, 
 Yet pardon those wlio pity. He is mine, 
 And thine, it may be ; be it so, or not, 
 No other Spirit in this region hath 
 A soul like his — or power upon his soul. 
 Nem. What doth he here then ? 
 First Des. Let him answer that. 
 
 Man. Ye know vvliat I have known ; 
 
 and without power 
 I could not be amongst ye : but there are 
 Powers deeper still beyond — I come in 
 
 quest 
 Of such, to answer unto what I seek. 
 Nem. What wouldst thou ? 
 Man. Tliou canst not reply to me. 
 
 Call up the dead— my question is for 
 
 them. 
 Nem. Great Arimanes, doth thy will 
 
 avouch 
 The wishes of this mortal ? 
 Ari. Yea. 
 
 Nem. Whom wouldst thou 
 
 Uncharnel ? 
 
 Man. One without a tomb — call up 
 Astarte. 
 
 Nemesis 
 
 Sliadow ! or Spirit ! 
 
 Whatever tliou art. 
 Which still doth inherit 
 
 The whole or a part 
 Of the form of thy birth, 
 
 Of the mould of thy clay, 
 Wliicli return'd to tlie earth, 
 
 Re-appear to the day ! 
 Bear what thou borest, 
 
 The heart and the form, 
 And the aspect thou worest 
 Redeem from the worm. 
 Appear ! — Appear ! — Appear ! 
 Who sent thee there requires thee here ! 
 [TJie Phantom of Astarte rises 
 and stands in the viidst. 
 Man. Can this be death? tliere's 
 bloom upon her clieek : 
 But now I see it is no living liue. 
 But a strange hectic — like the unnatural 
 
 red 
 Which Autumn plants upon the perish 'd 
 
 leaf. 
 It is the same ! Oh, God ! that I shoujd 
 
 dread 
 To look upon tlie same — Astarte ! — No. 
 I cannot sjjeak to her — but bid her 
 
 speak — 
 Forgive me or condemn me. 
 
 Nemesis 
 
 By the power which hath broken 
 The grave which enthrall'd thee, 
 
 Speak to him who hath spoken, 
 Or those who have call'd thee ! 
 
 3Ian. She is silent. 
 
 And in that silence I am more than au- 
 swer'd. 
 Nem. My power extends no further, 
 Prince of Air ! 
 It rests with thee alone — command her 
 voice. 
 Ari. Spirit^ — obey this sceptre ! 
 Nem. " Silent still ! 
 
 Slie is not of our order, but belongs 
 To tiie other powers. Mortal ! thy quest 
 
 is vain. 
 And we are baffled also. 
 
 Man. Hear me, hear me — 
 
 Astarte ! my beloved ! speak to me : 
 I have so much endured — so much 
 endure — 
 
BYRON 
 
 227 
 
 Look on me ! the grave hath not 
 
 changed thee more 
 Than I am changed for thee. Thou 
 
 lovedst me 
 Too much, as I loved thee : we were not 
 
 made 
 To torture thus each other, though it 
 
 were 
 The deadliest sin to love as we liave 
 
 loved. 
 Say that thou loath'st me not — that I do 
 
 bear 
 This punishment for both — that thou 
 
 wilt be 
 One of the blessed — and that I shall die ; 
 For hitherto all liateful things conspire 
 To bind me in existence — in a life 
 Which makes me shrink from immor- 
 tality — 
 A future like the past. I cannot rest. 
 I know not wluat I ask, nor what I seek ; 
 I feel but wliat tliou art, and what I am ; 
 And I would liear yet once before I perish 
 The voice whicli was my music — Speak 
 
 to me ! 
 For I have call'd on thee in the still 
 
 night. 
 Startled tlie slumbering birds from the 
 
 hush'd boughs. 
 And woke the mountain wolves, and 
 
 made the caves 
 Acquainted with thy vainly echoed 
 
 name, 
 Whicli answer'd me — many things 
 
 answer'd me — 
 Spirits and men — but thou wert silent 
 
 all. 
 Yet speak to me ! I have outwatchM 
 
 the stars. 
 And gazed o'er heaven in vain searcli of 
 
 thee. 
 Speak to me ! I have wander'd o'er the 
 
 earth. 
 And never found thy likeness — Speak to 
 
 me ! 
 Look on the fiends around — they feel for 
 
 nie : 
 I fear them not. and feel for thee alone — 
 Speak to me ! though it be in wrath ; — 
 
 but say — 
 I reck not what — but let me hear thee 
 
 once — 
 This once — once more ! 
 
 Phantom of Astarte. Manfred. 
 Man. Say on. say on — 
 
 I live but in the sound — it is thy voice ! 
 Phan. Manfred ! To-morrow ends 
 
 thine earthly ills. 
 Farewell ! 
 
 Man. Yet one word more — am I for- 
 given ? 
 Plian. Farewell ! 
 
 Man. Say, shall we meet again ? 
 
 Phan. Farewell ! 
 Man. One word for mercy ! Say, thou 
 
 lovest me. 
 Phan. Manfred ! 
 
 [The Spirit of Astarte disappears. 
 Nem. She's gone, and will not be 
 recall'd : 
 Her words will be fulfiU'd. Return to 
 the earth. 
 A Spirit. He is convulsed. — This is to 
 be a mortal 
 And seek the things beyond mortalit}'. 
 Another Spirit. Yet, see, he mas- 
 tereth liimself, and makes 
 His torture tributary to his will. 
 Had lie been one of us, he would Jiave 
 
 made 
 An awful spirit. 
 
 Ne7n. Hast thou further question 
 
 Of our gi'eat sovereign, or his worship- 
 pers ? 
 Man. None. 
 
 Nem. Then for a time farewell. 
 
 Man. We meet then ! where ? On the 
 earth ? — 
 Even as thou wilt : and for the grace ac- 
 corded 
 I now depart a debtor. Fare ye well ! 
 [£j;if Manfred. 
 
 (Scene closes. ) 
 
 Act III 
 
 Scene I.-^ Hall in the Castle of Manfred. 
 
 Manfred and Herman. 
 
 Man. What is the hour ? 
 
 Her. It wants but one till sunset, 
 
 And promises a lovely twilight. 
 
 Man. Say, 
 
 Are all things so disposed of in the tower 
 As I directed ? 
 
 Her. All, my lord, are ready: 
 Here is the key and casket. 
 
 Ma7i. It is well : 
 
 Thou may'st retire. [Exit Herman. 
 
 Man. {alone). There is a calm vipon me — 
 Inexplicable stillness ! which till now 
 Did not belong to what I knew of life. 
 If that I did not know philosophy 
 To be of all our vanities the motliest, 
 Tlie merest word tliat ever fool'd the ear 
 From out the schoolman's jargon, I 
 should deem 
 
228 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 The golden secret, the sought " Kulou," 
 
 found. 
 And seated in my soul. It will not last, 
 But it is well to have known it, though 
 
 but once : 
 It hath enlarged my thoughts with a 
 
 new sense, 
 And I within my tablets would note 
 
 down 
 That there is such a feeling. Who is 
 
 there ? 
 
 Re-enter Herman. 
 
 Her. My lord, tlie abbot of St. Mau- 
 rice craves 
 To greet your presence. 
 
 Enter the Abbot of St. Maurice. 
 
 Abbot. Peace be with Count Man- 
 fred! 
 Man. Thanks, holy father ! welcome 
 to these walls ; 
 Thy presence hoTiors them, and blesseth 
 
 those 
 Who dwell within them. 
 
 Abbot. Would it were so. Count ! — 
 
 But I would fain confer witli thee alone. 
 
 Man. Herman, retire. — What would 
 
 my reverend guest ? 
 Abbot. Thus, without pi-elude : — Age 
 and zeal, my office. 
 And good intent, must plead my privi- 
 lege ; 
 Our near, though not acquainted neigli- 
 
 borliood. 
 May also be my herald. Rumors 
 
 strange. 
 And of unholy nature, are abroad. 
 And busy with thy name ; a noble name 
 For centuries : may he who bears it now 
 Transmit it unimpair'd ! 
 
 Man. Proceed. — I listen. 
 
 Abbot. 'T is said thou boldest converse 
 with the things 
 Which are forbidden to the search of 
 
 man ; 
 That with the dwellers of the dark 
 
 abodes. 
 The many evil and unheavenly spirits 
 Which walk tlie valley of the shade of 
 
 death. 
 Thou communest. I know that with 
 
 mankind. 
 Thy fellows in creation, tiiou dost rarely 
 Exchange thy thoughts, and that tiiy 
 
 solitude 
 Is as an ancliorite's, were it but holj'. 
 
 3Ian. And what are they who do 
 
 avouch these things? 
 Abbot. My pious brethren— the scared 
 peasantry — 
 
 Even tliy own vassals — who do look on 
 tliee 
 
 With most unquiet eyes. Thj'^ life's in 
 ]ieril. 
 Man. Take it. 
 
 Abbot. I come to save, and not des- 
 troy : 
 
 I would not pry into thj^ secret soul ; 
 
 But if these things be sooth, there .still is 
 time 
 
 For penitenc^e and pity : reconcile thee 
 
 With the true cluirch, and through the 
 cluirch to heaven. 
 3Ia7i. I liear thee. This is my reply : 
 whate'er 
 
 I may have been, or am, doth re.st be- 
 tween 
 
 Heaven and myself. I shall not choose 
 a mortal 
 
 To be my mediator. Have I sinn'd 
 
 Against your ordinances ? prove and 
 punish ! 
 Abbot. My son ! I did not speak of 
 punishment. 
 
 But penitence and pardon ; — with myself 
 
 The choice of sucli remains — and for the 
 last. 
 
 Our institutions and our strong belief 
 
 Have given me power to smooth the 
 path from sin 
 
 To higher hope and better thoughts ; the 
 first 
 
 I leave to heaven, — " Vengeance is mine 
 alone ! " 
 
 So saith the Lord, and with all humble- 
 ness 
 
 His servant echoes back the awful word. 
 Man. Old man ! tliere is no power in 
 holy men. 
 
 Nor charm in prayer, nor purifying form 
 
 Of penitence, nor outward look, nor fast. 
 
 Nor agony — nor, greater than all these. 
 
 Tlie innate tortures of that deep despair. 
 
 Which is remorse w^ithout the fear of 
 hell. 
 
 But all in all sufficient to itself 
 
 Would make a hell of heaven — can ex- 
 orcise 
 
 From out the unbound spirit the quick 
 sense 
 
 Of its own sins, wrongs, .sufferance, and 
 revenge 
 
 Upon itself : there is no future pang 
 
 Can deal tliat justice on the self-con- 
 demn'd 
 
BYRON 
 
 He deals on his own soul. 
 
 Abbot. ' All this is well ; 
 
 Fortius will pass away, and be succeeded 
 By an auspicious hope, which shall look 
 
 up 
 With calm assurance to that blessed 
 
 place. 
 Which all who seek may win, whatever 
 
 be 
 Their earthh' errors, so they be atoned : 
 And the commencement of atonement is 
 The sense of its necessity. Say on — 
 And all our church can teach thee shall 
 
 be taught ; 
 And all we can absolve thee shall be 
 
 pardon'd. 
 Man. When Rome's sixth emperor 
 
 was near his last. 
 The victim of a self-inflicted wound. 
 To shun the torments of a public death 
 From senates once his slaves, a certain 
 
 soldier. 
 With show of loyal pity, would have 
 
 stanch'd 
 The gushing throat with his officious 
 
 robe ; 
 The dying Roman thrust him back, and 
 
 said — 
 Some empire still in his expiring glance — 
 " It is too late — is this fidelity ? " 
 Abbot. And what of this ? 
 Man. I answer with the Roman — 
 " It is too late ! " 
 
 Abbot. It never can be so. 
 
 To reconcile thyself with thj^ own soul. 
 And tl)y own soul with heaven. Hast 
 
 thou no hope ? 
 'Tis strange — even those who do de- 
 spair above. 
 Yet shape themselves some fantasy on 
 
 earth, 
 To which frail twig they cling, like 
 
 drowning men. 
 Jfau. Ay — father ! I have had those 
 
 earthly visions, 
 And noble aspirations in my youth. 
 To make my own the mind of other 
 
 men. 
 The enlightener of nations ; and to rise 
 I knew not whither — it miglit be to fall ; 
 But fall, even as the mountain -cataract, 
 Which having leapt from its more daz- 
 zling height. 
 Even in the foaming strength of its 
 
 abyss, 
 (Which casts up misty columns that be- 
 come 
 Clouds raining from the re-ascended 
 
 skies,) 
 
 Lies low but mighty still. — But this is 
 
 past. 
 My thoughts mistook themselves. 
 
 Abbot. And wherefore so ? 
 
 Man. I could not^ t ame my nature 
 
 down ; for He 
 Must serve~wRo'faih would sway ; and 
 
 soothe, and sue. 
 And watch all time, and pry into all 
 
 place. 
 And be a li\ing lie, who would become 
 A mighty thing amongst the mean, and 
 
 sucli 
 
 The mass are ; I disdain'd to mingle with 
 A herd, tlmngli to be leader— and of 
 
 w()l\es. 
 The lion is alone, and so am I. 
 
 Abbot. And why not live and act with 
 
 other men ? 
 Man. Because my nature was averse 
 
 from life ; 
 And yet not cruel ; for I would not make, 
 But find a desolation. Like the wind. 
 The red-hot breath of the most lone 
 
 simoom. 
 Which dwells but in the desert, and 
 
 sweeps o'er 
 The barren sands which bear no shrubs 
 
 to blast, 
 And revels o'er their wild and arid 
 
 waves. 
 And seeketh not, so that it is not sought. 
 But being met is deadly,— such hath 
 
 been 
 The course of my existence ; but there 
 
 came 
 Things in my path which are no more. 
 
 Abbot. Alas ! 
 
 I 'gin to fear that thou art past all aid 
 From me and from my calling ; yet .so 
 
 young, 
 I still would — 
 
 Man. Look on me ! there is an order 
 Of mortals on the earth, who do become 
 Old in their youth, and die ere middle 
 
 age. 
 Without the violence of warlike death : 
 Some perishing of pleasure, some of 
 
 study. 
 Sonie worn with toil, some of mere 
 
 weariness. 
 Some of disease, and some insanity. 
 And some of wither'd or of broken 
 
 hearts ; 
 For this last is a malady which slays 
 More than are number'd in the lists of 
 
 Fate, 
 Taking all shapes, and bearing many 
 
 names. 
 
230 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Look upon me ! for even of all these 
 
 tilings 
 Have I partaken; and of all these things, 
 One were enough; tlien wonder not that I 
 Am what I am. but that I ever was, 
 Or having been, that I am .still on earth. 
 
 Abbot. Yet, hear me still 
 
 3Ian. Old man ! I do respect 
 
 Thine order, and revere thine years ; I 
 
 deem 
 Thy purpo.se pious, but it is in vain : 
 Think me not churlisli ; I would spare 
 
 tliysclf, 
 Far more than me, in shunning at tliis 
 
 time 
 All further colloquy — and so — farewell. 
 [Exit Manfred. 
 Abbot. This should have been a noble 
 
 creature ; he 
 Hath all the energy which would have 
 
 made 
 A goodly frame of glorious elements. 
 Had they been wisel}' mingled ; as it is. 
 It is an awful chaos — light and darkness. 
 And mind and dust, and passions and 
 
 pure tlioughts 
 Mix'd, and contending withovit end or 
 
 order, — 
 All dormant or destructive : he will 
 
 perish, 
 And yet he must not ; I will try once 
 
 more 
 For such are worth redemption ; and my 
 
 duty 
 Is to dare all things for a righteous end. 
 I'll follow him — but cautiously, though 
 
 surely. [Exit Abbot. 
 
 Scene II 
 
 Another Chamber. 
 
 Manfred and Herman. 
 
 Ber. My lord, you bade me wait on 
 you at sunset : 
 He sinks behind the mountain. 
 
 Man. Doth he so ? 
 
 I will look on him. [Manfred advances 
 to the Windoio of tlie Hall. 
 Glorious Orb ! the idol 
 Of early nature, and the vigorous race 
 Of undiseased mankind, tlie giant sons 
 Of the embrace of angels, with a sex 
 More beautiful than they, which did 
 
 draw down 
 The erring spirits who can ne'er return. — 
 Most glorious orb ! that wert a worship, 
 
 ere 
 The mystery of thy making was re- 
 veal'd ! 
 
 Thou earliest minister of the Almighty, 
 Which gladden'd, on their mountain 
 
 tops, the hearts 
 Of the Chaldean shepherds, till they 
 
 pour'd 
 Themselves in orisons ! Thou material 
 
 God! 
 And representative of the unknown — 
 Who cliose thee for his shadow ! Thou 
 
 chief star ! 
 Centre of many stars ! which mak'stour 
 
 ear til 
 Endurable, and temperest the hues 
 And hearts of all who walk within thy 
 
 rays ! 
 Sire of the seasons ! Monarch of the 
 
 climes. 
 And those who dwell in them ! for near 
 
 or far, 
 Our inborn spirits have a tint of thee 
 Even as our outward aspects ; — thou dost 
 
 rise. 
 And shine, and set in gloiy. Fare thee 
 
 well ! 
 I ne'er shall see thee more. As my first 
 
 glance 
 Of love and wonder was for thee, then 
 
 take [one 
 
 My latest look: thou wilt not beam on 
 To whom the gifts of life and warmth 
 
 have been 
 Of a more fatal nature. He is gone : 
 I follow. [Exit Manfred. 
 
 Scene III 
 
 The Mountains — The Castle of Manfred 
 at some distance— A Terrace before a 
 Tower — Time, Twilight. 
 
 Herman, Manuel and other Dependents 
 of Manfred. 
 
 Her. 'Tis strange enough ; night after 
 
 night, for years. 
 He liatli pursued long vigils in this tower, 
 Without a witness. I have been within 
 
 it,— 
 So have we all been oft-times; but from it. 
 Or its contents, it were impossible 
 To draw conclusions absolute, of aught 
 His studies tend to. To be sure, there is 
 One chamber where none enter : -I would 
 
 give 
 The fee of what I have to come these 
 
 three years. 
 To pore upon its mysteries. 
 
 3Ianuel. 'Twere dangerous; 
 
 Content thyself with what thou know'st 
 
 already. 
 
BYRON 
 
 231 
 
 Her. Ah ! Manuel ! thou art elderly 
 
 and wise, 
 And couldst say much ; thou hast dwelt 
 
 within the castle — 
 How many years is't? 
 
 Manuel. Ere Count Manfred's birth, 
 I served his fatlier, whom he nought re- 
 sembles. 
 Her, There be more sons in like pre- 
 dicament. 
 But wherein do they differ? 
 
 Manuel. I speak not 
 
 Of features or of form, but mind and 
 
 habits ; 
 Count Sigismund was px'oud, but gay and 
 
 free, — 
 A warrior and a reveller ; he dwelt not 
 With books and solitude, nor made the 
 
 night 
 A gloomy vigil, but a festal time, 
 Merrier than day ; he did not walk the 
 
 rocks 
 And forests like a wolf, nor turn aside 
 From men and their delights. 
 
 Her. Beshrew the hour. 
 
 But those were jocund times ! I would 
 
 that such 
 Would visit the old walls again ; they 
 
 look 
 As if they had forgotten them, 
 
 Manuel. These walls 
 
 Must change tlieir chieftain first. Oh ! I 
 
 have seen 
 Some strange things in them, Herman. 
 
 Her. Come, be friendly ; 
 
 Relate me some to while away our 
 
 watch : 
 I've heard thee darkly speak of an event 
 AVhich happen'd hereabouts, by this 
 
 same tower. 
 Manuel. That was a night indeed ! I 
 
 do remember 
 'Twas twilight, as it may be now, and 
 
 such 
 Another evening ; — yon red cloud, which 
 
 rests 
 On Eigher's pinnacle, so rested then,— 
 So like that it might be the same ; the 
 
 wind 
 Was faint and gusty, and the mountain 
 
 snows 
 Began to glitter with the climbing moon; 
 Count Manfred was, as now, within his 
 
 tower, — 
 How occupied, we knew not, but witli 
 
 him 
 The sole companion of his wanderings 
 And watchings— her, whom of all earthly 
 
 things 
 
 That lived, the only thing he seem'd to 
 
 love, — 
 As he, indeed, by blood was bound to do, 
 The lady Astarte. his — 
 
 Hush ! who comes here ? 
 
 Enter the Abbot. 
 
 Abbot. Where is your master ? 
 
 Her. Yonder in the tower. 
 
 Abbot. I must speak with liim. 
 
 Manuel. 'Tis impossible ; 
 
 He is most private, and must not be thus 
 Intruded on. 
 
 Abbot. Upon myself I take 
 
 The forfeit of my fault, if fault there be — 
 But I must see him. 
 
 Her. Tliou hast seen liim once 
 
 This eve already. 
 
 Abbot. Herman ! I command thee, 
 Knock, and apprize the Count of my ap- 
 proacli. 
 
 Her. We dare not. 
 
 Abbot. Then it seems I must be herald 
 Of my own purpose. 
 
 Manuel. Reverend father, stop— 
 
 I pray vou pause. 
 
 Abbot. Why so ? 
 
 Manuel. But step this way. 
 
 And I will tell you further. [Exeunt. 
 
 Scene IV 
 
 Interior of tJie Tower. 
 
 Manfred alone. 
 
 The stars are forth, the moon above the 
 
 tops 
 Of the snow-shining mountains. — Beau- 
 tiful ! 
 I linger yet with Nature, for the Night 
 Hath been to me a more familiar face 
 Than that of man ; and in her starry 
 
 shade 
 Of dim and solitary loveliness, 
 I learn'd the language of another world. 
 I do remember me, that in my youth, 
 When I was wandering, — upon such a 
 
 night 
 I stood within the Coliseum's wall, 
 'Midst the chief relics of almighty Rome ; 
 The trees which grew along the broken 
 
 arches 
 Waved dark in the blue midnight, and 
 
 the stars 
 Shone through the rents of ruin ; from 
 
 afar 
 The watch-dog bay'd beyond the Tiber ; 
 
 and 
 
BRITISH POETS 
 
 More near from out the Caesars' palace 
 
 came 
 The owl's long cry, and, interruptedly, 
 Of distant sentinels the fitful song 
 Begun and died upon the gentle wind. 
 Some cypresses beyond the time-worn 
 
 breach 
 Appear'd to skirt the horizon, yet they 
 
 stood 
 Within a bowshot. Where the Caesars 
 
 dwelt, 
 And dwell the tuneless birds of night, 
 
 amidst 
 A grove which springs through levell'd 
 
 battlements. 
 And twines its roots with the imperial 
 
 hearths. 
 Ivy usurps the laiu'el's place of growth ; 
 But the gladiatoi-s' bloody Circus stands, 
 A noble wreck in ruinous perfection, 
 While Caesar's chambers, and the Au- 
 gustan halls, 
 Grovel on earth in indistinct decay. 
 And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, 
 
 upon 
 All this, and cast a wide and tender light, 
 Which soften'd down the hoar austerity 
 Of rugged desolation, and fill'd up, 
 As 'twere anew, the gaps of centuries ; 
 Leaving that beautiful which still was so. 
 And making that which was not, till the 
 
 place 
 Became religion, and the heart rnn o'er 
 With silent worship of the great of old, — 
 The dead but scejjtred sovereigns, who 
 
 still rule 
 Our spirits from their urns. 
 
 'Twas such a night ! 
 ' T is strange that I recall it at this time ; 
 But I have found our thoughts take 
 
 wildest flight 
 Even at tlie moment when they should 
 
 array 
 Themselves in pensive order. 
 
 Enter the Abbot. 
 
 Abbot. My good lord ! 
 
 I crave a second grace for this approacli ! 
 But yet let not my humble zeal offend 
 B3^ its abruptness — all it liath of ill 
 Recoils on me ; its good in tlie effect 
 May light upon your head — could I say 
 
 heart — 
 Could I touch that, with words or 
 
 prayers, I should 
 Recall a noble spirit which hath wan- 
 
 der'd ; 
 But is not yet all lost. 
 3Ian, Thou know'st me not ; 
 
 My days are number'd, and my deeds re- 
 corded : 
 Retire, or "twill be dangerous — Away ! 
 Abbot. Thou dost not mean to menace 
 
 me? 
 Man. Not I ; 
 
 I simply tell thee peril is at hand. 
 And would preserve thee. 
 
 Abbot. What dost thou mean ? 
 
 Man. Look there ! 
 
 What dost thou see? 
 
 Abbot. Nothing. 
 
 Man. Look there I say. 
 
 And steadfastly ; — now tell me what 
 thou seest ? 
 Abbot. That whicii should shake me, 
 but I fear it not : 
 I see a dusk and awful figure rise, 
 Like an infernal god, from (jut the earth ; 
 His face vvrapt in a mantle, and his form 
 Robed as with angry.clouds : he stands be- 
 tween 
 Thyself and me — but I do fear him not. 
 Man. Thou hast no cause — he shall not 
 harm thee — but 
 His siglit may shock thine old limbs into 
 
 palsy. 
 I say to thee — Retire ! 
 
 Abbot. And I reply- 
 
 Never — till I have battled with this 
 
 fiend : — 
 AVhat doth he here ? 
 
 Man. Wh}- — ay — what doth lie here ? 
 
 I did not send for him, — he is unbidden. 
 
 Abbot. Alas ! lost mortal ! wliat with 
 
 guests like these 
 
 Hast thou to do ? I tremble for thy sake : 
 
 AVhy doth he gaze on thee, and thou on 
 
 him ? 
 Ah ! lie unveils his aspect : on his brow 
 The thunder-scars are graven : from his 
 
 eye 
 Glares forth the immortality of hell — 
 Avavmt ! — 
 
 Man. Pronounce — what is thy mission ? 
 
 Spirit. Come ! — 
 
 Abbot. What art thou, unknown being ? 
 
 answer ! — speak ! 
 
 Spirit. The genius of this mortal. — 
 
 Come ! 'tis time. 
 Man. I am prepared for all things, but 
 deny 
 The power which summons me. Who sent 
 thee here ? 
 Spirit. Thou'lt know anon — Come ! 
 
 Come ! 
 Man. I have commanded 
 
 Things of an essence greater far than 
 thine. 
 
BYRON 
 
 '■33 
 
 And striven with thy masters. Get thee 
 lience ! 
 Spirit. Mortal ! thine hour is come — 
 
 Away ! I say. 
 Man. I knew, and know my hour is 
 
 come, but not 
 To render up my soul to such as thee : 
 Away ! I '11 die as I liave lived — alone. 
 Spirit. Then I must summon up my 
 
 brethren. — Rise ! 
 
 [Other Spirits rise up. 
 Abbot. Avaunt ! ye evil ones ! — 
 
 A vaunt ! I say ; 
 Ye liave no power where piety hath 
 
 power. 
 
 And I do charge ye in the name 
 
 Sjnrit. Old man ! 
 
 We know ourselves, our mission, and 
 
 thine order ; 
 Waste not thy holy words on idle uses, 
 It were in vain : tliis man is forfeited. 
 Once more I summon him — Away ! 
 
 Away ! 
 3Iau. I do def J' ye, — though I feel my 
 
 soul 
 Is ebbing from me, j'et I do defy ye ; 
 Nor will I hence, while I have earthly 
 
 breath 
 To breathe my scorn upon ye — earthlj^ 
 
 strengtli 
 To wrestle, tliough with spirits ; what 
 
 ye take 
 Shall be ta'eu limb by limb. 
 
 Spirit. Reluctant mortal ! 
 
 Is this tlie Magian who would so pervade 
 The world invisible, and make himself 
 Almost our equal ? Can it be that tliou 
 Art thus in love with life? the very life 
 Winch made thee wretched ! 
 
 3fan. Thou false fiend, thou liest ! 
 
 M}^ life is in its last hour. — tiiat I know. 
 Nor would redeem a moment of that 
 
 hour ; 
 I do not combat against death, but thee 
 And thy sijrrounding angels ; mj^ past 
 
 power. 
 Was purcliased by no compact witii thy 
 
 crew. 
 But by superior science — penance, dar- 
 ing, 
 And lengtli of watching, strength of 
 
 mind, and skill 
 In knowledge of our fathers — when the 
 
 earth 
 Saw men and spirits walking side by 
 
 side, 
 And gave ye no supremacy : I stand 
 Upon my strength — I do defy — deny — 
 Spurn back, and scorn ye ! — 
 
 Sjiirit. But thy many crimes 
 
 Have made thee 
 
 Man. What are they to such as thee ? 
 Must crimes be punish'd but by other 
 
 crimes, [hell ! 
 
 And greater criminals? — Back to thy 
 Thou hast no power upon me, that I 
 
 feel ; [know : 
 
 Thou never shalt possess me, that I 
 What I have done is done ; I bear within 
 A torture which could nothing gain 
 
 from thine : 
 The mind which is immortal makes itself 
 Renuital for its good or evil thoughts,^ — 
 Is its own origin of ill and end 
 And its own place and time : its innate 
 
 sense, 
 When stripp'd of this mortality, derives 
 No color from the fleeting things with- 
 out. 
 But is absnrbVl in s ufferance or in joy. 
 Born from the Know|f^r)g-f;i or us own 
 
 "Esert. 
 
 Thou didst hot tempt me, and thou 
 
 couldst not tempt me ; 
 I have not been thy dupe, nor am thy 
 
 prey- 
 But was my own destroyer and will be 
 My own hereafter. — Back, ye baffled 
 
 fiends ! — 
 The hand of death is on me — but not 
 
 yours ! [The Demons disappear . 
 Abbot. Alas! how pale thou art — thy 
 
 lijis are white — 
 And thy breast heaves — and in thy gasp- 
 ing throat 
 The accents rattle : Give thy prayers to 
 
 heaven — 
 Pray — albeit bvit in thought, — but die not 
 
 thus. 
 Man. 'T is over — my dull eyes can 
 
 fix thee not ; 
 But all things swim around me, and the 
 
 earth 
 Heaves as it were beneath me. Fare 
 
 thee well ! 
 Give me thy hand. 
 Abbot. Cold — cold — even to the 
 
 heart — ■ 
 But vet one praver— Alas ! how fares it 
 
 with thee ? 
 ilfaw. Old man ! 'tis not so difficult 
 
 to die. [Manfred expires. 
 
 Abbot. He's gone — liis soul hath ta' en 
 
 its earthless flight ; 
 Whither ? I dread to think — but he is 
 
 gone. 
 September, ISIG — May, 1S17. June 16, 
 
 1817. 
 
234 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 TO THOMAS MOORE 
 
 M}^ boat is on the shore, 
 
 And my bark is on the sea ; 
 But, before I go, Tom Moore, 
 
 Here's a double health to thee ! 
 
 Here's a sigli to those who love me, 
 And a smile to tliose who hate ; 
 
 And, whatever sky's above me. 
 Here's a heart for every fate. 
 
 Tliough the ocean roar around me, 
 Yet it still shall bear me on ; 
 
 Though a desert should surround me, 
 It hath springs that may be won. 
 
 Wei'e't the last drop in the well, 
 
 As I gasp'd upon the brink. 
 Ere my fainting spirit fell, 
 
 'Tis to thee that I would drink. 
 
 With that water, as this wine, 
 
 The libation I would pour 
 Siiould be — peace with thine and mine. 
 
 And a health to thee, Tom Moore. 
 July, IS 17. 1831. 
 
 FROM CHILDE HAROLD. 
 
 CANTO IV 
 
 I STOOD in Venice, on the Bridge of 
 
 Sighs ; [Stanza 1 
 
 A palace and a prison on each hand : 
 
 I saw from out the wave her structures 
 
 rise 
 As from the stroke of tlie enchanter's 
 
 wand : 
 A thousand years their cloudy wings 
 
 expand 
 Around me, and a djing Glory smiles 
 O'er the far times, when many a sub- 
 ject land 
 Look'd to tlie winged Lion's marble piles. 
 Where Venice sate in state, throned on 
 her hundred isles ! 
 
 She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean, 
 Rising with lier tiai-a of proud towers 
 At airy distance, witli majestic motion, 
 A ruler of the waters and their powers ; 
 And such she was ; — her daughters had 
 
 their dowers 
 From spoils of nations, and the exhaust- 
 less East 
 Pour'd in her lap all gems in sparkling 
 
 showers. 
 In iiurple was she robed, and of her feast 
 Monarchs partook, and deem'd their 
 dignity increased. 
 
 In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more. 
 And silent rows the songless gondolier ; 
 Her palaces are crumbling to the shore, 
 And music meets not always now the 
 
 ear : 
 Those days are gone — but Beauty still is 
 
 here. 
 States fall, arts fade — but Nature doth 
 
 not die. 
 Nor yet forget how Venice once was 
 
 dear. 
 The pleasant place of all festivity. 
 The revel of the earth, the masque of 
 
 Italy ! 
 
 But unto us she hath a spell beyond 
 Her name in story, and her long array 
 Of miglity shadows, whose dim forms 
 
 despond 
 Above tlie dogeless city's vanish 'd sway; 
 Ours is a trophy which will not decay 
 With the Rialto ; Shylock and the Moor, 
 And Pierre, cannot be swept or worn 
 
 away — 
 The keystones of the arch ! though all 
 
 were o'er, 
 For us repeopled were the solitary shore. 
 
 The beings of the mind are not of clay ; 
 Essentially immortal, they create 
 And multiply in us a brighter ray 
 And more beloved existence : that which 
 
 Fate 
 Prohibits to dull life, in this our state 
 Of mortal bondage, by these spirits sup- 
 plied. 
 First exiles, then replaces what we hate; 
 Watering tlie heart whose early flowers 
 
 have died. 
 And with a fresher growth replenishing 
 the void. 
 
 When Athens' armies fell at Syracuse, 
 And fetter'd thousands bore the yoke of 
 war, . ' [St. 16 
 
 Redemption rose up in the Attic Muse, 
 Her voice their only ransom from afar : 
 See ! as they chant the tragic hymn, the 
 
 car 
 Of the o'ermaster'd victor stops, the 
 
 reins 
 Fall from his hands, his idle scimitar 
 Starts from its belt — he rends his cap- 
 tive's chains, 
 And bids him thank the bard for free- 
 dom and his strains. 
 
 Thus, Venice, if no stronger claim were 
 thine, 
 
BYRON 
 
 '■35 
 
 Were all thy proud historic deeds forgot, 
 Thy choral memory of the Bard divine, 
 Thy love of Tasso, should liave cut the 
 
 knot 
 Whicli ties thee to thy tyrants ; and thy 
 
 lot 
 Is shameful to the nations, — most of all, 
 Albion ! to thee : the Ocean queen 
 
 should not 
 Abandon Ocean's children ; in the fall 
 Of Venice think of thine, despite thy 
 
 watery wall. 
 
 I loved her from my boyhood ; she to me 
 Was as a fairy city of the heart, 
 Rising like water-columns from the sea, 
 Of joy the sojourn, and of wealth the 
 
 mart ; 
 And Ot\va}% Radcliffe, Schiller, Shake- 
 speare's art. 
 Had stamp'd her image in me, and even 
 
 so. 
 Although I found her thus, we did not 
 
 part. 
 Perchance even dearer in her day of woe, 
 Tlian when she was a boast, a marvel 
 and a sliow. 
 
 I can repeople with the past — and of 
 The present there is still for eye and 
 
 thought. 
 And meditation chasten'd down, enough ; 
 And more, it may be, than I hoped or 
 
 sought ; 
 And of tlie happiest moments which 
 
 were wrouglit 
 Within the web of my existence, some 
 From thee, fair Venice ! have their 
 
 colors caught : 
 Tliere are some feelings Time cannot 
 
 benumb. 
 Nor Torture shake, or mine would now 
 
 be cold and dumb. 
 
 But my soul wanders ; I demand it back 
 To meditate amongst decay, and 
 stand [St. 25 
 
 A ruin amidst ruins ; there to track 
 Fall'n states and buried greatness, o'er a 
 
 land 
 Whicli ivas the mightiest in its old com- 
 mand. 
 And is the loveliest, and must ever be 
 The master-mould of Nature's heavenly 
 
 hand ; 
 Wherein were cast the heroic and the 
 
 free. 
 The beautiful, the brave, the lords of 
 earth and sea, 
 
 The commonwealth of kings, the men of 
 Rome ! 
 
 And even since, and now, fair Italy ! 
 
 Thou art the garden of the world, the 
 home 
 
 Of all Art yields, and Nature can de- 
 cree ; 
 
 Even in thy desert, what is like to thee? 
 
 Thy very weeds are beautiful, tliy waste 
 
 More rich than otlier climes' fertility ; 
 
 Thy wreck a glory, and thy ruin graced 
 
 With an immaculate charm which can- 
 not be defaced. 
 
 The moon is up, and yet it is not night ; 
 Sunset divides the sky with her ; a sea 
 Of glory streams along the Alpine 
 
 height 
 Of blue Friuli's mountains ; Heaven is 
 
 free 
 From clouds, but of all colors seems to 
 
 be, — 
 Melted to one vast Iris of the West, — 
 Where the Day joins the past Eternity, 
 While, on the other hand, meek Dian's 
 
 crest 
 Floats through the azure air — an island 
 
 of the blest ! 
 
 A single star is at her side, and reigns 
 With lier o'er half the lovely heaven ; 
 
 but still 
 Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, and re- 
 mains 
 Roll'd o'er the peak of the far Rhaetian 
 
 hill. 
 As Day and Night contending were, 
 
 until 
 Nature reclaim'd her order : — gently 
 
 flows 
 The deep-dyed Brenta, wliere their hues 
 
 instil 
 The odorous purple of a new-born rose. 
 Which streams upon her stream, and 
 
 glass'd witliin it glows, 
 
 Fill'd with the face of heaven, which, 
 
 from afar. 
 Comes down upon the waters ; all its 
 
 hues. 
 From the rich sun.set to tlie rising star. 
 Their magical variety difl'use : 
 And now tliey change ; a paler shadow 
 
 strews 
 Its mantle o'er the mountains ; parting 
 
 day 
 Dies like the dolphin, v»'honi each pang 
 
 imbues 
 With a new color as it gasps away, 
 
236 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 The last still loveliest, — till — 't is gone 
 — and all is gray. 
 
 Italia ! oh Italia ! thou who hast [St. 42 
 The fatal gift of beaut3% which became 
 A funeral dower of present woes and 
 
 past, 
 On thy sweet brow is sorrow plough'd 
 
 by shame, 
 And annals graved in characters of 
 
 flame. 
 Oh, God ! tliat thou wert in thy naked- 
 ness 
 Less lovely or more powerful, and 
 
 couldst claim 
 Tliy riglit, and awe the robbei's back, 
 
 who press 
 To shed thy blood, and drink the tears 
 
 of thy distress ; 
 
 Tlien might'st thou more apjial ; or, less 
 
 desired. 
 Be homely and be peaceful, undeplored 
 For tliy destructive charms ; then, still 
 
 untired, 
 Would not be seen the armed torrents 
 
 pour'd 
 Down the deep Alps ; nor would the 
 
 hostile horde 
 Of many-nation'd spoilers from the Po 
 Quaff blood and water ; nor the stranger's 
 
 sword 
 Be tli}^ sad weapon of defence, and so, 
 Victor or vanquish'd, thou the slave of 
 
 friend or foe. 
 
 Yet, Italy ! through every other 
 
 land [St. 47 
 
 Thy wrongs should ring, and shall, from 
 
 side to side ; 
 Mother of Arts ! as once of arms ; thy 
 
 hand 
 Was then our guardian, and is still our 
 
 guide ; 
 Parent of our religion ! whom the wide 
 Nations have knelt to for tlie keys of 
 
 heaven ! 
 Europe, repentant of lier parricide. 
 Shall yet redeem thee, and, all backward 
 
 driven. 
 Roll the barbarian tide, and sue to be 
 
 forgiven. 
 
 Oh Rome ! mv country ! city of the 
 soul ■ [St. 78 
 
 The orphans of the heart must turn to 
 thee, [trol 
 
 Lone motlier of dead empires ! and con- 
 
 In their shut breast their petty misery. 
 
 What are our woes and sufferance ? 
 Come and see 
 
 The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your 
 way 
 
 O'er steps of broken thrones and tem- 
 ples, Ye ! 
 
 Whose agonies are evils of a daj- — 
 
 A world is at our feet as fragile as our 
 clay. 
 
 The Niobe of nations ! there she stands. 
 Childless and crownless, in her voiceless 
 
 woe ; 
 An empt}^ urn within her wither'd 
 
 hands, 
 Whose lioly dust was scatter'd long ago ; 
 TJie Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now ; 
 The very sepulchres lie tenantless 
 Of their heroic dwellers : dost thou flow, 
 Old Tiber ! through a marble wilder- 
 ness ? 
 Rise, with tliy j^ellow waves, and mantle 
 her distress. 
 
 The Goth, the Christian, Time, War, 
 
 Flood, and Fire, 
 Have dealt ujjon tlie seven-hill'd city's 
 
 pride ; 
 Slie saw her glories star by star expire. 
 And up the steep barbarian monarchs 
 
 ride. 
 Where tlie car climb'd the Capitol ; far 
 
 and wide 
 Temple and tower went down, nor left a 
 
 site : 
 Chaos of ruins ! who shall trace the void, 
 O'er the dim fragments cast a lunar 
 
 light, 
 And say, " here was, or is," where all is 
 
 doubl}' night? 
 
 Can tyrants but by tyrants conquer'd be. 
 And Freedom find no champion and no 
 
 child 
 Such as Columbia saw arise when she 
 Sprung forth a Pallas, arm'd and un- 
 
 defiled ? 
 Or must such minds be nourish'd in the 
 
 wild. 
 Deep in the unpruned forest, 'midst the 
 
 roar 
 Of cataracts, where nursing Nature 
 
 smiled 
 On infant Washington? Has Earth no 
 
 moi"e 
 Such seeds within lier bi'east, or Europe 
 
 no such shoi'e ? 
 
BYRON 
 
 237 
 
 Where is the rock of Triumph, the high 
 
 place [St. 113 
 
 Wliere Rome embraced her heroes ? 
 
 where the steep 
 Tarpeian ? fittest goal of Treason's race, 
 The promontory whence the Traitor's 
 
 Leap 
 Cured all ambition. Did the conquerors 
 
 heap 
 Their spoils here ? Yes ; and in yon field 
 
 below, 
 A thousand years of silenced factions 
 
 sleep — 
 The Forum, where the immortal accents 
 
 glow. 
 And still the eloquent air breathes — 
 
 burns with Cicero ! 
 
 Arches on arches ! as it were tliat Rome, 
 Collecting the chief trophies of her line, 
 Would build up all her triumphs in one 
 
 dome. 
 Her Coliseum stands ; the moonbeams 
 
 shine 
 As 'twere its natural torches, for divine 
 Should be the light which streams here 
 
 to illume 
 This long-explored but still exhaustless 
 
 mine 
 Of contemplation ; and the azure gloom 
 Of an Italian night, where the deep skies 
 
 assume 
 
 Hues which have words, and speak to ye 
 
 of heaven, 
 Floats o'er this vast and wondrous 
 
 monument. 
 And shadows forth its glory. There is 
 
 given 
 Unto the things of earth, which Time 
 
 hath bent, 
 A spirit's feeling, and where he hath 
 
 leant 
 His hand, but broke his scythe, there is 
 
 a power 
 And magic in the ruin'd battlement, 
 For which the palace of the present hour 
 Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages 
 
 are its dower. 
 
 And here the buzz of eager nations ran, 
 
 lu murmur'd pity, or loud-roar'd ap- 
 plause. 
 
 As man was slaughter' by his fellow- 
 man. 
 
 And wherefore slaughter'd ? wherefore, 
 but because 
 
 Such were the bloody Circus' genial 
 laws, 
 
 And the imperial pleasure. — Wherefore 
 
 not? 
 What matters where we fall to fill the 
 
 maws 
 Of worms — on battle-plains or listed 
 
 spot ? 
 Both are but theatres whei'e the chief 
 
 actors i"ot. 
 
 I see before me the Gladiator lie [St. 140 
 He leans upon his hand — his manly 
 
 brow 
 Consents to death, but conquers agony. 
 And his droop'd liead sinks gradually 
 
 low — 
 And through his side the last drops, 
 
 ebbing slow 
 From the red gash, fall heavy, one by 
 
 one. 
 Like the fli'st of a thunder-shower ; and 
 
 now 
 The arena swims around him — he is 
 
 gone, 
 Ere ceased the inhuman shout which 
 
 hail'd the wretch who won. 
 
 He heard it. but he heeded not — his eyes 
 Were with his heart, and that was far 
 
 away ; 
 He reck'd not of the life he lost nor prize. 
 But where his rude hut by the Danube 
 
 lay, 
 There were his young barbarians all at 
 
 play, 
 There was their Dacian mother — he, 
 
 their sire, 
 Butcher'd to make a Roman holiday — 
 All tliis rush'd with his blood — Shall he 
 
 . expire 
 And unavenged ? Arise ! ye Goths, and 
 
 glut your ire ! 
 
 But here, where Murder breathed her 
 
 bloody steam : 
 And here, wliere buzzing nations choked 
 
 the ways. 
 And roar'd or murmur'd like a mountain 
 
 stream 
 Dashing or winding as its torrent strays ; 
 Here, where the Roman million's blame 
 
 or praise 
 Was death or life, the playthings of a 
 
 crowd, 
 My voice sounds much — and fall the 
 
 stars' faint rays 
 On the arena void — seats crush'd, walls 
 
 bow'd — 
 And galleries, where my steps seem 
 
 echoes strangely loud. 
 
238 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 A ruin — yet what ruin ! from its mass 
 Walls, palaces, half-cities, have been 
 
 rear'd ; 
 Yet oft the enormous skeleton ye pass, 
 And marvel where the spoil could have 
 
 appear'd. 
 Hath it indeed been plunder 'd, or but 
 
 clear'd ? 
 Alas! developed, opens tlie decay. 
 When the colossal fabric's form isnear'd : 
 It will not bear the brig litness of the day, 
 Wliich streams too much on all years, 
 
 man, have reft away. 
 
 But when the rising moon begins to 
 
 climb 
 Its topmost arch, and gently pauses 
 
 there ; 
 When the stars twinkle through the 
 
 loops of time. 
 And the low niglit-breeze waves along 
 
 the air 
 Tlie garland-forest, which the gray walls 
 
 wear, 
 Like laurels on the bald first Csesar's 
 
 head ; 
 When the light shines serene but doth 
 
 not glare. 
 Then in tliis magic circle i-aisethe dead : 
 Heroes liave trod this spot — 'tis on their 
 
 dust ye tread. 
 
 But wliere is he, the Pilgrim of my song. 
 
 The being wlio upheld it through the 
 past ? [St. 164 
 
 Metliinks lie cometh late and tarries long. 
 
 He is no more — these breathings are his 
 last ; 
 
 His wanderings done, his visions ebbing 
 fast 
 
 AjuI he himself as nothing : — if he was 
 
 Aught but a phantasy, and could be 
 class'd 
 
 With forms which live and suflfer — let 
 that pass — 
 
 His sliadow fades away into Destruc- 
 tion's mass. 
 
 Which gathers shadow, substance, life, 
 
 and all 
 That we inherit in its mortal shroud. 
 And spreads tlie dim and universal pall 
 Through which all things grow phan- 
 toms ; and the cloud 
 Between us sinks, and all which ever 
 
 glow'd. 
 Till Glory's self is twiliglit. and displays 
 A melancholy halo scarce allow'd 
 To hover on tlie verge of darkness ; rays 
 
 Sadder than saddest night, for they dis- 
 tract the gaze. 
 
 And send us prying into the abyss. 
 
 To gather what we shall be when the 
 
 frame 
 Shall be resolved to something less than 
 
 this 
 Its wretched essence ; and to dream of 
 
 fame. 
 And wipe the dust from off the idle name 
 We never more sliall hear, — but never 
 
 more, 
 Oh, happier thought ! can we be made 
 
 the same : 
 It is enough in sooth that once we bore 
 These fardels of the heart — the heart 
 
 whose sweat was gore. 
 
 But I forget. — My Pilgrim's shrine is won, 
 And lie and I must part, — so let it be — 
 His task and mine alike are nearly done ; 
 Yet once more let us look vipon the sea ; 
 The midland ocean breaks on him and 
 
 me ; 
 And from the Alban Mount we now be- 
 hold 
 Our friend of youth, tliat Ocean, which 
 
 when we 
 Beheld it last by Calpe's rock unfold 
 Those waves, we folio vv'd on till the 
 dark Euxine roU'd 
 
 Upon the blue Symplegades: long years — 
 Long, though not very many — since 
 
 have done [St. 170 
 
 Their work on both ; some suffering 
 
 and some tears 
 Have left us nearly where we had begun : 
 Yet not in vain our mortal race hath run ; 
 We have had our reward , and it is here, — 
 That we can yet feel gladden'd by the sun. 
 And reap from earth, sea, joy almost as 
 
 dear 
 As if there were no man to trouble what 
 
 is clear. 
 
 Oh ! that the Desert were my dwelling- 
 place. 
 With one fair Spirit for my minister. 
 That I might all forget the human race, 
 And, hating no one, love but only her ! 
 Ye elements ! — in whose ennobling stir 
 I feel myself exalted — Can ye not 
 Accord me such a being ! Do I err 
 In deeming such inhabit many a spot? 
 Though with them to converse can rare- 
 ly be our lot. 
 
BYRON 
 
 239 
 
 There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, 
 There is a rapture on the lonely shore, 
 There is society, where none intrudes. 
 By the deep Sea, and music in its roar : 
 I love not Man the less, but Nature more, 
 From these our interviews, in which I 
 
 steal 
 From all I may be, or have been before, 
 To mingle with tlie Universe, and feel 
 What I can ne'er express, yet cannot 
 
 all conceal. 
 
 Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean 
 
 —roll ! 
 Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in 
 
 vain ; 
 Man marks the earth with ruin — his 
 
 control 
 Stops with the shore ; upon the watery 
 
 plain 
 The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth 
 
 remain 
 A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, 
 When, for a moment, like a drop of rain. 
 He sinks into thy depths with bubbling 
 
 groan. 
 Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd, 
 
 and unknown. 
 
 His steps are not upon thy paths — thy 
 fields 
 
 Are not a spoil for him, — thou dost arise 
 
 And shake liim fx'oin thee ; the vile 
 strength he wields 
 
 For earth's destruction thou dost all de- 
 spise. 
 
 Spurning him from thy bosom to the 
 skies. 
 
 And send'st him, shivering in thy play- 
 ful spray 
 
 And howling, to his Gods, where haply 
 lies 
 
 His petty home in some near port or bay 
 
 And dashest him again to earth : — there 
 let him lay. 
 
 The armaments which thunderstrike the 
 
 walls. 
 Of rock-built cities, bidding nations 
 
 quake. 
 And monarclis tremble in their capitals. 
 The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs 
 
 make 
 Their clay creator the vain title take 
 Gf lord of thee, and arbiter of war — 
 These are thy toys, and, as the snowy 
 
 flake, 
 They melt into thy yeast of waves, 
 
 which mar 
 
 Alike the Armada's pride or spoils of 
 Trafalgar. 
 
 Thy shores are empires, changed in all 
 
 save thee — 
 Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, wliat 
 
 are they ? 
 Thy waters wash'd them power while 
 
 they were free. 
 And many a tyrant since ; their shores 
 
 obey 
 The stranger, slave, or savage ; their de- 
 cay 
 Has dried up realms to deserts : not so 
 
 thou ; — 
 Unchangeable, save to thy wild waves' 
 
 play, 
 Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure 
 
 brow : 
 Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou 
 
 rollest now. 
 
 Thou glorious mirror, where the Al- 
 mighty's form 
 Glasses itself in tempests : in all time. — 
 Calm or convulsed, in breeze, or gale, 
 
 or storm, 
 Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 
 Dark-heaving — boundless, endless, and 
 
 sublime, 
 The image of eternity, the throne 
 Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime 
 Tlie monsters of the deep are made ; 
 
 each zone 
 Obeys tliee ; thou goest forth, dread, 
 fathomless, alone. 
 
 And I have loved thee. Ocean ! and my 
 
 joy 
 
 Of youthful sports was on tliy breast to 
 
 be 
 Borne, like thy bubbles, onward ; from 
 
 a boy 
 I wanton'd with thy breakers — they to 
 
 me 
 Were a delight ; and if the freshening sea 
 ]\Iade them a terror — 'twas a pleasing 
 
 fear. 
 For I was as it were a child of thee. 
 And trusted to thy billows far and near. 
 And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I 
 
 do here. 
 
 My task is done, my song hath ceased, 
 
 my theme 
 Has died into an echo ; it is fit 
 The spell sliould break of this protracted 
 
 dream. 
 
240 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 The torch shall be extinguish'd which 
 
 hath lit 
 My niidinght lamp — and what is writ, is 
 
 writ ; 
 Would it were worthier ! but I am not 
 
 now 
 That whicli I have been — and niv visions 
 
 flit 
 Less palpably before nie — and the glow 
 Wliich in my spirit dwelt is fluttering, 
 faint, and low. 
 
 Farewell ! a word that must be, and hath 
 
 been — 
 A sound which makes us linger ; — yet — 
 
 farewell ! 
 Ye ! who have traced tlie Pilgrim to the 
 
 scene 
 Which is his last, if in vour memories 
 
 dwell 
 A thought which once was his, if on ye 
 
 swell 
 A single recollection, not in vain 
 He wore his sandal-shoon and scallop- 
 shell ; 
 Farewell ! with him alone may rest the 
 
 pain , 
 If such tbei"e were — with yoji, the moral 
 
 of his strain. 
 
 June 20— July 20, 1S17. 1818. 
 
 DON JUAN 
 
 DEDICATION 
 
 Bob Southey ! You 're a poet — Poet- 
 laureate, 
 And representative of all the race ; 
 Although 't is true that you turnVl out a 
 Tory at 
 Last, — yovus has lately been a com- 
 mon case : 
 And now, my Epic Renegade ! what are 
 ye at? 
 With all the Lakers, in and ovit of 
 place ? 
 A nest of tuneful persons, to my eye 
 Like " four and twenty Blackbirds in a 
 Pye; 
 
 " Which pye being open'd they began to 
 sing " 
 (This old song and new simile holds 
 good). 
 " A dainty dish to set before tlie King," 
 Or Regent, who admires such kind of 
 food ; — 
 And Colei'idge, too, has lately taken 
 wing, 
 
 But like a hawk encumber'd with his 
 hood, — 
 Explaining metaphysics to the nation — 
 I wish he would explain his Explanation. 
 
 You, Bob ! are I'ather insolent, you 
 know. 
 At being disappointed in j'our wish 
 To supersede all warblers here below. 
 
 And be the only Blackbird in the dish ; 
 
 And then you overstrain yourself, or so. 
 
 And tumble downward like the flying 
 
 fish 
 
 Gasping on deck, because you soar too 
 
 high. Bob, 
 And fall for lack of moisture quite 
 a-dry, Bob ! 
 
 And Wordsworth, in a rather long " Ex- 
 cursion " 
 (I think the quarto holds five hundred 
 pages). 
 Has given a sample from the vasty ver- 
 sion 
 Of his new system to perplex the 
 sages ; 
 'T is poetry — at least by his assertion, 
 And may appear so when tlie dog-star 
 rages — 
 And he who understands it would be able 
 To add a story to the Tower of Babel. 
 
 You — Gentlemen ! by dint of long seclu- 
 sion 
 From better company, have kept your 
 own 
 At Keswick, and through still continued 
 fusion 
 Of one another's minds, at last have 
 grown 
 To deem as a most logical conclusion. 
 
 That poesy has wreaths for you alone : 
 There is a narrowness in such a notion. 
 Which makes me wish you'd change 
 your lakes for ocean. 
 
 I would not imitate the petty thought. 
 
 Nor coin my self-love to so base a vice. 
 For all the glory your conversion 
 brought. 
 Since gold alone should not have been 
 its price. 
 You have your salarj^ ; was 't for that 
 you wrought? 
 And Wordsworth has his place in the 
 Excise. 
 You're shabby fellows — true — but poets 
 
 still. 
 And dulv seated on the immortal hill. 
 
BYRON 
 
 241 
 
 Your bays may liide tlie baldness of your 
 brows — 
 Perliaps souie virtuous blushes ; — let 
 theui go — 
 To you I envy neither fruit nor boughs — 
 And for the fame you would engross 
 below, 
 Tiie field is universal, and allows 
 
 Seo2je to all such as feel the inherent 
 glow ; 
 Scott, Rogers, Campbell, Moore and 
 
 Crabbe will try 
 'Gainst you the question with posterity. 
 
 For me, who, wandering with pedestrian 
 Muses, 
 Contend not with you on the winged 
 steed. 
 I wish your fate may jaeld ye, when she 
 chooses. 
 The fame you envy, and the skill you 
 need ; 
 And recollect a poet nothing loses 
 
 In giving to his brethren their full 
 meed 
 Of merit, and complaint of present days 
 Is not the certain path to future praise. 
 
 He that reserves his laurels for posterity 
 (Who does not often claim the bright 
 reversion) 
 Has generally no great crop to spare it, 
 he 
 Being only injured by his own asser- 
 tion ; 
 And although here and there some glori- 
 ous rarity 
 Arise like Titan from the sea's immer- 
 sion, 
 The major part of such appellants go 
 To — God knows where — for no one else 
 can know. 
 
 If, fallen in evil days on evil tongues, 
 
 Milton appealed to the Avenger, Time, 
 
 If Time, the Avenger, execrates his 
 
 wrongs. 
 
 And makes the word " Miltonic " mean 
 
 •' sublime,''^ 
 
 He deign'd not to belie his soul in songs. 
 
 Nor turn his very talent to a crime ; 
 He did not loathe the Sire to laud the 
 
 Son, 
 But closed the tyrant-hater he begun. 
 
 Tliink'st thou, could he — the blind Old 
 Man, — arise. 
 Like Samuel from the grave, to freeze 
 once more 
 16 
 
 The blood of monarchs with his prophe- 
 cies. 
 Or be alive again — ^again all hoar 
 With time and trials, and those helpless 
 eyes, 
 And heartless daughters — worn— and 
 pale — and poor ; 
 Would he adore a sultan "^ lie obey 
 The intellectual eunuch Castlereagh ? 
 
 Cold-blooded, smooth-faced, placid mis- 
 creant ! 
 Dabbling its sleek young hands in 
 Erin's gore 
 And thus for wider carnage taught to 
 pant, 
 Transferr'd to gorge upon a sister 
 shore. 
 The vulgarest tool that Tyranny could 
 want, 
 With just enough of talent, and no 
 more, 
 To lengthen fetters by another fix'd. 
 And offer poison long already mix'd. 
 
 An orator of such set trash of phrase 
 
 Ineffably — legitinaatelj^ vile. 
 That even its grossest flatterers dare not 
 praise. 
 Nor foes — all nations — condescend to 
 smile ; 
 Not even a sprightly blunder's spark can 
 blaze 
 From that Ixion grindstone's ceaseless 
 toil, 
 That turns and turns to give the world a 
 
 notion 
 Of endless torments and perpetual mo- 
 tion. 
 
 A bungler even in its disgusting trade. 
 And botching, patching, leaving still 
 behind 
 Something of which its masters are 
 afraid. 
 States to be curb'd, and thoughts to be 
 confined. 
 Conspiracy or Congress to be made — 
 Cobbling at manacles for all man- 
 kind — 
 A tinkering slave-maker, who mends 
 
 old chains, 
 With God and man's abhorrence for its 
 gains. 
 
 If we may judge of matter by the mind. 
 
 Emasculated to the marrow It 
 Hath but two objects, how to serve, and 
 bind. 
 
242 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Deeming the chain it weai-s even men 
 may fit, 
 Eutropius oi: its many masters — blind 
 
 To worth as freedom, wisdom as to wit, 
 Fearless — because no feeling dwells in 
 
 ice. 
 Its very courage stagnates to a vice. 
 
 Where shall I turn me not to vieio its 
 bonds, 
 For I will never feel them ; — Italy ! 
 Thy late reviving Roman soul desponds 
 Beneatli the lie this State-thing 
 breathed o'er thee — 
 Thy clanking chain, and Erin's yet green 
 wounds. 
 Have voices — tongues to cry aloud for 
 me. 
 Europe has slaves, allies, kings, armies 
 
 still, 
 And Southey lives to sing them very ill. 
 
 Meantime, Sir Laureate, I i^roceed to ded- 
 icate. 
 In honest simple verse, this song to 
 you. 
 And, if in flattermg strains I do not pred- 
 icate, 
 'T is that I still retain my " buflf and 
 blue ; " 
 My politics as yet are all to educate : 
 
 Apostasy's so fashionable, too. 
 To keep one creed's a task grown quite 
 
 Herculean : 
 Is it not so, my Torv. Ultra-Julian ? 
 September, ISIS. July 15, 1819. 
 
 FROM CANTO I 
 
 POETICAL COMMANDMENTS 
 
 If ever I should condescend to prose, 
 I'll write poetical commandments, 
 which [St. 204 
 
 Shall supersede beyond all doubt all 
 those 
 That went before ; in these I shall en- 
 rich 
 My text with many things that no one 
 knows, 
 And carry precept to the highest pitch : 
 I'll call the woi'k " Longinus o'er a Bottle, 
 Or, Every Poet his oivn Aristotle." 
 
 Thou shalt believe in Milton, Dry den, 
 
 Pope ; 
 Thou shalt not set up Wordsworth, 
 
 Coleridge, Southey ; 
 Because the first is crazed beyond all 
 
 hope, 
 
 The second drunk, the third so quaint 
 
 and mouthy : 
 
 With Crabbe it may be difficult to cope, 
 
 And Campbell's Hippocrene is some- 
 
 wliat drouthy : 
 
 Thou shalt not steal from Samuel Rogers, 
 
 nor 
 Conamit — flirtation with the muse of 
 Moore. 
 
 Tliou shalt not covet Mr. Sotheby's 
 Muse, 
 His Pegasus, nor anything that 's his ; 
 Tliou shalt not bear false witness like 
 " the Blues" — 
 (There's one, at least, is ver}^ fond of 
 this) ; 
 Thou shalt not write, in short, but what 
 I choose ; 
 This is true criticism, and you may 
 kiss — ■ 
 Exactly as you please, or not — the rod : 
 But if you don't, I'll lay it on, by G — d ! 
 
 LABUNTUR ANNI 
 
 " Non ego hoc ferrem calida juventd 
 
 Consule Planco," Horace said, and so 
 Sav I ; by which quotation there is 
 meant a [St. 212 
 
 Hint that some six or seven good years 
 ago 
 (Long ere I dreamt of dating from the 
 Brenta) 
 I was most ready to return a blow, 
 And would not brook at all tliis sort of 
 
 thing 
 In my hot youth — when George the 
 Third was King. 
 
 But now at thirty years my hair is gray — 
 
 (I wonder wliat it will be like at forty ? 
 
 I thought of a peruke the other day — ) 
 
 My heart is not much greener ; and. in 
 
 short, I 
 
 Have squandered my whole summer 
 
 while 't was May, 
 
 And feel no more the spirit to retort ; I 
 
 Have spent my life, botli interest and 
 
 principal. 
 And deem not, what I deem'd, my soul 
 invincible. 
 
 No more — no more — Oh ! never more on 
 
 me 
 
 The freshness of the heart can fall like 
 
 dew, 
 
 Wliich out of all the lovely things we see 
 
 Extracts emotions beautiful and new, 
 
BYRON 
 
 243 
 
 Hived in our bosoms like the bag o' the 
 bee. 
 Think'st thou the honey with those ob- 
 jects grew ? 
 Alas ! "t was not in them, but in thy power 
 To double even the sweetness of a flower. 
 
 No more — no more — Oli ! never more, my 
 heart, 
 Canst thou be my sole world, my uni- 
 verse ! 
 Once all in all, but now a thing apart. 
 Thou canst not be my blessing or my 
 curse : 
 The illusion's gone for ever, and thou art 
 Insensible, I trust, but none the worse. 
 And in thy stead I've got a deal of 
 
 judgment, 
 Though heaven knows how it ever found 
 a lodgment. 
 
 My days of love are over ; me no more 
 The charms of maid, wife, and still less 
 of widow. 
 Can make the fool of which they naade 
 before, — 
 In short, I must not Idad the life I did 
 do; 
 The credulous hope of mutual minds is 
 o'er. 
 The copious use of claret is forbid too. 
 So for a good old-gentlemanl}- vice, 
 I think I must take up with avarice. 
 
 Ambition was my idol, which was broken 
 Before the shrines of Sori'ow, and of 
 
 Pleasure ; 
 And the two last have left me many a 
 
 token 
 O'er which reflection may be made at 
 
 leisure ; 
 Now, like Friar Bacon's brazen head, 
 
 I've spoken, 
 " Time is, Time was, Time's past : " — a 
 
 chymic treasure • 
 Is glittering youth, which I have spent 
 
 betimes — 
 My heart in passion, and my head on 
 
 rhymes. 
 
 What is the end of fame ? 't is but to fill 
 A certain portion of uncertain paper : 
 Some liken it to climbing up a hill 
 Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in 
 vapor ; 
 For this men write, speak, preach, and 
 heroes kill. 
 And bards burn what they call their 
 " midnight taper," 
 To have, when the original is dust, 
 
 A name, a wretched picture, and worse 
 bust. 
 Canto I, September, 1818. July 15, 1819. 
 
 FROM CANTO II 
 
 THE SHIPWRECK 
 
 'TwAS twilight, and the sunless day 
 
 went down [St. 49. 
 
 Over the waste of waters ; like a veil. 
 Which, if witlidrawn, would but disclose 
 
 the frown 
 Of one whose hate is mask'd but to assail. 
 Thus to their hopeless eyes the night was 
 
 shown. 
 And grimly darkled o'er the faces pale, 
 And tlie dim desolate deep : twelve days 
 
 had Fear 
 Been their familiar, and now Death was 
 
 here. 
 
 Some trial had been making at a raft. 
 
 With little hope in such a rolling sea, 
 A sort of thing at whicii one would have 
 laugh'd. 
 If any laughter at such times could be, 
 Unless with people who too much have 
 quaff 'd , 
 And have a kind of wild and horrid 
 glee. 
 Half epileptical, and half hj'sterical : — 
 Tlieir preservation would have been a 
 miracle. 
 
 At half-past eight o'clock, booms, hen- 
 coops, spars. 
 And all things, for a chance, had been 
 
 cast loose 
 That still could keep afloat the struggling 
 
 tars. 
 For yet they strove, although of no 
 
 great use : 
 There was no light in heaven but a few 
 
 stars, 
 The boats put off o'ercrowded with 
 
 their crews ; 
 She gave a heel, and then a lurch to port. 
 And, going down head-foremost — sunk, 
 
 in short. 
 
 Tiien rose from sea to sky the wild fare- 
 well- 
 Then shriek'd the timid, and stood 
 still the brave — 
 Then some leap'd overboard with dread- 
 ful yell. 
 As eager to anticipate tiieir grave ; 
 And the sea yawn'd around her like a 
 hell. 
 
244 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 And down she suck'd with her the 
 whirling wave, 
 Like one who grapples witli his enemy, 
 And strives to strangle him before he die. 
 
 And first one universal shriek there 
 rusli'd, 
 Louder than the loud ocean, like a 
 crash 
 Of echoing thunder ; and then all was 
 hush'd, 
 Save the wild wind and the remorse- 
 less dash 
 Of billows ; but at intervals there gushVl, 
 Accompanied with a convulsive splasli, 
 A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry 
 Of some strong swimmer in his agony. 
 
 How long in his damp trance young 
 Juan lay [St. 111. 
 
 He knew not, for the earth was gone 
 for him. 
 
 And time had nothing more of night 
 nor day 
 For his congealing blood, and senses 
 dim ; 
 
 And how this heavy faintness passVl 
 away 
 He knew not, till eacli painful pulse 
 and limb, 
 
 And tingling vein, seem'd throbbing 
 back to life. 
 
 For Death, thougli vanquish'd, still re- 
 tired with strife. 
 
 His eyes he open'd, shut, again unclosed. 
 For all was doubt and dizziness ; he 
 thought 
 He still was in the boat, and had but 
 dozed. 
 And felt again with his despair o'er- 
 wrought, 
 And wish'd it death in which he had 
 reposed, 
 And tlien once more his feelings back 
 were brought. 
 And slowly by his swimming eyes was 
 
 seen 
 A lovely female face of seventeen. 
 
 'Twas bending close o'er his, and the 
 
 small mouth 
 Seem'd almost prying into his for 
 
 breath ; 
 And chafing him, the soft warm hand 
 
 of youth 
 
 Recall'd his answering spirits back 
 
 from deatli ; 
 
 And, bathing his chill temples, tried to 
 
 soothe 
 
 Each pulse to animation, till beneath 
 
 Its gentle touch and trembling care, a 
 
 sigli 
 To these kind efforts made a low repl}' . 
 
 Tlien was tlie cordial pour'd, and mantle 
 
 flung 
 Ax'ouud his scarce-clad limbs ; and the 
 
 fair arm 
 Raised liigher the faint head which o'er 
 
 it hung ; 
 And her transjiarent cheek, all pure 
 
 and warm, 
 Pillow'd Ins death-like forehead ; then 
 
 she wrung 
 His dewy curls, long drench'd by 
 
 every storm ; 
 And watcli'd with eagerness each throb 
 
 that drew 
 A sigli from his heaved bosom — and 
 
 hers, too. 
 
 And lifting him with care into the cave. 
 The gentle girl, and her attendant, — 
 one 
 Young, yet her elder, and of brow less 
 grave. 
 And more robust of figure — then begun 
 To kindle fire, and as the new flames 
 gave 
 Light to the rocks tliat roof'd them, 
 whicli the sun 
 Had never seen, tlie maid, or whatsoe'er 
 She was. appear'd distinct, and tall, 
 and fair. 
 
 Her brow was overhung with coins of 
 gold, 
 Tliat sparkled o'er the auburn of her 
 hair. 
 Her clustering liair, wliose longer locks 
 were roll'd 
 In braids behind ; and though her 
 stature were 
 Even of the highest for a female mould. 
 They nearly reach'd her heel ; and in 
 her air 
 There was a something which bespoke 
 
 command. 
 As one who was a lady in the land. 
 
 Her hair, I said, was auburn ; but her 
 eyes 
 Were black as death, their laslies the 
 same hue. 
 
BYRON 
 
 245 
 
 Of downcast length, in whose silk 
 
 shadow lies 
 Deepest attraction ; for when to the 
 
 view 
 For til from its raven fringe the full 
 
 glance flies, 
 Ne'er with such force the swiftest 
 
 arrow flew ; 
 'Tis as the snake late coil'd, who pours 
 
 liis length. 
 And hurls at once liis venom and his 
 
 strength. 
 
 Her brow was white and low, !ier cheek's 
 
 pure dye 
 Like twilight rosy still with the set 
 
 sun ; 
 Short upper lip — sweet lips ! that make 
 
 us sigh 
 Ever to have seen such ; for she was 
 
 one 
 Fit for the model of a statuary 
 
 (A race of mere impostors, when all's 
 
 done — 
 I've seen much finer women, ripe and 
 
 real, 
 Than all the nonsense of their stone 
 
 ideal). 
 
 I'll tell you wliy I saj^ so, for 't is just 
 One should not rail without a decent 
 cause : 
 There was an Irish lady, to whose bust 
 I ne'er saw justice done, and yet she 
 was 
 A frequent model ; and if e'er she must 
 Yield to stern Time and Nature's 
 wrinkling laws. 
 They will destroy a face which mortal 
 
 thouglit 
 Ne'er compass'd, nor less mortal chisel 
 wrought. 
 
 And such was she, the lady of tlie cave: 
 Her dress was very different from the 
 Spanish, 
 Simpler, and yet of colors not so grave ; 
 For, as you know, the Spanish women 
 banish 
 Bright hues wheii out of doors, and yet, 
 while wave 
 Around them (what I liope will never 
 vanisli) 
 Tlie basquina and tlie mantilla, thej' 
 Seem at the same time mystical and gay. 
 
 But with our damsel this was not the 
 case : 
 Her dress was many-color'd, finely 
 spun ; 
 
 Her locks curl'd negligently round her 
 face. 
 But through them gold and gems pro- 
 fusely shone : 
 
 Her girdle sparkled, and the richest lace 
 Flow'd in her veil, and many a precious 
 stone 
 
 Flash'd on her little hand ; but, what 
 was shocking. 
 
 Her small snow feet had slippers, but no 
 stocking. 
 
 The other female's dress was not unlike. 
 
 But of inferior materials : she 
 Had not so many ornaments to strike, 
 
 Her hair had silver only, bound to be 
 
 Her dowry ; and her veil, in form alike. 
 
 Was coarser ; and her air, though 
 
 firm, less free ; 
 
 Her hair was thicker, but less long ; her 
 
 eyes 
 As black, but quicker, and of smaller 
 size. 
 
 And these two tended him, and cheer'd 
 liini both 
 With food and raiment, and those soft 
 attentions. 
 Which are — (as I must own) — of female 
 growth. 
 And have ten thousand delicate inven- 
 tions : 
 Tliey made a most superior mess of broth, 
 A thing which poesy but seldom men- 
 tions. 
 But the best dish that e'er was cook'd 
 
 since Homer's 
 Achilles order'd dinner for new comers. 
 
 The coast — I think it was the coast that I 
 Was just describing — Yes, it teas the 
 coast— [St. 181 
 
 Lay at this period quiet as the sky, 
 The sands untumbled, the blue waves 
 untost. 
 And all was stillness, save the sea-bird's 
 cry. 
 And dolphin's leap, and little billow 
 crost 
 By some low rock or shelve, that made 
 
 it fret 
 Against the boundary it scarcely wet. 
 
 And forth they wander'd, her sire being 
 gone. 
 As I liave said, upon an expedition ; 
 And mother, brotlier, guardian, she had 
 none. 
 Save Zoe, who, although with due pre- 
 cision 
 
246 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 She waited on her lady witli tlie sun. 
 Thought daily service was her only 
 
 mission, 
 Bringing warm water, wreathing her 
 
 long tresses, 
 And asking now and then for cast-off 
 
 dresses. 
 
 It was the cooling hour, just when the 
 
 rounded 
 Red sun sinks down behind tlie azure 
 
 hill. 
 Which then seems as if the whole earth 
 
 it bounded. 
 Circling all nature, hush'd, and dim, 
 
 and still. 
 With the far mountain-crescent half 
 
 surrounded 
 On one side, and the deep sea calm 
 
 and chill. 
 Upon the other, and the rosy sky. 
 With one star sparkling through it like 
 
 an eye. 
 
 And thus they wander'd forth, and hand 
 in hand, 
 Over the sliining pebbles and the shells. 
 Glided along the smooth and harden'd 
 sand. 
 And in the worn and wild receptacles 
 Work VI by the storms, yet work'd as it 
 were plann'd, 
 In hollow halls, with sparry roofs and 
 cells. 
 They turn'd to rest ; and, each clasp'd 
 
 by an arm. 
 Yielded to the deep twilight's purple 
 charm. 
 
 They look'd up to the sky, whose float- 
 ing glow 
 Spread like a rosy ocean, vast and 
 bright ; 
 
 They gazed upon the glittering sea be- 
 low, 
 Whence the broad moon rose circling 
 into sight ; 
 
 They heard the waves splash, and the 
 wind so low. 
 And saw each other's dark eyes darting 
 light 
 
 Into each other — and, beholding this. 
 
 Their lips drew near, and clung into a 
 kiss ; 
 
 A long, long kiss, a kiss of youth, and 
 love, 
 And beauty, all concentrating like rays, 
 Into one focus, kindled from above ; 
 
 Such kisses as belong to early days, 
 Where heart, and soul, and sense, in 
 concert move. 
 And the blood's lava, and the pulse a 
 blaze. 
 Each kiss a lieart-quake, — for a kiss's 
 
 strengtli, 
 I think it must be reckon'd by its length. 
 
 By length I mean duration ; theirs en- 
 dured 
 Heaven knows how long — no doubt 
 they never reckon'd : 
 
 And if they had, they could not have 
 secured 
 The sum of their sensations to a second ; 
 
 They Jiad not spoken ; but they felt al- 
 lured. 
 As if their souls and lips each other 
 beckon "d. 
 
 Which, being join'd,like swarming bees 
 tliey clung — 
 
 Their hearts tlie flowers from whence 
 tlie honey sprung. 
 
 The}' were alone, but not alone as they 
 Who shut in chambers think it lone- 
 liness ; 
 The silent ocean, and tlie starlight bay, 
 The twilight glow, wliich momently 
 grew less. 
 The voiceless sands, and dropjjing caves, 
 that lay 
 Around them, made them to each other 
 press. 
 As if tliere were no life beneath tlie sky 
 Save theirs, and that their life could 
 never die. 
 
 They fear'd no eyes nor ears on tliat lone 
 beach, 
 They felt no terrors from the night ; 
 they were 
 All in all to each other ; though their 
 speecii 
 Was broken words, they thought a 
 language there, — 
 And all the burning tongues the passions 
 teach 
 Found in one sigh the best interpreter 
 Of natvire's oracle — first love, — that all 
 Which Eve lias left her daughters since 
 her fall. 
 
 Alas ! the love of women ! it is known 
 To be a lovely and a fearful thing ; 
 
 For all of theirs upon that die is thrown. 
 And if "t is lost, life hath no more to 
 bring 
 
BYRON 
 
 247 
 
 To tliesn but mockeries of the past alone, 
 And tlieir revenge is as the tiger's 
 
 spring, 
 Deadly, and quick, and crushing ; yet, 
 
 as real 
 Torture is theirs, what tliev inflict they 
 
 feel. 
 
 They are right ; for man, to man so oft 
 unjust, 
 Is always so to women ; one sole bond 
 Awaits them, treachery isall their trust; 
 Taught to conceal, their bursting 
 hearts despond 
 Over their idol, till some wealthier lust 
 Buys them in marriage — and what 
 rests beyond ? 
 A thankless husband, next a faithless 
 
 lover, 
 Then dressing, nursing, praying, and 
 all's over. 
 
 Some take a lover, some take drams or 
 prayers. 
 Some mintl their household, others 
 dissipation. 
 Some runaway, and but exchange their 
 cares. 
 Losing the advantage of a virtuous 
 station ; 
 Few changes e'er can better their affairs, 
 
 Theirs being an unnatural situation. 
 From the dull palace to the dirty hovel : 
 Some play the devil, and tlien write a 
 novel. 
 
 Haidee was Nature's bride, and knew 
 
 not this : 
 Haidee was Passion's child, born 
 
 where the sun 
 Showers triple liglit, and scorches even 
 
 the kiss 
 Of his gazelle-eyed daughters ; she was 
 
 one 
 Made but to love, to feel that she was 
 
 his 
 Who was her chosen : what was said or 
 
 done 
 Elsewhere was nothing. She had nought 
 
 to fear, 
 Hope, care, nor love beyond, — her heart 
 
 beat here. 
 
 And oh ! that quickening of the heart, 
 tliat beat ! 
 How much it costs us! yet each rising 
 throb 
 Is in its cause as its effect so sweet, 
 
 That wisdom, ever on the watcsli to rob 
 Joy of its alchemy, and to repeat 
 
 Fine truths ; even Conscience, too, has 
 
 a tough job 
 To make us understand each good old 
 
 maxim. 
 So good — I wonder Castlereagh don't tax 
 
 'em. 
 
 And now 't was done — on the lone shore 
 were plighted 
 Their hearts ; tlie stars, their nuptial 
 torches, shed 
 Beauty upon the beautiful they lighted ; 
 Ocean their witness, and the cave 
 tlieir bed. 
 By their own feelings hallow'd and 
 united. 
 Their priest was Solitude, and they 
 were wed : 
 And they were happy , 'for to their young 
 
 eyes 
 Each was an angel, and earth paradise. 
 
 Oh, Love ! of whom great Caesar was the 
 suitor, 
 Titus the master, Antony the slave, 
 Horace, Catullus, scholars, Ovid tutor, 
 Sappho the sage blue-stocking, in 
 whose grave 
 All those may leap who rather would be 
 neuter — 
 (Leucadia's rock still overlooks the 
 wave) — 
 Oh, Love ! thou art the very god of evil, 
 For, after all, we cannot call thee devil. 
 
 Thou mak'st the chaste connubial state 
 precarious. 
 And jestest with the brows of might- 
 iest men : 
 
 Caesar and Pompey, Mahomet, Belisarius, 
 Have much employ 'd the muse of his- 
 tory's pen : 
 
 Their lives and fortunes were extremely 
 various. 
 Such worthies Time will never see 
 again ; 
 
 Yet to these four in three things the 
 same luck holds, 
 
 They all were heroes, conquerors, and 
 cuckolds. 
 
 Thou mak'st philosophers ; there's Epi- 
 curus 
 And Aristippiis, a material crew ! 
 Who to immoral courses would allure us 
 
 By theories quite practicable too ; 
 If only from the devil they would insure 
 us. 
 How pleasant were the maxim (not 
 quite new ), 
 
BRITISH POETS 
 
 " Eat, drink, and love ; what can the 
 
 rest avail us V " 
 So said the royal sage Sardanapalus. 
 
 But Juan ! had he quite forgotten Julia ? 
 And should he have forgotten her so 
 soon ? 
 I can't but say it seems to me most 
 truly a 
 Perplexing question ; but, no doubt, 
 the moon 
 Does these things for us, and whenever 
 newly a 
 Strong palpitation rises, 't is her boon, 
 Else how the devil is it that fresh fea- 
 tures 
 Have such a charm for us poor human 
 creatures? 
 
 I hate inconstancj' — I loathe, detest. 
 Abhor, condemn, abjure the mortal 
 made 
 Of such quicksilver clay that in his 
 breast 
 No permanent foundation can be laid ; 
 Love, constant love, has been my con- 
 stant guest, 
 And yet last night, being at a masque- 
 rade, 
 I saw the prettiest creature, fresh from 
 
 Milan, 
 Which gave me some sensations like a 
 villain. 
 
 But soon Philosophy came to my aid, 
 And wliisper'd. " Think of every 
 sacred tie ! " 
 " I will, my dear Philosophy ! " I said, 
 "But then her teeth, and then, oh, 
 Heaven ! her eye ! 
 I'll just inquire if she be wife or maid. 
 
 Or neither — out of curiositv." 
 "Stop ! " cried Philosophy, with air so 
 
 Grecian 
 (Though she was masqued then as a fair 
 Venetian) ; 
 
 " Stop ! " so I stopp'd. — But to return : 
 that which 
 Men call inconstancy is nothing more 
 Than admiration due where nature's 
 rich 
 Profusion with j'oung beauty covers 
 o'er 
 Some favor'd object ; and as in the niclie 
 
 A lovely statue we almost adore. 
 This sort of adoration of the real 
 Is but a heightening of the " beau 
 ideal." 
 
 'T is the perception of the beautiful, 
 A fine extension of the faculties, 
 
 Platonic, universal, wonderful. 
 
 Drawn from the stars, and filter'd 
 througli the skies. 
 
 Without which life would be extremely 
 dull : 
 In short, it is the use of our own e3'es. 
 
 With one or two small senses added, just 
 
 To hint that flesh is form'd of liery dust. 
 
 Yet 't is a painful feeling, and unwilling, 
 For surely if we alwaj^s could perceive 
 In the same object graces quite as kill- 
 ing 
 As wlien she rose upon us like an Eve, 
 'T would save us many a heart-aclie, 
 many a shilling 
 (For we must get them anyhow, or 
 grieve), 
 AVhereas, if one sole lady pleased for- 
 ever. 
 How pleasant for the heart, as well as 
 liver. 
 
 The heart is like the sky, a i^art of 
 
 heaven, 
 But changes night and day,. too, like 
 
 the sky ; 
 Now o'er it clouds and thunder must be 
 
 driven. 
 And darkness and destruction as on 
 
 high : 
 But wlien it hath been scorch'd. and 
 
 pierced, and riven. 
 Its storms expire in water-drops ; the 
 
 eye 
 Pours forth at last the heart's blood 
 
 turn'd to tears. 
 Which make the English climate of our 
 
 years. 
 
 The liver is the lazaret of bile, 
 
 But very rarely executes its function, 
 For the first passion stays there such a 
 while, 
 That all the rest creep in and form a 
 junction, 
 Like knots of vipers on a dunghill's soil. 
 Rage, fear, hate, jealousy, revenge, 
 compunction. 
 So that all mischiefs spring up from this 
 
 entrail. 
 Like earthquakes from the hidden fire 
 call'd " central."' 
 
 In tlie mean time, without proceeding 
 more 
 In this anatomy, I've fiiiish'd now 
 
BYRON 
 
 '■49 
 
 I 
 
 Two liiijidred and odd stanzas as before. 
 That being about the number I'll 
 allow 
 Each canto of the twelve, or twentj'- 
 four ; 
 And, lajnng down my pen, I make my 
 bow. 
 Leaving Don Juan and Haidee to plead 
 For them and tlieirs with all who deign 
 to read. 
 Canto II., December. ISIS, January, 
 ISID. July 15, 1819. 
 
 FROM CANTO III 
 
 THE ISLES OF GREECE 
 
 The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece ! 
 Where burning Sappho loved and 
 sung, 
 Wliere grew the arts of war and peace, — 
 Where Delos rose, and Phoebus 
 sprung ! 
 Eternal summer gilds them yet, 
 But all, except their sun, is set. 
 
 The Scian and the Teian muse. 
 
 The hero's \\a,v\), the lover's lute. 
 Have found the fame your shores refuse: 
 
 Their place of birtli alone is mute 
 To sounds which echo further west 
 Than your sires' "Islands of the Blest." 
 
 The mountains look on Marathoia — 
 And Marathon looks on tlie sea ; 
 
 And musing there an hour alone, 
 I dream'd that Greece might still be 
 free : 
 
 For staiiding on the Persians' grave, 
 
 I could not deem myself a slave. 
 
 A king sate on the rocky brow 
 
 Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis ; 
 
 And ships, by thousands, lay below, 
 And men in nations ; — all were his ! 
 
 He coimted them at break of day — 
 
 And when the sun set, where were they ? 
 
 And where are they ? a nd wiiere art thou, 
 My country? On thy voiceless shore 
 
 The "heroic lay is tuneless now — 
 The heroic bosom beats no more ! 
 
 And must thy lyre, so long divine, 
 
 Degenerate into hands like mine? 
 
 'Tis something, in the dearth of fame. 
 Though link'd among a fetter'd race. 
 
 To feel at least a patriot's shame. 
 Even as I sing, suffuse my face ; 
 
 For what is left the poet here ? 
 
 For Greeks a blush — for Greece a tear. 
 
 Must ive but weep o'er days more blest ? 
 
 Must loe but blush ? — Our fathers bled. 
 Earth ! render back from out thy breast 
 
 A remnant of our Spartan dead I 
 Of the three hundred grant but three, 
 To make a new Thermopylae ! 
 
 What, silent still ? and silent all ? 
 
 Ah ! no ; — the voices of the dead 
 Sound like a distant torrent's fall. 
 
 And answer, " Let one living head. 
 But one arise, — we come, we come ! " 
 'Tis but the living who are dumb. 
 
 In vain — in vain : strike other chords ; 
 
 Fill high the cup with Samian wine ! 
 Leave battles to tiie Turkish hordes. 
 
 And shed the blood of Scio's vine ! 
 Hark ! rising to the ignoble call — 
 How answers each bold Bacchanal ! 
 
 You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet : 
 Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone ? 
 
 Of two such lessons, why forget 
 The nobler and tiie manlier one ? 
 
 You have the letters Cadmus gave — 
 
 Think ye he meant them for a slave ? 
 
 Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 
 
 We will not think of themes like these! 
 It made Anacreon's song divine ; 
 
 He served — bvit served Pol3^crates — 
 A tyrant ; but our masters then 
 Were still, at least, our countrymen. 
 
 The tyi'ant of the Chersonese 
 
 Was fieedom's best and bravest 
 friend ; 
 T7ioft3'rant was Miltiades ! 
 
 Oh ! that the present hovir would lend 
 Another despot of the kind ! 
 Such chains as his were svire to bind. 
 
 Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 
 
 On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore, 
 Exists the remnant of a line 
 
 Such as the Doric mothers bore ; 
 And there, perhai)s, some seed is sown, 
 The Heracleidan blood might own. 
 
 Trust not for freedom to the Franks. 
 
 Thej' have a king who buys and sells ; 
 In native swords and native ranks, 
 
 The only hope of courage dwells : 
 But Turkish force, and Latin fraud, 
 Would break your shield, however broad. 
 
 Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 
 
 Our virgins dance l)ene9th the shade — 
 I see their glorious black eyes si line ; 
 
 But gazing on each glowing maid, 
 
25° 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 My own the burning tear-drop laves, 
 To think such breasts must suckle slaves. 
 
 Place me on Sunium's marbled steep, 
 Where nothing, save tlie waves and I, 
 
 May liear our mutual murmvirs sweep ; 
 There, swan-like, let me sing and die : 
 
 A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine — 
 
 Dash down yon cup of Samian wine ! 
 
 Thus sung, or would, or could, or should 
 have sung, St. 87 
 
 The modern Greek, in tolerable verse ; 
 If not like Orpheus quite, when Greece 
 was young. 
 Yet in tliese times he might have done 
 much worse : 
 His strain display'd some feeling — right 
 or wrong ; 
 And feeling, in a poet, is the source 
 Of others' feeling ; but they are such 
 
 liars. 
 And take all colors — like the hands of 
 dyers. 
 
 But words are things, and a small drop 
 of ink, 
 Falling like dew. upon a thouglit, pro- 
 duces 
 
 That which makes thousands, perhaps 
 millions, think ; 
 Tis strange, the shortest letter which 
 man uses 
 
 Instead of speech, may form a lasting 
 link 
 Of ages ; to what straits old Time re- 
 duces 
 
 Frail man when paper — even a rag like 
 this. 
 
 Survives himself, his tomb, and all that's 
 his ! 
 
 And when his bones are dust, his grave 
 a blank, 
 His station, generation, even his na- 
 tion. 
 Become a thing, or nothing, save to rank 
 
 In chronological commemoration. 
 Some dull MS. oblivion long lias sank. 
 Or graven stone found in a barrack's 
 station 
 In digging the foundation of a closet. 
 May turn his name up, as a rare deposit. 
 
 And glory long has made the sages smile ; 
 'Tis something, notliing, words, il- 
 
 usion wind — 
 Depending more upon the historian's 
 
 style 
 
 Than on the name a person leaves 
 behind : 
 Troy owes to Homer what whist owes to 
 Hoyle ; 
 The present century was growing blind 
 To the great Marlborough's skill in giv- 
 ing knocks, 
 Until his late Life by Archdeacon Coxe. 
 
 Milton's the prince of poets — so we say ; 
 
 A little heavy, but no less divine : 
 An independent being in his day — 
 Learn'd, pious, temperate in love and 
 wine ; 
 But his life falling into Johnson's way. 
 We're told this great high priest of all 
 the Nine 
 Was whipt at college — a harsh sire — 
 
 odd spouse, 
 For the first Mrs. Milton left his house. 
 
 All these are, certes, entertaining facts. 
 Like Shakspeare's stealing deer, Lord 
 Bacon's bribes ; 
 Like Titus' youth, and Capsar's earliest 
 acts ; 
 Like Burns (whom Doctor Curi'ie well 
 describes) ; 
 Like Cromwell's pranks ; — but although 
 truth, exacts 
 These amiable descriptions from the 
 scribes, 
 As most essential to their hero's story, 
 They do not much contribute to his glory. 
 
 All ai'e not moralists, like Southey, when 
 He prated to the world of " Pantis- 
 ocrasy : " 
 Or Wordsworth unexcised, unhired, who 
 then 
 Season'd his pedlar poems with de- 
 mocracy ; 
 Or Coleridge, long before liis flighty pen 
 Let to the Morning Post its aris- 
 tocracy ; 
 When he and Southey, following the 
 
 same path. 
 Espoused two partners (milliners of 
 Bath). 
 
 Such names at pi'esent cut a convict 
 figure. 
 The very Botany Bay in moral geo- 
 graphy : 
 Their royal treason, renegado rigor. 
 Are good manure for tlieir more bare 
 biography. 
 Wordsworth's last quarto, by the way, 
 is bigger 
 
BYRON 
 
 251 
 
 Than any since the birthday of typo- 
 graphy ; 
 
 A drowsy frowzy poem, call'd the " Ex- 
 cursion," 
 
 Writ in a manner which is my aversion. 
 
 He there builds up a formidable dyke 
 Between his own and others' intel- 
 lect ; 
 But Wordsworth's poem^ and his fol- 
 lowers, like 
 Joanna Southcote's Shiloh, and her 
 sect. 
 Are things which in this century don't 
 strike 
 The public mind, — so few are the elect ; 
 And the new births of both their stale 
 
 virginities 
 Have proved but dropsies, taken for 
 divinities. 
 
 But let me to my story : I must own, 
 If I have any fault, it is digression, 
 
 Leaving my people to jjroceed alone. 
 While I soliloquize beyond expression: 
 
 But these are my addresses from the 
 throne, 
 Wliich put off business to the ensuing 
 session : 
 
 Forgetting each omission is a loss to 
 
 The world, not quite so great as Ariosto. 
 
 I know that what our neighbors call 
 " longueurs,'' 
 (We 've not so good a ivord, but have 
 the thing, 
 In that complete perfection which in- 
 sures 
 An epic from Bob Southey every 
 Spring—) 
 Form not the true temptation which 
 allures 
 The reader ; but 't would not be hard 
 to bring 
 Some fine examples of the eiiopee. 
 To prove its grand ingredient is ennui. 
 
 We learn from Horace, " Homer some- 
 times sleeps ; " 
 We feel without him, Wordsworth 
 sometimes wakes, — 
 To show with what complacency he 
 creeps, 
 With Jiis dear " Wagoners" around 
 his lakes. 
 He wishes for "a boat" to sail the 
 deeps— 
 Of ocean ? — No, of air; and then he 
 makes 
 
 Another outcry for " a little boat," 
 And drivels seas to set it well afloat. 
 
 If he must fain sweep o'er the ethereal 
 plain, 
 And Pegasus runs restive in his 
 " Wagon," 
 Could he not beg the loan of Cliarles's 
 Wain ? 
 Or pra}^ Medea for a single dragon ? 
 Or if, too classic for his vulgar brain. 
 He fear'd his neck to venture sucli a 
 nag on, 
 And he must needs mount nearer to the 
 
 moon. 
 Could not the blockhead ask for a bal- 
 loon ? 
 
 "Pedlars," and "Boats," and "Wag- 
 ons ! " Oh ! ye shades 
 Of Pope and Dry den, are we come to 
 
 this? 
 That trash of such sort not alone evades 
 Contempt, but from the bathos' vast 
 
 abyss 
 Floats scumlike uppermost, and these 
 
 Jack Cades 
 Of sense and song above your graves 
 
 may liiss — 
 The " little boatman " and his "Peter 
 
 Bell " 
 Can sneer at him who drew "Achito- 
 
 phel ! " 
 
 T' our tale. — The feast was over, the 
 slaves gone, 
 The dwarfs and dancing girls had all 
 retired : 
 The Arab lore and poet's song were 
 done, 
 And every sound of revelry expired ; 
 The lady and her lover, left alone, 
 
 The rosy flood of twiliglit's sky ad- 
 mired ; 
 Ave Maria ! o'er the earth and sea. 
 That heavenliest hour of Heaven is 
 worthiest thee ! 
 
 Ave Maria ! blessed be tlie hour ! 
 
 The time, the clime, the spot, where I 
 so oft 
 Have felt that moment in its fullest 
 power 
 Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and 
 soft. 
 While swung the deep bell in tlie distant 
 tower. 
 Or the faint dying daj-hymn stole 
 aloft. 
 
252 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 And not a breatli crept through tlie rosy 
 
 air, 
 And yet the forest leaves seem'd stirrVl 
 
 with prayer. 
 
 Ave Maria ! 't is the hour of prayer ! 
 Ave Maria ! 't is the hour of love ! 
 Ave Maria ! may our spirits dare 
 
 Look up to thine and to thy Son's 
 above ! 
 Ave Maria ! oh that face so fg-ir ! 
 Those downcast eyes beneath the Al- 
 niiglity dove — 
 What though 't is but a pictured image 
 
 strike, 
 That painting is no idol, — 't is too like. 
 
 Some kinder casuists are pleased to say, 
 In nameless print — that I have no de- 
 votion ; 
 But set those persons down with me to 
 pray. 
 And you sliall see who has the proper- 
 est notion 
 Of getting into heaven the shortest way ; 
 My altars are the mountains and the 
 ocean. 
 Earth, air, stars. — all that springs from 
 
 the great Whole, 
 Who hath produced, and will receive 
 the soul. 
 
 Sweet hour of twiliglit ! — in the solitude 
 Of the pine forest, and the silent sliore 
 Which bounds Ravenna's immemorial 
 wood. 
 Rooted wliere once the Adrian wave 
 flow'd o'er. 
 To where the last Ctesarean fortress 
 stood, 
 Evergreen forest ! wliicli Boccaccio's 
 lore 
 And Dryden's lay made haunted ground 
 
 to me. 
 How have I loved the twilight hour and 
 thee ! 
 
 The shrill cicalas, people of the pine. 
 Making their summer lives one cease- 
 less song. 
 Were the sole echoes, save my steed's 
 and mine. 
 And vesper bell's that rose the boughs 
 along ; 
 The spectre huntsman of Onesti's line. 
 His hell-dogs, and tlieir chase, and the 
 fair throng 
 Which learn'd from this example not to 
 
 fly 
 
 From a true lover, — shadow^'d my mind's 
 
 eye. 
 
 Oh, Hesperus ! thou bringest all good 
 
 thing.s — 
 Home to the weary, to the hungry 
 
 cheer, 
 To the young bird tlie parent's brooding 
 
 wings, 
 Tlie welcome stall to the o'erlabor'd 
 
 steer ; 
 Whate'erof peace about our hearthstone 
 
 clings. 
 Whatever our household gods protect 
 
 of dear, 
 Are gather'd round us by thy look of 
 
 rest ; 
 Thou bring'st the child, too, to the 
 
 mother's breast. 
 
 Soft hour ! which wakes the wish and 
 melts the heart 
 Of those who sail the seas, on the first 
 day 
 Wlien they from their sweet friends are 
 torn apart ; 
 Or fills with love the pilgrim on his 
 way 
 As the far bell of vesper makes him start, 
 Seeming to weep the dying day's 
 decaj' : 
 Is this a fancy which our reason scorns ? 
 Ah ! surely nothing dies but something 
 mourns ! 
 
 When Nero perish'd by the justest doom 
 Wliich ever the destroyer yet destroy'd. 
 Amidst the roar of liberated Rome, 
 Of nations freed, and the world over- 
 joy'd, 
 Some hands unseen strew'd flowers upon 
 his tomb : 
 Perhaps the weakness of a heart not 
 void 
 Of feeling for some kindness done, when 
 
 power 
 Had left the wretch an uncorrui^ted hour. 
 
 But I'm digressing ; what on earth has 
 Nero. 
 Or any such like sovereign buffoons, 
 To do with the transactions of my hero. 
 More than such madmen's fellow- man 
 — the moon's ? 
 Sure my invention must be down at zero, 
 And I grown one of many ' ' wooden 
 spoons " 
 Of verse (the name with which we Can- 
 tabs please 
 To dub the last of honors in degrees). 
 
BYRON 
 
 = 53 
 
 I feel this tediousness will never do — 
 
 'T IS being too epic, and I must cut down 
 (In copying) tliis long canto into two ; 
 
 They'll never find it out, unless I own 
 
 The fact, excepting some experienced 
 
 few ; 
 
 And then as an improvement 't will be 
 
 shown : 
 
 I'll prove that such the opinion of the 
 
 critic is 
 From Aristotle passim. — See ^ro///7(^7/<;. 
 
 Canto III. 1S19-1S20. August 8, 1831. 
 
 FROM CANTO IV 
 
 Nothing so difficult as a beginning [.St. 1 
 
 In poesy, unless perhajis the end ; 
 For oftentimes when Pegasus seems 
 winning 
 The race, he sprains a wing, and down 
 we tend, 
 Like Lucifer wlien hurl'd from heaven 
 for sinning ; 
 Our sin the same, and liard as his to 
 mend. 
 Being pride, which leads tlie mind to soar 
 
 too far, 
 Till our own weakness shows us what we 
 are. 
 
 But time, which brings all beings to their 
 level. 
 And sharp Adversity, will teach at last 
 Man, — and, as we would hope, — perhaps 
 the devil, 
 That neither of their intellects are vast : 
 While youth's hot wishes in our red veins 
 revel, 
 We know not this — the blood flows on 
 too fast : 
 But as the torrent widens towards the 
 
 ocean. 
 We ponder deeply on each past emotion. 
 
 As boy, I thought myself a clever fellow, 
 And wish'd that others held the same 
 opinion ; 
 They took it up when my days grew more 
 mellow. 
 And other minds acknowledged my 
 dominion : 
 Now my sere fancy " falls into the yellow 
 Leaf," and Imagination droops her 
 pinion. 
 And the sad truth which hovers o'er my 
 
 desk 
 Turns what was once romantic to bur- 
 lesque. 
 
 And if I laugh at any mortal thing. 
 ' T is that I may not weep ; and if I 
 weep, 
 'T is that our nature cannot always bring 
 
 Itself to apatliy. for we must steep 
 Our hearts first in the depths of Lethe's 
 spring, 
 Ere what we least wish to behold will 
 sleep : 
 Thetis baptized her mortal son in Styx ; 
 A mortal mother would on Letlie fix. 
 
 Some have accused me of a strange design 
 Against the creed and morals of the 
 land, 
 And trace it in this poem every line ; 
 
 I don't pretend that I quite understand 
 My own meaning when I would be very 
 fine ; 
 But the fact is that I have nothing 
 plann'd, 
 Unless it were to be a moment merry, 
 A novel word in my vocabulary. 
 
 To the kind reader of our sober clime 
 This way of writing will appear exotic ; 
 
 Pulci was sire of the luilf-serious rhyme, 
 Who sang when cliivalry was more 
 Quixotic, 
 
 And revell'd in the fancies of the time, 
 True knights, chaste dames, huge giant 
 kings despotic : 
 
 But all these, save tlie last, being obsolete, 
 
 I chose a modern subject as more meet. 
 
 How I have treated it, I do not know ; 
 Perhaps no better tlian they have 
 treated me. 
 Who have imputed such designs as show 
 Not what they saw, but what they 
 wish'd to see ; 
 But if it gives tliein pleasure, be it so, 
 This is a liberal age, and tlioughts are 
 free : 
 Meantime Apollo plucks me by the ear, 
 And tells me to resume mv storv here. 
 Canto IV. 1819—1820. August 8 , 1821. 
 
 FROM CANTO XI 
 
 LONDON LITERATURE AND SOCIETY 
 
 Juan knew several languages-as well 
 
 He might — and brought them uj) with 
 
 skill, in time [St. 53 
 
 To save liis fame with each a.ccomplish'd 
 
 belle. 
 
 Who still regretted that he did not 
 
 rhyme. 
 
254 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 There wanted but this requisite to swell 
 His qualities(with them) into sublime ; 
 
 Lady Fitz-Frisky, and Miss Ma^via Man- 
 nish, 
 
 Both long'd extremely to be sung in 
 Spanish. 
 
 However, he did pretty well, and was 
 Admitted as an aspirant to all 
 
 The coteries, and, as in Banquo's glass. 
 At great assemblies or in parties small, 
 
 He sa\v ten thousand living authors pass, 
 That being about their average num- 
 eral ; 
 
 Also the eighty " greatest living poets," 
 
 As every paltry magazine can show it^s. 
 
 In twice five years the " greatest living 
 poet." 
 Like to the champion fisty in the ring. 
 Is call'd on to support his claim, or show 
 it. 
 Although 't is an imaginary thing. 
 Even I — albeit I'm sure I did not know it. 
 Nor sought of foolscap subjects to be 
 king.— 
 Was reckoned a considerable time. 
 The grand Napoleon of the realms of 
 rhyme. 
 
 But Juan was my Moscow, and Faliero 
 My Leipsic, and my Mont Saint Jean 
 seems Cain : 
 " La Belle Alliance " of dunces down at 
 zero. 
 Now that the Lion's fall'n, may rise 
 again : 
 But I will fall at least as fell my hero ; 
 
 Nor reign at all, or as a monarch reign ; 
 Or to some lonely isle of gaolers go, 
 With turncoat Southey for my turnkey 
 Lowe. 
 
 Sir Walter reign'd before me ; Mooi'e 
 and Campbell 
 Before and after : but now grown more 
 holy, 
 The Muses upon Sion's hill must ramble 
 With poets almost clergymen, or 
 wholly : 
 And Pegasus has a psalmodic amble 
 Beneath the very Reverend Rowley 
 Powley, 
 Who shoes the glorious animal with 
 
 stilts, 
 A modern Ancient Pistol — by the hilts ! 
 
 Still he excels that artificial hard 
 
 Laborer in the same vineyard, though 
 the vine 
 
 Yields him but vinegar for his reward, — 
 Tliat neutralized dull Dorus of the 
 
 Nine ; 
 Tiiat swarthy Sporus, neither man nor 
 
 bard ; 
 That ox of verse, whoploughs for every 
 
 line : — 
 Cambj'ses' roaring Romans beat at least 
 The liowling Hebrews of Cybele's 
 
 priest. — 
 
 Then there's my gentle Euphues i wlio, 
 they say. 
 Sets up for being a sort of moral me : ^ 
 He "11 find it rather difficult some day 
 
 To turn out botli. or either, it may be. 
 Some persons think that Coleridge hath 
 the sway ; 
 And Wordswortli has supporters, two 
 or three ; 
 And that deep-mouth'd Boeotian " Sav- 
 age Landor " 
 Has taken for a swan rogue Southey's 
 gander. 
 
 John Keats, wlio was kill'd off by one 
 critique,^ 
 Just as he really promised something 
 great. 
 If not intelligible, without Greek 
 Contrived to talk about tlie Gods of 
 late. 
 Much as they might have been supposed 
 to speak. 
 Poor fellow ! His was an untoward fate; 
 'T is strange tlie mind, that very fiery 
 
 particle. 
 Should let itself be snuff 'd out by an 
 article. 
 
 Tlie list grows long of live and dead pre- 
 tenders 
 To that which none will gain — or none 
 will know 
 
 The conqueror at least ; who, ere Time 
 renders 
 
 His last award, will have the long grass 
 grow 
 
 Above his burnt-out brain, and sapless 
 cinders. 
 If I might augur, I should rate but low 
 
 * Barry Cornwall, once called " a moral Byron." 
 2 The entirely mistaken idea that Keats' de- 
 cline and death were due to the severe criticism 
 on his Endi/inion in the Quarterly Review, was 
 shared by Shelley, and was generally prevalent 
 luitil the publication of Milnes' Lite of Keats. 
 See H. Buxton Forman's edition of Keats' 
 Works, Vol. IV., pp. 225-273, and Colvin's Life of 
 Keats, pp. 124 and 208. 
 
BYRON 
 
 255 
 
 Their chances ; — they 're too nuinerous, 
 
 like the thirty 
 Mock tyrants, when Rome's annals wax'd 
 
 but dirty. 
 
 This is the literary lower empire, 
 Where the pra?torian bands take up 
 the matter ; — 
 A "dreadful trade," like his who " ga- 
 thers samphire," 
 The insolent soldiery to soothe and 
 flatter, 
 With tlie same feelings as you'd coax a 
 vampire. 
 Now, were I once at home, and in 
 good satire, 
 I'd try conclusions with those Janizaries, 
 And show tliem ivhat an intellectual 
 war is. 
 
 I think I know a trick or two, would 
 
 turn 
 Their flanks ; — but it is hardly worth 
 
 my while 
 With such small gear to give myself 
 
 concern : 
 Indeed I 've not the necessary bile ; 
 My natural temper 's really aught but 
 
 stern, 
 And even my Muse's worst reproof 's a 
 
 smile ; 
 And tlien she drops a brief and modern 
 
 curtsy, 
 And glides away, assured she never 
 
 hurts ye. 
 
 My Juan, whom I left in deadly peril 
 Amongst live poets and blue ladies, 
 pass'd 
 With some small profit through that 
 field so sterile, 
 Being tired in time, and neither least 
 nor last, 
 Left it before he had been treated very 
 ill; 
 And henceforth found himself more 
 gaily class'd 
 Amongst the higher spirits of tlie day, 
 The sun's true son, no vapor, but a ray. 
 
 His morns he pass'd in business — which 
 dissected, 
 Was like all business, a laborious noth- 
 ing 
 That leads to lassitude, the most infected 
 And Centaur Nessus garb of mortal 
 clothing, 
 And on our sofas makes us lie dejected, 
 And talk in tender horrors of our 
 loathing 
 
 All kinds of toil, save for our country's 
 
 good— 
 Wliich grows no better, though 't is time 
 
 it should. 
 
 His afternoons he jmss'd in visits, lunch- 
 eons, 
 Lounging, and boxing ; and the twi- 
 liglit hour 
 
 In riding round those vegetable punch- 
 eons 
 Call'd " Parks." where there is neither 
 fruit nor flower 
 
 Enough to gratify a bee's slight munch- 
 ings ; 
 But after all it is the only "bower" 
 
 (In Moore's phrase) where the fashion- 
 able fair 
 
 Can form a slight acquaintance with 
 fresh air. 
 
 Then dress, then dinner, then awakes the 
 world ! 
 Then glare the lamps, then whirl the 
 wheels, then roar 
 Tlirough street and square fast flashing 
 cliariots liurl'd 
 Like liarness'd meteors ; then along 
 tlie floor 
 Chalk mimics painting ; then festoons 
 are twirl'd ; 
 Then roll tlie brazen thunders of the 
 door, 
 Which opens to the thousand happy few 
 An earthly Paradise of " Or Molu." 
 
 There stands the noble hostess, nor shall 
 sink 
 With the three-thousandth curtsy ; 
 there the waltz, 
 The only dance which teaches girls to 
 think, 
 Makes one in love even with its very 
 faults. 
 Saloon, room, hall, o'erflowbej^ond their 
 brink. 
 And long the latest of arrivals halts, 
 'Midst royal dukes and dames condemn'd 
 
 to clitnb. 
 And gain an inch of staircase at a time. 
 
 Thrice happy he who, after a survey 
 
 Of the good company, can win a corner, 
 A door that's in or boudoir ont of the 
 way. 
 Where he may fix himself like small 
 " Jack Horner," 
 And let tlie Babel round run as it may, 
 And look on as a mourner, or a scorner, 
 
256 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Or an approver, tfi- a mere spectator, 
 Yawning a little as the night grows later. 
 
 But this won't ilo, save by and by ; and he 
 Who, like Don Juan, takes an active 
 share, 
 Must steer with care through all that 
 glittering sea 
 Of gems and jilumes and pearls and 
 silks, to where 
 He deems it is his proper place to be ; 
 Dissolving in the waltz to some soft 
 air, 
 Or proudlier prancing with mercurial 
 
 skill. 
 Where Science marshals forth her own 
 quadrille. 
 
 Or, if he dance not, but hath higlier 
 views 
 Upon an heiress or his neighbor's 
 bride, 
 Let him take care that that which he 
 pursues 
 Is not at once too palpably descried. 
 Full many an eager gentleman oft rues 
 His haste ; im])atience is a blundering 
 guide. 
 Amongst a people famous for reflection. 
 Who like to play the fool with circum- 
 spection. 
 
 But, if you can contrive, get next at 
 supper ; 
 Or if forestall'd, get opposite and 
 ogle :— 
 Oh, ye ambrosial moments ! always 
 upper 
 In mind, a sort of sentimental bogle. 
 Which sits for ever upon memory's 
 crupper. 
 The gliost of vanish'd pleasures once in 
 vogue ! Ill 
 Can tender souls relate the rise and fall 
 Of hopes and fears which shake a single 
 ball. 
 
 But tliese precautionary hints can touch 
 Only the common run, who must 
 pursue, 
 And watch, and wai'd ; whose plans a 
 word too much 
 Or little overturns ; and not the few 
 Or many (for the number 's sometimes 
 such) 
 Whom a good mien, especially if new. 
 Or fame, or name, for wit, war, sense, 
 
 or nonsense, 
 Pei'mits whate'er they please, or did not 
 long: since. 
 
 Our hero, as a hero, young and hand- 
 some, 
 Noble, rich, celebrated, and a stranger. 
 Like other slaves of course must pay his 
 
 ransom. 
 Before he can escape from so much 
 
 danger 
 As will environ a conspicuous man. 
 
 Some 
 Talk about poetry, and "rack and 
 
 manger," 
 And ugliness, disease, as toil and 
 
 trouble ; — 
 I wish they knew the life of a young 
 
 noble. 
 
 They are young, but know not youth — 
 
 it is anticipated ; 
 Handsome but wasted, rich without 
 
 a sou ; 
 Their vigor in a thousand arms is 
 
 dissipated ; 
 Their cash comes from, their wealth 
 
 goes to a Jew ; 
 Both senates see their nightly votes par- 
 ticipated 
 Between the tyrant's and the tribunes' 
 
 crew ; 
 And having voted, dined, drank, gamed, 
 
 and whored. 
 The family vault receives another lord. 
 
 But "carpe diem, "Juan, " carpe, carpe !" 
 
 To-morrow sees another ra(!e as gay 
 And transient and devour'd by the same 
 harpy. 
 " Life's a poor player," — then " play 
 out the play. 
 Ye villains ! " and above all keep a sharp 
 eye 
 Much less on what you do than what 
 you say : 
 Be hypocritical, be cautious, be 
 Not what you seem, but always what 
 you see. 
 
 But how shall I relate in other cantos 
 Of what befell our hero in tlie land. 
 Which 'tis the common cry and lie to 
 vaunt as 
 A moral country ? But I hold my 
 hand— 
 For I disdain to write an Atalantis ; 
 
 But 'tis as well at once to understand 
 You are not a moral people, and you 
 
 know it 
 Witiiout the aid of too sincere a poet. 
 
BYRON 
 
 257 
 
 Wliat Juan saw and underwent shall be 
 My topic, witli of course tlie due re- 
 striction 
 Which is required by proper courtesj' ; 
 And recollect the work is only fiction, 
 And that I sing of neither mine nor me, 
 Tliough every scribe, in some slight 
 turn of diction, [doubt 
 
 Will hint allusions never meant. Ne'er 
 Tliis — when I speak, I don't hint, but 
 speak out. 
 
 WI1 ether he married with the third or 
 fourth 
 Offspring of some sage husband-hunt- 
 ing countess, [worth 
 Or whetlier with some vii'gin of more 
 (I mean in Fortune's matrimonial 
 bounties) 
 He took to regularly peopling Earth 
 Of which your lawful, awful wedlock 
 fount is,— 
 Or whether he was taken in for dam- 
 ages, [ages,— 
 For being too excursive in his Jiom- 
 
 Is yet within the unread events of tinae. 
 Thus far, go forth, thou lay, which I 
 will back 
 Against the same given quantity of 
 rhyme, [tack 
 
 For being as much the subject of at- 
 As ever yet was any work sublime. 
 By those who love to say tliat white is 
 black. 
 So much the better ! — I may standalone. 
 But would not change my free thoughts 
 for a throne. 
 Canto XI. lS2f2-lS23. August 29, 1823. 
 
 THE VISION OF JUDGMENT,i 
 
 BY 
 
 QUEVEDO REDIVIVUS 
 
 SUGGESTED BY THE COMPOSITION SO EN- 
 TITLED BY THE AUTHOR OF "WAT 
 TYLER " 
 
 " A Daniel come to judgment ! yea, a Daniel ! 
 I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word." 
 
 ' Southey published in 1821 a poem called " A 
 Vision of Judgment," in which he extolled 
 George III. for his personal virtues, and de- 
 scribed his reception into heaven. In the Pref- 
 ace of this poem he bitterly attacked Byron for 
 immorality in his writings. See full accounts 
 of the affair in the biographies of Byron and 
 Southey. The briefest and best treatment of it 
 is in Nidiol's Life of Byron, toward the end of 
 Chapter VIII. 
 
 • 17 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 It hath been wisely said, that "One fool makes 
 many ; " and it hath been poetically observed— 
 
 " That fools rush in where angels fear to tread."— Pope. 
 
 If Mr. Southey had not rushed in where he 
 had no business, and where he never was before, 
 and never will be again, the following poem 
 would not have been written. It is not impossi- 
 ble that it may be as good as his own, seeing 
 that it cannot, by any species of stupidity, natu- 
 ral or acquired, be ivorse. The gross Hattei'y, 
 the dull impudence, the renegado intolerance, 
 and impious cant, of the poem by the author of 
 " Wat Tyler," are something so stupendous as to 
 form the sublime of himself— containing the 
 quintessence of his own attributes. 
 
 So much for his poem — a word on his preface. 
 In this preface it has pleased the magnanimous 
 Laureate to draw the picture of a supposed 
 "Satanic School," the which he doth recom- 
 mend to the notice of the legislature ; thereby 
 adding to his other laurels the ambition of those 
 of an informer. If there exists anywhere ex- 
 cept in his imagination, such a School, is he not 
 sufficiently armed against it by his own intense 
 vanity ? The truth is, that there are certain 
 writers whom Mr. S. imagines, like Scrub, to 
 have "talked of him; for they laughed con- 
 sumedly." 
 
 I think I know enough of most of the writers 
 to whom he is supposed to allude, to assert, that 
 they, in their individual capacities, have done 
 more good, in the charities of life, to their fel- 
 low-creatures, in any one year, than Mr. Southey 
 has done harm to himself by his absurdities in 
 his whole life ; and this is saying a great deal. 
 But I have a few questions to ask. 
 
 Istly, Is Mr. Southey the author of " Wat 
 Tyler" ? 
 
 2ndly, Was he not refused a remedy at law by 
 the highest judge of his beloved England, be- 
 cause it was a blasphemous and seditious publi- 
 cation ? 
 
 3dly, Was he not entitled by William Smith, 
 in full parliament, " a rancoi-ous renegado ? " 
 
 4thly, Is he not poet laureate, with his own 
 lines on Martin the regicide staring hint in the 
 face ? 
 
 And, 5thly, Putting the four preceding items 
 together, with what conscience dare he call the 
 attention of the laws to the publications of 
 others, be they what they may ? 
 
 I say nothing of the cowardice of such a pro- 
 ceeding, its meanness speaks for itself ; but I 
 wish to touch upon the motive, which is neither 
 more nor less than that Mr. S. has been laughed 
 at a little in some recent publications, as he was 
 of yore in the " Anti-Jacobin," by his present 
 patrons. Hence all this " skimble-scamble 
 stuff" about "Satanic," and so forth. How- 
 ever, it is worthy of him — " qualis ab incepto." 
 
 If there is anything obnoxious to the political 
 opinions of a portion of the public in the follow- 
 ing poem, they may thank Mr. Southey. He 
 might have written hexameters, as he has writ- 
 ten everything else, for aught that the writer 
 cared — had they been upon another subject. 
 But to attempt to canonize a monarch, who, 
 whatever were his household virtues, was 
 neither a successful nor a patriot king, — inas- 
 much as several years of his reign passed in war 
 with America and Ireland, to say nothing of the 
 aggression upon France, — like ail other exagger- 
 ation, necessarily begets opposition. In what- 
 ever manner he may be spoken of in this new 
 
258 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 " Vision," his public career will not be more 
 favorably transmitted by history. Of his pri- 
 vate virtues (although a little expensive to the 
 nation) there can be no doubt. 
 
 With regaid to the supernatural personages 
 treated of, I can only say that I know as much 
 about them, and (as an honest man) have a bet- 
 ter right to talk of them than Robert Southey. 
 I have also treated them more tolerantly. The 
 way in which that poor insane creature, the 
 Laureate, deals about his judgments in the next 
 world, is like his own judgment in this. If it 
 was not completely ludicrous, it would be some- 
 thing worse. I don't think that there is much 
 more to say at present. 
 
 QUEVEDO REDIVIVUS. 
 
 Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate : 
 His keys were rustv, and the lock was 
 dull, 
 So little trouble had been given of late ; 
 Not that the place by any means was 
 full. 
 But since the Gallic era " eighty-eight " 
 The devils had ta'en a longer, stronger 
 pull, 
 And "a pull altogether." as they say 
 At sea — which drew most souls another 
 way. 
 
 The angels all were singing out of tune, 
 
 ATid hoarse with having little else to 
 
 do. 
 
 Excepting to wind up the sun and moon. 
 
 Or curb a runaway young star or two. 
 
 Or wild colt of a comet, which too soon 
 
 Broke out of bounds o'er the ethereal 
 
 blue. 
 
 Si)litting some planet witli its playful 
 
 tail. 
 As boats are sometimes by a wanton 
 whale. 
 
 The guardiiin seraphs liad retired on 
 high. 
 Finding their charges past all care be- 
 low ; 
 Terrestrial business fill'd nought in the 
 sky 
 Save the recording angel's black 
 bureau ; 
 Who fovmd, indeed, the facts to multi- 
 ply 
 "With such rapidity of vice and woe. 
 Tliat he had stripp'd off both his wings 
 
 in quills. 
 And yet was in arrear of liuman ills. 
 
 His business so augmented of late years. 
 That he was forced, against his will 
 no doubt, 
 
 (Just like those cherubs, earthly minis- 
 ters,) 
 
 For some resource to turn himself 
 about. 
 And claim the lielp of his celestial peers. 
 To aid liimere he should be quite worn 
 out 
 By the increased demand for his re- 
 marks : 
 Six angels and twelve saints were named 
 his clerks. 
 
 This was a handsome board — at least 
 
 for heaven ; 
 And yet they had even then enough 
 
 to do, 
 So many conquerors' cars wei'e daily 
 
 driven. 
 So many kingdoms fitted up anew ; 
 Each day too slew its thousands six or 
 
 seven, 
 Till at the crowning carnage, Water- 
 loo, 
 They threw their pens down in divine 
 
 disgust^ 
 The page was so besmear 'd witli blood 
 
 and dust. 
 
 This by the way ; 't is not mine to record 
 What angels shrink from : even the 
 very devil 
 On this occasion his own work abhorr'd, 
 So surfeited witli tlie infernal revel : 
 Though he himself liad sliarpen'd every 
 sword. 
 It almost quench'd his innate tliirst 
 of evil. 
 (Here Satan's sole good work deserves 
 
 insertion — 
 'T is. that he has both generals in re- 
 version.) 
 
 Let's skip a few short years of hollow 
 
 peace. 
 Which peopled earth no better, hell 
 
 as wont, 
 And heaven none — they form the t^a-ant's 
 
 lease, 
 Witli nothing but new names sub- 
 scribed upon 't ; 
 'T will one day finish : meantime the}^ 
 
 increase, 
 " With seven heads and ten hoi'ns," 
 
 and all in front. 
 Like Saint John's foretold beast ; but 
 
 ours are born 
 Less formidable in the head than horn. 
 
 In the first year of freetlom's second 
 dawn 
 Died George the Third ; altliough no 
 tyrant, one 
 
BYRON 
 
 259 
 
 Who shielded tyrants, till each sense 
 withdrawn 
 Left him nor mental nor external sun ; 
 
 A better farmer ne'er brusli'd dew from 
 lawn. 
 A worse king never left a realm un- 
 done ! 
 
 He died — but left his subjects still be- 
 liind, 
 
 One half as mad — and t'other no less 
 blind. 
 
 He died ! his death made no great stir 
 
 on earth : 
 His burial made some pomp ; there 
 
 was profusion 
 Of velvet, gilding, brass, and no great 
 
 dearth 
 Of aught but tears — save those she<l 
 
 by collusion. 
 For these things may be bought at their 
 
 true worth ; 
 Of elegy there was the due infusion — 
 Bought also ; and the torches, cloaks, 
 
 and banners, 
 Heralds, and relics of old Gothic man- 
 ners, 
 
 Form'd a sepulchral melodrame. Of all 
 The fools who fiock'd to swell or see 
 tiie shovv, 
 Who cared about the corpse? The 
 funeral 
 Made tiie attraction, and the black 
 tiie woe. 
 Tliere throbb'd not thei-e a thought 
 which pierced the pall ; 
 And when the gorgeous coffin was 
 laid low. 
 It seem'd the mockery of hell to fold 
 Tlie rottenness of eighty years in gold. 
 
 So mix his body with the dust ! It might 
 
 Return to what it must far sooner, were 
 
 Tlie natural compound left alone to fight 
 
 Its way back into earth, and fire, and 
 
 air ; 
 
 But the unnatural balsams merely blight 
 
 WMiat nature made him at his birtli, 
 
 as bare 
 
 As the mere million's base unmummied 
 
 clay- 
 Yet all his spices but prolong decay. 
 
 He's dead — and upper earth with him 
 has done ; 
 
 He's buried; save the undertaker's bill. 
 Or lapidary scrawl, the world is gone 
 
 For him, unless he left a German will ; 
 
 But Where's the proctor who will ask 
 his son ? 
 In whom his qualities are reigning 
 still. 
 
 Except that household virtue, most un- 
 common, 
 
 Of constancy to a bad, ugly woman. 
 
 " God save the king ! " It is a large 
 economy 
 In God to save the like ; but if he will 
 Be saving, all the better; for not one am I 
 Of those who think damnation better 
 still : 
 I hardly know too if not quite alone am I 
 In this small hope of bettering future ill 
 By circumscribing, witii some slight re- 
 striction. 
 The eternity of hell's hot jurisdiction. 
 
 I know this is unpopular ; I know 
 
 'Tis blasphemous ; I know one may be 
 damn'd 
 For hoping no one else may e'er be so ; 
 I know my catechism; I know we'x'e 
 cramm'd 
 With the best doctrines till we quite 
 o'erflow; 
 I know tliat all save England's church 
 have shamm'd. 
 And that the other twice two hundred 
 
 churches 
 And synagogues have made a damn'd 
 bad purchase. 
 
 God help us all ! God help me too ! I am, 
 God knows, as helpless as the devil can 
 wish. 
 
 And not a whit more difficult to damn. 
 Than is to bring to land a late-hook'd 
 fisli, 
 
 Or to tlie butcher to purvey tlie lamb ; 
 Not that I'm fit for such a noble dish. 
 
 As one day will be that immortal fry 
 
 Of almost everybody born to die. 
 
 Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate. 
 And nodded o'er his keys ; when, lo ! 
 there came 
 A wondrous noise he had not heard of 
 late — 
 A rushing sound of wind, and stream, 
 and flame ; 
 In short, a roar of things extremely 
 great. 
 Which would have made aught save a 
 saint exclaim; 
 But he. with fii'st a start and then a 
 wink, [think! 
 
 Said, " There's another star gone out, I 
 
26o 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 But ei"6 he could return to his repose, 
 A cherub flapp'd his right wing o'er 
 his eyes— 
 At whicli St. Peter yawn'd, and rubb'd 
 his nose : 
 " Saint porter," said the angel, " pri- 
 thee rise ! " 
 Waving a goodly wing, which glow'd, 
 as glows 
 An earthly peacock's tail, with heav- 
 enly dyes : 
 To wliich tlie saint replied, " Well, 
 wliat's the matter ? 
 " Is Lucifer come back with all this 
 clatter ? " 
 
 " No," quoth the cherub; " George the 
 
 Third is dead." 
 " And who is George the Tliird ? '" re- 
 plied the apostle : 
 " IMiat George f what Third ?" " The 
 
 king of England," said 
 The angel. " Well! he won't find 
 
 kings to jostle 
 Him on his way ; but does lie wear liis 
 
 head ? 
 Because the last we saw liere had a 
 
 tustle. 
 And ne'er would have got into lieaven's 
 
 good graces. 
 Had he not flung his head in all our faces. 
 
 " He was, if I remember, king of France ; 
 That head of his, wliich could not 
 keep a crown 
 On earth, yet ventured in my face to 
 advance 
 A claim to those of martyrs — like mj^ 
 own : 
 If I had had my sword, as I had once 
 When I cut ears off, I had cut him 
 down ; 
 But having but my keys, and not niy 
 
 brand, 
 I only knock'd his head from out his 
 hand. 
 
 " And then he set up such a headless 
 howl. 
 That all the saints came out and took 
 him in; 
 And there he sits by St. Paul, cheek by 
 jowl ; 
 That fellow Paul — the jiarvenu ! The 
 skin 
 Of St. Bartholomew, which makes his 
 cowl 
 In heaven, and upon earth redeem'd 
 his sin, 
 
 So as to make a martyr, never sped 
 Better than did this weak and wooden 
 head. 
 
 " But had it come up here upon its 
 shoulders. 
 There would have been a different tale 
 to tell : 
 The fellow-feeling in the saints' beholders 
 Seems to have acted on them like a 
 spell. 
 And so this very foolish head heaven 
 solders 
 Back on its trunk : it may be very well, 
 A nd seems the custom here, to overthrow 
 Whatever has been wisely done below." 
 
 The angel answer'd, "Peter! do not 
 pout : 
 The king who comes has head and all 
 entire. 
 And never knew much what it was 
 about — 
 He did as doth the puppet — by its wire. 
 And will be judged like all the rest, no 
 doubt : 
 My business and your own is not to 
 inquire 
 Into such matters, biit to mind our cue — 
 Which is to act as we are bid to do." 
 
 While thus they spake, the angelic cara- 
 van. 
 Arriving like a rush of might}^ wind, 
 Cleaving the fields of space, as doth the 
 swan 
 Some silver stream (say Ganges, Nile 
 or Inde. 
 Or Thames, or Tweed), and 'midst them 
 an old man 
 With an old soul, and both extremely 
 blind, 
 Halted before the gate, and in his shroud 
 Seated their fellow traveller on a cloud. 
 
 But bringing up the rear of this bright 
 host 
 A Spirit of a different aspect waved 
 His wings, like thunder-clouds above 
 some coast 
 Whose barren beach with frequent 
 wrecks is paved ; 
 His brow was like the deep when tem- 
 pest-toss'd ; 
 Fierce and unfathomable thoughts 
 engi-aved 
 Eternal wrath on his immortal face. 
 And where he gazed a gloom pervaded 
 space. 
 
BYRON 
 
 261 
 
 As he drew near, he gazed upon the gate 
 Ne'er to be enter'd more by liim or Sin, 
 
 With such a glance of supernatural hate, 
 As made Saint Peter wish himself 
 within ; 
 
 He patter'd with his keys at a great rate, 
 And sweated through his apostolic 
 skin : 
 
 Of course his perspiration was but ichor, 
 
 Or some sucli other spiritual liquor. 
 
 Tiie very cherubs huddled all together. 
 Like birds wlien soars the falcon ; and 
 they felt 
 A tingling to the tip of every feather. 
 
 And form'd a circle like Orion's belt 
 Around their poor old charge ; who 
 scarce knew whither 
 His guards had led him, though they 
 gently dealt 
 With royal manes (for bj^ many stories, 
 And true, we learn the angels all are 
 Tories). 
 
 As things were in this posture, the gate 
 flew 
 Asunder, and the flashing of its hinges 
 Flung over space an universal hue 
 
 Of manj'-color'd flame, until its tinges 
 Reach'd even our speck of earth, and 
 made a new 
 Aurora borealis spread its fringes 
 O'er tlie North Pole ; the same seen, 
 
 when ice-bound, 
 By Captain Parry's crew, in " Melville's 
 Sound." 
 
 And from the gate thrown open issued 
 
 beaming 
 A beautiful and mighty Thing of 
 
 Light, 
 Radiant with glory, like a banner stream- 
 ing 
 Victorious from some world-o'erthrow- 
 
 ing fight : 
 Bly poor comparisons must needs be 
 
 teeming 
 With eartlily likenesses, for here the 
 
 night 
 Of clay obscures our best conceptions, 
 
 saving 
 Johanna Southcote, or Bob Southey 
 
 leaving. 
 
 'Twas the archangel Michael ; all men 
 
 know 
 The make of angels and archangels, 
 
 since 
 There's scarce a scribbler has not one to 
 
 show, 
 
 From the fiends' leader to the angels' 
 
 prince : 
 
 There also are some altar-pieces, though 
 
 I really can't say that they much evince 
 
 One's inner notions of immortal spirits ; 
 
 But let the connoisseurs explain their 
 
 merits. 
 
 Michael flew forth in glory and in good ; 
 A goodly work of him from whom all 
 glory 
 And good arise ; the portal past — he 
 stood ; 
 Before him the young cherubs and 
 saints hoary — 
 (I say young, begging to be understood 
 By looks, not years ; and should be 
 very sorry 
 To state, they' were not older than St. 
 
 Peter, 
 But merely that they seem'd a little 
 sweeter) . 
 
 The cherubs and the saints bow'd down 
 before 
 That arch-angelic hierarch, the first 
 Of essences angelical, who wore 
 The aspect of a god ; but this ne'er 
 nursed 
 Pride in his heavenly bosom, in whose 
 core 
 No thought, save for his Master's 
 service, durst 
 Intrude, however glorified and high ; 
 He knew him but the viceroy of the sky. 
 
 He and the sombre, silent Spirit met — 
 They knew each other both for good 
 and ill ; 
 Such was their power, that neither could 
 forget 
 His former friend and future foe ; but 
 still 
 There was a high, immortal, proud 
 regret 
 In cither's eye, as if 't were less their 
 will 
 Than destiny to make the eternal years 
 Their date of war, and their "champ 
 clos " the spheres. 
 
 But here they were in neutral space: we 
 know 
 From Job, that Satan hath the power 
 to pay 
 A heavenly visit thrice a year or so ; 
 And that the " sons of God," like those 
 of clay. 
 Must keep him company ; and we might 
 show 
 
BRITISH POETS 
 
 From the same book, in how polite a 
 way 
 The dialogue is held between the Powers 
 Of Good and Evil — but 'twould take up 
 hours. 
 
 And this is not a thenlogic tract, 
 To prove with Hebrew and with 
 Arabic, 
 If Job be allegory or a fact, 
 
 But a true narrative ; and thus I pick 
 From out the whole but such and such 
 an act 
 As sets aside the slightest thought of 
 trick. 
 'Tis every tittle true, beyond suspicion, 
 And accurate as any other vision. 
 
 The spirits were in neutral space, before 
 The gate of heaven ; like eastern 
 
 thresholds is 
 The place where Death's grand cause is 
 
 ai-gued o'er, 
 And souls despatcli'd to that world or 
 
 to this ; 
 And tlierefore Michael and the other 
 
 wore 
 A civil aspect : tliough they did not 
 
 kiss, 
 Yet still between his Darkness and his 
 
 Brightness 
 There pass'd a mutual glance of great 
 
 politeness. 
 
 The Archangel bow'd, not like a modern 
 beau. 
 But with a graceful Oriental bend. 
 Pressing one radiant arm just where be- 
 low 
 The heart in good men is supposed to 
 tend ; 
 He turn'd as to an equal, not too low. 
 But kindly ; Satan met his ancient 
 friend 
 With more hauteur, as miglit an old 
 
 Castilian 
 Poor noble meet a mushroom rich 
 civilian. 
 
 He merely bent his diabolic brow 
 
 An instant ; and then raising it, he 
 stood 
 In act to assert his right or wrong, and 
 show 
 Cause why King George by no means 
 could or should 
 Make out a case to be exempt from woe 
 Eternal, more than other kings, 
 endued 
 
 With better sense and hearts, whom his- 
 tory mentions, 
 
 Who long have •• paved hell with their 
 good intentions." 
 
 Michael began: "What wouldst thou 
 with this man. 
 Now dead, and brought before the 
 ■ Lord ? What ill 
 Hath he wrought since his mortal race 
 began , 
 Tliat tliou canst claim him ? Speak ! 
 and do thy will. 
 If it be just : if in this earthly span 
 
 He hath been greatly failing to fulfil 
 His duties as a king and mortal, say. 
 And he is thine ; if not, let him have 
 way." 
 
 "Michael!" replied the Prince of Air, 
 
 " even here. 
 Before the Gate of him thou servest, 
 
 must 
 I claim my subject : and will make 
 
 appear 
 That as he was my worshipper in dust, 
 So shall he be in spirit, altliough dear 
 To thee and thine, because nor wine 
 
 nor lust 
 Wei'e of his weaknesses ; yet on the 
 
 tlirone 
 He reign'd o'er millions to serve me 
 
 alone. 
 
 " Look to oiir earth, or rather 7niiie ; it 
 was, 
 Once, more thy Master's : but I triumph 
 not 
 In this poor planet's conquest ; nor, alas ! 
 Need lie thou servest envy me my lot : 
 With all the myriads of bright worlds 
 which pass 
 In worship round him, he may have 
 foi-got 
 Yon weak creation of such paltry tilings: 
 I think few worth damnation save their 
 kings, — 
 
 " And these but as a kind of quit-rent, to 
 Assert my right as lord: and even had 
 I such an inclination, it were (as you 
 Well know) superfluous ; they are 
 grown so bad. 
 That hell has nothing better left to do 
 Than leave them to themselves : so 
 much more mad 
 And evil by their own internal curse. 
 Heaven cannot make them better, nor I 
 worse. 
 
BYRON 
 
 263 
 
 " Look to the earth, I said, and say again: 
 When this oki, blind, mad, helpless, 
 weak, poor worm 
 Began in youth's first bloom and flush 
 to reign. 
 The world and he both wore a dif- 
 ferent form. 
 And much of earth and all the watery 
 plain 
 Of ocean call'd hini king: through 
 many a storm 
 His isles had floated on the abyss of time; 
 For the rough virtues chose tliem for 
 their clime. 
 
 " He came to his sceptre young ; he 
 leaves it old : 
 Look to the state in which he found 
 his realm, 
 And left it ; and his annals too behold, 
 
 Howto a minion flrst hegavetlie hehn; 
 How grew upon his heart a thirst for gold. 
 The beggar's vice, which can but over- 
 whelm 
 The meanest hearts ; and for the rest, 
 
 but glance 
 Thine eye along America and France. 
 
 " 'Tis true, he was a tool from first to last 
 (I have the workmen safe :) but as a tool 
 So let him be consumed. From out the 
 past 
 Of ages, since mankind have known 
 the rule 
 Of monarchs — from the bloody rolls 
 amass'd 
 Of sin and slaugliter — from the Caesar's 
 school. 
 Take the worst pupil ; and produce a 
 
 reign 
 More drench'd vith gore, more cum- 
 ber'd with the slain. 
 
 " He ever warr'd with freedom and tlie 
 free : 
 Nations as men, home subjects, foreign 
 foes, 
 So that they utter'd the word ' Liberty ! ' 
 Found George the Third their first 
 opponent. Whose 
 History was ever stain'd as his will be 
 With national and individual woes ? 
 I grant his houseliold abstinence ; 1 grant 
 His neutral virtues, which most mon- 
 archs want ; 
 
 " I know he was a constant consort ; own 
 He was a decent sire, and middling 
 lord. 
 
 All this is much, and most upon a throne ; 
 
 As temperance, if at Apicius' board. 
 Is more than at an anchorite's supper 
 shown. 
 I grant him all the kindest can accord ; 
 And this was well for him, but not for 
 
 those 
 Millions who found him what oppres- 
 sion chose. 
 
 "The New World shook him off ; the 
 Old yet groans 
 Beneath what he and his prepared, if 
 not 
 Completed : he leaves heirs on many 
 thrones 
 To all his vices, without what begot 
 Compassion for liim — liis tame virtues ; 
 drones 
 Who sleep, or despots who have now 
 
 forgot 
 A lesson which sliall be re-taught 
 them, wake 
 Upon the thrones of earth ; but let them 
 quake ! 
 
 ' • Five millions of the primitive, who hold 
 The faith which makes ye great on 
 ear til, implored 
 A part of tliat vast all they held of old, — • 
 Freedom to worship — not alone your 
 Lord , 
 Michael, but you, and you. Saint Peter ! 
 cold 
 Must be your souls, if you have not 
 abhor'd 
 The foe to Catholic participation 
 In all the license of a Cliristian nation. 
 
 "True! he allow'd them to pray God ; 
 
 but as 
 A consequence of prayer, refused the 
 
 law 
 Which would have placed them upon 
 
 the same base 
 With those who did not hold the 
 
 saints in awe." 
 But here Saint Peter started from his 
 
 place. 
 And cried, " You may the prisoner 
 
 withdraw : 
 Ere heaven shall ope her portals to this 
 
 Guelph, 
 While I am guard, may I be damn'd my- 
 self ! 
 
 " Sooner will I with Cerberus exchange 
 
 My office (and his is no sinecure) 
 Than see this royal Bedlam bigot range 
 
;64 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 The azure fields of heaven, of that be 
 
 sure ! " 
 "Saint ! " replied Satan, " you do well to 
 
 avenge 
 The wrongs he made your satellites 
 
 endure ; 
 And if to this exchange you should be 
 
 given, 
 I'll try to coax oui- Cerberus up to 
 
 heaven ! " 
 
 Here Michael interposed : " Good saint ! 
 and devil ! 
 Pray, not so fast ; you both outrun dis- 
 cretion. 
 Saint Peter ! you were wont to be more 
 civil ! 
 Satan, excuse this warmth of his ex- 
 pression, 
 And condescension to the vvdgar's level : 
 Even saints sometimes forget them- 
 selves in session. 
 Have you got more to say ? " — " No." — 
 
 " If you please, 
 I'll trouble you to call your witnesses." 
 
 Then Satan turn'd and waved his 
 swarthy hand, 
 Which stirr'd with its electric quali- 
 ties 
 Clouds farther off than we can under- 
 stand, 
 Although we find him sometimes in 
 our skies ; 
 Infernal thunder shook both sea and land 
 In all the planets, and hell's batteries 
 Let off the artillery, which Milton men- 
 tions 
 As one of Satan's most sublime inven- 
 tions. 
 
 This was a signal unto such damned souls 
 As have the privilege of their damna- 
 tion 
 Extended far beyond the mere controls 
 Of worlds past, present, or to come ; 
 no station 
 Is theirs particularly in the rolls 
 
 Of liell assign'd ; but where their incli- 
 nation 
 Or business carries them in search of 
 
 game, 
 They may range freely — being damn'd 
 the same. 
 
 Tliey're proud of this — as very well they 
 may. 
 It being a sort of knighthood, or gilt 
 key 
 
 Stuck in their loins ; or like to an 
 
 "entre" 
 Up the back stairs, or such free- 
 
 masonr^^ 
 I borrow my comparisons from clay, 
 Being clay myself. Let not those 
 
 spirits be 
 Offended with such base low likenesses ; 
 We know their jjosts are nobler far than 
 
 these. 
 
 When the great signal ran from heaven 
 to hell- 
 About ten million times the distance 
 reckon'd 
 From our sun to its earth, as we can tell 
 How much time it takes up, even to a 
 second, 
 For every ray that travels to dispel 
 The fogs of London, through which, 
 dimly beacon'd 
 The weathei'cocks are gilt some thrice a 
 
 j^ear, 
 If that the summer is not too severe : 
 
 I say that I can tell — 'twas half a min- 
 ute ; 
 I know the solar beams take up more 
 
 time 
 Ere, pack'd up for their journey, they 
 
 begin it ; 
 But then their telegraph is less sub- 
 
 blinie. 
 And if they ran a race, they would not 
 
 win it 
 'Gainst Satan's courier's bound for 
 
 their own clime. 
 The sun takes up some years for every 
 
 ray 
 To reach its goal — the devil not half a 
 
 day. 
 
 Upon the verge of space, about the size 
 
 Of half-a-crown. a little speck appear'd 
 
 (I've seen a sometiiing like it in the skies 
 
 In the ^gean, ere a squall); it near'd. 
 
 And, growing bigger, took another guise; 
 
 Like an aerial ship it tack'd, and 
 
 steer 'd. 
 
 Or w'o.s steer'd (I am doubtful of the 
 
 grammar 
 Of the last phrase, which makes the 
 stanza stammer ; — • 
 
 But take your choice) : and then it grew 
 a cloud 
 And so it was — a cloud of witnesses. 
 But such a cloud ! No land e'er saw a 
 crowd 
 
BYRON 
 
 265 
 
 Of locusts numerous as the heaveus 
 saw these ; 
 They shadowed with their myriads 
 space ; their loud 
 And varied cries were like those of 
 wild geese 
 (If nations may be liken'd to a goose). 
 And jealized the phrase of " liell broke 
 loose." 
 
 Here crashed a sturdy oath of stout John 
 Bull, 
 Wlio damned away his eyes as hereto- 
 fore : 
 
 There Paddy brogued "By Jasus ! " — 
 ' ' What's j'our wuU ? " 
 The temperate Scot exclaimed : the 
 French ghost swore 
 
 In certain terms I shan't translate in 
 full, 
 As the first coachman will ; and 'midst 
 the war, 
 
 The voice of Jonathan was heard to ex- 
 press, 
 
 " Our president is going to war, I guess." 
 
 Besides tliere were the Spaniard, Dutch, 
 and Dane ; 
 In short, an universal shoal of shades. 
 From Otaheite's isle to Salisbury Plain, 
 Of all climes and professions, years 
 and trades, 
 Ready to swear against the good king's 
 reign , 
 Bitter as clubs in cards are against 
 spades : 
 All summon'd by this grand " subpoena," 
 
 to 
 Try if kings mayn't be damn'd like me 
 or you. 
 
 When Michael saw this host, he first 
 grew pale. 
 As angels can ; next, like Italian 
 twiliglit. 
 He turn'd all colors — as a peacock's tail. 
 Or sunset streaming through a Gothic 
 skylight 
 In some old abbey, or a trout not stale. 
 Or distant lightning on the horizon by 
 night. 
 Or a fresh rainbow, or a grand review 
 Of thirty regiments in red, green and 
 blue. 
 
 Then he address'd himself to Satan : 
 "Why— 
 My good old friend, for such I deem 
 you, though 
 
 Our different parties make us fight so 
 shy, 
 I ne'er mistake you for a personal foe ; 
 Our difference is jjolitical, and I 
 
 Trust that, whatever may occur below, 
 You know my great respect for you : 
 
 and this 
 Makes me regret whate'er you do amiss — 
 
 " Wliy, my dear Lucifer, would you 
 abuse 
 My call for witnesses ? I did not mean 
 That you should half of earth and hell 
 produce ; 
 'Tis even superfluous, since two hon- 
 est, clean. 
 True testimonies are enough : we lose 
 
 Our time, nay, our eternity, between 
 The accusation and defence : if we 
 Hear both, 'twill stretch our immor- 
 tality." 
 
 Satan replied, " To me the matter is 
 Indifferent, in a personal point of 
 view : 
 I can have fifty better souls than this 
 With far less trouble than we have 
 gone through 
 Already ; and I merely argued his 
 Late Majesty of Britain's case with 
 you 
 Upon a point of form : you may dispose 
 Of him ; I've kings enough below, God 
 knows ! " 
 
 Thus spoke the Demon (late call'd 
 
 " multi-faced" 
 By multo-scribblingSouthey). " Then 
 
 we'll call 
 One or two persons of the myriads placed 
 Around our congress, and dispense 
 
 with all 
 The rest," quoth Michael: "Who may 
 
 be so graced 
 As to speak first ? there's choice 
 
 enough — who shall 
 It be?" Then Satan answer'd, "There 
 
 are many : 
 But you may choose Jack Wilkes as well 
 
 as any." 
 
 A merry, cock-eyed, curious-looking 
 sprite 
 Upon the instant started from the 
 throng, 
 Dress'd m a fashion now forgotten quite ; 
 For all the fashions of the flesh stick 
 long 
 By people in the next world ; where 
 unite 
 
266 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 All the costumes since Adam's, right 
 or wrong, 
 
 From Eve's fig leaf down to the petti- 
 coat. 
 
 Almost as scanty, of days less remote. 
 
 The spirit look'd around upon the crowds 
 Assembled, and exclaim'd, " My 
 friends of all 
 The spheres, we shall catch cold amongst 
 these clouds ; 
 So let's to business : why this general 
 call? 
 If those are freeholders I see in shrouds, 
 And 'tis for an election that they bawl, 
 Behold a candidate with unturn'd coat ! 
 Saint Peter, may I count upon your 
 vote ? " 
 
 " Sir," replied Michael, " you mistake ; 
 these things 
 Are of a former life, and what we do 
 Above is more august ; to judge of kings 
 Is the tribunal met : so now you 
 know." 
 " Then I presume those gentlemen with 
 wings," 
 Said Wilkes, "are cherubs; and that 
 .soul below 
 Looks much like George the Third, but 
 
 to my mind 
 A good deal older — Bless me ! is he 
 blind ? " 
 
 •' He is what you behold him, and his 
 
 doom 
 Depends upon his deeds," the Angel 
 
 said ; 
 " If you have aught to arraign in him, 
 
 tlie tomb 
 Gives license to the humblest beggar's 
 
 head 
 To lift itself against the loftiest." — 
 
 " Some," 
 Said' Wilkes, " don't wait to see them 
 
 laid in lead. 
 For such a liberty— and I, for one. 
 Have told them what I thought beneath 
 
 the .sun." 
 
 '■'Above the sun repeat, then, what tliou 
 hast 
 To urge against him," said the Arch- 
 angel. " Why," 
 Replied the spirit, " since old scores are 
 past, 
 Must I turn evidence ? In faith, not I. 
 Besides, I beat him hollow at tlie last. 
 With all his Lords and Commons : in 
 the sky 
 
 I don't like ripping up old stories, since 
 His conduct was but natural in a prince. 
 
 "Foolish, no doubt, and wicked, to 
 oppress 
 A poor unlucky devil withoutasliilling ; 
 But tlien I blame the man himself mucli 
 less 
 Than Bute and Grafton, and shall be 
 unwilling 
 To see him punish'd here for their excess. 
 Since they were both damn'd long 
 ago, and still in 
 Their place below : for me, I have for- 
 given, 
 And vote his ' habeas corpus ' into 
 heaven." 
 
 " Wilkes," .said the Devil, " I understand 
 all this ; 
 You turn'd to half a courtier ere you 
 died, 
 And seem to think it would not be amiss 
 To grow a wliole one on the other side 
 Of C'haron's ferry ; you forget that his 
 
 Reign is concluded ; whatsoe'er betide. 
 He won't be sovereign more : you've lost 
 
 your labor. 
 For at the best he will but be your neigh- 
 bor. 
 
 "However, I knew what to think of it. 
 
 When I beheld you in your jesting way, 
 
 Flitting and whispering round about the 
 
 spit 
 
 Where Belial, upon duty for the day, 
 
 With Fox's lard was basting William Pitt, 
 
 His pupil ; I knew what to think, I stCy : 
 
 That fellow even in hell breeds farther 
 
 ills ; 
 I'll have him gagged — 'twas one of his 
 own bills. 
 
 "Call Junius!" From the crowd a 
 shadow stalk'd. 
 And at the name there was a general 
 squeeze. 
 So that the very ghosts no longer walk'd 
 
 In comfort, at their own aerial ease. 
 But were all ramm'd, and jamm'd (but 
 to be balk'd. 
 As we .shall .see) , and jostled hands 
 and knees, 
 Like wind compress'd and pent within a 
 
 bladder, 
 Or like a human colic, which is sadder. 
 
 The shadow came — a tall, thin, gray- 
 hair'd figure. 
 
BYRON 
 
 267 
 
 That look'd as it had been a shade on 
 earth ; 
 Quick in its motions, with an air of vigor, 
 But nauglit to mark its breeding or its 
 birth ; 
 Now it wax'd little, then again grew 
 bigger, 
 With now an air of gloom, or savage 
 mirth ; 
 But as yon gazed upon its features, they 
 Changed every instant — to ivhat, none 
 could say. 
 
 The more intently the ghosts gazed, the 
 
 less 
 Could tbey distinguish whose the 
 
 features were ; 
 The Devil himself seem'd puzzled even 
 
 to guess ; 
 They varied like a dream — now here, 
 
 now there ; 
 And several people swore from out the 
 
 press, 
 They knew him perfectly ; and one 
 
 could swear 
 He was his father : upon which another 
 Was sure he was his mother's cousin's 
 
 brother : 
 
 Another, that he was a duke, or knight, 
 
 An orator, a lawyer, or a priest, 
 A nabob, a man-midwife ; but tlie wight 
 Mysterious changed his countenance 
 at least 
 As oft as they their minds ; though in 
 full sight 
 He stood, the puzzle only was in- 
 creased ; 
 The man was a phantasmagoria in 
 Himself — he was so volatile and thin. 
 
 The moment that you had pronounced 
 him one. 
 Presto ! his face changed, and he 
 was another ; 
 And when that change was hardly well 
 put on. 
 It varied, till I don't think his own 
 mother 
 (If that he had a mother) would her son 
 Have known, he shifted so from one to 
 t'other : 
 Till guessing from a pleasure grevA' a task. 
 At this epistolary " Iron Mask." 
 
 For sometimes he like Cerberus would 
 seem — 
 " Three gentlemen at once " (as sagely 
 says 
 
 Good Mrs. Malaprop); then you might 
 deem 
 That he was not even one ; now many 
 rays 
 
 Were flashing round him ; and now a 
 thick steam 
 Hid him from sight — like fogs on Lon- 
 don days : 
 
 Now Burke, now Tooke, he grew to 
 people's fancies, 
 
 And certes often like Sir Philip Francis. 
 
 I've an hypothesis — 'tis quite my own ; 
 
 I never let it out till now, for fear 
 Of doing people harm about the throne, 
 
 And injuring some minister or peer. 
 On whom the stigma might perhaps be 
 blown ; 
 
 It is — my gentle public, lend thine ear ! 
 'Tis that what Junius we are wont to 
 
 call 
 Was really, truly, nobody at all. 
 
 I don't see wherefore letters shovild not 
 be 
 Written without hands, since we daily 
 view 
 Them written without heads ; and books, 
 we see. 
 Are fiird as well without the latter too : 
 And really till we fix on somebody 
 For certain sure to claim them as his 
 due. 
 Their author, like the Niger's mouth, 
 
 will bother 
 The world to say if there be mouth or 
 author. 
 
 "And who and what art thou?" the 
 Archangel said. 
 "For that you may consult my title- 
 page," 
 Replied this mighty shadow of a shade : 
 '• If I have kept my secret half an age, 
 I scarce sliall tell it now." — " Can.st thou 
 upbraid." 
 Continued Michael, " George Rex, or 
 allege 
 Aught further ? " Junius answer'd, " You 
 
 had better 
 First ask him for his answer to my letter : 
 
 " My charges upon record will outlast 
 The brass of both his epitaph and 
 tomb." 
 " Repent'st thou not," said Michael, " of 
 some past 
 Exaggeration ? something which may 
 doom 
 
268 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Thyself if false, as him if true? Thou 
 
 wast 
 Too bitter — is it not so ? — in thy gloom 
 Of passion?" — "Passion!" cried the 
 
 pliantom dim, 
 " I loved mj^ country, and I hated him, 
 
 "What I have written, I have written : 
 
 let 
 The rest be on his head or mine ! " so 
 
 spoke 
 Old " Nominis Umbra;" and while 
 
 speaking yet. 
 Away he melted in celestial smoke. 
 Then Satan said to Michael, "Don't 
 
 forget 
 To call George Washington, and John 
 
 Home Tooke. 
 And Franklin ; " — but at this time tliere 
 
 was heard 
 A cry for room, though not a phantom 
 
 stirr'd. 
 
 At length with jostling, elbovs^ing,, and 
 the aid 
 Of cherubim appointed to that post, 
 Tlie devil Asmodeus to the circle made 
 His way, and look'd as if his journey 
 cost 
 Some trouble. When his burden down 
 lie laid, 
 " What's this ? " cried Michael ; " why, 
 'tis not a ghost ? " 
 " I know it," quoth the incubus ; " but he 
 Shall be one, if you leave the affair to me. 
 
 " Confound the renegado ! I have sprain'd 
 My left wing, he's so heavy ; one would 
 think 
 Some of his works about his neck were 
 chain'd. 
 But to the point ; while hovering o'er 
 the brink 
 Of Skiddaw (where as usual it still 
 rain'd), 
 I saw a taper, far below me, wink, 
 And stooping, caught this fellow at a 
 
 libel- 
 No less on history than the Holy Bible. 
 
 " The former is the devil's scriptui'e, and 
 The latter yours, good Michael : so the 
 affair 
 Belongs to all of us, you understand. 
 I snatch'd him up just as you see him 
 there. 
 And brought him off for sentence out of 
 hand : 
 I've scarcely been ten minutes in the 
 air — 
 
 At least a quarter it can hardly be : 
 I dare say that his wife is still at tea." 
 
 Here Satan said, " I know this man of 
 old. 
 And have expected him for some time 
 here ; 
 A sillier fellow you will scarce behold. 
 
 Or more conceited in his petty sphere : 
 
 But surely it was not worth while to fold 
 
 Such trash below j our wing, Asmodeus 
 
 dear : 
 
 We had the poor wretch safe (without 
 
 being bored 
 With carriage) coming of his own accord. 
 
 " But since he's here, let's see what he 
 
 has done." 
 " Done ! " cried Asmodeus, " he antici- 
 pates 
 The very business you are now upon, 
 And scribbles as if head clerk to the 
 
 Fates. 
 Who knows to what his ribaldry may 
 
 run. 
 When such an ass as this, like Balaam's, 
 
 prates ? " 
 " Let's liear," quoth Michael, " wliat he 
 
 has to say : 
 You know we're bound to that in every 
 
 way." 
 
 Now the bard, glad to get an audience, 
 which 
 By no means often was his case below, 
 Began to cough, and hawk, and hem, 
 and pitch 
 His voice into tliat awful note of woe 
 To all unhappy hearers within reach 
 Of poets when the tide of rhyme's in 
 flow ; 
 But stuck fast with his first hexameter, 
 Not one of all whose gouty feet would 
 stir. 
 
 But ere the spavin 'd dactyls could be 
 spurr'd 
 Into recitative, in great dismay 
 Both cherubim and seraphim were heard 
 To murmur loudly through their long 
 array ; 
 And Michael rose ere he could get a word 
 Of all his founder'd verses under way, 
 And cried, " For God's sake stop, my 
 
 friend ! 'twere best — 
 Non Di, non homines — you know the 
 rest.'' 
 
 A general bustle spread throughout the 
 throng, 
 
BYRON 
 
 169 
 
 Which seeni'd to hold all verse in detes- 
 tation : 
 Tlie angels had of course enough of song 
 When upon service ; and the generation 
 Of ghosts had heard too much in life, not 
 long 
 Before, to profit by a new occasion : 
 The monarch, mute till then, exclaim'd, 
 
 " What ! u'liat ! 
 Fife come again ■? No more — no more of 
 that ! ■' 
 
 The tumult grew ; an universal cough 
 Convulsed the skies, as during a de- 
 bate, 
 When Castlereagli has been up long 
 enough 
 (Before he was first minister of state, 
 I mean — the slaves hear how) ; some cried 
 "Off, off!" 
 As at a farce ; till, grown quite des- 
 perate, 
 The bard Saint Peter pray'd to interpose 
 (Himself an author) only for his prose. 
 
 The varlet was not an ill-favor'd knave ; 
 A good deal like a vulture in the face. 
 With a hook nose and a hawk's eye, 
 which gave 
 A smart and sharper-looking sort of 
 grace 
 To his whole aspect, which, though 
 rather grave, 
 Was by no means so ugly as his case ; 
 But that, indeed, was hopeless as can be. 
 Quite a poetic felony " de se." 
 
 Then Michael blew his trump, and still'd 
 the noise 
 With one still greater, as is yet tlie mode 
 On earth besides ; except some grum- 
 bling voice, 
 Which now and then will make a slight 
 inroad 
 Upon decorous silence, few will twice 
 Lift up their lungs when fairly over- 
 crovv'd ; 
 And now the bard could plead his own 
 
 bad cause. 
 With all the attitudes of self-applause. 
 
 He said — (I only give the heads)- — he 
 said. 
 He meant no harm in scribbling ; 'twas 
 his way 
 Upon all topics ; 'twas, besides, his 
 bread, 
 Of which he butter'd both sides ; 
 ' twould delay 
 
 Too long the assembly (he was pleased 
 to dread ) , 
 And take up rather more time than a 
 day, 
 
 To ne,me his works — he would but cite a 
 few — 
 
 "Wat Tyler " — " Rliymes on Blen- 
 heim " — " Waterloo." 
 
 He had written praises of a regicide ; 
 He liad written i^raises of all kings 
 whatever ; 
 He had written for republics far and 
 wide. 
 And then against them bitterer than 
 ever ; 
 For pantisocracy he once had cried 
 Aloud, a scheme less moral than 'twas 
 clever ; 
 Then grew a hearty anti-Jacobin — 
 Had turn'd his coat — and would have 
 turn'd his skin. 
 
 He had sung against all battles, and 
 again 
 In their high praise and glory; he had 
 call'd 
 Reviewing " the ungentle craft," and 
 then 
 Become as base a critic as e'er era wl'd — 
 Fed, paid, and pamper'd by the very men 
 By whom his muse and morals had 
 been maul'd : 
 He had written much blank verse, and 
 
 blanker prose. 
 And more of both than anybody knows. 
 
 He had written Wesley's life : here 
 turning round 
 To Satan, " Sir, I'm ready to write 
 yours. 
 In two octavo volumes, nicely bovind, 
 With notes and preface, all that most 
 allures 
 The pious purchaser ; and there's no 
 ground 
 For fear, for I can choose my own re- 
 viewers : 
 So let me liave the 'proper documents. 
 That I may add 3'ou to my otheV saints." 
 
 Satan bow'd, and was silent. " Well, 
 if you, 
 With amiable modesty, decline 
 My ofl'er, what says Micliael ? There 
 are few 
 Whose memoirs could be re7ider'd 
 more divine. 
 Mine is a pen of all work; not so new 
 
270 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 As it was once, but I would make you 
 
 shine 
 Like your own trun'ipet. B3' tlie way, 
 
 my own 
 Has more of brass in it, and is as well 
 
 blown. 
 
 " But talking about trumpets, here's my 
 Vision ! 
 Now you shall judge, all people ; yes, 
 you shall 
 Judge witli my judgment, and by my 
 decision 
 Be guided who shall enter heaven or 
 fall. 
 I settle all these things by intuition. 
 Times present, past, to come, heaven, 
 hell, and all, 
 Like King Alfonso. When I thus see 
 
 double. 
 I save the Deity some worlds of trouble." 
 
 He ceased, and drew forth an MS. ; and 
 no 
 Persuasion on the part of devils, saints, 
 Or angels, now could stop tlie torrent ; 
 so 
 He read the first three lines of the 
 contents ; 
 But at the fourth, the wiiole spiritual 
 show 
 Had vanish 'd. with variety of scents. 
 Ambrosial and sulphureous, as they 
 
 sprang. 
 Like lightning, off from his " melodious 
 twang." 
 
 Those grand heroics acted as a spell : 
 Tlie angels stopped their ears and 
 plied their pinions ; 
 The devils ran howling, deafen'd, down 
 to liell ; 
 The ghosts fled, gibbering, for their 
 own dominions — 
 (For 'tis not yet decided where they 
 dwell. 
 And I leave every man to his opinions); 
 Michael took refuge ip liis trump — but, 
 
 lo ! 
 His teeth were set on edge, he could not 
 blow ! 
 
 Saint Peter, who has hitherto been 
 
 known 
 For an impetuous saint, unpraised his 
 
 keys. 
 And at the fifth line knock'd the poet 
 
 down ; 
 
 Who fell like Phaeton, but more at 
 
 ease. 
 
 Into his lake, for there he did not drown; 
 
 A different web being by the Destinies 
 
 Woven for tlie Laureate's final wreath, 
 
 whene'er 
 Reform shall happen either here or there. 
 
 He fir.st sank to the bottom — like his 
 works. 
 But soon rose to the surface — like him- 
 self ; 
 
 For all corrupted things are buoy'd like 
 corks. 
 By their own rottenness, like as an elf, 
 
 Or wisp that flits o'er a morass : he 
 lurks. 
 It may be, still, like dull books on a 
 shelf, 
 
 In his own den. to scrawl some " Life " 
 or " Vision," 
 
 As Welborn says — " the devil turn'd pre- 
 cisian." 
 
 As for the rest, to come to the conclu- 
 sion 
 Of this true dream, tlie telescope is 
 
 gone 
 Which kept my optics free from all 
 
 delusion. 
 And show'd me what I in my turn 
 
 have shown ; 
 All I saw farther, in the last confusion, 
 Was, that King George slipp'd into 
 
 heaven for one ; 
 And when the tumult dwindled to a 
 
 calm, 
 I left him practising the hundredth 
 
 psalm. 
 May 7— October 4, 1821. October 15, 1832. 
 
 IMPROMPTUS 1 
 
 Strahan, Tonson, Lintot of tlie times. 
 Patron and publisher of rhymes. 
 For tliee the bard up Pindus climbs, 
 ]My IMurray. 
 
 To thee, with hope and terror dumb, 
 The unfledged MS. authors come ; 
 Thou printest all — and sellest some — 
 My Murray. 
 
 Upon thy table's baize so green 
 The last new Quarterly is seen. — 
 But where is thy new Magazine. 
 
 My Murray? 
 
 1 From letters addressed to Mr. Murray, or to 
 Thomas Moore. 
 
BYRON 
 
 271 
 
 Along thy sprucest bookshelves shine 
 The works tliou deemest most divine- 
 The '• Art of Cooker}^" and mine, 
 
 My Murray. 
 
 Tours, Travels, Essays, too, I wist, 
 And Sermons, to thy mill bring grist ; 
 And then thou hast the " Navy List," 
 My Murray. 
 
 And Heaven forbid I should conclude 
 Without " the Board of Longitude," 
 Although this narrow paper would. 
 
 My Murray. 
 April 11, ISIS. 1830. 
 
 When a man hath no freedom to fight 
 for at home. 
 Let him combat for that of his neigh- 
 bors ; , 
 Let liim think of the glories of Greece 
 and of Rome, 
 And get knock'd on the head for his 
 labors. 
 
 To do good to mankind is tlie chivalrous 
 plan. 
 And is always as nobly requited ; 
 Then battle for freedom wherever you 
 can. 
 And, if not sliot or hang'd, you'll get 
 kniglited. 
 
 November 5, 1S20. 1824. 
 
 So vve'U go no more a roving 
 
 So late into the niglit. 
 Though the lieart be still as loving, 
 
 And the moon be still as bright. 
 
 For the sword outwears its sheath. 
 And the soul wears out the breast. 
 
 And the heart must pause to breathe, 
 And love itself have rest. 
 
 Though the night was made for loving, 
 iVnd the day returns too soon. 
 
 Yet we'll go no more a roving 
 By the light of the moon. 
 
 February 2S, 1S17. 1830. 
 
 The world is a bundle of hay, 
 Mankind are the asses' who pull ; 
 
 Each tugs it a different way. 
 
 And the greatest of all is John Bull. 
 November 5, 1S20. 1830. 
 
 Who kill'd John Keats ? 
 " I," says the Quarterly .1 
 So savage and Tartarly ; 
 
 " 'Twas one of my feats." 
 
 Who shot the arrow ? 
 
 "The poet-priest Milman 
 (So ready to kill man). 
 
 Or Southey, or Barrow." 
 
 July 30, 1S21. 1830. 
 
 For Orford and for Waldegi*ave 
 
 You give niucli more than me you gave ; 
 
 Which is not fairly to behave. 
 
 My Murray. 
 
 Because if a live dog, 'tis said, 
 
 Be worth a lion fairly sped, 
 
 A live lord must be worth tivo dead, 
 
 My Murray. 
 
 And if, as the opinion goes. 
 Verse hath a better sale than prose, — - 
 Certes, I should have more than those, 
 My Murray. 
 
 But now this sheet is nearly cramm'd, 
 So, if yot(, will, /.shan't be shamm'd. 
 And if you won't, you may be damn'd. 
 My Murray. 
 August S3, 1S21. 1830, 
 
 STANZAS WRITTEN ON THE ROAD 
 BETWEEN FLORENCE AND PISA 
 
 Oh, talk not to me of a name great in 
 
 story ; 
 The days of our ^'■outh are the dajs of 
 
 our gloiy ; 
 And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two- 
 
 and-twenty 
 Are wortli all your laurels, though ever 
 
 so plenty. 
 
 What are garlands and crowns to the 
 
 brow that is wrinkled ? 
 'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew 
 
 be-sprinkled. 
 Then away with all such from the head 
 
 that is hoary ! 
 What care I for the wreaths that can 
 
 only give glory ! 
 
 Oh, Fame ! — if I e'er took delight in thy 
 praises, 
 
 1 See the note on page 354. 
 
272 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sound- 
 ing phrases, 
 
 Than to see the bright eyes of the dear 
 one discover, 
 
 She thought that I was not unworthy to 
 love her. 
 
 There cliiefly I sought thee, there only I 
 
 found thee ; 
 Her glance was the best of the rays that 
 
 surround thee ; 
 When it sparkled o'er aught that was 
 
 bright in my story, 
 I knew it was love, and I felt it was 
 
 glory. 
 
 November, 1821. 1830. 
 
 ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY 
 THIRTY-SIXTH YEAR 
 
 'Tis time this heart should be unmoved, 
 
 Since others it liath ceased to move : 
 Yet, though I cannot be beloved, 
 Still let me love ! 
 
 My days are in the yellow leaf ; 
 
 The flowers and fruits of love are 
 gone ; 
 The worm, the canker, and the grief 
 Are mine alone ! 
 
 The fire that on my bosom preys 
 
 Is lone as some volcanic isle ; 
 No torch is kindled at its blaze — 
 A funeral pile. 
 
 The hope, the fear, the jealous care, 
 
 The exalted portion of the pain 
 
 And power of love, I cannot share, 
 
 But wear the chain. 
 
 But 'tis not thus — and 't is not liere — 
 Such thoughts should shake my soul, 
 nor now, 
 Wliere glory decks the hero's bier, 
 Or binds his brow. 
 
 The sword, the banner, and the field. 
 Glory and Greece, around me see ! 
 The Spartan, borne upon his sliield. 
 
 Was not more free. 1 
 
 Awake ! (not Greece — she is awake !) 
 Awake, my spirit! Think through 
 xvhovn. 
 Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake. 
 And then strike home ! 
 
 Tread those reviving passions down, 
 Unworthy manliood ! — luito tliee 
 Indifferent should the smile or frown 
 Of beauty be. 
 
 If tliou regrett'st thy youth, why live 9 
 
 The land of honorable death 
 Is here :— up to the field, and give 
 Away thy breath ! 
 
 Seek out — less often sought than found — 
 A soldier's grave, for thee tlie best ; 
 
 Then look around, and clioose thy ground. 
 And take thy rest. 
 At MissoJonqhi, January 22. 1824. 
 
 October 29, 1824. 
 
SHELLEY 
 
 List of References 
 
 ** Complete Works, edited by II. Buxton Forraan, 8 volumes. Works, 
 edited by R. II. Sliepherd, 4 volumes. * Complete Poetical Works, editi'il 
 by (t. E. Woodberry, 4 volumes, Ilougbton, IVIitfiin & Co. Aldine Poets, 
 5 volumes, The Macmillan Co. Riverside Edition, 2 volumes, Hough- 
 ton, Mifflin & Co. , * Globe Edition, edited by Edward Dowden, 1 volume, 
 The Macmillan Co. * Cambridge Edition, edited by G. E. Woodberry, 
 1 volume, Houghton, Mifflin & Co. 
 
 BlOORAPHY 
 
 Med WIN (Thomas), Life of Shelley, 1847. Hogg (T. J.), Life of Shel- 
 ley, 1858. MiDDLETON (C. S.), Shelley and his Writings, 1858. Shel- 
 ley Memorials, edited by Lady Shelley, 1859. Garnett (Richard), 
 Relics of Shelley, 18G2. Rossetti (W. M.), Life of Shelley (prefixed to 
 his edition of Shelley's Works), 1870. Saiith (G. B.), Shelley, A Critical 
 Biography, 1877. ** Symonds (J. A.), Shelley (English Men of Letters 
 Series), 1878. Jeaffreson (J. C), The Real Shelley, 1885. Dowden 
 (Edward), Life of Shelley (The standard biography, but not altogetlier 
 satisfactory. Lacking both in frankness and sympathy.), 188G. Rabue 
 (Felix), Shelley, sa Vie et ses Oeuvres, 1887. Sharp (William), Shelley 
 (Great Writers Series), 1887. Salt (II. S.), Shelley, A Biographical 
 Study. (See also Mrs. Shelley's Notes to the Poems, Moore's Life of 
 Byron, C. Kegan Paul's William Godwin, his Friends and Contempor- 
 aries ; etc.) 
 
 Reminiscences and Early Criticism 
 
 * Trelawney (E. J.), Recollections of Shelley and Byron. Hunt 
 (Leigh), Byron and some of his Contemporaries. Hunt (Leigh), Autobi- 
 ography. Medwin (Thomas), Shelley Papers. Mitpord (Mary Russell), 
 Recollections of a Literary Life. De Quincey (T.), Essays on Poets. 
 
 * Peacock (Thomas Love), Memoirs of Percy Bysslie Shelley. 
 
 Later Criticism 
 
 * Browning (Robert), Complete Works: An Essay on Shelley. 
 
 * Bagehot (Walter), Literary Studies. * Bourget (Paul), Etudes et 
 Portraits. Brandes (S. M. C), Shelley und Lord Byron : Zwei litterarische 
 Charakterbilder. Calvert (G. H.), Coleridge, Shelley, (4oethe. Dow- 
 DEx (Edward), French Revolution and English Literature; Essay VI. 
 
 i8 273 
 
274 BRITISH POETS 
 
 DowDEN (Edward), Studies in Literature : Transcendental Movement and 
 Literature ; French Revolution and Literature. Garnett (Richard), Essays 
 of an Ex-Librarian : Shelley and Lord Beaconsfield. Gosse (E.), Questions 
 at Issue. HuTTON (R. II.), Literary Essays. Lang (Andrew), Letters to 
 Dead Authors. Ma<:donald ((Tcorge), Imagination and Other Essays. 
 Masson (David), Wordsworth, Shelley, Keats, and Other Essays. Nen- 
 cioNi (E.), Letteratura inglese. Rossetti (W. M.), In Eneyclopiedia 
 Britannica. Rossetti (W. M.), Lives of Famous Poets. Scuddek (V. D.), 
 The Greek Spirit in Shelley and Browning. Shairp (J. C), Aspects of 
 Poetry. Stephen (Leslie), Hours in a Library, Vol. Ill : Shelley and 
 Godwin. Thomson (James), Biographical and Critical Studies. Tod- 
 hunter (John), A Study of Shelley. * Trent (W. P.), Authority of 
 Criticism : A propos of Shelley. Woodberry (G. E.), Studies in Letters 
 Life. * WooDiJERRY (G. E.), Makers of Literature. 
 
 Arnold (M.), Essays in Criticism. Adams (Francis), Essays in Mo- 
 dernity. Brooks (S. W.), English Poets. Chorley (II. F.), Authors of 
 England. Caine (T. Hall), Cobwebs of Criticism. Chiarini (Giuseppe), 
 Ombi'e e Figure. Courthope (William J.), The Liberal Movement in 
 English Literature. Dawson (W. J.), Makers of Modern English. Devey 
 (J. A.), Comparative Estimate of Modern English Poetry. De Vere (Au- 
 brey), Essays, chiefly on Poetry. Dixon (W. M.), English Poetry. Han- 
 cock (A. E.), The French Revolution and the English Poets. Johnson 
 (C. F.), Three Americans and Three Englishmen. Mom (1). M.), Sketches 
 of the Poetical Literature of the Past Half Century, 1851. Noel (R.), 
 Essays on Poetry and Poets. Patmore (C), Principle in Art. Schuylkh 
 (E.), Italian Influences. Sharp (R. F.), Architects of English Literature. 
 Tuckerman (II. T.), Thoughts on the Poets. 
 
 Tributes in Verse 
 
 * Browning, Memorabilia; Pauline, etc. Bourget (Paul), Sur un 
 Volume de Shelley. Aganoor, Leggenda Eterna. Foraian (Alfred), 
 Sonnets : Two Sonnets to Shelley. Japp (A. H.), in Stedman's Victorian 
 Anthology. Lang (A.), Lines on the Inaugural Meeting of the Shelle}' 
 Society. Thomson (James), Shelley, a Poem. * Rossetti, (D. G.), Five 
 English Poets : Percy Bysshe Shelley. * Rossetti (W. M.), Shelley's 
 Heart. De Vere (Aubrey), Lines composed at Lerici. Hunt (Leigli), 
 Sonnet to Shelley. Langford (J. A.), Shelley. * Taub (J. B.) Shelley, 
 a Sonnet. * Woodberry (G. E.), Poems: Shelley, a Sonnet ; Shelley's 
 House. * Watson (William), * Shelley's Centenary; To Edward Dow- 
 den on his Life of Shelley ; Quatrain to Harriet Shelley. 
 
 Bibliography 
 
 * Forman (H. P>.), The Shelley Library ; an Essay in Bibliography. 
 Salem Public Library, Sjiecial Reading List. Anderson (J. P.), Ap- 
 pendix to Sharp's Life of Shelley. 
 
SHELLEY 
 
 STANZAS— April, 1814 1 
 
 Away ! the moor is dark beneath the 
 moon, 
 Rapid clouds have drank the last pale 
 beam of even : 
 Away ! the gathering winds will call 
 the darkness soon. 
 And profoundest midnight shroud the 
 serene lights of heaven. 
 
 past 
 
 Every 
 tear thy 
 
 Pause not ! The time is 
 voice cries, Away ! 
 Tempt not with one hist 
 friend's ungentle mood : 
 Thy lover's eye, so glazed and cold, dares 
 not entreat thy stay : 
 Duty and dereliction guide thee back 
 to solitude. 
 
 Away, away ! to thy sad and silent 
 home ; 
 Pour bitter tears on its desolated 
 hearth ; 
 Watch the dim shades as like ghosts 
 they go and come. 
 And complicate strange webs of mel- 
 ancholy mirth. 
 
 The leaves of wasted autumn woods 
 shall float around thine head : 
 The blooms of dewy spring shall gleam 
 beneath thy feet : 
 But thy .soul or this world must fade in 
 the frost that binds the dead. 
 Ere midnight's frown and morning's 
 smile, ere thou and peace may 
 meet. 
 
 The cloud shadows of midnight possess 
 
 their own repose, 
 For the weary winds are silent, or the 
 
 moon is in the deep : 
 Some respite to its turbulence unresting 
 
 ocean knows ; 
 
 'See Dovvden's Life of Shelley, Vol. I., pp. 
 410-411. 
 
 Whatever moves, or toils, or grieves, 
 hath its appointed .sleep. 
 
 Thou in the grave shalt rest— yet till 
 the phantoms flee 
 Whicli that house and heath and gar- 
 den made dear to tliee erewhile, 
 Tliy remembrance, and repentance, and 
 deep iTiusings are not free 
 From the music of two voices and 
 the light of one sweet smile. 
 
 1814. 1816. 
 
 TO COLERIDGE i 
 
 AAKPY2I AlOISn nOTMON •AnOTMON 
 
 Oh ! THERE are spirits of the air. 
 And genii of the evening breeze, 
 
 And gentle ghosts, with eyes as fair 
 As star-beams among twilight trees : — 
 
 Such lovely ministers to meet 
 
 Oft hast thou turned from men thy 
 lonely feet. 
 
 With mountain winds, and babbling 
 springs. 
 And moonlight seas, that are the voice 
 Of tliese inexplicable things 
 
 Tliou didst hold commune, and rejoice 
 When tliey did answer thee ; but they 
 Cast, like a worthless boon, thy love 
 away. 
 
 And thou hast .?ouglit in stai-ry eyes 
 Beams that were never meant for 
 thine, 
 
 1 The poem beginning " Oh, there are spirits in 
 the air " was addressed in idea to Coleridge, 
 whom he never knew ; and at whose character 
 he could only guess imperfectly, through his 
 writings, and accounts he heard of him from 
 .some who knew him well. He regarded his 
 change of opinions as rather an act of will than 
 conviction, and believed that in his inner heart 
 he would be haunted by what Shelley considered 
 the better and holier aspirations of his youth. 
 (From Mrs. Shelley's Note on the Early Poems.) 
 See also Dowden's Life of Shelley, Vol. I., p. 472 
 and note. 
 
 275 
 
276 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Another's wealtli : — tame sacrifice 
 
 To a fond faith ! still dost thou pine ? 
 Still dost thou hope that greeting hands, 
 Voice, looks, or lips, may answer thy 
 demands? 
 
 Ah ! wherefore didst thou build thine 
 hope 
 On the false earth's inconstancy ? 
 Did thine own mind afford no scope 
 
 Of love, or moving thoughts to thee ? 
 That natural scenes or human smiles 
 Could steal the power to wind thee in 
 their wiles. 
 
 Yes, all the faithless smiles are fled 
 Whose falsehood left thee broken- 
 hearted ; 
 The glory of the moon is dead ; 
 
 Niglit's ghosts and dreams have now 
 departed ; 
 Thine own soul still is true to thee, 
 But changed to a foul fiend through 
 misery. 
 
 This fiend, whose ghastly presence ever 
 
 Beside thee like thy shadow hangs. 
 Dream not to chase ; — the mad endea- 
 vor 
 Would scourge thee to severer pangs. 
 Be as thou art. Thy settled fate. 
 Dark as it is, all change would aggra- 
 vate. 1815. 1810. 
 
 ALASTOR, 
 
 OR 
 
 THE SPIRIT OF SOLITUDE 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 The poem entitled Alastor may be considered 
 as allegorical of one of the most interesting 
 situations of the human mind. It represents a 
 youth of uncorrupted fetilings and adventurous 
 genius led forth by an imagination inflamed and 
 purified through familiarity with all that is ex- 
 cellent and majestic, to the contemplation of tlie 
 universe. He drinlvs deep of the fountains of 
 knowledge, and is still insatiate. Tlie magnifi- 
 cence and beauty of the external world sinks 
 profoundly into the frame of his conceptions, and 
 affords to their modifications a variety not to be 
 exhausted. So long as it is possible for his de- 
 sires to point towards objects thus infinite and 
 unmeasured, he is joyous, and tranquil, and self- 
 possessed. But the period arrives when these 
 objects cease to suffice. His mind is at length 
 suddenly awakened and thirsts for intercourse 
 with an intelligence similar to itself. He im- 
 ages to himself the Being whom he loves. Con- 
 versant with speculations of the sublimest and 
 niOf;t perfect natures, the vision in which he 
 embodies his own imaginations unites all of 
 wonderful, or wise, or beautiful, which the poet. 
 
 the philosopher, or the lover could depicture. 
 The intellectual faculties, the imagination, the 
 functions of sense, have their respective requisi- 
 tions on the sympathy of corresponding powers 
 in other human beings. The Poet is represented 
 as uniting these requisitions, and attaching them 
 to a single image. He seeks in vain for a proto- 
 type of his conception. Blasted by his disap- 
 pointment, he descends to an untimely grave. 
 
 The picture is not barren of instruction to ac- 
 tual men. The Poet's self-centred seclusion was 
 avenged by the furies of an irresistible passion 
 pursuing him to speedy ruin. But that Power 
 which strikes tlie luminaries of the world with 
 sudden darkness and extinction, by awakening 
 them to too exquisite a perception of its influ- 
 ences, dooms to a slow and poisonous decay those 
 meaner spirits that dare to abjure its dominion. 
 Their destiny is more abject and inglorious as 
 tlieir delinquency is more contemptible and per- 
 nicious. They who, deluded by no generous 
 error, instigated by no sacred thirst of doubtful 
 knowdedge, duped "by no illustrious superstition, 
 loving nothing on this earth, and cherishing no 
 hopes beyond, yet keep aloof from sympathies 
 with their kind, rejoicing neither in human joy 
 nor mourning with human grief ; these, and 
 such as tliey, have their apportioned curse. 
 They languish, because none feel with them their 
 common nature. They are morally dead. They 
 are neither friends, nor lovers, nor fathei's, nor 
 citizens of the world, nor benefactors of their 
 country. Among those who attempt to exist 
 without human sympathy, the pure and tender- 
 hearted perish through the intensity and passion 
 of their searcli after its communities, when the 
 vacancy of their spirit suddenly makes itself 
 felt. All else, selfish, blind, and torpid, are those 
 unforeseeing multitudes who constitute, to- 
 gether with their own, the lasting misery and 
 loneliness of the world. Those who love not 
 their fellow-Vieings live unfruitful lives, and pre- 
 pare for their old age a miserable grave. 
 
 " The good die first. 
 And those whose hearts are dry as summer dust, 
 Burn to the socket ! " 
 
 December Ik, 1815. 
 
 Nondum ama>>am, et amare amabam, quaere- 
 bam quid amarem, amans amare. — Confess. St.. 
 August. 
 
 Earth, ocean, air, beloved brotherliood ! 
 If our great Motlier has imbtied my soul 
 Willi aught of natural piety to feel 
 Your love, and recompense the boon 
 
 with mine ; 
 If dewy morn, and odorous noon, and 
 
 even. 
 With sunset and its gorgeous ministers, 
 And solemn midnight tingling silent- 
 
 ness ; 
 If autumn's hollow sighs in the sere 
 
 wood, 
 And winter robing with pure snow and 
 
 crovvns 
 Of starrj-- ice the gray grass and bare 
 
 bouglis ; 
 
SHELLEY 
 
 277 
 
 If .spring's voluptuous pantings when she 
 breathes 
 
 Her tirst sweet kisses, have been dear to 
 me ; 
 
 If no )night bird, insect, or gentle beast 
 
 I consciously have injured, but still 
 loved 
 
 And cherished these my kindred ; then 
 foi'give 
 
 This boast, beloved brethren, and with- 
 draw 
 
 No portion of your wonted favor now ! 
 
 Mother of this unfathomable world ! 
 
 Favor iny solemn song, for I have loved 
 
 Thee ever, and thee only ; I have 
 watclied 
 
 Thy sliadow, and the darkness of th}' 
 stei5s, 
 
 And my heart ever gazes on the depth 
 
 Of thy deep mysteries. I have made 
 my bed 
 
 In charnels and on coffins, where black 
 death 
 
 Keeps record of the tropliies won from 
 thee, 
 
 Hoping to still these obstinate ques- 
 tionings 
 
 Of tliee and thine, by forcing some lone 
 ghost. 
 
 Thy messenger, to render up the tale 
 
 Of what we are. In lone and silent 
 hours, 
 
 Wlien night makes a weird sound of its 
 own stillness. 
 
 Like an inspired and desperate alchy- 
 mist 
 
 Staking liis very life onsmne dark hope. 
 
 Have I mixed awful talk and asking 
 looks 
 
 With my most innocent love, until 
 strange tears 
 
 Uniting with those bi'eathless kisses, 
 matle 
 
 Such magic as compels the charmed 
 night 
 
 To render up thy charge : . . . and, 
 though ne'er yet 
 
 Thou hast unveiled thy inmost sanc- 
 tuary, 
 
 Enough from incommunicable dream. 
 
 And twiliglit phantasms, and deep noon- 
 day thought. 
 
 Has shone within me, that serenely now 
 
 And moveless, jis a long-forgotten lyre 
 
 Suspended in tiie solitary dome 
 
 Of some mysterious and deserted fane, 
 
 I wait thy breath. Great Parent, that 
 my strain 
 
 IMay modulate with invu'murs of the air, 
 And motions of the iforests and the sea. 
 And voice of living beings, and woven 
 
 hymns 
 Of niglit and day, and the deep heart of 
 
 man. 
 
 There was a Poet whose untimely 
 tomb 
 
 No human hands with pious reverence 
 reared. 
 
 But the charmed eddies of autumnal 
 winds 
 
 Built o'er his mouldering bones a pyra- 
 mid 
 
 Of mouldering leaves in the waste 
 wilderness : — 
 
 A lovely youth, — no mourning maiden 
 decked 
 
 With weeping flowers, or votive cypress 
 wreath, 
 
 The lone couch of his everlasting 
 sleep : — 
 
 Gentle, and brave, and generous, — no 
 lorn bard 
 
 Breathed o'er his dark fate one melo- 
 dious sigh : 
 
 He lived, he died, he sung, in solitude. 
 
 Strangers have wept toliear his passion- 
 ate notes, 
 
 And virgins, as unknown he passed, have 
 pined 
 
 And wasted for fond love of his wild 
 eyes. 
 
 The fire of those soft orbs has ceased to 
 burn, 
 
 And Silence, too enamored of that voice, 
 
 Locks its mute music in her rugged cell. 
 
 B}' solemn vision, and bright silver 
 
 dream. 
 His infancy was nurtured. Every sight 
 And sound from tlie vast earth and 
 
 ambient air 
 Sent to his heart its choicest impulses, 
 Tlie fountains of divine ]ihiloso]ihy 
 Fled not his tliirsting Ups, and all of 
 
 great. 
 Or good, or lovely, which the sacred past 
 In truth or fable consecrates, he felt 
 And knew. When early youth had 
 
 pass'd, he left 
 His cold fireside and alienated home 
 To seek strange truths in undiscovered 
 
 lands. 
 IMany a wide waste and tangled wilder- 
 , ness 
 
 Has lured his fearless steps ; and he has 
 
 bought 
 
278 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 With his sweet voice and eyes, from 
 
 savage men, 
 His rest and food. Nature's most secret 
 
 steps 
 He like her shadow has pursued, wliere'er 
 Tlie red volcano overcanopies 
 Its fields of snow and pinnacles of ice 
 With burning smoke, or where bituineu 
 
 lakes 
 On black bare pointed islets ever beat 
 With sluggish surge, or where the secret 
 
 caves 
 Rugged and dark, winding among the 
 
 springs 
 Of fii"e and poison, inaccessible 
 To avarice or pride, their starry domes 
 Of diamond and of gold expand above 
 Numberless and immeasurable halls. 
 Frequent with crystal column, and clear 
 
 shrines 
 Of pearl, and thrones radiant with chrys- 
 olite. 
 Nor had that scene of ampler majesty 
 Than gems or gold, the varying roof of 
 
 heaven 
 And the green earth lost in his heart its 
 
 claims 
 To love and wonder ; he would linger 
 
 long 
 In lonesome vales, making the wild his 
 
 home, 
 Until the doves and squirrels would 
 
 partake 
 From his innocuous hand his bloodless 
 
 food, 
 Lured by the gentle meaning of liis 
 
 looks, 
 And the wild antelope, that starts 
 
 whene'er 
 The dry leaf rustles in the brake, suspend 
 Her timid steps to gaze upon a form 
 More graceful than her own. 
 
 His wandering step 
 Obedient to high thoughts, has visited 
 The awful ruins of the days of old : 
 Athens, and Tyre, and Balbec, and the 
 
 waste 
 AVhere stood Jerusalem, the fallen towers 
 Of Babylon, the eternal pyramids, 
 Memphis and Thebes, and whatsoe'er of 
 
 strange 
 Sculptured on alabaster obelisk. 
 Or jasper tomb, or mutilated sphynx. 
 Dark Ethiopia in her desert hills 
 Conceals. Among the ruined temples 
 
 there. 
 Stupendous columns, and wild images . 
 Of more than man, where marble 
 
 demons watch 
 
 The Zodiac's brazen mysterj^ and dead 
 
 men 
 Hang their mute thoughts on the mute 
 
 walls around. 
 He lingered, poring on memorials 
 Of the world's youth, tluough the long 
 
 burning day 
 Gazed on those speechless shapes, nor, 
 
 wlien the moon 
 Filled the mysterious halls with floating 
 
 shades 
 Suspended he that task, but ever gazed 
 And gazed, till meaning on liis vacant 
 
 mind 
 Flashed like strong inspiration, and he 
 
 saw 
 The thrilling secrets of the birth of 
 
 time. 
 Meanwhile an Arab maiden brought his 
 
 food, 
 Her daily portion, from her father's tent. 
 And spread her matting for his couch, 
 
 and stole 
 From duties and repose to tend his 
 
 steps :— 
 Enamored, yet not daring for deep awe 
 To speak her love : — and watched his 
 
 nightly sleep. 
 Sleepless herself, to gaze upon his lips 
 Parted in slumber, whence the regular 
 
 breath 
 Of innocent dreams arose : then, when 
 
 red morn 
 Made paler the jiale moon, to her cold 
 
 home 
 Wildered, and wan, and panting, she 
 
 returned. 
 
 The Poet wandering on, through 
 
 Arable 
 And Persia, and the wild Carmanian 
 
 waste, 
 And o'er the aerial mountains which 
 
 pour down 
 Indus and Oxus from their icy caves, 
 In joj' and exultation held liis way ; 
 Till in the vale of Cashmire, far within 
 Its loneliest dell, where odorous plants Ij 
 
 entwine f1 
 
 Beneath the hollow rocks a natural 
 
 bower. 
 Beside a sparkling rivulet he stretched 
 His languid limbs. A vision on his sleep 
 There came, a dream of hopes that never 
 
 yet 
 Had flushed his cheek. " He dreamed a 
 
 veiled maid 
 Sate near him, talking in low solemn 
 
 tones. 
 
SHELLEY 
 
 279 
 
 Her voice was like tlie voice of his own 
 
 soul 
 Heard in the cahn of thouglit ; its music 
 
 long, 
 Liiie woven sounds of streams and 
 
 breezes, held 
 His inmost sense suspended in its web 
 Of many-colored woof and shifting 
 
 hues. 
 Knowledge and truth and virtue were 
 
 her tlieme. 
 And lofty hopes of divine libei'ty. 
 Thoughts the most dear to him, and 
 
 poesy, 
 Herself a poet. Soon the solemn mood 
 Of lier pure mind kindled through all her 
 
 frame 
 A permeating fire : wild numbers then 
 Slie I'aised, with voice stifled in tremu- 
 lous soljs 
 Subdued by its own patlios : lier fair 
 
 hands 
 Were bare alone, sweeping from some 
 
 strange liarp 
 Strange symphony, and in their branch- 
 ing veins 
 The eloquent blood told an ineffable tale. 
 The beating of her heart was heard to fill 
 Tlie pauses of her mvisic, and her breath 
 Tumultuously accorded with those fits 
 Of intermitted song. Sudden slie rose. 
 As if her heart impatiently endured 
 Its bursting burthen : at the sound he 
 I turned, 
 
 . And saw by the warm light of their own 
 
 life 
 Her glowing limbs beneath the sinuous 
 
 veil 
 Of woven wind, her outspread arms now 
 
 bare. 
 Her dark locks floating in the breath of 
 
 night. 
 Her beamy bending eyes, her parted lips 
 Outstretched, and pale, and quivering 
 
 eagerly. 
 His strong heart sunk and sickened with 
 
 excess 
 Of love. He reared his shuddering limbs 
 
 and quelled 
 His gasping breath, and spread his arms 
 
 to meet 
 Her panting bosom : . . . she drew back 
 
 a while. 
 Then, yielding to the irresistible joy. 
 With frantic gesture and short breath- 
 less cry 
 Folded his frame in her dissolving arms. 
 Now blackness veiled his dizzy eyes, and 
 
 night 
 
 Involved and swallowed up the vision ; 
 
 sleep. 
 Like a dark flood suspended in its course. 
 Rolled back its impulse on his vacant 
 
 brain. 
 
 Roused by the shock he started from 
 ])is trance — 
 The cold wliite light of morning, the 
 
 bkie moon 
 Low in the west, tlie clear and garish 
 
 hills, 
 Thedistinct valley and the vacant woods. 
 Spread round him where he stood. 
 
 Whither have fled 
 Tlie luies of heaven that canopied his 
 
 bower 
 Of 3'esternight ? The sounds that 
 
 soothed his .sleep, 
 The mystery and tlie majesty of Earth, 
 The joy, the exultation ? His wan eyes 
 Gaze on the empty scene as vacantly 
 As ocean's moon looks on the moon in 
 
 heaven . 
 The spirit of sweet human love has sent 
 A vision to the sleep of him who spurned 
 Her choicest gifts. He eagerly pursues 
 Beyond the realms of di-eam that fleet- 
 ing shade ; 
 He overleaps the bounds. Alas ! alas ! 
 Were limbs, and breath, and being in- 
 tertwined 
 Thus treacherously ? Lost, lost, for ever 
 
 lost, 
 In the wide pathless desert of dim sleep. 
 That beautiful shape ! Does the dark 
 
 gate of death 
 Conduct to thy mysterious paradise, 
 O Sleep ? Does the bright arch of rain- 
 bow clouds. 
 And pendent mountains seen in the calm 
 
 lake. 
 Lead only to a black and watery depth. 
 While death's blue vault, with loathliest 
 
 vapors liung. 
 Where every shade which the foul gi'ave 
 
 exhales 
 Hides its dead eye from the detested day. 
 Conduct, O Sleep, to thy delightful 
 
 realms ? 
 This doubt with sudden tide flowed on 
 
 his heart ; 
 The insatiate hope which it awakened 
 
 stung 
 His brain even like despair. 
 
 Wliile daylight held 
 The sky, the Poet kept mute conference 
 With his still soul. At night the pas- 
 sion came, 
 
BRITISH POETS 
 
 Like the fierce fiend of a distempered 
 dream 
 
 And shook liim from his rest, and led 
 him forth 
 
 Into tlie darkness. — As an eagle, grasped 
 
 In folds of the green serpent, feels her 
 breast 
 
 Burn witli the poison, and precipitates 
 
 Througli night and daj', tempest, and 
 calm, and cloud, 
 
 Frantic with dizzying anguish, her blind 
 flight 
 
 O'er the wide aery wilderness : thus 
 driven 
 
 By the bright shadow of that lovely 
 dream, 
 
 Beneath the cold glare of the desolate 
 night, 
 
 Tlirough tangled swamps and deep pre- 
 cipitous dells, 
 
 Startling with careless step the moon- 
 light snake, 
 
 He fled. Red morning dawned upon liis 
 flight. 
 
 Sliedding the mockery of its vital hues 
 
 Upon his clieek of death. He wandered 
 on 
 
 Till vast Aornos seen from Petra's 
 steep. 
 
 Hung o'er the low horizon like a cloud ; 
 
 Through Balk, and where tlie desolated 
 tombs 
 
 Of Parthian kings scatter to every wind 
 
 Their wasting dust, wildly he wandered 
 on. 
 
 Day after day, a weary waste of hours. 
 
 Bearing within his life the brooding care 
 
 That ever fed on its decaying flame. 
 
 And now^ his limbs were lean ; his scat- 
 tered liair 
 
 Sered by the autumn of strange suffer- 
 ing 
 
 Sung dirges in the wind : his listless 
 hand 
 
 Hung like dead bone within its withered 
 skin ; 
 
 Life, and the lustre that consumed it, 
 shone 
 
 As in a furnace burning secretly 
 
 From his dark eyes alone. The cot- 
 tagers. 
 
 Who ministered with huiuan charity 
 His human wants, beheld with wonder- 
 ing awe 
 Their fleeting visitant. The moun- 
 taineer. 
 Encountering on .some dizzj'^ precipice 
 That spectral form, deemed that the 
 Spirit of wind 
 
 With lightning eyes, and eager breath, 
 
 and feet 
 Disturbing not the drifted snow, had 
 
 paused 
 In its career : the infant would conceal 
 His troubled visage in his mother's robe 
 In terror at the glare of those wild eyes. 
 To remember their strange light in 
 
 many a dream 
 Of after-times ; but youthful maidens, 
 
 taught 
 By nature, would interpret half the woe 
 That wasted him. would call him with 
 
 false names 
 Brother, and friend, would press his 
 
 pallid hand 
 At parting, and watch, dim through 
 
 tears, tl\e path 
 Of his deiJarture from their father's 
 
 door. 
 
 At length upon the lone Chorasmian 
 
 shore 
 He paused, a wide and melancholy waste 
 Of pvitrid marshes. A strong impulse 
 
 urged 
 His steps to the sea-shore. A swan was 
 
 there. 
 Beside a sluggish stream among the 
 
 reeds. 
 It rose as he approached, and witli strong 
 
 wings 
 Scaling the upward sky, bent its bright 
 
 course 
 High over the immeasurable main. 
 His eyes pursued its flight. — " Thou 
 
 liast a home. 
 Beautiful bird ; thou voyagest to thine 
 
 home. 
 Where thy sweet mate will twine her 
 
 downy neck 
 With thine, and welcome thy return 
 
 with eyes 
 Bright in the lustre of their own fond 
 
 joy. 
 And what am I that I should linger 
 
 here. 
 With voice far sweeter than thy dying 
 
 notes. 
 Spirit more vast than thine, frame more 
 
 attuned 
 To beauty, wasting these surpassing 
 
 powers 
 In the deaf air, to the blind earth, and 
 
 heaven 
 That echoes not my thoughts?" A 
 
 gloomy smile 
 Of desperate hope wrinkled his quiver- 
 ing lips. 
 
SHELLEY 
 
 For sleep, he knew, kept most relent- 
 lessly 
 
 Its precious charge, and silent death 
 exposed. 
 
 Faithless perhaps as sleep, a shadowy 
 lure, 
 
 With doubtful smile mocking its own 
 strange charms. 
 
 Startled b}^ his own thovights he 
 
 looked around. 
 There was no fair fiend near liim, not a 
 
 sight 
 Or sound of awe but in his own deep 
 
 mind. 
 A little sliallop floating near the shore 
 Cauglit tlie impatient wandering of his 
 
 gaze. 
 It had been long abandoned, for its sides 
 (laped wide with many a rift, and its 
 
 frail joints 
 Swayed witli the undulations of the tide. 
 A restless impulse urged liini toembiirk 
 And meet lone Death on the drear 
 
 ocean's waste ; 
 For well he knew that mighty Shadow 
 
 loves 
 The slimy caverns of the populous deep. 
 
 The day was fair and sunn}% sea and 
 sky 
 
 Drank its inspiring radiance, and the 
 wind 
 
 Swept strongly fi'om the sliore, blacken- 
 ing the waves. 
 
 Following his eager soul, the wanderer 
 
 Leaped in the boat, he spread his cloak 
 aloft 
 
 On the bare mast, and took his lonely 
 . seat. 
 
 And felt the boat speed o'er tlie tran- 
 quil sea 
 
 Like a torn cloud before the hurricane. 
 
 As one that in a silver vision floats 
 Obedient to tlie sweep of odorous winds 
 Upon resplendent clouds, so rapidly 
 Along the dark and ruffled waters fled 
 The straining boat. — A whirlwind swept 
 
 it on, 
 Witli fierce gusts and precipitating force, 
 Through the white ridges of the chafed 
 
 sea. 
 The waves arose. Higher and higher 
 
 still 
 Their fierce necks writlied beneath tlie 
 
 tempest's scourge 
 Like serpents struggling in a vulture's 
 
 grasp. 
 
 Calm and rejoicing in the fearful war 
 Of wave ruining on wave, and blast on 
 
 blast 
 Descending, and black flood on whirl- 
 pool driven 
 With dark obliterating course, he sate : 
 As if their genii were the ministers 
 Appointetl to conduct him to the light 
 Of those beloved eyes, the Poet .sate 
 Holding the steady helm. Evening 
 
 came on, 
 Tlie beams of sunset hung their rain- 
 bow hvies 
 High 'mid the shifting domes of sheeted 
 
 spray 
 That canopied his path o'er the Avaste 
 
 deep ; 
 Twilight, a.scending slowly from the 
 
 east. 
 Entwined in duskier wreaths her braided 
 
 locks 
 O'er the fair front and radiant eyes of 
 
 day ; 
 Night followed, clad with stars. On 
 
 every side 
 Move horribly the multitudinous streams 
 Of ocean's movintainous waste to mutual 
 
 war 
 Rushed in dark tumult thundering, as 
 
 to mock 
 Tlie calm and spangled sky. The little 
 
 boat 
 Still fled before the storm ; still fled, 
 
 like foam 
 Down the steep cataract of a wintry 
 
 river ; 
 Now pausing on the edge of the riven 
 
 wave ; 
 Now leaving far behind the bursting 
 
 mass 
 That fell, convulsing ocean. Safely 
 
 fled— 
 xVs if that frail and wasted human form, 
 Had been an elemental god. 
 
 At midnight 
 Tlie moon arose : and lo ! the ethei-eal 
 
 cliffs 
 Of Caucasus, whose icy summits shone 
 Among the stars like sunlight, and 
 
 around 
 Whose caverned base the whirlpools 
 
 and the waves 
 Bursting and eddying irresistibly 
 Rage and resound for ever. — Who shall 
 
 save ? — 
 The boat fled on, — the boiling torrent 
 
 drove, — 
 The crngs closed round with black and 
 
 jagged arms, 
 
BRITISH POETS 
 
 
 Tlie shattered mountains ovei'hung tlie 
 
 sea, 
 And faster still, beyond all human speed. 
 Suspended on the sweep of the smooth 
 
 wave. 
 The little boat was driven. A cavern 
 
 there 
 Yawned, and amid its slant and wind- 
 ing depths 
 Ingulfed the rushing sea. The boat fled 
 
 on 
 With unrelaxing speed. — "Vision and 
 
 Love ! " 
 Tlie Poet cried aloud. " I have beheld 
 The path of thy departui'e. Sleep and 
 
 death 
 Shall not divide vis long ! " 
 
 The boat pursued 
 The wii\diitgs of the cavern. Dayligiit 
 
 shone 
 At length upon that gloomj' river's flow ; 
 Now, where tlie fiercest war among the 
 
 waves 
 Is calm, on the unfathomable stream 
 TJie boat moved slowly. Where the 
 
 mountain, riven, 
 Exposed those black depths to the azure 
 
 sky, 
 Ere yet tlie flood's enormous volume fell 
 Even to the base of Caucasus, with sound 
 That shook the everlasting rocks, the 
 
 mass 
 Filled with one whirlpool all that ample 
 
 chasm ; 
 Stair above stair the eddying water rose, 
 Circling immeasurably fast, and laved 
 With alternating dash the gnarled loots 
 Of mighty trees, that stretched their 
 
 giant arms 
 In darkness over it. I' the midst was left. 
 Reflecting, yet distorting every cloud, 
 A pool of treacherous and tremendous 
 
 calm. 
 Seized by the sway of the ascending 
 
 stream. 
 With dizzy swiftness, round, and round, 
 
 and round,* 
 Ridge after ridge the straining boat 
 
 arose. 
 Till on the A'erge of the extremest curve, 
 Wliere, through an opening of the rocky 
 
 bank, 
 The waters overflow, and a smooth spot 
 Of glassy quiet mid those battling tides 
 Is left, the boat paused shuddering. — 
 
 Shall it sink 
 Down the abyss? Shall tlie reverting 
 
 stress 
 Of that resistless gulf embosom it ? 
 
 Now shall it fall 'i — A wandering stream 
 
 of wind. 
 Breathed from the west, has caugiit the 
 
 expanded sail, 
 And, lo ! vvitli gentle motion, between 
 
 banks 
 Of mossy slope, and on a placid stream. 
 Beneath a woven grove it sails, and liark ! 
 The ghastly torrent mingles its far roar, 
 With the breeze murmuring in the 
 
 musical woods. 
 Wliere the embowering trees recede, 
 
 and leave 
 A little space of green expanse, the cove 
 Is closed b}^ meeting banks, whose 
 
 yellow flowers 
 Forever gaze on their own drooping eyes. 
 Reflected in the crystal calm. The wave 
 Of the boat's motion marred their pen- 
 sive task. 
 Which nought but vagrant bird, or 
 
 wanton wind. 
 Or falling spear-grass, or their own 
 
 decay 
 Had eer disturbed before. The Poet 
 
 longed 
 To deck witli their bright hues his with- 
 ered hair, 
 But on his heart its solitude returned. 
 And he forebore. Not the strong impulse 
 
 hid 
 In those flushed cheeks, bent eyes, and 
 
 shadowy frame 
 Had yet performed its ministry : it hung 
 Upon his life, as lightning in a cloud 
 Gleams, hovering ere it vanish, ere the 
 
 floods 
 Of night close over it. 
 
 The noonday sun 
 Now shone upon the forest, one. vast 
 
 mass 
 Of mingling shade, whose brown mag- 
 
 niiiceiK-e 
 A narrow vale embosoms. There, huge 
 
 caves. 
 Scooped in the dark base of their aer\' 
 
 rocks 
 Mocking its moans, respond and roar for 
 
 ever. 
 The meeting boughs and implicated 
 
 leaves 
 Wove twilight o'er the Poet's path, as led 
 Bj^ love, or dream, or god, or mightier 
 
 Death, 
 He .souglit in Nature's dearest haunt, 
 
 some bank. 
 Her cradle, and liis sepulchre. More dark 
 And dark the shades accumulate. The 
 
 oak, 
 
SHELLEY 
 
 283 
 
 Expanding its immense and knotty arms, 
 
 Embraces the light beech. The pyra- 
 mids 
 
 Of the tall cedar overarching frame 
 
 jMost solemn domes within, and far 
 below, 
 
 Like clouds suspended in an emerald sky, 
 
 The ash and the acacia floating hang 
 
 Tremulous and pale. Like restle.ss ser- 
 pents, clothed 
 
 In rainbow and in fire, the parasites. 
 
 Starred with ten thousand blossoms, 
 flow around 
 
 Tlie gray trunks, and, as gamesome in- 
 fants' eyes. 
 
 With gentle meanings, and most in- 
 nocent wiles. 
 
 Fold tlieir beams round tlie hearts of 
 tliose that love. 
 
 These twine their tendrils with the 
 wedded boughs 
 
 Uniting their close union ; the woven 
 leaves 
 
 Make network of the dark blue light of 
 day, 
 
 And the night's noontide clearness, 
 mutable 
 
 As shapes in the weird clouds. Soft 
 Jiiossy lawns 
 
 Beneath these canopies extend their 
 swells. 
 
 Fragrant with perfumed herbs, and 
 eyed witli blooms 
 
 Minute yet beautiful. One darkest glen 
 
 Sends from its woods of musk-rose, 
 twined with jasmine, 
 
 A soul-dissolving odor, to invite 
 
 To some more lovely mystery. Through 
 the dell. 
 
 Silence and Twilight here, twin-sisters, 
 keep 
 
 Tlieir noonday watch, and sail among 
 the shades. 
 
 Like vaporous shapes half seen ; beyond, 
 a well, 
 
 Dark, gleaming, and of most translucent 
 wave, 
 
 Iniages all the woven boughs above. 
 
 And each depending leaf, and every 
 speck 
 
 Of azure sky, darting between their 
 chasms ; 
 
 Nor aught else in the liquid mirror laves 
 
 Its portraiture, but some inconstant star 
 
 Between one foliaged lattice twinkling 
 fair. 
 
 Or painted bird, sleeping beneath the 
 moon. 
 
 Or gorgeous insect floating motionless, 
 
 Unconscious of the day, ere yet his wings 
 Have spread their glories to the gaze of 
 noon. 
 
 Hither the Poet came. His eyes be- 
 held 
 Their own wan light through the re- 
 flected lines 
 Of his thin hair, distinct in the dark 
 
 depth 
 Of that still fountain ; as the human 
 
 lieart. 
 Gazing in dreams over the gloomj^ grave. 
 Sees its own treacherous likeness there. 
 
 He heard 
 Tlie motion of the leaves, the grass that 
 
 sjnung 
 Startled and glanced and trembled even 
 
 to feel 
 An unaccustomed presence, and the 
 
 sound 
 Of the sweet brook that from the secret 
 
 springs 
 Of that dark fountain rose. A Spirit 
 
 seemed 
 To stand beside him — clothed in no bright 
 
 robes 
 Of shadowy silver or ensluining light, 
 Borrowed from aught the visible world 
 
 affords 
 Of grace, or majesty, or mysterv ; — 
 But undulating woods, and silent well. 
 And leaping rivulet, and evening gloom 
 Now deepening the dark shades, for 
 
 speech assuming. 
 Held commune with him, as if he and it 
 Were all that was, — only . . . when his 
 
 regard 
 Was raised by intense pensiveness, . . . 
 
 two eyes, 
 Two stariy eyes, hung in the gloom of 
 
 thought. 
 And seemed with their serene and azure 
 
 smiles 
 To beckon him. 
 
 Obedient to the light 
 Tliat shone within his soul, he went, 
 
 pursuing 
 The windings of the dell. — The rivulet 
 Wanton and wild, through many a green 
 
 ravine 
 Beneath tlie forest flowed. Sometimes 
 
 it fell 
 Among the moss with hollow harmony 
 Dark and profound. Now on the polished 
 
 stones 
 It danced ; like childhood laughing as it 
 
 went : 
 
jS4 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Tlieu through the phiin in tranquil 
 
 wanderings crept, 
 Reflecting every herb and drooping bud 
 That overhung its quietness. — "O stream ! 
 Whose source is inaccessibly profound, 
 Whither do thy mysterious waters tend ? 
 Thou imagest mj^ life. Thy darksome 
 
 stilhiess. 
 Thy dazzling waves, thy loud and hollow 
 
 gulfs. 
 Thy searchless fountain, and invisible 
 
 course 
 Have each their t^pe in me : and the 
 
 wide sk}', 
 And measureless ocean may declare as 
 
 soon 
 What oozy cavern or what wandering 
 
 cloud 
 Contains thy waters, as tlie universe 
 Tell where these living thoughts reside, 
 
 when stretched 
 Upon thy flowers my bloodless limbs 
 
 shall waste 
 I' the passing wind ! " 
 
 Beside the grassy shore 
 Of the small stream he went ; he did 
 
 impress 
 On the green moss his tremulous step, 
 
 that caught 
 Strong shuddering from his burning 
 
 liml)s. As one 
 Roused by some joyous madness from 
 
 the couch 
 Of fever, he did move ; yet not like hi in 
 Forgetful of the grave, where, when 
 
 the flame 
 Of his frail exultation shall be spent. 
 He must descend. Witii rapid steps he 
 
 went 
 Beneatli the shade of trees, beside the 
 
 flow 
 Of the wild babbling rivulet ; and now 
 The forest's solemn canopies were 
 
 changed 
 For the uniform and lightsome evening 
 
 sky. 
 Gray rocks did peep from the spare moss, 
 
 and stemmed 
 The struggling brook : tall spires of 
 
 windlestrae 
 Tluew their thin shadows down the 
 
 rugged slope. 
 And nought but gnarled roots of ancient 
 
 pines 
 Branchless and blasted, clenched with 
 
 grasping roots 
 The unwilling soil. A gradual change 
 
 was here, 
 
 Yet ghastly. For, as fast years flow 
 
 away. 
 The smooth brow gathers, and the hair 
 
 grows thin 
 And white, and where irradiate dew\' 
 
 eyes 
 Had shone, gleam stony orbs : — so from 
 
 his steps 
 Bright flowers departed, and the beauti- 
 ful shade 
 Of the green groves, with all their odor- 
 ous winds 
 And musical motions. Calm, he still 
 
 pursued 
 The stream, that with a larger volume 
 
 now 
 Rolled through the labyrinthine dell, 
 
 and there 
 Fretted a path through its descending 
 
 curves 
 With its wintry S2ieed. On every side 
 
 now rose 
 Rocks, which, in unimaginable forms. 
 Lifted their black and barren pinnacles 
 In the light of evening, and, its precipice 
 Obscuring the ravine, disclosed above, 
 Mid toppling stones, black gulfs and 
 
 yawning caves. 
 Whose windings gave ten thousand 
 
 various tongues 
 To the loud stream. Lo ! where the pass 
 
 expands 
 Its stony jaws, the abrupt mountain 
 
 breaks. 
 And seems, with its accumulated crags. 
 To overhang the world : for wide expand 
 Beneath the wan stars, and descending 
 
 moon 
 Islanded seas, blue mountains, mighty 
 
 streams, 
 Dim tracts and vast, robed in the 
 
 lustrous gloom 
 Of leaden-colored even, and fiery hills 
 Mingling their flames with twilight, on 
 
 the verge 
 Of the remote horizon. The near scene. 
 In naked and severe simplicity. 
 Made contrast with the universe. A 
 
 pine. 
 Rock-rooted, stretched athwart the 
 
 vacancy 
 Its swinging boughs, to each inconstant 
 
 blast 
 Yielding one onh' response, nt eacli pa\ise 
 In most familiar cadence, with the howl 
 The thunder and the hiss of homeless 
 
 streams 
 Mingling its solemn song, whilst the 
 broad river, 
 
SHELLEY 
 
 285 
 
 Foaming and hurrying o'er its rugged 
 
 path, 
 Fell into that immeasurable void 
 Scattering its waters to the passing 
 
 winds. 
 
 Yet the gray precipice and solemn 
 
 pine 
 And torrent were not all ; — one silent 
 
 nook 
 Was there. Even on the edge of that 
 
 vast mountain, 
 Upheld by knott}" roots and fallen rocks, 
 It overlooked in its serenity 
 The dark earth, and the bending vault 
 
 of stars. 
 It was a tranquil spot, that seemed to 
 
 smile 
 Even in the lap of horror. Ivy clasped 
 The fissured stones with its entwining 
 
 arms. 
 And did embower with leaves for ever 
 
 green, 
 And berries dark, the smooth and even 
 
 space 
 Of its inviolated floor, and here 
 The children of the autumnal whirlwind 
 
 bore, 
 In wanton sport, those bright leaves, 
 
 whose decay. 
 Red, yellow, or ethereally pale, 
 Rivals the pride of summer. 'Tis the 
 
 haunt 
 Of every gentle wind, whose breath can 
 
 teach 
 The wilds to love tranquillity. One 
 
 step, 
 One human step alone, has ever broken 
 The stillness of its solitude : — one voice 
 Alone inspired its echoes ; — even that 
 
 voice 
 Which hither came, floating among the 
 
 winds, 
 And led the loveliest among human 
 
 forms 
 To make their wild haunts the deposi- 
 tory 
 Of all the grace and beauty that endued 
 Its motions, i-ender up its majesty, 
 Scatter its music on the unfeeling 
 
 storm, 
 And to tlie damp leaves and blue cavern 
 
 mould. 
 Nurses of rainbow flowers and branch- 
 ing moss, 
 Commit the colors of that varying 
 
 cheek. 
 That snowy breast, those dark and 
 
 drooping eyes. 
 
 The dim and horned moon hung low, 
 and poured 
 
 A sea of lustre on the horizon's verge 
 
 That overflowed its mountains. Yellow 
 mist 
 
 Filled the unbounded atmosphere, and 
 drank 
 
 Wan moonlight even to fulness : not a 
 star 
 
 Shone, not a sound was heard ; the very 
 winds. 
 
 Danger's grim playmates, on that preci- 
 pice 
 
 Slept, clasped in his embrace. — O, storm 
 of death ! 
 
 Whose sightless speed divides this sullen 
 night : 
 
 And thou, colossal Skeleton, that, still 
 
 Guiding its irresistible career 
 
 In tli}^ devastating omnipotence, 
 
 Art king of this frail world, from the 
 red field 
 
 Of slaughter, from the reeking hos- 
 pital. 
 
 The patriot's sacred couch, the snowy 
 bed 
 
 Of innocence, the scaffold and the 
 throne, 
 
 A mighty voice invokes tliee. Ruin 
 calls 
 
 His brother Death. A rare and i-egal 
 prey 
 
 He hath prepared, prowling around the 
 world ; 
 
 Glutted witli which thou mayst i-epose, 
 and men 
 
 Go to their graves like flowei's or creep- 
 ing worms, 
 
 Nor ever more offer at thy dark shrine 
 
 The unheeded tribute of a broken heart. 
 
 When on the threshold of the green 
 
 recess 
 The wanderer's footsteps fell, he knew 
 
 that death 
 Was on him. Yet a little, ere it fled. 
 Did he resign his high and holy soul 
 To images of the majestic past, 
 That paused within his passive being 
 
 now. 
 Like winds that bear sweet music, when 
 
 they breathe 
 Tluoug.i some dim latticed chamber. 
 
 He did place 
 His pale lean hand upon the rugged 
 
 trunk 
 Of tlie old pine. Upon an ivied stone 
 Reclined his languid head, his limbs did 
 
 rest, 
 
286 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Diffused and motionless, on the smooth 
 
 brink 
 Of that obscurest chasm : — and thus he 
 
 lay, 
 Surrendering to their final impulses 
 The hovering powers of life. ■ Hope and 
 
 despair, 
 The torturers, slept ; no mortal pain or 
 
 fear 
 Marred liis repose, the influxes of sense, 
 And liis own being unalloyed bj'^ pain, 
 Yet feebler and more feeble, calmly fed 
 Tlie stream of thought, till he lay breath- 
 ing there 
 At peace, and faintly smiling : — his last 
 
 sight 
 Was the great moon, which o'er the 
 
 western line 
 Of tlie wide world her mighty horn sus- 
 pended. 
 With whose dun beams inwoven dark- 
 ness seemed 
 To mingle. Now upon the jagged hills 
 It rests, and still as the divided frame 
 Of the vast meteor sunk, the Poet's blood. 
 That ever beat in mystic sympathy 
 With nature's ebb and flow, grew feebler 
 
 still : 
 And when two lessening points of light 
 
 alone 
 Gleamed through the darkness, the alter- 
 nate gasp 
 Of his faint respii-ation scarce did stir 
 Tlie stagnate niglit : — till the minutest 
 
 ray 
 Was quenched, the pulse yet lingered in 
 
 his heart. 
 It pavised — it fluttered. But when 
 
 heaven remained 
 Utterly black, the murky shades in- 
 volved 
 An image, silent, cold, and motionless, 
 As their own voiceless earth and vacant 
 
 air. 
 Even as a vapor fed with golden beams 
 That ministered on sunlight, ere the west 
 Eclipses it, was now that wondrous 
 
 frame — 
 No sen.se, no motion, no divinity — 
 A fragile lute, on w^hose harmonious 
 
 strings 
 The breath of heaven did wander — a 
 
 bright stream 
 Once fed with many-voiced waves — a 
 
 dream 
 Of youth, which night and time have 
 
 quenched forever. 
 Still, dark, and dry, and unremembered 
 now. 
 
 O, for Medea's wondrous alchemy. 
 Which wheresoe'er it fell made the earth 
 
 gleam 
 With bright flowers, and the wintry 
 
 boughs exhale 
 From vernal blooms fresh fragrance ! 
 
 O, that God, 
 Profuse of poisons, would concede the 
 
 chalice 
 Which but one living man has drained, 
 
 who now 
 Vessel of deathless wrath, a slave that 
 
 feels 
 No proud exemption in the blighting 
 
 curse 
 He bears, over the world wanders for 
 
 ever. 
 Lone as incarnate death ! O, that the 
 
 dream 
 Of dark magician in his visioned cave. 
 Raking the cinders of a crucible 
 For life and power, even when his feeble 
 
 liand 
 Shakes in its last decay, were the true 
 
 law 
 Of this so lovely world ! But thou art 
 
 fled 
 Like some frail exhalation ; which the 
 
 dawn 
 Robes in its golden beams. — ah ! thou 
 
 hast fled ! 
 The brave, the gentle, and the beautiful, 
 The child of grace and genius. Heart- 
 less things 
 Are done and said i' the world, and 
 
 many worms 
 And beasts and men live on, and mighty 
 
 Earth 
 From sea and mountain, cit}"^ and wilder- 
 ness, 
 III vesper low or joyous orison, 
 Lifts still its solemn voice : — but thou 
 
 art fled — 
 Thou canst no longer know or love the 
 
 shapes 
 Of this phantasmal scene, who have to 
 
 thee 
 Been purest ministers, who are, alas ! 
 Now thou art not. Upon those pallid 
 
 lips 
 So sweet even in their silence, on those 
 
 eyes 
 That image sleep in death, upon that 
 
 form 
 Yet safe from the worm's outrage, let 
 
 no tear 
 Be shed — not even in thought. Nor, 
 
 when those hues 
 Are gone, and tliose divinest lineaments, 
 
SHELLEY 
 
 287 
 
 Worn by the senseless wind, shall live 
 
 alone 
 In the frail pauses of this simple strain, 
 Let not high verse, mourning the 
 
 memory 
 Of tliat which is no more, or painting's 
 
 woe 
 Or sculpture, speak in feeble imagery 
 Their own cold powers. Art and elo- 
 quence, 
 And all the shows o' the world are frail 
 
 and vain 
 To weep a loss that turns their lights to 
 
 shade. 
 It is a woe too " deep for tears," when 
 
 all 
 Is reft at once, when some surpassing 
 
 Spirit, 
 Whose light adorned tlie world around 
 
 it, leaves 
 Those who remain behind, not sobs or 
 
 groans, 
 Tlie passionate tumult of a clinging hope ; 
 But pale despair and cold tranquillity. 
 Nature's vast fi'ame, tiie web of human 
 
 tilings, 
 Birth and the grave, that are not astliey 
 
 were. 1 1815. March, 1816. 
 
 1 None of Shelley's poems is more character- 
 istic than this. The solemn spirit that reigns 
 throughout, the worship of the majesty of na- 
 ture, the broodings of a poet's heart in solitude 
 — the mingling of the exulting joy which the 
 various aspects of the visible universe inspires 
 with the sad and struggling pangs which human 
 passion imparts — give a touching interest to the 
 whole. The death which he had often contem- 
 plated during the last months as certain and 
 near he here represented in such colors as had, 
 in his lonely musings, soothed his soul to peace. 
 The versification sustains the solemn spirit 
 which breathes throughout: it is peculiarly 
 melodious. The poem ought rather to be con- 
 sidered didactic than narrative : it was the out- 
 pouring of his own emotions, embodied in the 
 purest form he could conceive, painted in the 
 ideal hues which his brilliant imagination in- 
 spired, and softened by the recent anticipation 
 of death. (Mrs. Shelley'' s note.) 
 
 The deeper meaning of Alastor is to be found, 
 not in the thought of death nor in the poet's 
 recent communings with nature, but in the 
 motto from St. Augustine placed upon its title- 
 page, and in the Hymn to Intellectual Beauty, 
 composed about a year later. Enamored of 
 ideal loveliness, the poet pursues his vision 
 through the universe, vainly hoping to assuage 
 the thirst which has been stimulated in his 
 spirit, and vainly longing for some mortal real- 
 ization of his love. Alastnr, like Epipsyrhidion, 
 reveals the mistake which Shelley made in 
 thinking that the idea of beauty could become 
 incarnate for him in any earthly form : while 
 the Hymn to TnfellectHnl Beauty recognizes the 
 truth that such realization of the ideal is im- 
 possible. The very last letter written by Shelley 
 sets the misconception in its proper light : "I 
 think one is always in love with something or 
 
 HYMN TO INTELLECTUAL 
 BEAUTY 
 
 I 
 
 The awful shadow of some unseen Power 
 Floats tho' unseen amongst us, — 
 
 visiting 
 This various world witli as inconstant 
 wing 
 As summer winds that creep from flower 
 
 to flower, — 
 Like moonbeams that behind some piny 
 mountain shower. 
 It visits with inconstant glance 
 Each Juiman heart and countenance ; 
 Like hues and harmonies of evening. — 
 Like clouds in starlight widely 
 
 spread, — 
 Like memorj'^ of music fled, — 
 Like auglit that for its grace may be 
 Dear, and yet dearer for its mystery. 
 
 Spirit of Beauty, that dost consecrate 
 With tliine own hues all thou dost 
 
 sliine upon 
 Of human thought or form, — where 
 art thou gone ? 
 Why dost thou pass away and leave our 
 
 state, 
 This dim vast vale of tears, vacant and 
 desolate ? 
 Ask wh}^ the sunlight not for ever 
 Weaves rainbows o'er yon mountain 
 river. 
 Why aught should fail and fade that 
 once is shown, 
 Whv fear and dream and death and 
 
 birth 
 Cast on the daj'light of this earth 
 Sucli gloom, — why man has such a 
 scope 
 For love and hate, despondency and 
 hope ? 
 
 HI 
 
 No voice from some sublimer world hath 
 
 ever 
 To sage or poet these responses 
 
 given — 
 Therefore the names of Demon, 
 
 Ghost, and Heaven, 
 
 other ; tho error, and I confess it is not easy for 
 spirits cased in flesh and blood to avoid it, con- 
 sists in seeking in a mortal image the likeness of 
 what is, perhaps, eternal." But this Shelley 
 discovered only with " the years that bring the 
 philosophic mind," and when he was upon the 
 very verge of his untimely death. (Sytnonds'' 
 Life of Shelley.) 
 
288 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Remain the records of their vain en- 
 deavor. 
 Frail spells — whose uttered charm might 
 not avail to sever, 
 From all we hear and all we see, 
 Doubt, chance, and mutability. 
 Thy light alone — like mist o'er moun- 
 tains driven, 
 Or music by the night wind sent. 
 Thro' strings of some still instru- 
 ment. 
 Or moonlight on a midnight stream, 
 Gives grace and truth to life's unquiet 
 dream. 
 
 LoA'e, Hope, and Self-esteem, like clouds 
 depart 
 And come, for some uncertain 
 
 moments lent. 
 Man were immortal, and omnipotent, 
 Didst thou, unknown and awful as thou 
 
 art, 
 Keep with thy glorious train firm state 
 within his heart. 
 Thou messenger of sympathies. 
 That wax and wane in lovers' eyes — 
 Thou — that to human thouglit art 
 nourishment. 
 Like darkness to a dying flame ! 
 Depart not as thy shadow came, 
 Dejiart not — lest the grave should be. 
 Like life and fear, a dark reality. 
 
 While yet a boy I sought for ghosts, and 
 sped 
 Thro' many a listening chamber, cave 
 
 and ruin, 
 And starlight wood, wuth fearful steps 
 pursuing 
 Hopes of high talk with the departed 
 
 dead. 
 I called on poisonous names wdth which 
 our yovith is fed ; 
 I was not heard — I saw them not — 
 When musing deeply on the lot 
 Of life, at the sweet time when winds 
 are wooing 
 All vital things that wake to bring 
 News of birds and blossoming, — 
 Sudden, thy shadow fell on me ; 
 I shrieked, and clasped my hands in 
 ecstasj" ! 
 
 I vowed tliat I would dedicate my powers 
 To thee and thine — have I not kept the 
 vow ? 
 
 Witli beating heart ami streaming 
 eyes, even now 
 I call the phantoms of a thousand hours 
 Each from his voiceless grave : they 
 have in visioned bowers 
 Of studious zeal or love's delight 
 Outwatched with me the envious 
 night — 
 They know that never joy illumed mj' 
 brow 
 Unlinked with hope that thou 
 
 wouldst fi'ee 
 Tills world fiom its dark slavery, 
 That tliou — O awful Loveliness, 
 Wouldst give wliate'er these words can- 
 not express. 
 
 The day becomes more solemn and serene 
 When noon is past — there is a har- 
 mony 
 In autumn, and a lustre in its sky. 
 Which thro' the summer is not heard or 
 
 seen, 
 As if it could not be, as if it had not been ! 
 Thus let thy power, which like the 
 
 truth 
 Of nature on my passive youth 
 Descended, to mj' onward life supjily 
 Its calm — to one who worships thee. 
 And every form containing thee, 
 Whom, Spirit fair, thy spells did 
 bind 
 To fear himself, and love all human kind. 
 ISIG. 1819. 
 
 MONT BLx\NC i 
 
 LINES WRITTEN IN THE VALE OF 
 CHAMOUNI 
 
 The everlasting universe of tilings 
 Flows through the mind, and rolls its 
 rapid waves, 
 
 * Mont Blanc was inspired by a view of that 
 mountain and its surrounding pealis and val- 
 leys, as he lingered on the Bridge of Arve on his 
 way through the Valley of Chamouni. Shelley 
 makes the following mention of this poem in his 
 publication of the Hixlori/ of a Six Weeks'" Tour, 
 and Letters from Suitzerlaiid : "The yioem en- 
 titled Mont Blanc is written by the author of 
 the two letters from Chamouni and Vevai. It 
 was composed under the immediate impression 
 of tlie deep and powerful feelings excited by the 
 objects which it attempts to describe; .and, as 
 an undisciplined overflowing of tlie soul, rests 
 its claim to approbation on an attempt to 
 imitate the untamable wildness and inaccessible 
 solemnity from which those feelings sprang." 
 (From Mrs. Shelley's Note on the Poems uf ISUl) . 
 Compare Coleridge's Hymn before Sunrise in 
 
SHELLEY 
 
 289 
 
 Now dark — now glittering — now reflect- 
 ing gloom — ■ 
 Now lending splendor, where from secret 
 
 springs 
 Tlie source of human thought its tribute 
 
 brings 
 Of waters, — with a sound but half its 
 
 own. 
 Such as a feeble brook will oft assume 
 In the wild woods, among the mountains 
 
 lone, 
 Where waterfalls around it leap for ever. 
 Where woods and winds contend, and a 
 
 vast river 
 Over its rocks ceaselessly bursts and 
 
 raves. 
 
 Tlius thou, Ravine of Arve — dark, deep 
 
 Ravine — 
 Thou many-colored, many-voiced vale. 
 Over whose pines, and crags, and caverns 
 
 sail 
 Fast cloud shadows and sunbeams : 
 
 awful scene. 
 Where Power in likeness of the Arve 
 
 comes down 
 From tlie ice gulfs tliat gird his secret 
 
 throne, 
 Bursting tlirougli these dark mountains 
 
 like the flame 
 Of lightning thro' the tempest ; — thou 
 
 dost lie, 
 Tliy giant brood of pines around thee 
 
 clinging, 
 ( Miildren of elder time, in wliose devotion 
 Tlie chainless winds still come and ever 
 
 came 
 To drink their odors, and their mighty 
 
 swinging 
 To liear — an old and solemn harmony ; 
 Tliine earthly rainbows stretched across 
 
 the sweep 
 Of the ethereal waterfall, whose veil 
 Robes some unsculptured image ; the 
 
 strange sleep 
 Which wlien the voices of the desert fail 
 Wraps all in its own deep eternity ; — 
 Thy caverns echoing to the Arve's com- 
 motion, 
 A loud, lone sound no other sound can 
 
 tame ; 
 Tiiou art pervaded with that ceaseless 
 
 motion, 
 Thou art the path of that unresting 
 
 sound — 
 
 the Vale of Chamouni (p. 96). Coleridgre had 
 never been in the Vale of Chamouni, and drew 
 the sug:gestion and part of the substance of his 
 Hymn from a poem by Frederike Brun. 
 
 19 
 
 Dizzy Ravine ! and when I gaze on tliee 
 I seem as in a trance sublime and strange 
 To muse on my own separate phantasy. 
 My own, my human mind, whiclv pas- 
 sively 
 Now renders and receives fast influenc- 
 
 ings. 
 Holding an unremitting interchange 
 With the clear universe of tilings around ; 
 One legion of wild thoughts, whose 
 
 wandering wings 
 Now float above thy darkness, and now 
 
 rest 
 Where that or thou art no unbidden 
 
 guest, 
 In the still cave of the witch Poesy, 
 Seeking among the shadows that pass 
 
 by 
 Ghosts of all things that are, some shade 
 
 of thee, 
 Some phantom, some faint inaage ; till 
 
 the breast 
 From which they fled recalls them, thou 
 
 art there ! 
 
 Some say that gleams of a remoter world 
 Visit" the soul in sleep, — that death is 
 
 slumber. 
 And that its shapes the busy thoughts 
 
 outnumber 
 Of those who wake and live. — I look on 
 
 high ; 
 Has some unknown omnipotence un- 
 furled 
 The veil of life and death ? or do I lie 
 In dream, and does the mightier world 
 
 of sleep 
 Spread far around and inaccessibly 
 Its circles ? For the very spirit fails. 
 Driven like a homeless cloud from steep 
 
 to steep 
 That vanishes among the viewless gales ! 
 Far, far above, piercing the infinite sky, 
 Mont Blanc appears, — still, snowy, and 
 
 serene — 
 Its subject mountains their unearthly 
 
 forms 
 Pile around it, ice and rock ; broad vales 
 
 between 
 Of frozen floods, unfathomable deeps. 
 Blue as the overhanging heaven, that 
 
 spread 
 And wind among the accumulated 
 
 steeps ; 
 A desert peopled by the storms alone, 
 Save when the eagle brings some hunter's 
 
 bone. 
 And the wolf tracks her there — how 
 
 hideously 
 
290 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Its shapes are heaped around I rude, 
 
 bare, and high. 
 Ghastly, and scarred, and riven. — Is this 
 
 the scene 
 Where the old Earthquake-demon 
 
 tauglit her young 
 Ruin? Were these their toj'S ? or did 
 
 a sea 
 Of fire envelope once thissilent snow? 
 None can reply — all seems eternal now. 
 Tlie wilderness has a mysterious tongue 
 Which teaches awful doubt, or faith so 
 
 mild. 
 So solemn, so serene, that man may be 
 But for such faith with nature re- 
 conciled ; 
 Thou hast a voice, great Mountain, to 
 
 repeal 
 Large codes of fraud and woe ; not 
 
 understood 
 By all, but which the wise, and great, 
 
 and good 
 Interpret, or make felt, or deejjly feel. 
 
 The fields, the lakes, the forests, and the 
 
 streams, 
 Ocean, and all the living things that 
 
 dwell 
 Within the daedal earth ; lightning and 
 
 rain. 
 Earthquake, and fiery flood, and hurri- 
 cane, 
 Tlie torpor of the year when feeble 
 
 dreams 
 Visit the hidden buds, or dreamless sleep 
 Holds every future leaf and flower ; — 
 
 the bound 
 With whicli from that detested trance 
 
 they leap ; 
 The works and ways of man, their death 
 
 and birth, 
 And that of him and all that his may be ; 
 All things that move and breathe with 
 
 toil and sound 
 Are born and die ; revolve, subside and 
 
 swell. 
 Power dwells apart in its tranquillity 
 Remote, serene, and inaccessible : 
 And this, the naked countenance of 
 
 earth, 
 On which I gaze, even tliese primeval 
 
 mountains 
 Teach the adverting mind. The glaciers 
 
 creep 
 Like snakes that watch their prey, from 
 
 their far fountains. 
 Slow rolling on ; there, many a precipice. 
 Frost and the Sun in scorn of mortal 
 
 power 
 
 Have piled : dome, pj'rajnid, and pin- 
 nacle, 
 
 A city of death, distinct with many a 
 tower 
 
 And wall impregnable of beaming ice. 
 
 Yet not a city, but a flood of ruin 
 
 Is tliere, that from the boundaries of 
 the sky 
 
 Rolls its perpetual stream ; vast pines 
 are strewing 
 
 Its destined jxith, or in the mangled soil 
 
 Brancldess and sliattered stand ; the 
 rocks, drawn down 
 
 From yon remotest waste, have over- 
 thrown 
 
 The limits of the dead and living world. 
 
 Never to be reclaimed. The dwelling- 
 place 
 
 Of insects, beasts, and birds, becomes 
 its spoil ; 
 
 Their food and their retreat for ever 
 gone. 
 
 So much of life and joy is lost. The race 
 
 Of man, flies far in dread ; his work and 
 dwelling 
 
 Vanish, like smoke before the tempest's 
 stream. 
 
 And their place is not known. Below, 
 vast caves 
 
 Shine in the rushing torrents' restless 
 gleam , 
 
 Which from those secret chasms in 
 tumult welling 
 
 Meet in the vale, and one majestic River, 
 
 The breath and blood of distant lands, 
 for ever 
 
 Rolls its loud waters to the ocean waves. 
 
 Breathes its swift vapors to the circ- 
 ling air. 
 
 Mont Blanc yet gleams on high : — the 
 
 power is there, m 
 
 The still and solemn power of many I 
 
 sights, I 
 
 And many sounds, and much of life and 
 
 death. 
 In the calm darkness of the moonless 
 
 nights, 
 In the lone glare of day, the snows 
 
 descend 
 Upon that Mountain ; none beholds 
 
 tbein there. 
 Nor when the flakes burn in the sinking 
 
 sun, 
 Or the star-beams dart through them : 
 
 — Winds contend 
 Silently there, and heap the snow with 
 
 breath 
 Rapid and strong, but silently ! Its home 
 
SHELLEY 
 
 291 
 
 The vuiceless lightning in these solitudes 
 Keeps innocently, and like vapor broods 
 Over the snow. The secret strength of 
 
 things 
 Which governs thought, and to the in- 
 finite dome 
 Of heaven is as a law, inhabits thee ! 
 And what were tliou, and earth, and 
 
 stars, and sea, 
 If to the human mind's imaginings 
 Silence and solitude were vacancy ? 
 
 July 23, 1S16. 1817. 
 
 TO MARY 
 
 DEDICATION OF THE REVOLT OF ISLAM 
 
 So now my summer task is ended, Mary, 
 And I return to thee, mine own heart's 
 home ; 
 As to his Queen some victor Knight of 
 Faery, 
 Earning i)right spoils for her en- 
 chanted dome ; 
 Nor thou disdain tliat, ere my fame 
 become 
 A star among the stars of mortal night. 
 If it indeed may cleave its natal gloom, 
 Its doubtful promise thus I would unite 
 With thy beloved name, thou Child of 
 love and light. 
 
 The toil which stole from thee so many 
 
 an hour 
 
 Is ended — and the fruit is at thy feet ! 
 
 No longer where the woods to frame a 
 
 bower 
 
 With interlaced branches mix and 
 
 meet. 
 Or where, with sound like many voices 
 sweet, 
 Waterfalls leap among wild islands 
 green 
 Which framed for my lone boat a 
 lone retreat 
 Of moss-grown trees and weeds, shall I 
 
 be seen : 
 But beside thee, where still my heart 
 has ever been. 
 
 Thoughts of great deeds were mine, 
 dear Friend, wlien first 
 
 The clouds which wrap this world 
 fi'om youth did pass. 
 I do remember well the hovir which 
 burst 
 
 My spirit's sleep : a fresh Maydawn it 
 was, 
 
 When I walked forth upon the glitter- 
 ing grass, 
 
 And wept, I knew not why : until there 
 
 rose 
 From the near schoolroom voices 
 
 that, alas ! 
 Were but one echo from a world of 
 
 woes — 
 The harsh and grating strife of tyrants 
 
 and of foes. 
 
 And tlien I clasped my hands, and 
 looked around, 
 But none was near to mock my 
 streaming eyes, 
 Which poured their warm drops on 
 the sunny ground — 
 So, without shame, I spake: — " I will 
 
 be wise. 
 And just, and free, and mild, if in me 
 lies 
 Such power, for I grow wearj' to behold 
 The selfish and the strong still tyran- 
 nize 
 Without reproach or check."' I then 
 
 controlled 
 My tears, mj^ heart grew calm, and I 
 was meek and bold. 
 
 And from that hour did I with earnest 
 thouglit 
 Heap knowledge from forbidden 
 mines of lore. 
 Yet nothing that my tyrants knew or 
 tauglit 
 I cared to learn, but from that secret 
 
 store 
 Wrought linked armor for m\^ soul, 
 before 
 It might walk forth to war among man- 
 kind ; 
 Thus power and hope were strength- 
 ened more and more 
 Witliin me, till there came upon my 
 
 mind 
 A sense of loneliness, a thirst with which 
 I i^ined. 
 
 Alas that love should be a blight and \ 
 
 snare / 
 
 To those wlio seek all sympathies in / 
 
 one ! — j 
 
 Such once I sought in vain ; then black \ 
 
 despair, "f 
 
 Tlie shadow of a starless night, was 
 
 thrown 
 Over tlie world in which I moved 
 alone : 
 Yet never found I one not false to me. 
 Hard hearts, and cold, like weights ■^' 
 of icy stone 
 
292 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Wliich crushed and withered mine, 
 
 that could not be 
 Aught but a lifeless clog, until x-evived 
 
 by thee. 
 
 Thou Friend, whose presence on my 
 wintry heart 
 Fell, like bright Spring upon some 
 herbless plain, 
 How beautiful and calm and free thou 
 wert 
 In thy young wisdom, when the 
 
 mortal chain 
 Of Custom thou didst burst and rend 
 in twain. 
 And walk as free as light the clouds 
 among, 
 Which many an envious slave then 
 breathed in vain 
 From his dim dungeon, and my spirit 
 
 sprung , 
 
 To meet tliee from the woes which had 
 begirt it long ! 
 
 No more alone through the world's 
 wilderness, 
 Althougii I trod the paths of high 
 intent, 
 I journeyed now : no more companion- 
 less. 
 Where solitude is like despair, I 
 
 went. — 
 There is the wisdom of a stern content 
 When Poverty can blight tlie just and 
 good, 
 When Infamy dares mock the in- 
 nocent. 
 And clierished friends tuin with the 
 
 multitude 
 To trample : tins' was ours, and we un- 
 shaken stood I 
 
 Now has descended a serener hour. 
 And, with inconstant fortune, friends 
 return ; 
 Though suffei'ing leaves the knowledge 
 and the power 
 Which says " Let scorn be not repaid 
 
 with scorn." 
 And from thy side two gentle babes 
 are born 
 To fill our home with smiles, and thus 
 are we 
 Most fortunate beneath life's beaming 
 moin : 
 And these delights, and thou, have been 
 
 to me 
 The parents of the Song I consecrate to 
 thee. 
 
 Is it that now my inexpei'ienced fingers 
 
 But strike the prelude of a loftier 
 
 strain ? 
 
 Or must the lyre on which my spirit 
 
 lingers 
 
 Soon pause in silence, ne'er to sound 
 
 again, 
 Tliougli it might shake the Anarch 
 Custom's reign. 
 And charm the minds of men to Truth's 
 own sway. 
 Holier than was Amphion's? I would 
 fain 
 Reply in hope — but I am worn away, 
 And Deatli and Love arej'et contending 
 for their prey. 
 
 And what art thou? I know, but dare 
 not speak : 
 Time may interpret to his silent )-ears. 
 Yet in tlie paleness of thy thoughtful 
 ciieek. 
 And in the light thine ample fore- 
 head wears. 
 And in thy sweetest smiles, and in 
 thy tears, 
 
 And in thy gentle speech, a prophecy ^ 
 Is whispered, to subdue my fondest 
 fears : 
 And, through thine eyes, even in thy 
 
 soul I see 
 A lamp of vestal fire burning internally. 
 
 They say that thou wert lovely from 
 thy birth. 
 Of glorious 2^^ieJits, thou aspiring 
 Child. 
 I wonder not — for One then left this 
 earth 
 Whose life was like a setting planet 
 
 mild. 
 Which clothed thee in the radiance 
 undefiled 
 Of its departing glory ; still her fame 
 
 Shines on thee, through the tempests r, 
 dark and wild J| 
 
 Which shake these latter days ; and 
 
 thou canst claim 
 The shelter, from thy Sire, of an im- 
 mortal name. 
 
 One voice came forth from many a 
 migiity spirit 
 Wliich was the echo of three-thousand 
 years ; 
 And the tumultuous world stood mute 
 to hear it, 
 As some lone man who in a desert 
 hears 
 
SHELLEY 
 
 293 
 
 The music of his home : — unwonted 
 fears 
 Fell on the pale oppressors of our race, 
 And FaitJi and Custom and low- 
 thoughted cares, 
 Like thunder-stricken dragons, for a 
 
 space 
 Left the torn liuman heart, their food 
 and dwelling-place. 
 
 Truth's deathless voice pauses among 
 mankind ! 
 If there must be no response to my 
 cry — 
 If men must rise and stamp, with fury 
 blind. 
 On his pure name who loves them — 
 
 thou and I, 
 Sweet friend ! can look from our 
 tranquillity 
 Like lamps into the world's tempestuous 
 night, — 
 Two tranqviil stars, while clouds are 
 passing by 
 Which wi-ap them from the foundering 
 
 seaman's sight, 
 That burn from year to year with unex- 
 tinguished light. 
 
 1S17. 1818. 
 
 OZYMANDIAS 
 
 I MET a traveller from an antique 
 
 land 
 Who said : Two vast and trunkless legs 
 
 of stone 
 Stand in the desert. Near them, on 
 
 the sand, 
 Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose 
 
 frown, 
 And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold 
 
 command. 
 Tell that its sculptor well those passions 
 
 read 
 Which yet survive, stamped on these 
 
 lifeless things. 
 The hand that mocked them and the 
 
 heart that fed : 
 And on tlie pedestal these words appear : 
 " My name is Ozymandias, king of 
 
 kings : 
 Look on my works, ye Mighty, and 
 
 despair ! " 
 Nothing beside remains. Round the 
 
 decay 
 Of that colossal wreck, boimdless and 
 
 bare 
 Tlie lone and level sands stretch far 
 
 away. 1S17. 1819. 
 
 ON A FADED VIOLET 
 
 The odor from the flower is gone 
 
 Which like thy kisses breatlied on me ; 
 
 The color from the flower is flown 
 Which glowed of thee and only thee ! 
 
 A shrivelled, lifeless, vacant form, 
 It lies on my abandoned breast, 
 
 And mocks the heart which yet is warm, 
 With cold and silent rest. 
 
 I weep, — my tears revive it not ! 
 
 I sigh, — it breatlies no more on me ; 
 Its mute and uncomplaining lot 
 
 Is such as mine should be. 
 
 ISIS. 1824. 
 
 LINES WRITTEN AMONG THE 
 EUGANEAN HILLS 
 
 Many a green isle needs must be 
 
 In the deep wide sea of misery. 
 
 Or the mariner, worn and wan, 
 
 Never thus could voyage on 
 
 Day and niglit, and niglit and day, 
 
 Drifting on liis dreary way. 
 
 With the solid darkness black * 
 
 Closing round his vessel's track ; 
 
 Whilst above the sunless sky, 
 
 Big with clouds, hangs heavily, 
 
 And beliind the tempest fleet 
 
 Hurries on with lightning feet. 
 
 Riving sail, and cord, and plank. 
 
 Till the ship has almost drank 
 
 Death from the o'ei"-brimming deep ; 
 
 And sinks down, down, like tliat sleep 
 
 When the dreamer seems to be 
 
 Weltering through eternity ; 
 
 And the dim low line before 
 
 Of a dark and distant shore 
 
 Still recedes, as ever still 
 
 Longing with divided will, 
 
 But no power to seek or shun. 
 
 He is ever drifted on 
 
 O'er the unreposing wave 
 
 To the haven of the grave. 
 
 What, if there no friends will greet ; 
 
 Wliat, if there no heart will meet 
 
 His with love's impatient beat ; 
 
 Wander wheresoe'er he may. 
 
 Can he dream before that day 
 
 To find refuge fi'oni distress 
 
 In friendship's smile, in love's caress? 
 
 Then 'twill wreak him little woe 
 
 Whether such there be or no : 
 
 Senseless is the breast, and cold. 
 
 Which relenting love would fold ; 
 
 Bloodless are the veins and chill 
 
294 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Which the pulse of pain did fill ; 
 
 Every little living nerve 
 
 That from bitter words did swerve 
 
 Round the tortured lips and brow, 
 
 Are like sapless leaflets now 
 
 Frozen upon December's bough. 
 
 On the beach of a northern sea 
 
 Which tempests shake eternally, 
 
 As once the wretch there lay to sleep, 
 
 Lies a solitary heap, 
 
 One white skull and seven dry bones, 
 
 On the margin of the stones, 
 
 Where a few gray rushes stand, 
 
 Boundaries of the sea and land : 
 
 Nor is heard one voice of wail 
 
 But the sea-mews, as they sail 
 
 O'er the billows of the gale ; 
 
 Or the whirlwind up and down 
 
 Howling, like a slaughtered town, 
 
 When a king in glory rides 
 
 Through the pomp of fratricides : 
 
 Those unbujied bones around 
 
 Tliere is many a mournful sound ; 
 
 Tliere is no lament for him, 
 
 Like a sunless vapor, dim, 
 
 Who once clothed with life and thought 
 
 What now moves nor murmurs not. 
 
 Ay, many flowering islands lie 
 
 In the waters of wide Agony : 
 
 To such a one this morn was led. 
 
 My bark by soft winds piloted : 
 
 'Mid the mountains Euganean 
 
 I stood listening to the paean. 
 
 With which the legioned rooks did hail 
 
 The sun's uprise ma jestical ; 
 
 Gathering round with wings all hoar. 
 
 Thro' the dewy mist they soar 
 
 Like gray shades, till the eastern heaven 
 
 Bursts, and then, as clouds of even. 
 
 Flecked with fire and azure, lie 
 
 In the unfatliomable sky. 
 
 So their plumes of purple grain. 
 
 Starred with drops of golden rain. 
 
 Gleam above the sunlight woods, 
 
 As in silent multitudes 
 
 On the morning's fitful gale 
 
 Thro' the broken mist they sail, 
 
 And the vapors cloven and gleaming 
 
 Follow down the dark steep streaming. 
 
 Till all is bright, and clear, and still. 
 
 Round the solitary hill. 
 
 Beneath is spread like a green sea 
 The waveless plain of Lombardy, 
 Bounded by the vaporous air, 
 Islanded by cities fair ; 
 Underneath day's azure eyes 
 Ocean's nursling, Venice lies, 
 
 A peopled labyrinth of walls, 
 Amphitrite's destined halls. 
 Which her hoarj' sire now paves 
 With his blue and beaming waves. 
 Lo ! the sun upsprings behind, 
 Broad, red, radiant, half reclined 
 On the level quivering line 
 Of the waters crj'stalline ; 
 And before that chasm of light, 
 As w^ithin a furnace bright. 
 Column, tower, and dome, and spire, 
 Shine like obelisks of fire. 
 Pointing with inconstant motion 
 From the altar of dark ocean 
 To the sapphire-tinted skies ; 
 As the flames of sacrifice 
 From the marble shrines did rise, 
 As to pierce the dome of gold 
 Where Apollo spoke of old. 
 
 Sun-girt City, thou has been 
 Ocean's child, and then his queen ; 
 Now is come a darker day, 
 And thou soon must be his prey. 
 If the power that raised thee here 
 Hallow so thy watery bier. 
 A less drear ruin then than now, 
 With thy conquest-branded brow 
 Stooping to tlie slave of slaves 
 From thy throne, among the waves 
 Wilt thou be, when the sea-mew 
 Flies, as once before it flew, 
 O'er thine isles depopulate. 
 And all is in its ancient state. 
 Save where many a palace gate 
 With greeii sea-flowers overgrown 
 Like a rock of ocean's own. 
 Topples o'er the abandoned sea 
 As the tides change sullenly. 
 The fisher on his watery way. 
 Wandering at the close of day. 
 Will spread his sail and seize his oar 
 Till he pass the gloomy shore. 
 Lest thy dead should, from their sleep 
 Bursting o'er the starlight deep. 
 Lead a rapid masque of death 
 O'er the waters of his path. 
 
 Those who alone thy towers behold 
 Quivering through aerial gold. 
 As I now behold them here, 
 Wovild imagine not they were 
 Sepulchres, where human forms, 
 Like pollution-nourished worms 
 To the corpse of greatness cling. 
 Murdered, and now mouldering : 
 But if Freedom should awake 
 In her omnipotence, and shake 
 From the Celtic Anarch's hold 
 
SHELLEY 
 
 295 
 
 All tlie keys of cUmgeons cold, 
 
 Where a hundred cities lie 
 
 Chained like thee, ingloriously, 
 
 Thou and all thy sister band 
 
 Might adorn this sunny land. 
 
 Twining memories of old time 
 
 With new virtues more sublime ; 
 
 If not, perish thou and they. 
 
 Clouds which stain truth's rising day 
 
 By her sun consumed away. 
 
 Earth can spare ye : while like flowers. 
 
 In the waste of years and hours, 
 
 From your dust new nations spring 
 
 With more kindly blossoming. 
 
 Perish — let there only be 
 
 Floating o'er thy liearthless sea 
 
 As the garment of thy sky 
 
 Clothes the world immortally, 
 
 One remembrance, more sublime 
 
 Tlian the tattered pall of time, 
 
 Which scarce hides thy visage wan ; — 
 
 That a tempest-cleaving Swan ' 
 
 Of the songs of Albion, 
 
 Driven from his ancestral streams 
 
 By the might of evil dreams, 
 
 Fovuid a nest in thee ; and Ocean 
 
 Welcomed him with such emotion 
 
 That its joy grew his, and sprung 
 
 From his lips like music flung 
 
 O'er a mighty thunder-fit 
 
 Chastening terror : — what though yet 
 
 Poesy's unfailing River, 
 
 Which thro' Albion winds for ever 
 
 Lashing with melodious wave 
 
 Many a sacred Poet's grave. 
 
 Mourn its latest nursling fled ? 
 
 What though thou with all thy dead 
 
 Scarce can for this fame repay 
 
 Aught thine own? oh, rather say. 
 
 Though thy sins and slaveries foul 
 
 Overcloud a sunliiie soul ? — 
 
 As the ghost of Homer clings 
 
 Round Scamander's wasting springs ; 
 
 As divinest Shakespere's might 
 
 Fills Avon and the world witli light 
 
 Like omniscient power which he 
 
 Imaged 'mid mortality ; 
 
 As the love from Petrarch's urn, 
 
 Yet amid yon hills doth burn, 
 
 A quenchless lamp by which the heart 
 
 Sees things unearthly ; — so thou art 
 
 Mighty spirit — so shall be 
 
 The City that did refuge thee. 
 
 Lo, the sun floats up the sky 
 Like thought- winged Liberty, 
 Till the universal light 
 Seems to level plain and height ; 
 
 ^ Byron. 
 
 From the sea a mist has spread. 
 And the beams of morn lie dead 
 On the towers of Venice now. 
 Like its glory long ago. 
 By the skirts of that gray cloud 
 Many-domed Padua proud 
 Stands, a peopled solitude, 
 'Mid the harvest-shining plain. 
 Where the peasant heaps his grain 
 In the garner of his foe. 
 And the in ilk- white oxen slow 
 With the purple vintage strain. 
 Heaped upon the creaking wain. 
 That the brutal Celt may swill 
 Drunken sleep with savage will ; 
 And the sickle to the sword 
 Lies unchanged, though many a lord, 
 Like a weed whose shade is poison, 
 Overgrows this region's foison, 
 Sheaves of whom are ripe to come 
 To destruction's harvest home : 
 Men must reap the things tliey sow, 
 Force from force must ever flow. 
 Or worse ; but 'tis a bitter woe 
 That love or reason cannot change 
 The despot's rage, the slave's revenge. 
 
 Padua, thou within whose walls 
 Those mute guests at festivals. 
 Son and Mother, Death and Sin, 
 Played at dice for Ezzelin, 
 Till Death cried, " I win, I win ! " 
 And Sin cursed to lose the wager, 
 Bvit Death promised, to assuage her, 
 That he would petition for 
 Her to be made Vice-Emperor, 
 When the destined years were o'er, 
 Over all between the Po 
 And the eastern Alpine snow, 
 Under the mighty Austrian. 
 Sin smiled so as Sin only can. 
 And since that time, ay, long before, 
 Both have ruled from shore to shore, 
 That incestuous pair, who follow 
 Tyrants as the sun the swallow, 
 As Repentance follows Crime, 
 And as changes follow Time. 
 
 In thine halls the lamp of learning, 
 
 Padua, now no more is burning ; 
 
 Like a meteor, whose wild way 
 
 Is lost over the grave of day. 
 
 It gleams betrayed and to betray : 
 
 Once remotest nations came 
 
 To adore that sacred flame. 
 
 When it lit not many a hearth 
 
 On this cold and gloomy earth : 
 
 Now new fires from antique light 
 
 Spring beneath the wide world's might ; 
 
296 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 But their spark lies dead in thee, 
 
 Trampled out by tyranny. 
 
 As the Norwaj^ woodman quells, 
 
 In the depth of piny dells. 
 
 One light flame among the brakes, 
 
 Wliile the boundless forest shakes. 
 
 And its mighty trunks are torn 
 
 By the fire thus lowly born : 
 
 TFie spark beneath his feet is dead, 
 
 He starts to see the flames it fed 
 
 Howling through the darkened sky 
 
 With a myriad tongues victoriously. 
 
 And sinks down in fear : so thou, 
 
 O Tj^ranny, beholdest now^ 
 
 Light around thee, and thou hearest 
 
 Tlie loud flames ascend, and fearest : 
 
 Grovel on tlie earth ; ay, hide 
 
 In the dust thy purple pride ! 
 
 Noon descends around me now : 
 
 'Tis tlie noon of autumn's glow, 
 
 "When a soft and purple mist 
 
 Like a vaporous amethyst. 
 
 Or an air-dissolved star 
 
 Mingling light and fragrance, far 
 
 From the curved horizon's bound 
 
 To the point of heaven's profound. 
 
 Fills the overflowing sky ; 
 
 And the plains that silent lie 
 
 Underneath, the leaves unsodden 
 
 Where the infant frost has trodden 
 
 With his morning-winged feet. 
 
 Whose bright print is gleaming yet ; 
 
 And the red and golden vines. 
 
 Piercing with their trellised lines 
 
 The rough, dark-skirted wilderness ; 
 
 The dun and bladed grass no less. 
 
 Pointing from this hoary tower 
 
 In the windless air ; the flower 
 
 Glimmering at my feet ; the line 
 
 Of the olive-sandalled Apennine, 
 
 In tlie south dimly islanded ; 
 
 And the Alps, whose snows are spread 
 
 High between the clouds and sun ; 
 
 And of living things each one ; 
 
 And my spirit which so long 
 
 Darkened this swift stream of song. 
 
 Interpenetrated lie 
 
 By tlie glory of the sky : 
 
 Be it love, light, harmony. 
 
 Odor or the soul of all 
 
 Which from heaven like dew doth fall, 
 
 Or the mind w^hicli feeds this verse 
 
 Peopling the lone universe. 
 
 Noon descends, and after noon 
 Autumn's evening meets me soon, 
 Leading the infantine moon, 
 And that one star, which to her 
 
 Almost seems to minister 
 
 Half the crimson light she brings 
 
 From the sunset's radiant springs : 
 
 And the soft dreams of the morn 
 
 (Which like winged winds had borne 
 
 To tliat silent isle, which lies 
 
 'Mid remembered agonies. 
 
 The frail bark of this lone being) 
 
 Pass, to other sufferers fleeing. 
 
 And its ancient pilot. Pain, 
 
 Sits beside the helm again. 
 
 Other flowering isles must be 
 
 In the sea of life and agony : 
 
 Other spirits float and flee 
 
 O'er that gulf : even now. perhaps. 
 
 On some rock the wild wave wraps. 
 
 With folded wings they waiting sit 
 
 For my bark, to pilot it 
 
 To some calm and blooming cove. 
 
 Where for me, and those I love, 
 
 May a windless bower be built. 
 
 Far from passion, pain, and guilt, 
 
 In a dell 'mid lawny hills, 
 
 Which the wild sea-murmur fills. 
 
 And soft sunshine, and the sound 
 
 Of old forests echoing round, 
 
 And the light and smell divine 
 
 Of all flowers that breathe and shine : 
 
 We may live so happy there, 
 
 That the spirits of the air. 
 
 Envying us, may even entice 
 
 To our liealing paradise 
 
 The polluting multitude ; 
 
 But their rage would be subdued 
 
 By that clime divine and calm, 
 
 And the winds whose wings rain balm 
 
 On the uplifted soul, and leaves 
 
 Under which the bright sea heaves ; 
 
 While each breathless interval 
 
 In their whisperings musical 
 
 The inspired soul supplies 
 
 With its own deep melodies. 
 
 And the love which heals all strife 
 
 Circling, like the breath of life, 
 
 AH things in that sweet abode 
 
 With its own mild brotherhood : 
 
 They, not it, would change ; and soon 
 
 Every sprite beneath the moon 
 
 Would repent its envy vain, 
 
 And the earth grow voung again. 
 
 October, ISIS. 1819. 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 WRITTEN IN DEJECTION, NEAR NAPLES 
 
 The sun is warm, the sky is clear. 
 The waves are dancing fast and bright, 
 
SHELLEY 
 
 >97 
 
 Blue isles and snowy mountains wear 
 The purple noon's transparent might, 
 The breath of the moist earth is light, 
 
 Around its unexpanded buds ; 
 Like many a voice of one delight, 
 
 The winds, the birds, the ocean floods, 
 
 The City's voice itself is soft like Soli- 
 tude's. 
 
 I see the Deep's untrampled floor 
 
 With green and purple seaweeds 
 strown ; 
 I see tlie waves upon the shore, 
 
 Like light dissolved in star-showers, 
 
 thrown : 
 I sit upon the sands alone. 
 The lightning of the noontide ocean 
 
 Is flashing round me, and a tone 
 Arises from its measui'ed motion. 
 How sweet ! did any heart now share in 
 my emotion. 
 
 Alas ! I have nor hope nor health. 
 
 Nor peace within nor calm around, 
 Nor that content surpassing wealth 
 The sage in meditation found. 
 And walked with inward glory 
 crowned — 
 Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leis- 
 ure. 
 Others I see whom these surround — 
 Smiling they live, and call life pleas- 
 ure ; — 
 To me that cup has been dealt in another 
 measure. 
 
 Yet now despair itself is mild, 
 
 Even as the winds and waters are ; 
 
 I could lie down like a tired child. 
 And weep away tlie life of care 
 Which I have borne and yet must 
 bear. 
 
 Till death like sleep might steal on me, 
 And I might feel in the warm air 
 
 My clieek grow cold, and hear the sea 
 
 Breathe o'er my dying brain its last 
 monotony. 
 
 Some might lament that I were cold, 
 
 As I, when this sweet day is gone, 
 Which my lost heart, too soon grown 
 old, 
 
 Insults with this untimely moan ; 
 
 They might lament — for I am one 
 Whom men love not, — and yet regret, 
 
 Unlike this da.j, which, when the sun 
 Shall on its stainless glory set, 
 Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in 
 memory yet. JSIS. 1842. 
 
 SONNET : ENGLAND IN 1819 
 
 An old, mad, blind, despised, and dying 
 
 king,— 
 Princes, the dregs of their dull race, 
 
 who flow 
 Through public scorn, — mud from a 
 
 muddy spring, — 
 Rulers who neither see, nor feel, nor 
 
 know. 
 But leech-like to their fainting country 
 
 cling. 
 Till they drop, blind in blood, without a 
 
 blow, — 
 A people starved and stabbed in the 
 
 unfilled field, — 
 An army, wliich liberticide and prey 
 Makes as a two-edged sword to all who 
 
 wield 
 Golden and sanguine laws which tempt 
 
 and slay ; 
 Religion Christless, Godless — a book 
 
 sealed ; 
 A Senate, — Time's worst statute unre- 
 pealed, — 
 Are graves, from which a glorious 
 
 Phantom may 
 Burst, to illunaine our tempestuous day. 
 1S19. 1839. 
 
 ODE TO THE WEST WIND i 
 
 O WILD West Wind, thou breath of 
 Autumn's being. 
 
 Thou, from whose unseen presence the 
 leaves dead 
 
 Are driven, like ghosts from an en- 
 chanter fleeing, 
 
 Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic 
 
 red, 
 Pestilence-stricken midtitudes : Othou, 
 Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed 
 
 The winged seeds, where they lie cold 
 and low, 
 
 1 This poem was conceived anrl chiefly written 
 in a wood tliat skirts the Arno, near Florence, 
 and on a day when I hat tempestuous wind, 
 whose temperature is at once mild and animat- 
 ing?, was collecting the vapors which pour down 
 the autiinnial rains. They began, as 1 foresaw, 
 at sunset with a violent ten^pest of hail and rain, 
 attended by that magnificent thunder and light- 
 ning peculiar to the Cisalpine regions. 
 
 The phenomenon alluded to at the conclusion 
 of the third stanza is well known to naturalists. 
 The vegetation at the bottom of the sea, of 
 rivers, and of lakes, sympathizes with that of 
 the land in the change of seasons, and is conse- 
 quently influenced by the winds which announce 
 it. (ShcUei/s note.) 
 
298 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Each like a corpse within it? grave, until 
 Thine azure sister of the spring shall blow 
 
 Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, 
 
 and fill 
 (Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed 
 
 in air) 
 With living hues and odors plain and 
 
 hill ; 
 
 Wild Spirit, which art moving every- 
 where : 
 Destroyer and preserver ; hear, Oh hear ! 
 
 Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep 
 
 sky's commotion. 
 Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves 
 
 are shed, 
 Shook from the tangled boughs of 
 
 Heaven and Ocean, 
 
 Angels of rain and lightning : there are 
 
 spread 
 On the blue surface of thine airy surge. 
 Like the bright hair uplifted from the 
 
 head 
 
 Of some fierce Maenad, even from the 
 
 dim verge 
 Of tlie horizon to the zenith's height 
 The locks of the approaching storm. 
 
 Thou dirge 
 
 Of the dying year, to which this closing 
 
 night 
 Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre. 
 Vaulted with all thy congregated might 
 
 Of vapors, from wliose solid atmospliere 
 Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst : 
 Oh hear ! 
 
 Thou who didst waken from his sum- 
 mer dreams 
 The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, 
 Lulled by the coil of liis crystalline 
 streams, 
 
 Beside a pumice isle in Baise's bay, 
 And saw in sleep old palaces and towers 
 Quivering within the wave's intenser 
 day, 
 
 All overgrown with azure moss and 
 
 flowers 
 So sweet, the sense faints picturing 
 
 them! Thou 
 
 For whose path the Atlantic's level 
 powers 
 
 Cleave themselves into chasms, while 
 
 far below 
 The sea-blooms and the oozy woods 
 
 whicli wear 
 The sapless foliage of the ocean, know 
 
 Thy voice, and suddenly grOw gray with 
 
 fear. 
 And tremble and despoil themselves : 
 
 Oil hear ! 
 
 If I were a dead leaf tliou mightest bear ; 
 If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee ; 
 A wave to pant beneath thy power, and 
 share 
 
 The impulse of th}'' strength, only less free 
 Than thou, O uncontrollable ! If even 
 I were as in my boyhood, and could be 
 
 The comrade of thy wanderings over 
 
 lieaven. 
 As then, when to outstrip thj^ skiey speed 
 Scarce seemed a vision ; I would ne'er 
 
 have striven 
 
 As thus with thee in prayer in mj" sore 
 
 need. 
 Oh lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud ! 
 I fall upon the thorns of life ! I bleed 1 
 
 A heavy weight of hours has chained 
 
 and bowed 
 One too like thee : tameless, and swift, 
 and proud. 
 
 Make me thy Ija-e, even as tlie forest is : 
 What if iuy leaves are fa.lling like its own I 
 The tumult of thj' mighty harmonies . 
 
 Will take from both a deep, autumnal 
 
 tone. 
 Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, 
 
 spirit fierce. 
 My spirit ! Be thou me, impetuous one ! 
 
 Drive my dead thoughts over the universe 
 Like withered leaves to quicken a new 
 
 birth ! 
 And, by the incantation of this verse. 
 
 Scatter, as from an unextinguislied 
 
 hearth 
 Ashes and sparks, my words among 
 
 mankind ! 
 Be through my lips to una wakened earth 
 
SHELLEY 
 
 299 
 
 The trumpet of a prophecy ! O, wind, 
 If Winter comes, can Spring be far be- 
 hind ? ISIO. 1830. 
 
 THE INDIAN SERENADE 
 
 I ARISE from dreams of thee 
 In the first sweet sleeji of night, 
 When the winds are breathing low. 
 And the stars are shining bright : 
 I arise from dreams of thee. 
 And a spirit in my feet 
 Hath led me — who knows how ! 
 To thy chamber window, Sweet ! 
 
 The wandering airs they faint 
 On the dark, the silent stream — 
 And the Champak odors fail 
 Like sweet thoughts in a dream ; 
 The nightingale's complaint, 
 It dies upon her heart ; — 
 As I must on thine, 
 
 ! beloved as thou art ! 
 
 Oh lift me from the grass ! 
 
 1 die ! I faint ! I fail ! 
 
 Let thy love in kisses rain 
 On my lips and eyelids pale. 
 My cheek is cold and white, alas! 
 rty heart beats loud and fast ;— 
 Oh ! press it to thine own again. 
 Where it will break at last. 
 
 1S91. 1823. 
 
 LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY 
 
 The Fountains mingle with the River 
 
 And the Rivers with the Ocean, 
 The winds of Heaven mix for ever 
 
 With a sweet emotion ; 
 Nothing in the world is single ; 
 
 All things by a law divine 
 In one spirit meet and mingle. 
 
 Why not I with thine ?— 
 
 See the mountains kiss high Heaven 
 
 And the waves clasp one another ; 
 No sister-flower would be forgiven 
 
 If it disdained its brother, 
 And the sunlight clasps the earth 
 
 And the moonbeams kiss the sea : 
 Wliat are all these kissings worth 
 
 If thou kiss not me ? ISlO. 
 
 PROMETHEUS UNBOUND 
 
 V, "■> 
 
 A LYRICAL DRAMA IN FOUR ACTS - ^ }'{{, / 
 
 AUDISNE HAEC AMPHIARAE, SUB TERRAM ABDITE ? J ^ 
 
 / J — 
 
 t^ I 
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONS 
 
 Prometheus 
 Demogorgon 
 
 Mercury 
 Hercules 
 
 y Oceanides 
 
 Jupiter Asia 
 
 The Earth Panthea 
 
 Ocean Ione 
 
 Apollo the Phantasm of Jupiter 
 The Spirit of the Earth 
 The Spirit ok the Moon 
 Spirits op the Hours 
 Spirits. Echoes. Fauns. Furies 
 
 ACT I 
 
 Scene — A Ravine of Icy Rocks in the 
 Indian Caucasus. 
 
 Prometheus is discovered bound to the 
 Precipice. Panthea and Ione are 
 seated at his feet. Time, night. Dur- 
 ing the Scene, morning sloivly breaks. 
 
 1 See note at the end of the poem. 
 
 Prometheus. Monarch of Gods and 
 
 Demons, and all Spirits 
 But One, who tlirong those bright and 
 
 rolling worlds 
 Which Thoti and I alone of living things 
 Behold with sleepless eyes ! regard this 
 
 Earth 
 Made multitudinous with thy slaves, 
 
 whom thou 
 Requitest for knee-worship, prayer, and 
 
 praise, 
 And toil, and hecatombs of broken 
 
 hearts. 
 With fear and self-contempt and barren 
 
 hope. 
 Whilst me, who am thy foe, eyeless in 
 
 hate, 
 Hast thou made reign and triumph, to 
 
 thy scorn 
 O'er mine own misery and thy vain 
 
 revenge. 
 
300 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Three thousand years of sleep-unshel- 
 tered hours. 
 
 And moments aye divided by keen pangs 
 
 Till they seemed years, torture and soli- 
 tude, 
 
 Scorn and desimir, — these are mine 
 empire ;^ , 
 
 More glorious far than that which thou 
 survey est 
 
 From thine unenvied throne, O, Mighty 
 God! 
 
 Almiglity, had I deigned to share the 
 shame 
 
 Of thine ill tyranny, and hung not here 
 
 Nailed to this wall of eagle-baffling 
 mountain. 
 
 Black, wintry, dead, unmeasured ; with- 
 out herb, 
 
 Insect, or beast, or shape or sound of 
 life. 
 
 Ah me ! alas, pain, pain ever, for ever ! 
 
 No change, no pause, no hope ! Yet .1 
 
 endure. 
 I ask the Earth, have not the mountains 
 
 felt ? 
 I ask yon Heaven, theall-belioldingSmi, 
 Has it not seen r The Sea, in storm or 
 
 calm. 
 Heaven's ever-changing Sliadow, spread 
 
 below, 
 Have its deaf waves not heard mj^ agony? 
 Ah me ! alas, pain, pain ever, for ever ! 
 
 The crawling glaciers pierce me with 
 
 the spears 
 Of their moon -freezing crystals, the 
 
 bright cliains 
 Eat with their burning cold into my 
 
 bones. 
 Heaven's winged hound, polluting from 
 
 thy lips 
 His beak in poison not his own. tears up 
 My heart ; and shapeless sights come 
 
 wandering b}', 
 The ghastly people of the realm of 
 
 dream , 
 Mocking me : and the Earthquake-fiends 
 
 are charged 
 To wrench the rivets from my quivering 
 
 wounds 
 When the rocks split and close again be- 
 hind : 
 While fro7ii their loud abysses howling 
 
 throng 
 The genii of the storm, urging the rage 
 Of whirlwind, and afflict me with keen 
 
 liail. 
 And yet to me welcome is day and night, 
 
 Whether one breaks the hoar frost of 
 
 the morn, 
 Or starry, dnn, and slow, the other 
 
 climbs 
 The leaden-colored east ; for then they 
 
 lead 
 The wingless, crawling hours, one among 
 
 whom 
 — As some dark Priest liales the reluc- 
 tant victim — 
 Shall drag thee, cruel King, to kiss the 
 
 blood 
 From these pale feet, which tlien might 
 
 trample thee 
 If the}^ disdained not such a prostrate 
 
 slave. 
 Disdain ! Ah no ! I pity thee. What 
 
 ruin 
 Will hunt thee undefended thro' the 
 
 wide Heaven ! 
 How will thy soul, cloven to its depth 
 
 with terror, 
 Gape like a hell within !. I speak in 
 
 giief. 
 Not exultation, for I hate no more. 
 As then ere misery made me wise. The 
 
 curse 
 Once breathed on thee I would recall. 
 
 Ye Mountains, 
 Whose many-voiced Echoes, tlirough the 
 
 mist 
 Of cataracts, flung the thunder of that 
 
 spell ! 
 Ye icy Springs, stagnant with wrinkling 
 
 frost, 
 Which vibrated to hear me, and then 
 
 crept 
 Shuddering thro' India ! Thou serenest 
 
 Air, 
 Thro' which the Sun walks burning 
 
 without beams ! 
 And ye swift Whirlwinds, who on poised 
 
 wings 
 Hung mute and moveless o'er yon 
 
 hushed abyss. 
 As thunder, louder than your own, made 
 
 rock 
 The orbed world ! If then my words 
 
 had power, 
 Tliough I am changed so that aught evil 
 
 wish 
 Is dead within : although no memory be 
 Of what is hate, let them not lose it now! I 
 What was that curse ? for ye all heard 
 
 me speak. 
 
 First Voice (from the Mountains) 
 Thrice three hundred thousand years 
 
SHELLEY 
 
 301 
 
 O'er the Earthquake's couch we 
 stood : 
 Oft, as men convulsed with tears, 
 We trembled in our multitude. 
 
 Second Voice (from the Springs) 
 
 Thunderbolts had parched our water. 
 We had been stained with bitter 
 blood, 
 And had run mute, 'mid shrieks of 
 slaughter. 
 Thro' a city and a solitude. 
 
 Third Voice (from the Air) 
 
 I had clothed, since Earth uprose. 
 Its wastes in colors not their own, 
 
 And oft had my serene repose 
 
 Been cloven by many a rending 
 groan. 
 
 Fourth Voice (from the Whirlwinds) 
 
 We had soared beneatli these moun- 
 tains 
 Unresting ages ; nor liad thunder. 
 
 Nor yon volcano's flaming fountains, 
 Nor any power above or under 
 Ever made us mute with wonder. 
 
 First Voice 
 
 But never bowed our snowj' crest 
 As at the voice of thine unrest. 
 
 Second Voice 
 
 Never such a sound before 
 To the Indian waves we bore. 
 A pilot asleep on the liowling sea 
 Leaped up from tlie deck in agony. 
 And heard, and cried, "Ah, woe is me! " 
 And died as mad as the wild waves be. 
 
 Third Voice 
 
 By such dread words from Earth to 
 
 Heaven 
 My still realm was never riven ; 
 When its wound was closed, there stood 
 Darkness o'er the day like blood. 
 
 Fourth Voice 
 
 And we shrank back; for dreams of ruin 
 To frozen caves our flight i)ursuing 
 Made us keep silence — thus — and thus — 
 Though silence is a hell to us. 
 
 T7te Earth. The tongueless Caverns 
 of the craggy hills 
 
 Cried "Misery!" then; the hollow 
 
 Heaven replied, 
 "Misery!" and the Ocean's purple 
 
 waves, 
 Climbing the land, howled to the lash- 
 ing winds. 
 And the pale nations heard it, " Misery! " 
 Prometheus. I liear a sound of voices : 
 
 not the voice 
 Which I gave forth. Mother, thy sons 
 
 and thou 
 Scorn him, without whose all-enduring 
 
 will 
 Beneath the fierce omnipotence of Jove, 
 Both tliey and thou had vanished, like 
 
 thin mist 
 Unrolled on the morning wind. Know 
 
 ye not me, 
 The Titan ? He who made his agony 
 The barrier to your else all-conquering 
 
 foe? 
 Oh, rock-embosomed lawns, and snow- 
 fed streams. 
 Now seen athwart frore vapors, deep 
 
 below, 
 Thro' whose o'ershadowing woods I 
 
 wandered once 
 With Asia, drinking life from her loved 
 
 eyes ; 
 Why scorns the spirit which informs ye, 
 
 now 
 To commune with me? me alone, who 
 
 checked, 
 As one who cliecks a fiend-drawn 
 
 charioteer. 
 The falseliood and the force of him who 
 
 reigns 
 Supreme, and with the groans of pining 
 
 slaves 
 Fills your dim glens and liquid wilder- 
 nesses : 
 Why answer ye not, still ? Brethren ! 
 The Earth. They dare not. 
 
 Promethevs. Wlio dares? for I would 
 
 hear tluit curse again. 
 Ha, what an awful whisper rises up ! 
 'Tis scarce like sound ; it tingles thro' 
 
 the frame 
 As lightning tingles, hovering ere it 
 
 strike. 
 Speak, Spirit ! from thine inorganic 
 
 voice 
 I only know that thou art moving near 
 And love. How cursed I him ? 
 
 TJie Earth. How canst thou hear 
 
 Who knowest not the language of the 
 
 dead ? 
 Prometheus. Thou art a living spirit : 
 
 speak as they. 
 
302 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 The Earth. I dare not speak like life, 
 
 lest Heaven's fell King 
 Should hear, and link nie to some wheel 
 
 of pain 
 More torturing than tlie one whereon I 
 
 roll. 
 Subtle thou art and good, and tho' the 
 
 Gods 
 Hear not this voice, yet tliou art moi'e 
 
 tlian God 
 Being wise and kind : earnestly hearken 
 
 now. 
 Prometheus. Obscurely thro' my 
 
 brain, like shadows dim, 
 Sweej) awful thoughts, rapid and thick. 
 
 I feel 
 Faint, like one mingled in entwining 
 
 love ; 
 Yet 'tis not pleasure. 
 
 TJie Earth. No, tliou canst not hear ; 
 Thou art imnaortal, and this tongue is 
 
 known 
 Only to tliose who die. 
 
 Prometheus. And what art thou, 
 O, melancholy Voice ? 
 
 The Earth. I am tlie Earth, 
 Tliy mother ; she within whose stony 
 
 veins, 
 To the last fibre of the loftiest ti'ee 
 Whose thin leaves trembled in the 
 
 frozen air, 
 Joy ran, as blood within a living frame, 
 When thou didst from her bosom, like a 
 
 cloud, 
 Of glory, arise, a spirit of keen joy ! 
 And at thy voice her pining sons uplifted 
 Their prostrate brows from the polluting 
 
 dust, 
 And our almighty Tyrant with fierce 
 
 dread 
 Grew pale, until his thunder chained 
 
 thee here. 
 Then, see those million worlds which 
 
 burn and roll 
 Around us : their inhabitants belield 
 My spliered light wane in wide Heaven ; 
 
 the sea 
 Was lifted by strange^tempest, and new 
 
 fire 
 From earthquake-rifted mountains of 
 
 bright snow 
 Shook its poitentous hair beneath 
 
 Heaven's frown ; 
 Lightning and Inundation vexed the 
 
 plains ; 
 Blue thistles bloomed in cities ; foodless 
 
 toads 
 Within voluptuous chambers panting 
 
 crawled ; 
 
 When Plague had fallen on man, and 
 
 beast and worm. 
 And Famine ; and black blight on herb 
 
 and tree ; 
 And in the corn, and vines, and meadow- 
 grass, 
 Teemed ineradicable poisonous weeds 
 Draining their growth, for my wan 
 
 breast was dry 
 With grief ; and the thin air, my breath, 
 
 was stained 
 With the contagion of a mother's hate 
 Breathed on her child's destroyer ; aye, 
 
 I heard 
 Thy cui'se, the which, if thou reraem- 
 
 berest not. 
 Yet my innumerable seas and streams. 
 Mountains, and caves, and winds, and 
 
 yon wide air. 
 And the inarticulate people of the 
 
 dead. 
 Preserve, a treasured spell. We meditate 
 In secret joy and hope those dreadful 
 
 words 
 But dare not speak them. 
 
 Prometheus. Venerable mother ! 
 All else who live and sutfer take from 
 
 thee 
 Some comfort ; flowers, and fruits, and 
 
 happy sounds. 
 And love, though fleeting ; these may 
 
 not be mine. 
 But mine own words, I pray, deny me 
 
 not. 
 Tlie Earth. They shall be told. Ere 
 
 Babylon was dust. 
 The Magus Zoroaster, my dead child. 
 Met his own image walking in the gar- 
 den. 
 That apparition, sole of men, he saw. 
 For know there are two worlds of life 
 
 and death : 
 One that which thou beholdest ; but the 
 
 other 
 Is imderneath the grave, where do in- 
 habit 
 The shadows of all forms that think 
 
 and live 
 Till death unite them and they part 
 
 no more ; 1 1 
 
 Dreams and the light imaginings of || 
 
 men, 
 And all that fate creates or love desires, 
 Terrible, strange, sublime and beauteous 
 
 shapes. 
 There thou art, and dost hang, a writh- 
 ing shade, 
 'Mid wliirlwind-peopled mountains ; all 
 
 the gods 
 
 1 
 
SHELLEY 
 
 3°3 
 
 Are there, and all tlie powers of name- 
 less worlds, 
 
 Vast, sceptred phantoms; heroes, men, 
 and beasts ; 
 
 And Deniogorgon, a tremendous gloom ; 
 
 And he, the supreme Tyrant, on his 
 throne 
 
 Of burning gold. Son, one of these 
 shall utter 
 
 Tlie curse which all remember. Call 
 at will 
 
 Tliine own ghost, or the ghost of Jupiter, 
 
 Hades or Typhon, or what migiitier Gods 
 
 From ail-prolific Evil, since tliy ruin 
 
 Have sprung, and trampled on my pros- 
 trate sons. 
 
 Ask, and thej'^ must rejily : so the revenge 
 
 Of the Supreme may sweep thro' vacant 
 shades. 
 
 As rainy wind thro' the abandoned gate 
 
 Of a fallen palace. 
 
 Pi'0)iietheiiii. Mother, let not auglit 
 
 Of that which may be evil, pass again 
 
 My lips, or those of aught resembling me. 
 
 Phantasm of Jupiter, arise, appear ! 
 
 lone 
 
 My wings are folded o'er mine ears : 
 
 My wings are crossed o'er mine eyes : 
 Yet tliro' their silver shade appears, 
 
 And thro' their lulling plumes arise, 
 A Sliape, a throng of sounds ; 
 
 May it be no ill to tliee 
 O thou of many wounds ! 
 ^esbv whom, for our sweet sister's sake. 
 Ever thus we watch and wake. 
 
 Panthea 
 
 The sound is of whirlwind underground 
 Earthquake, and fire, and mountains 
 cloven ; 
 The shape is awful like the sound, 
 
 Clothed in dark purple, star-inwoven. 
 A sceptre of pale gold 
 To stay steps proud, o'er the slow 
 cloud 
 His veined hand doth hold. 
 Cruel he looks, but calm and strong. 
 Like one who does, not suffers wrong. 
 Pliantasm of Jupiter. Wliy have 
 the secret powers of this strange 
 world 
 Driven me, a frail and empty phantom, 
 
 hither 
 On direst storms? Wliat unaccustomed 
 
 .sounds 
 Are hovering on my lips, unlike the voic^e 
 With wliich our pallid race hold ghastly 
 talk 
 
 In darkness ? And, proud sufferer, who 
 art thou ? 
 Prometheus. Tremendous Image, as 
 thou art mu.st be 
 He whom thou shadowest forth. I am 
 
 his foe, 
 The Titan. Speak the words which I 
 
 would hear, 
 Although no thought inform thine 
 empty voice. 
 Tlie Earth. Listen ! And tho' your 
 echoes must be mute, 
 Gray mountains, and old woods, and 
 
 haunted springs. 
 Prophetic caves, and isle-surrounding 
 
 sti'eams, 
 Rejoice to hear what yet ye cannot speak. 
 Pliantasm. A spirit seizes me and 
 speaks within : 
 It tears me as fire tears a thunder-cloud. 
 Panthea. See, how he lifts his mighty 
 looks, tlie Heaven 
 Darkens above. 
 lone. He speaks ! O shelter me ! 
 
 Promethens. I see the curse on 
 gestures proud and cold, 
 And looks of firm defiance, and calm hate, 
 And such despair as mocks itself witli 
 
 smiles. 
 Written as on a scroll : yet speak : 
 Oh , speak ! 
 
 Phantasm 
 
 Fiend, I defy thee I with a calm, fixed 
 
 mind. 
 All that thou canst inflict I bid thee 
 
 do; 
 Foul Tyrant both of Gods and Human- 
 kind, 
 One only being shalt thou not 
 subdue. 
 Rain then thy plagues upon me here. 
 Ghastly disease, and frenzying fear : 
 And let alternate frost and fire 
 Eat into me, and be tliine ire 
 Lightning, and cutting hail, and legioned 
 
 forms 
 Of furies, driving by upon the wounding 
 storms. 
 
 Ay, do thy worst. Thou art om- 
 nipotent. 
 O'er all things but thyself I gave 
 thee power. 
 And my own will. Be thy swift 
 mischiefs sent 
 To blast mankind, from yon ethere.d 
 tower. 
 Let thy malignant sjjirit move 
 
304 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 In darkness over those I love : 
 On me and mine I imprecate 
 The utmost torture of thy hate ; 
 And tlius devote to sleepless agony, 
 This undeclining- head, while thou must 
 reign on high. 
 
 But thou, who art the God and Lord : 
 O, thou, 
 Who fillest with thy soul this world 
 of woe. 
 To whom all things of Earth and 
 Heaven do bow 
 In fear and worship : all-prevailing 
 foe! 
 I curse thee ! let a sufferer's curse 
 Clasp thee, his torturer, like remorse ; 
 Till thine Infinity shall be 
 A robe of envenomed agony ; 
 And thine Omnipotence a crown of pain. 
 To cling like burning gold round thy 
 dissolving brain. 
 
 Heap on thy soul, by virtue of this 
 Curse 
 111 deeds, then be tliou damned, 
 beholding good ; 
 Both infinite as is the universe. 
 
 And thou, and thy self-torturing 
 solitude. 
 An awful image of calm power 
 Though now tliou sittest. let tlie hour 
 Come, when thou nxust appear to be 
 That which tliou art internally. 
 And after many a false and fruitless 
 
 crime 
 Scorn track thy lagging fall thro' bound- 
 less space and time. 
 
 Prometheus. Were these my words, 
 O, Parent? 
 - The Earth. They were thine. 
 
 Prometheus. It doth repent me : 
 
 words are quick and vain ; 
 Grief for awhile is blind, and so was 
 
 mine. 
 I wish no living thing to suffer pain. 
 
 The Earth 
 
 Misery, Oh misery to me. 
 
 That Jove at length should vanqnish 
 
 thee. 
 Wail, howl aloud. Land and Sea, 
 The Earth's rent heart shall answer 
 ye. 
 Howl. Spirits of the living and the dead. 
 Your refuge, your defence lies fallen and 
 vanquished. 
 
 First EcliO 
 Lies fallen and vanquished ! 
 Second Echo 
 
 Fallen and vanquished ! 
 
 lone 
 
 Fear not : 'tis but some passing ppasm, 
 
 Tlie Titan is unvanquished still. 
 But see, where thro' the azure chasm 
 
 Of yon forked and snowy hill 
 Trampling the slant winds on high 
 
 With golden-sandalled feet, that 
 glow 
 Under plumes of purple dye. 
 Like rose-ensanguined ivor^^ 
 
 A Shape comes now, 
 Stretching on high from his right hand 
 A serpent-ciTictured wand. 
 Panthea. 'Tis Jove's world-wander- 
 ing herald, Mercury. 
 
 lone 
 
 And who are those with hydra tresses 
 And iron wings that climb the wind, 
 
 Wliom the frowning God represses 
 Like vapors steaming up behind, 
 
 Clanging loud, an endless crowd — ■ 
 
 Pantliea 
 
 Tliese are Jove's tempest-walking 
 hounds. 
 Whom he gluts with groans and blood. 
 When charioted on suli)liurous cloud 
 
 He bursts Heaven's bounds. 
 
 lone 
 
 Are they now led, from the thin dead 
 On new pangs to be fed? 
 
 Panthea 
 
 The Titan looks as ever, firm, not 
 
 proud. 
 First Fury. Ha ! I scent life ! 
 Second Fury. Let me but look into 
 
 his eyes ! 
 Third Fury. The hope of torturing 
 him smells like a heap 
 Of corpses, to a death-bird after battle. 
 First Fury. Barest thou delay, O 
 Herald ! take cheer, Hounds 
 Of Hell : what if the Son of Maia soon 
 Sliould make us fot)d and sport— who 
 
 can please long 
 The Omnipotent? 
 
 Mercury. Back to your towers of 
 iron. 
 
SHELLEY 
 
 305 
 
 And gnasli, beside the streams of fire 
 
 and wail, 
 Your foodless teeth. Geryon, arise ! 
 
 and Gorgon, 
 Chimgera, and thou Sphinx, subtlest 01 
 
 fiends 
 Who ministered to Thebes Heaven's 
 
 poisoned wine. 
 Unnatural love, and more unnatural 
 
 hate : 
 These shall perform your task. 
 
 First Fury. Oh, mercy ! mercy ! 
 
 We die with our desire : drive us not 
 
 back ! 
 Mercury. Croucli tlien in silence. 
 
 Awful Sufferer 
 To thee unwilling, most unwillingly 
 I come, by the great Father's will driven 
 
 down. 
 To execute a doom of new revenge. 
 Alas ! I pity thee, and hate myself 
 Tliat I can do no more: aye from thy 
 
 sight 
 Returning, for a season, Heaven seems 
 
 Hell, 
 So thy worn form pursues me night and 
 
 day. 
 Smiling reproach. Wise art thou, firm 
 
 and good, 
 But vainly wouldst stand forth alone in 
 
 strife 
 Against the Omnipotent ; as yon clear 
 
 lamps 
 Tliat measure and divide the weary 
 
 years 
 From which thei'e is no refuge, long 
 
 have taught 
 And long must teach. Even now thy 
 
 Torturer ;irnis 
 With the strange might of uniniagined 
 
 pains 
 The powers who scheme slow agonies in 
 
 Hell, 
 And mj commission is to lead them 
 
 here, 
 Or what more subtle, foul, or savage 
 
 fiends 
 People the ab3'ss, and leave them to 
 
 their task. 
 Be it not so ! there is a secret known 
 To tliee, and to none else of living 
 
 things, 
 Wiiicli may transfer the sceptre of wide 
 
 Heaven, 
 The fear of which perplexes the Su- 
 preme : 
 Clothe it in words, and bid it clasp his 
 
 throne 
 In intercession ; bend thy soul in prayer, 
 20 
 
 And like a suppliant in some gorgeous 
 
 fane. 
 Let the will kneel within thy haughty 
 
 heart : 
 For benefits and meek submission tame 
 Tlie fiercest and the mightiest. 
 
 Prometheus. Evil minds 
 
 Change good to their own nature. I 
 
 gave all 
 He has ; and In return he chains me here 
 Years, ages, night and day : whether 
 
 the Sun 
 Split my parched skin, or in the moony 
 
 night 
 Tiie crystal-winged snow cling round 
 
 my hair : 
 Whilst my beloved race is trampled 
 
 dovrn 
 By his thought-executing ministers. 
 Such is tiie tyrant's recompense : 'tis 
 
 just : 
 He who is evil can I'eceive no good ; 
 And for a world bestowed, or a friend 
 
 lost, 
 He can feel hate, fear, shame ; not gra- 
 titude : 
 He but requites me for his own mis- 
 deed. 
 Kindness to such is keen reproach, which 
 
 breaks 
 With bitter stings the light sleep of 
 
 Revenge. 
 Submission, thou dost know I cannot 
 
 try: 
 For what submission but that fatal word, 
 Tlie death-seal of mankind's captivity, 
 liike the Sicilian's hair-suspended sword, 
 Wliich trembles o'er his crown, would 
 
 he accept. 
 Or could I yield ? Which yet I will not 
 
 yield. 
 Let others flatter Crime, where it sits 
 
 throned 
 In brief Omnipotence : secure are they : 
 For Justice, when triunipiiant, will 
 
 weep down 
 Pity, not punishment, on her own 
 
 wrongs. 
 Too much avenged by those who err. 
 
 I wait, 
 Enduring thus, the retributive hour 
 Which since we spake is even nearer 
 
 now. 
 But hark, the hell-hounds clamor : fear 
 
 delay : 
 Behold ! Heaven lowers under thy 
 
 Father's frown. 
 Mercury. Oh, that we might be 
 
 spared : I to inflict 
 
3o6 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 And thou to suffer ! Once more answer 
 
 me : 
 Thou knowest not the period of Jove's 
 power ? 
 Prometheus. I know but this, tliat it 
 
 must come. 
 Merc2iry. Alas ! 
 
 Thou canst not count thy years to come 
 of pain ? 
 Prometheus. They last while Jove 
 must reign : nor more, nor less 
 Do I desire or fear. 
 
 Mercury. Yet pause, and plunge 
 Into Eternity, wliere recorded time. 
 Even all that we imagine, age on age, 
 Seems but a point, and the reluctant 
 
 mind 
 Flags wearily in its unending flight. 
 Till it sink, dizzy, blind, lost, shelter- 
 less ; 
 Perchance it has not numbered the slow 
 
 years 
 Which thou must spend in torture, un- 
 reprieved ? 
 Prometheus. Perchance no thought 
 
 can count tliem, yet they pass. 
 Mercury. If tliou might'st dwell 
 among the Gods the while 
 Lapped in volujituous joy ? 
 
 Prometheus. I would not quit 
 
 This bleak ravine, these unrepentant 
 pains. 
 Mercury. Alas ! I wonder at, yet 
 
 pity thee. 
 Prometheus. Pit}^ the self-despising 
 slaves of Heaven, 
 Not me, within whose mind sits peace 
 
 serene. 
 As light in the sun, throned : how vain 
 
 is talk ! 
 Call up the fiends. 
 
 lone. O, sister, look ! White fire 
 Has cloven to the roots yon huge snow- 
 loaded cedar ; 
 How fearfully God's thunder howls be- 
 hind ! 
 Mercury. I must obey his words and 
 thine : alas ! 
 Most heavily reinorse hangs at my heart! 
 Panthea. See where the child of 
 Heaven, with winged feet, 
 Runs down the slanted sunlight of the 
 dawn. 
 lone. Dear sister, close thy plumes 
 over thine eyes 
 Lest thou behold and die : they come : 
 
 they come 
 Blackening the birth of day with count- 
 less wings, 
 
 And hollow underneath, like death. 
 First Fury. Prometheus I 
 
 Second Fury. Immortal Titan 1 
 Third Fury. Champion of 
 
 Heaven's slaves ! 
 Prometheus. He wdiom some dread- 
 ful voice invokes is here, 
 
 Prometheus, the chained Titau. Horrible 
 forms. 
 
 What and who are ye ? Never yet there 
 came 
 
 Phantasms so foul thro' monster-teem- 
 ing Hell 
 
 From the all-miscreative brain of Jove ; 
 
 Wliilst I behold such execrable shapes, 
 
 Methinks I grow like what I contem- 
 plate, 
 
 And laugh and stare in loathsome sym- 
 pathy. 
 First Fury. We are the ministers of 
 pain, and fear, 
 
 And disappointment, and mistrust, and 
 hate, 
 
 And clinging crime ; and as lean dogs 
 pursue 
 
 Thro' wood and lake some struck and 
 sobbing fawn. 
 
 We track all things that weep, and 
 bleed, and live. 
 
 When the great King betrays them to 
 our will. 
 Prometheus. Oh ! many fearful natures 
 in one name, 
 
 I know ye ; and these lakes and echoes 
 know 
 
 The darkness and the clangor of your 
 wings. 
 
 But why more hideous than j'our loathed 
 selves 
 
 Gather ye up in legions from the deep? 
 Second Fury. We knew not that : 
 
 Sisters, rejoice, rejoice ! 
 Prometheus. Can aught exult in its 
 
 deformity ? 
 Second Fury. The beauty of delight 
 makes lovei's glad. 
 
 Gazing on one another : so are we. 
 
 As from the rose which the pale priest- 
 ess kneels 
 
 To gather for her festal crown of flowers 
 
 The aerial crimson falls, flushing her 
 cheek, 
 
 So from our victim's destined agony 
 
 The shade which is our form invests us 
 round, 
 
 Else we are shapeless as our mother 
 Night. 
 Prometheiis. I laugh your power, and 
 his who sent you here, 
 
SHELLEY 
 
 307 
 
 To lowest scorn. Pour forth the cup of 
 
 pain. 
 First Fury. Thou thinkest we will 
 
 rend thee bone from bone, 
 And nerve from nerve, working like fire 
 
 witliin ? 
 Prometheus. Pain is my element, as 
 
 hate is thine ; 
 Ye rend me now : I care not. 
 
 Second Fury. Dost imagine 
 
 We will but laugh into tliy lidless eyes ? 
 Pronietheus. I weigii not wliat ye do, 
 
 but what ye suffer, 
 Being evil. Cruel was the power which 
 
 called 
 You, or aught else so wretched, into 
 
 hght. 
 Third Fury. Thou tliink 'st we will 
 
 live thro' thee, one by one. 
 Like animal life, and tho' we can obscure 
 
 not 
 Tlie soul which bvu'ns witliin, tiiat we 
 
 will dwell 
 Beside it. like a vain loud multitude 
 Vexing the self-content of wisest men : 
 That we will be dread thouglit beneath 
 
 thy brain, 
 And foul desire round thine astonished 
 
 heart. 
 And blood within thy labyrinthine veins 
 Crawling like agony. 
 
 Prometheus. Why, ye are thus now ; 
 Yet am I king over myself, and rule 
 The torturing and conflicting tlirongs 
 
 within, 
 As Jove rules you when Hell grows 
 
 mutinous. 
 
 Chorus of Furies 
 
 From the ends of the earth, from the 
 ends of the earth, 
 Where the night has its grave and the 
 morning its birth. 
 Come, come, come! 
 Oh, ye who shake hills with the scream 
 
 of your mirth. 
 When cities sink howling in ruin ; and 
 
 ye 
 Who with wingless footsteps trample 
 
 the sea. 
 And close upon Shipwreck and Famine's 
 
 track. 
 Sit chattering with joy on the foodless 
 wreck. 
 Come, come, come ! 
 Leave the bed, low, cold and red, 
 Strewed beneath a nation dead ; 
 Leave the hatred, as in ashes 
 Fire is left for future burning : 
 
 It will burst in bloodier fashion. 
 
 When ye stir it, soon returning : 
 Leave the self-contempt implanted 
 In young spirits, sense-enchanted, 
 
 Misery's yet unkindled fuel : 
 Leave Hell's secrets half unchanted 
 
 To the maniac dreamer ; cruel 
 More than ye can be with hate 
 Is he with fear. 
 Come, come, come ! 
 We are steaming up from Hell's wide 
 gate, 
 And we burthen tlie blast of the 
 
 atmospliere. 
 But vainly we toil till ye come here 
 lone. Sister, I hear the thunder of 
 
 new wings. 
 PautJiea. These solid mountains 
 quiver with the sound 
 Even as tlie tremulous air : their shadows 
 
 make 
 The space within my plumes more black 
 than night. 
 
 First Fiery 
 
 Your call was as a winged car 
 Driven on whirlwinds fast and far ; 
 It rapt us from red gulf of war. 
 
 Second Fury 
 From wide cities, famine-wasted ; 
 
 Third Fury 
 Groans half heard, and blood untasted ; 
 
 Fourth Fury 
 Kingly conclaves stern and cold. 
 Where blood with gold is bought and 
 sokl ; 
 
 Fifth Fury 
 
 From the furnace, white and hot. 
 In which — 
 
 A Fury 
 
 Speak not : whisper not 
 I know all that ye would tell, 
 But to speak might break the spell 
 Which must bend tlie Invincible, 
 
 The stern of thought ; 
 He yet defies the deepest power of 
 Hell. 
 
 Fury 
 Tear the veil ! 
 
 Another Fury 
 
 It is torn. 
 
 Chorus 
 
 The pale stars of the morn 
 Shine on a misery, dire to be borne. 
 
3o8 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Dost thou faint, mighty Titan ? We 
 
 iaugli thee to .scorn. 
 Dost tlioii boast the clear knowledge 
 
 tliou waken'd.st for man? 
 Then was kindled within him a thirst 
 
 which outran 
 Those perishing waters ; a thirst of fierce 
 
 fever, 
 Hope, love, doubt, desire, which con- 
 sume him for ever. 
 One came fortii of gentle worth 
 Smiling on the sanguine earth ; 
 His words outlived him, like swift 
 poi.son. 
 Withering up truth, peace, and ]nty. 
 Look ! where round the wide horizon 
 
 Many a million-peopled city 
 Vomits smoke in the bright air. 
 Mark that outcry of despair I 
 'Tis his mild and gentle glio.st 
 
 Wailing for the faitii he kindled : 
 Look again, the flames almost 
 To a glow-worm's lamp have 
 dwindled : 
 The survivors round the embers 
 (rather in dread. 
 
 Joy. joy. joy ! 
 
 Past ages crowd on thee, but each one 
 remembers. 
 
 And the future is dark, and tlie present 
 is spread : 
 
 Like a pillow of thorns for thy slumber- 
 less head. 
 
 Semichorns I 
 
 Di-ops of bloody agony flow 
 
 From his white and quivering brow. 
 
 Grant a little I'espite Jiow : 
 
 See a disenchanted nation 
 
 Springs like day from desolation ; 
 
 To Truth its state is dedicate, 
 
 And Freedom leads it fortli, liermate; 
 
 A legioned band of linked brothers 
 
 Whom Love calls children — 
 
 Semichorns II 
 
 'Tis another's : 
 See how kindred murder kin : 
 'Tis the vintage time for deatli and sin; 
 Blood, like new wine, bubbles within ; 
 Till Despair smothers 
 The struggling world, which slaves and 
 tyrants win. 
 [.4// tJie Furies ^'amsh, except one. 
 lone. Hark, sister ! what a low yet 
 dreadful groan. 
 Quite unsuppressed is tearing up the 
 heart 
 
 Of the good Titan, as storms tear the 
 
 deep. 
 And beasts hear the sea moan in inland 
 
 caves. 
 Darest thou observe how the fiends 
 
 torture him ? 
 Panthea. Alas ! I looked forth twice, 
 
 but will no more. 
 lotie. What didst thou see ? 
 Panthea. A woful sight : a youth 
 
 With patient looks nailed to a cru(;ifix. 
 lone. What next ? 
 Panthea. Tlie heaven around, the 
 
 eartli below 
 Was peopled with thick shapes of human 
 
 death, 
 All horrible, and wrought by human 
 
 hands, 
 And .some appeared the work of human 
 
 liearts. 
 For men w^ere slowlj^ killed by frowns 
 
 and smiles ; 
 And other sights too foul to speak and 
 
 live 
 Were wandering by. Let lis not tempt 
 
 worse fear 
 By looking forth : those groans are grief 
 
 enovigli. 
 Fari/. Behold an emblem : those 
 
 who do endure 
 Deep wrongs for man, and scorn, and 
 
 chains, but heap 
 Thousandfold torment on themselves 
 
 and him. 
 Protnetheus. Remit the anguish of 
 
 tliat liglited stare ; 
 Close those wan lips ; let that thorn- 
 wounded brow 
 Stream not with blood ; it mingles with 
 
 thy tears ! 
 Fix, fix those tortured orbs in jieace and 
 
 death. 
 So tliy sick throes shake not that cruci- 
 fix, 
 So those pale fingers play not with t)iy 
 
 gore. 
 O, horrible ! Thy name I will not speak, 
 Tt liath become a curse. I see, I see 
 Tlie wise, the mild, the loft3% and the 
 
 just. 
 Whom thy slaves hate for being like to 
 
 tliee. 
 Some hunted by foul lies fi'om their 
 
 heart's home, 
 An eai"ly-chosen. late-lamented home ; 
 As hooded ovinces cling to tlie driven 
 
 hind ; 
 Some linked to corpses in unwholesome 
 
 cells : 
 
SHELLEY 
 
 3^9 
 
 Some — Hear I not the multitude laugh 
 
 loud ?— 
 Impaled in lingering fire : and mighty 
 
 realms 
 Float by my feet, like sea-uprooted isles, 
 Whose sons are kneaded down in com- 
 mon blood 
 By the red light of tlieir own burning 
 
 homes. 
 Fury. Blood thou canst see, and fire ; 
 
 and canst hear groans ; 
 Worse things, unheard, unseen, remain 
 
 behind. 
 Provietheus. Worse ? 
 Fur;/. In each human heart 
 
 terror survives 
 The ruin it has gorged : the loftiest fear 
 All that tliey would disdain to think 
 
 were true : 
 Hypocrisy and custom make tlieir minds 
 The fanes of many a worship, now out- 
 worn. 
 They dare not devise good for man's 
 
 estate. 
 And j'et they know not that they do not 
 
 dare. 
 The good want power, but to weep 
 
 barren tears. 
 The powerful goodness want : worse 
 
 need for them. 
 Xllfi^wise want love ; a nd those who 
 
 ^""Trrre-TPaiTt wisdoiii'T "" 
 
 And all best things ai^ethus confused to 
 
 ill. 
 Many are strong and rich, and would 
 
 be just, 
 But live among their suffering fellow- 
 men 
 As if none felt : they know not what 
 
 they do. 
 Provietheus. Tliy words are like a 
 
 cloud of winged snakes ; 
 And j'et I pity tiiose tiiey torture not. 
 Fury. Thou pitiest them ? I speak 
 
 no more ! \^"auisheH. 
 
 Prometheus. Ah woe ! 
 
 Ah woe! Alas! pain, pain ever, for 
 
 ever ! 
 I close my tearless ej^es, but see more 
 
 clear 
 Thy works within my woe-illumed mind. 
 Thou subtle tyrant ! Peace is in the 
 
 grave. 
 The grave liides all things beautiful and 
 
 good : 
 I am a God and cannot find it there. 
 Nor would I seek it : for, though dread 
 
 revenge. 
 This is defeat, fierce king, not victory. 
 
 The sights with which thou torturest 
 
 gird my soul 
 With new endurance, till the hour arrives 
 When they shall be no types of things 
 
 which are. 
 Panthea. Alas ! what sawest thou ? 
 Prometheus. There are two woes : 
 To speak, and to behold ; thou spare 
 
 me one. 
 Names are there. Nature's sacred watch- 
 words, the}^ 
 Were borne aloft in bright emblazonry ; 
 The nations thronged around, and cried 
 
 aloud. 
 As with one voice. Truth, liberty, and 
 
 love ! 
 Suddenly fierce confusion fell from 
 
 heaven 
 Among them : there was strife, deceit, 
 
 and fear : 
 Tyrants rushed in, and did divide the 
 
 spoil. 
 This was the shadow of the truth I saw. 
 77ie Earth. I felt thy torture, son, 
 
 witii such mixed joy 
 As pain and virtue give. To cheer thy 
 
 state 
 I bid ascend those subtle and fair spirits, 
 Whose homes are the dim caves of liuman 
 
 thought. 
 And who inhabit, as birds wing the wind , 
 Its world-surrounding ether : they be- 
 hold 
 Beyond that twilight realm, as in a. glass, 
 The future : may they speak comfort 
 
 to tiiee ! 
 Panthea. Look, sister, where a troop 
 
 of spirits gather, 
 Like flocks of clouds in spring's delight- 
 ful weather, 
 Thronging in the blue air ! 
 
 lo^te. And see ! more come, 
 
 Like fountain-vapors when the winds 
 
 are dumb, 
 That climb up the ravine in scattered 
 
 lines. 
 And. hark I is it the music of the pines? 
 Is it the lake ? Is it the waterfall ? 
 Panthea. 'Tis something sadder, 
 
 sweeter far than all. 
 
 Chorus of Sjiirits 
 
 From un remembered ages we 
 Gentle guides and guardians be 
 Of heaven-oppressed mortality ; 
 And we Ijreathe, and sicken not. 
 The atmosphere of human thought : 
 Be it dim, and dank, and gray. 
 Like a storm-extinguished day. 
 
Jo 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Travelled o'er bj' dying gleams ; 
 
 Be it briglit as all between 
 Cloudless skies and windless streams, 
 
 Silent, liquid, and serene ; 
 As the birds within tlie wind, 
 
 As the fish within tlie wave. 
 As tile thoughts of man's own mind 
 
 Float thro' all above the grave ; 
 We make there our liquid lair, 
 • Voyaging cloudlike and unpent 
 Thro' the boundless element : 
 Thence we bear the propliecy 
 Which begins and ends in tliee ! 
 
 lone. More 5et come, one by one 
 tlie air around tliem 
 Looks radiant as the air around a star. 
 
 First Spirit 
 
 On a battle-trumpet's blast 
 I fled hither, fast, fast, fast, 
 'Mid the darkness upward cast. 
 From tlie dust of creeds outworn. 
 From the t3'rant's banner torn, 
 Gathering 'round me, onward borne. 
 There was mingled manj'^ a cry — 
 Freedom ! Hope ! Death ! Victory ! 
 Till they faded thro' the sky ; 
 And one sound, above, around, 
 One sound beneath, around, above, 
 Was moving ; 'twas the soul of love ; 
 'Twas the hope, the prophecy. 
 Which begins and ends in thee. 
 
 Second Sinvit 
 
 A rainbow's arch stood on the sea. 
 Which rocked beneath, immovably ; 
 And the triiuiiphant storm did flee. 
 Like a conqueror, swift and proud, 
 Between, with many a captive cloud, 
 A shapeless, dark and rapid crowd. 
 Each by lightning riven in half : 
 I heard the thunder hoarsely laugh : 
 Mighty fleets were sti-ewn like cliaif 
 And spread beneath a hell of death 
 O'er the wdiite waters. I alit 
 On a great ship lightning-split, 
 And speeded hither on the sigh 
 Of one who gave an enemy 
 His plank, then jilunged aside to die. 
 
 niird Spirit 
 
 I sate beside a sage's bed. 
 And the lamp was burning red 
 Near the book where he had feil. 
 Wlien a Dream with plumes of flame. 
 To his pillow hovering came, 
 And I knew it was the same 
 
 Which had kindled long ago 
 Pity, eloquence, and woe ; 
 And the world awhile below 
 Wore the shade its lustre made. 
 It has borne me here as fleet 
 As Desire's lightning feet ; 
 I must ride it back ere moiTow, 
 Or the sage will wake in sorrow. 
 
 Fourth Spirit 
 
 On a poet's lips I slept 
 Dreaming like a love-adept 
 In the sound his breathing kept : 
 Nor seeks nor finds he mortal blisses. 
 But feeds on the aerial kisses 
 Of shapes that haunt thought's wilder- 
 nesses. 
 He will watch from dawn to gloom 
 The lake-reflected sun illume 
 The yellow bees in the ivj'^-bloom, 
 Nor heed nor see, what things they be ; 
 But from these create he can 
 Forms more real than living man, 
 Nurslings of immortality ! 
 One of these awakened me, 
 And I sped to succor thee. 
 
 lone 
 
 Behold'st thou not two shapes from the 
 
 east and west 
 Come, as two doves to one beloved nest. 
 Twin nurslings of the all-sustaining air 
 On swift still wings glide down the 
 
 atmosphere ? 
 And, hark ! their sweet, sad voices! 'tis 
 
 despair 
 Mingled with love and then dissolved 
 
 in sound. 
 Panthea. Canst thou speak, sister? all 
 
 my words are drowned. 
 lone. Their beauty gives me voice. 
 
 See how they float 
 On their sustaining wingsofskiey grain. 
 Orange and azure deepening into gold : 
 Their soft smiles light the air like a 
 
 star's fire. 
 
 Chorus of Spirits 
 Hast thou beheld the form of love ? 
 
 Fifth Spirit 
 
 As over wide dominions 
 I sped, like some swift cloud that wings 
 
 the wide air's wildernesses, 
 That planet-crested shape swept by on 
 
 lightning-braided pinions. 
 Scattering the liquid joy of life from his 
 
 ambrosial tresses : 
 
SHELLEY 
 
 311 
 
 His footsteps paved the world with light ; 
 
 but as I past ' twas fading, 
 And hollow Ruin yawned behind : great 
 
 sages bound in madness, 
 And headless patriots, and pale youths 
 
 wlio perished, unupbraiding. 
 Gleamed in the night. I wandered o'er, 
 
 till thou, O King of sadness, 
 Turned by thy smile the worst I saw to 
 recollected gladness. 
 
 Sixth Spirit 
 
 Ah, sister ! Desolation is a delicate thing : 
 It walks not on tlie earth, it floats not on 
 
 the air. 
 But treads with killing footstep, and 
 
 fans with silent wing 
 The tender hopes which in their hearts 
 
 the best and gentlest bear ; 
 Who, sootiied to false repose by tlie 
 
 fanning plumes above 
 And the music-stirring motion of its 
 
 soft and busy feet. 
 Dream visions of aerial joy, and call the 
 
 monster, Love, 
 And wake, and find the shadow Pain, 
 
 as he whom now we greet. 
 
 Chorus 
 
 Tho' Ruin now Love's shadow be, 
 Following him, destroyingly, 
 
 On Death's white and winged steed 
 Which the fleetest cannot flee. 
 
 Trampling down both flowerand weed, 
 Man and beast, and foul and fair. 
 Like a tempest thro' the air ; 
 Thou slialt quell this horseman grim, 
 Woundless though in heart or limb. 
 
 Prometheus. Spirits ! how know ye 
 this shall be ? 
 
 Chorus 
 
 In the atmosphere w^e breathe. 
 As buds grow red when the snow-storms 
 flee, 
 
 Fi-om spring gathering up beneath, 
 Whose mild winds shake the elder brake, 
 And the wandering herdsmen know 
 That the white-thorn soon will blow : 
 Wisdom, Justice, Love, and Peace, 
 When they struggle to increase, 
 
 Are to us as soft winds be 
 
 To shepherd boys, the prophecy 
 
 Which begins and ends in thee. 
 
 loyie. Where are the Spirits fled ? 
 
 Panthea. Only a sense 
 
 Remains of them, like the omnipotence 
 Of music, when the inspired voice and 
 lute 
 
 Languish, ere yet the responses are mute, 
 Which thro' the deep and labyrinthine 
 
 soul. 
 Like echoes thro' long caverns, wind 
 
 and roll. 
 Prometheus. How fair these airborn 
 
 shapes ! and yet I feel 
 Most vain all hope but love ; and thou 
 
 art far, 
 Asia ! who, when my being overflowed, 
 Wert like a golden chalice to bright wine 
 Which else had sunk into the thirsty 
 
 dust. 
 All things are still : alas ! how heavily 
 This quiet morning weighs upon my 
 
 heart ; 
 Tho' I should dream I could even sleep 
 
 with grief 
 If slumber were denied not. I would fain 
 Be what it is my destiny to be. 
 The savior and the strength of suffer- 
 ing man, 
 Or sink into the original gulf of things : 
 There is no agony, and no solace left ; 
 Earth can console, Heaven can torment 
 
 no more. 
 Paiithea. Hast thou forgotten one 
 
 who watches thee 
 The cold dark night, and never sleeps 
 
 but when 
 The shadow of thy spirit falls on her ? 
 Prometheus. I said all hope was vain 
 
 but love : thou lovest. 
 Panthea. Deeply in truth ; but the 
 
 eastern star looks white, 
 And Asia waits in that far Indian vale 
 The scene of her sad exile ; rugged once 
 And desolate and frozen, like this ravine ; 
 But now invested with fair flowers and 
 
 herbs. 
 And haunted by sweet airs and sounds, 
 
 which flow 
 Among the woods and waters, from the 
 
 ether 
 Of her transforming presence, which 
 
 would fade 
 If it were mingled not with thine. 
 
 Farewell ! 
 
 ACT II 
 
 SCENE I.— Morning. A lovely Vale 
 IN THE Indian Caucasus. Asia 
 alone. 
 
 Asia. From all the blasts of heaven 
 thou hast descended : 
 Yes, like a spirit, like a thought, which 
 makes 
 
312 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Unwonted tears throng to the horny 
 
 eyes, 
 And beatings haunt the desolated heart, 
 Which should have learnt repose : thou 
 
 hast descended 
 Cradled in tempests ; thou dost wake, O 
 
 Spring ! 
 O child of many winds ! As suddenly 
 Thou coniest as the memory of a dream. 
 Which now is sad because it hath been 
 
 sweet ; 
 Like genius, or like joy which riseth up 
 As from the earth, clothing with golden 
 
 clouds 
 Tlie desert of our life. 
 Tliis is the season, this tlie day, the hour ; 
 At sunrise thou shouldst come, sweet 
 
 sister mine. 
 Too long desired, too long delaying, 
 
 come ! 
 How like death-worms the wingless 
 
 moments crawl ! 
 The point of one white star is quivering 
 
 still 
 Deep in the orange light of widening 
 
 morn 
 Beyond the purple mountains : thro" a 
 
 chasm 
 Of wind-divided mist the darker lake 
 Reflects it : now it wanes : it gleams 
 
 again 
 As the waves fade, and as the burning 
 
 threads 
 Of woven cloud unravel in pale air : 
 'Tis lost ! and thro" yon peaks of cloud- 
 like snow 
 Tlie roseate sunlight quivers : hear I not 
 The ^olian music of her sea-green 
 
 plumes 
 Winnowing the crimson dawn ? 
 
 [Panthea enters. 
 
 I feel, I see 
 
 Those eyes which burn thro' smiles that 
 
 fade in tears. 
 Like stars half quenched in mists of silver 
 
 dew. 
 Beloved and inost beautiful, who wearest 
 Tlie shadow of that soul by which I live. 
 How late thou art ! the sphered sun had 
 
 climbed 
 The sea : my heart was sick with hope, 
 
 before 
 Tlie printless air felt thy belated plumes. 
 Panthea. Pardon, great Sister ! but 
 
 my wings were faint 
 With the delight of a remembered 
 
 dream, 
 As are the noontide plumes of summer 
 
 winds 
 
 Satiate with sweet flowers. I was wont 
 
 to sleep 
 Peacefully, and awake refreshed and 
 
 calm 
 Before the sacred Titan's fall, and thy 
 Uiiliappy love, had made, thro' use and 
 
 pity, 
 Botli love and woe familiar to my Ireart 
 As they had gi'own to thine : erewliile I 
 
 slept . 
 Under the glaucous caverns of old Ocean 
 AVithin dim bowers of green and purple 
 
 moss. 
 Our young Tone's soft and milky arins 
 Locked then, as now, behind my dark, 
 
 moist hair, 
 Wliile my shut eyes and cheek were 
 
 pressed within 
 Tlie folded depth of her life-breathing 
 
 bosom : 
 But not as now, since I am made the 
 
 wind 
 Which fails beneath the music that I 
 
 bear 
 Of thy most wordless converse ; since 
 
 dissolved 
 Into the sense with which love talks, my 
 
 rest 
 AVas troubled and yet sweet; my waking 
 
 hours 
 Too full of care and pain. 
 
 Asia. Lift up thine eyes, 
 
 And let me read thy dream. 
 
 Panthea. As I liave said 
 
 With our sea-sister at his feet I slept. 
 The mountain mists, condensing at our 
 
 voice 
 Under the moon, had .spread their snowy 
 
 flakes. 
 From the keen ice shielding our linked 
 
 sleep. 
 Then two dreams came. One, I remem- 
 ber not. 
 But in the other his pale wound-worn 
 
 limbs 
 Fell from Prometheus, ami the azure 
 
 night 
 Grew radiant with the glory of that form 
 Which lives unchanged within, and his 
 
 voice fell 
 Like music which makes giddy the dim 
 
 brain. 
 Faint with intoxication of keen joy : 
 •' Sister of her whose footsteps pave the 
 
 world 
 With loveliness— more fair than aught 
 
 but lier. 
 Whose shadow thou art — lift thine eyes 
 
 on me." 
 
SHELLEY 
 
 3^3 
 
 I lifted tliem : the overpowering light 
 Of that immortal shape was shadowed 
 
 o'er 
 By love ; which, from his soft and flow- 
 ing limbs. 
 And passion -parted lips, and keen, faint 
 
 eyes, 
 Steamed forth like vaporous fire ; an 
 
 atmosphere 
 Which wrapt me in its all-dissolving 
 
 power, 
 As the warm ether of the morning sun 
 Wraps ere it drinks some cloud of wan- 
 dering dew. 
 I saw not, heard not, moved not, only felt 
 His presence flow and mingle thro' my 
 
 blood 
 Till it became his life, and his grew 
 
 mine. 
 And I was thus absoi'bed, until it passed. 
 And like the vapors when the sun sinks 
 
 down. 
 Gathering again in drops upon the 
 
 pines, 
 And tremulous as thej% in the deep 
 
 night 
 My being was condensed ; and as the 
 
 rays 
 Of thouglat were slowly gathered, I could 
 
 liear 
 His voice, whose accents lingered ere 
 
 they died 
 Like footsteps of weak melody : thy 
 
 name 
 Among tlie many sounds alone I heard 
 Of what might l)e articulate ; tho' still 
 I listened thro' the niglit when sound 
 
 was none, 
 lone wakened then, and said to nie : 
 "Canst thou divine what troubles me 
 
 to-niglit ? 
 I always knew what I desired l)efore. 
 Nor ever found delight to wisli in vain. 
 But now I cannot tell thee what I seek : 
 I know not ; something sweet, since it 
 
 is sweet 
 Even to desire ; it is thy sport, false 
 
 sister ; 
 Thou hast discovei'ed some enchantment 
 
 old. 
 Whose spells have stolen my spirit as I 
 
 slept 
 And mingled it with thine : for when 
 
 just now 
 We kissed, I felt within thy parted li])s 
 The sweet air that sustained me, and 
 
 the warmth 
 Of the life-blooJ, for loss of which I 
 
 faint. 
 
 Quivered between our intertwining 
 
 arms." 
 I answered not, for the Eastern star 
 
 grew pale. 
 But fled to thee. 
 
 Asia. Thou speakest, but thy words 
 
 Are as the air : I feel them not : Oii, lift 
 
 Thine eyes, that I may read his written 
 
 soul ! 
 
 Panthea. I lift them tho' they droop 
 
 beneath the load 
 
 Of that they would express : what canst 
 
 tliou see 
 But thine own fairest shadow imaged 
 there ? 
 Asia. Tlxine eyes are like the deep, 
 blue, bovmdless heaven 
 (Contracted to two circles underneath 
 Their long, fine lashes ; dark, far, mea- 
 sureless, 
 Orl) within orb, and line thro' line in- 
 woven. 
 Panthea. Why lookest thou as if a 
 
 spirit past ? 
 Asia. There is a change : be3"ond 
 their inmost depth 
 I see a shade, a shape : 'tis He, arrayed 
 In the soft light of his own smiles, which 
 
 spread 
 Like radiance from the cloud-surrounded 
 
 moon. 
 Prometlieus, it is thine! depart not yet ! 
 Say not those smiles that we shall meet 
 
 again 
 Within that bright pavilion which their 
 
 beams 
 Shall build on the waste world ? The 
 
 dream is told. 
 What shaiie is that between us? Its 
 
 rude hair 
 Roughens the wind that lifts it, its 
 
 regard 
 Is wild and quick, yet 'tis a thing of air. 
 For thro' its graj^ robe gleams the golden 
 
 dtnv 
 Whose stars the noon has quenched not. 
 Dream. Follow ! Follow ! 
 
 Panthea. It is mine other dream. 
 Asia. It disappears. 
 
 Panthea. It passes now into my 
 mind. Methought 
 As we sate here, the flower-infolding 
 
 buds 
 Burst on yon liglitning-blasted almond- 
 tree. 
 When swift from the white Scythian 
 
 wilderness 
 A wind swept forth wrinkling the Earth 
 with frost : 
 
3'4 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 I looked, and all the blossoms were 
 
 blown down ; 
 But on each leaf was stamped, as the 
 
 blue bells 
 Of Hyacinth tell Apollo's written grief, 
 
 O, FOLLOW^ FOLLOW ! 
 
 Asia. As you speak, jour words 
 
 Fill, pause by pause, my own forgotten 
 
 sleep 
 With shapes. Methought among the 
 
 lawns together 
 We wandered, underneath the j'oung 
 
 gray dawn. 
 And multitudes of dense white fleecy 
 
 clouds 
 Were wandering in thick flocks along 
 
 the mountains 
 Shepherded by the slow, unwilling 
 
 wind ; 
 And the white dew on the new bladed 
 
 grass. 
 Just piercing the dark earth, hung 
 
 silentlj' : 
 And there was more which I remember 
 
 not : 
 But on the shadows of the morning 
 
 clouds, 
 Athwart the purple mountain sloj^e, was 
 
 written 
 Follow, O, follow ! as they vanished 
 
 by, 
 
 And on each herb, from which Heaven s 
 dew liad fallen. 
 
 The like was stamped, as with a wither- 
 ing fire, 
 
 A wind arose among the pines ; it shook 
 
 The clinging music from their boughs, 
 and then 
 
 Low, sweet, faint sounds, like the fare- 
 well of gliosts. 
 
 Were heard : O, follow, folloav, 
 follow me ! 
 
 And then I said ; " Panthea, look on me." 
 
 But in the depth of those beloved eyes 
 
 Still I saw, follow, follow ! 
 Echo. Follow, follow ! 
 
 Panthea. The crags, this clear spring 
 morning, mock our voices 
 
 As they were spirit-tongued. 
 Asia. It is some being 
 
 Around the crags. What fine clear 
 sounds ! O, list ! 
 
 Echoes (unseen) 
 
 Echoes we : listen ! 
 We cannot stay : 
 As dew-stars glisten 
 Then fade awnv — 
 Cliild of Ocean ! 
 
 Asia. Hark ! Spirits speak. The 
 liquid responses 
 Of their aerial tongues yet sound. 
 Panthea. I hear. 
 
 Echoes 
 
 O, follow, follow, 
 
 As our voice recedeth 
 Thro' the caverns hollow, 
 
 Where the forest spreadeth : 
 
 [More distant) 
 O, follow, follow ! 
 Thro' the caverns hollow. 
 As the song floats thou pursue. 
 Where the wild bee never flew. 
 Thro' the 7ioontide darkness deep. 
 By the odor-breathing sleep 
 Of faint night-flowers, and the waves 
 At the fountain-lighted caves. 
 While our music, wnld and sweet, 
 Mocks thy gently falling feet. 
 Child of Ocean ! 
 Asia. Shall we pursue the sound? It 
 grows more faint 
 And distant. 
 
 Panthea. List ! the strain floats 
 
 nearer now. 
 
 Echoes 
 
 In the world unknown 
 
 Sleeps a voice luispoken ; 
 By thy step alone 
 
 Can its rest be broken ; 
 Child of Ocean ! 
 Asia. How the notes sink upon the 
 ebbing wind ! 
 
 Echoes 
 
 O, follow, follow ! 
 
 Thro' the caverns hollow, 
 As the song floats thou pursue, 
 By the woodland noontide dew ; 
 By the forests, lakes, and fountains 
 Thro' the many-folded mountains ; 
 To the rents, and gulfs, and chasms, 
 Where the Earth rep(;>sed from spasms. 
 On the day when He and thou 
 Parted, to commingle now ; 
 Child of Ocean ! 
 Asia. Come, sweet Panthea, link thy 
 
 hand in mine, 
 And follow, ere the voices fade away. 
 
 SCENE II.— A Forest, intermingled 
 WITH Rocks and Caverns. 
 
 Asia and Panthea pass into it. Two 
 young Fauns are sitting on a Rock 
 liatcniug. 
 
SHELLEY 
 
 315 
 
 Seniiehorus I of Spirits 
 
 The path thro' which that lovely twain 
 Have past, by cedar, pine, and yew, 
 And each dark tree that ever grew. 
 Is curtained out from Heaven's wide 
 blue ; 
 Nor sun, nor moon, nor wind, nor rain, 
 Can pierce its interwoven bowers, 
 Nor aught, save where some cloud of 
 dew. 
 Drifted along the earth-creeping breeze. 
 Between the trunks of the hoar trees. 
 Hangs each a pearl in the pale 
 flowers 
 Of the green laurel, blown anew ; 
 And bends, and then fades silently. 
 One frail and fair anemone : 
 Or when some star of many a one 
 That climbs and wanders thro' steep 
 
 nigiit. 
 Has found the cleft thro' which alone 
 Beams fall from higli those depths upon 
 Ere it is borne away, awa}'. 
 By the swift Heavens that cannot stay, 
 It scatters drops of golden light. 
 Like lines of rain that ne'er unite : 
 And the gloom divine is all around. 
 And underneath is the mossy ground. 
 
 Semichorus II 
 
 There the voluptuous nightingales, 
 Are awake thro' all the broad noon- 
 day. 
 Wtien one with bliss or sadness fails. 
 And thro' the windless ivy-boughs, 
 Sick with sweet love, droops dying 
 away 
 On its mate's music-panting bosom ; 
 Another from the swinging blossom. 
 Watching to catch the languid close 
 Of the last strain, then lifts on high 
 The wings of the weak melody, 
 Till some new strain of feeling bear 
 
 Tlie song, and all the woods are mvite ; 
 When there is heard thro' the dim air 
 The rush of wings, and rising there 
 
 Like many a lake-surrounded flute, 
 Sounds overflow the listener's brain 
 So sweet, that joy is almost pain. 
 
 Semichorus I 
 
 There those enchanted eddies play 
 Of echoes, niusic-tongued, which 
 
 draw, 
 By Demogorgon's mighty law. 
 With melting rapture, or sweet awe. 
 
 All spirits on that secret way ; 
 
 As inland boats are driven to Ocean 
 
 Down streams made strong with moun- 
 tain-thaw : 
 And first there comes a gentle sound 
 To those in talk or slumber bound 
 And wakes the destined. Soft emotion 
 Attracts, impels them : those who saw 
 Say from the breathing earth behind 
 There steams a plume-uplifting wind 
 Which drives them on their path, while 
 
 they 
 Believe their own swift wings and feet 
 The sweet desires within obe}' : 
 And so they float upon their way. 
 Until, still sweet, but loud and strong. 
 The storm of sound is driven along. 
 Sucked up and hurrying : as they 
 
 fleet 
 Behind, its gathering billows meet 
 And to the fatal mountain bear 
 Like clouds amid the yielding air. 
 
 First Faun. Canst thou imagine 
 
 where those spirits live 
 Which make such delicate music in the 
 
 woods ? 
 We haunt within the least frequented 
 
 caves 
 And closest coverts, and we know these 
 
 wilds. 
 Yet never meet them, tho' we hear them 
 
 oft: 
 Where may they hide themselves ? 
 
 Second Faun. 'Tis hard to tell : 
 
 I have heard those more skilled in 
 
 spirits say. 
 The bubbles, which the enchantment of 
 
 the sun 
 Sucks from the pale faint water-flowers 
 
 that pave 
 The oozy bottom of clear lakes and 
 
 pools. 
 Are the pavilions where such dwell and 
 
 float 
 Under the green and golden atmosphere 
 Which noontide kindles thro' the woven 
 
 leaves ; 
 And when these burst, and the thin fier}' 
 
 air, 
 The which they breathed within those 
 
 lucent domes, 
 Ascends to flow like meteors thro' the 
 
 night, 
 They ride on them, and rein their head- 
 long speed. 
 And bow their burning crests.' and glide 
 
 in fire 
 Under the waters of tlie earth again. 
 First Faun. If such live thus, have 
 
 others other lives. 
 Under pink blossoms or within the bells 
 
3i6 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Of meadow flowers, or folded violets 
 deep, 
 
 Or on their dying odors, when they 
 die, 
 
 Or in the sunlight of the sphered dew ? 
 Second Faun. Ay, many more which 
 we may well divine. 
 
 But, should we staj^ to speak, noontide 
 would come. 
 
 And thwart Silenus find his goats un- 
 drawn, 
 
 And grudge to sing those wise and lovely 
 songs 
 
 Of fate, and chance, and God, and Chaos 
 old, 
 
 And Love, and tlie chained Titan's woe- 
 ful doom. 
 
 And how he shall be loosed, and make 
 the ear til 
 
 One brotherhood : delightful strains 
 which cheer 
 
 Our solitary twilights, and which charm 
 
 To silence the unenvying nightingales. 
 
 SCENE III.— A Pinnacle of Rock 
 AMONG Mountains. Asia aiid Pan- 
 
 THEA. 
 
 Panthra. Hither the sound has borne 
 
 us — to the realm 
 Of Demogorgon, and the mighty portal, 
 Like a volcano's meteor-breathing chasm , 
 Whence tlie oracular vapor is hurled up 
 Wliich lonely men drink wandering in 
 
 their youth, 
 And call truth, virtue, love, genius, or 
 
 joy, 
 That maddening wine of life, whose 
 
 dregs they drain 
 To deep intoxication ; and uplift. 
 Like Maenads who cry loud, Evoe ! Evoe ! 
 The voice which is contagion to the 
 
 world. 
 Asia. Fit throne for such a power ! 
 
 Magnificent ! 
 How glorious art thou. Earth ! And if 
 
 thou be 
 The shadow of some spirit lovelier still. 
 Though evil stain its work, and it should 
 
 be 
 Like its ci'eation, weak yet beautiful, 
 I could fall down and worship that and 
 
 thee. 
 Even now my heart adoreth : Wonder- 
 ful ! 
 Look, sister, ere the vapor dim thy 
 
 brain : 
 Beneath is a wide plain of billowj- mist, 
 As a lake, paving in the morning sky. 
 
 With azure waves which burst in silver 
 
 light. 
 Some Indian vale. Behold it, rolling on 
 Under the curdling winds, and islanding 
 The peak wiiereon we stand, midway, 
 
 around, 
 Encinctured by the dark and blooming 
 
 forests. 
 Dim twilight-lawns, and stream-illu- 
 mined caves. 
 And wind-enchanted shapes of wander- 
 ing mist ; 
 And far on high the keen sky-cleaving 
 
 mountains 
 From icy spires of sun-like radiance fling 
 The dawn, as lifted Ocean's dazzling 
 
 spray. 
 From some Atlantic islet scattered up. 
 Spangles the wind with lamp-like water- 
 drops. 
 Tlie vale is girdled with their walls, a 
 
 howl 
 Of cataracts from their tliaw-cloven 
 
 ravines. 
 Satiates the listening wind, continuous, 
 
 vast. 
 Awful as silence. Hark ! the rushing 
 
 snow ! 
 The sun-awakened avalanche ! whose 
 
 mass. 
 Thrice sifted by the storm, had gathered 
 
 there 
 Flake after flake, in heaven-defying 
 
 minds 
 As thought by thought is piled, till some 
 
 great truth 
 Is loosened, and the nations echo round. 
 Shaken to their roots, as do the mountains 
 
 novp'. 
 Panthea. Look how the gusty sea of 
 
 mist is breaking 
 In crimson foam, even at our feet ! it 
 
 rises 
 As Ocean at the enchantment of the 
 
 moon 
 Round food less men wrecked on some 
 
 oozy isle. 
 Asia. The fragments of the cloud are 
 
 scattered up ; 
 The wind that lifts them disentwines 
 
 my hair ; 
 Its billows now sweep o'er mine eyes ; 
 
 my bi'ain 
 Grows dizzy ; I see thin shapes within 
 
 the mist. 
 Panthea. A countenance with beckon- 
 ing smiles : there burns 
 An azure fire within its golden locks ! 
 Another and another : hark ! they sjieak ! 
 
SHELLEY 
 
 317 
 
 So)ig of S^ririta 
 
 To tlie deep, to tlie deep, 
 
 Down, down ! 
 Through the shade of sleep, 
 Tlirough the cloudy strife 
 Of Death and of Life ; 
 Through the veil and the bar 
 Of things which seem and are 
 Even to the steps of the remotest throne, 
 
 Down, down ! 
 
 While the sound whirls around, 
 
 Down, down ! 
 As the fawn draws tlie hound. 
 As the lightning the vapor. 
 As the weak moth the taper ; 
 Deatli, despair ; love, sorrow ; 
 Time both ; to-day, to-morrow ; 
 As steel obeys the spirit of tlie stone, 
 
 Down, down ! 
 
 Through the gray, void abysm, 
 
 Down, down ! 
 Where the air is no prism, 
 And the moon and stars are not. 
 And the cavern-crags wear not 
 The radiance of Heaven, 
 Nor the gloom to Earth given. 
 Where there is one pervading, one alone, 
 
 Down, down ! 
 
 In tlie depth of the deep, 
 
 Down, down ! 
 Like veiled lightning asleep. 
 Like the spark nursed in embers, 
 The last look Love remembers. 
 Like a diamond, which shines 
 On the dark wealth of mines, 
 A spell is treasured but for thee alone, 
 
 Down, down ! 
 
 We have bound thee, we guide thee ; 
 
 Down, down ! 
 With the bright form beside thee ; 
 Resist not the weakness, 
 Sucii strength is in meekness 
 That the Eternal, the Immortal, 
 Must unloose tlirough life's portal 
 The snake-like Doom coiled underneath 
 his throne 
 
 By that alone. 
 
 SCENE IV.— The Cave of 
 Demogorgon. Asia and Panthea. 
 
 Pautliea. Wliat veiled form sits on 
 
 that ebon throne ? 
 Asia. The veil has fallen. 
 Panthea. I see a mighty darkness 
 
 Filling the seat of power, and rays of 
 
 gloom 
 Dart round, as light from the meridian 
 
 sun, 
 Ungazed upon and shapeless ; neither 
 
 limb, 
 Nor form, nor outline ; yet we feel it is 
 A living Spirit. 
 Demogorgon. Ask what thou wouldst 
 
 know. 
 Asia. What canst thou tell ? 
 Demogorgon. All things thou 
 
 dar'st demand. 
 Asia. Who made the living world? 
 Demogorgon. God. 
 
 Asia. Who made all 
 
 That it contains ? thought, passion, 
 
 reason, will, 
 Imagination ? 
 
 Demogorgon. God : Almighty God. 
 Asia. Wiio made that sense which, 
 when the winds of spring 
 In rarest visitation, or the voice 
 Of one beloved heard in youth alone, 
 Fills the faint eyes with falling tears 
 
 which dim 
 The radiant looks of unbewailing flowers. 
 And leaves this peoi)led earth a solitude 
 When it returns no more? 
 Demogorgon. Merciful God. 
 
 Asia. And who made terror, madness, 
 crime, remoi'se. 
 Which- from the links of the great chain 
 
 of tilings. 
 To every thought within the mind of 
 
 man 
 Sway and drag heavily, and each one 
 
 reels 
 Under the load towards the pit of 
 
 death ; 
 Abandoned hope, and love that turns to 
 
 hate ; 
 And self-contempt, bitterer to drink 
 
 than blood ; 
 Pain, whose unheeded and famili;ir 
 
 speech 
 Is howling, and keen shrieks, day after 
 
 day ; 
 And Hell, or the sharp fear of Hell? 
 Demogorgon. He reigns. 
 
 Asia Utter his name : a world pining 
 in pain 
 Asks but his name : curses shall drag 
 him down. 
 Demogorgon. He reigns. 
 Asia. I feel, I know it : who? 
 
 Demogorgon. He reigns. 
 
 Asia. Who reigns? There was the 
 Heaven and Earth at first, 
 
3i8 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 And Light and Love ; tlien Saturn, from 
 
 whose throne 
 Time fell, an envious shadow : such the 
 
 state 
 Of the earth's primal spirits beneath his 
 
 sway, 
 As the calm joy of flowers and living 
 
 leaves 
 Before the wind or sun has withered 
 
 them 
 And semivital worms ; but he refused 
 The birthright of tlieir being, knowledge, 
 
 power, 
 Tlie skill which wields the elements, 
 
 the thought 
 Which pierces this dim universe like 
 
 light, 
 Self-empire, and the majesty of love ; 
 For thirst of which they fainted. Then 
 
 Prometheus 
 Gave wisdom, which is strength, to 
 
 Jupiter, 
 And with this law alone, "Let man be 
 
 free," 
 Clothed him with the dominion of wide 
 
 Heaven, 
 To know nor faith, nor love, nor law : to 
 
 be 
 Omnipotent but friendless, is to reign ; 
 And Jove now reigned ; for on the race 
 
 of man 
 First famine, and then toil, and then 
 
 disease. 
 Strife, wounds, and ghastly death unseen 
 
 before. 
 Fell ; and the unseasonable seasons 
 
 drove 
 With alternating shafts of frost and fire. 
 Their shelterless, pale tribes to mountain 
 
 caves : 
 And in their desert hearts fierce wants 
 
 he sent. 
 And mad disquietudes, and shadows idle 
 Of unreal good, which levied mutual 
 
 war. 
 So ruining the lair wlierein they raged. 
 Prometheus saw, and waked the legioned 
 
 hopes 
 Which sleep within folded Elysian 
 
 flowers, 
 Nepenthe, Moly, Amaranth, fadeless 
 
 blooms, 
 That they might hide with thin and 
 
 rainbow wings 
 The shape of Death ; and Love he sent 
 
 to bind 
 The disunited tendrils of that vine 
 Which bears the wine of life, the human 
 
 heart ; 
 
 And he tamed fire which, like some 
 
 beast of prey. 
 Most terrible, but lovely, played beneath 
 The frown of man ; and tortured to his 
 
 will 
 Iron and gold, the slaves and signs of 
 
 power. 
 And gems and poisons, and all subtlest 
 
 forms 
 Hidden beneath the mountains and the 
 
 waves. 
 He gave man speech, and speech created 
 
 thought, 
 Wliich is the measure of the universe ; 
 And Science struck the thrones of earth 
 
 and heaven. 
 Which shook, but fell not ; and the 
 
 harmonious mind 
 Poured itself forth in all-prophetic song ; 
 And music lifted up the listening spirit 
 Until it walked, exempt from mortal 
 
 care, 
 Godlike, o'er the clear billows of sweet 
 
 sound ; 
 And human hands first mimicked and 
 
 then mocked, 
 With moulded limbs more lovely tha?i 
 
 its own. 
 The human form, till marble grew 
 
 divine ; 
 And mothers, gazing, drank the love 
 
 men see 
 Reflected in their race, behold, and 
 
 perish. 
 He told tlie hidden power of herbs and 
 
 springs, 
 And Disease drank and slept. Death 
 
 grew like sleep. 
 He tauglit tlie implicated orbits woven 
 Of the wide-wandering stars ; and how 
 
 the sun 
 Changes his lair, and by what secret 
 
 spell 
 The pale moon is transformed, when her 
 
 broad eye 
 Gazes not on the interlunarsea : 
 He taught to rule, as life directs the 
 
 limbs. 
 The tempest-winged chariots of the 
 
 Ocean, 
 And the Celt knew the Indian. Cities 
 
 then 
 Were built, and through their snow-like 
 
 columns flowed 
 The warm winds, and the azure aether 
 
 shone, 
 And the blue sea and shadowy hills were 
 
 seen. 
 Such, the alleviations of his state, 
 
SHELLEY 
 
 319 
 
 Prometlieus gave to man, for which he 
 
 hangs 
 Withering in destined pain : but who 
 
 rains down 
 Evil, the immedicable plague, which, 
 
 while 
 Man looks on his creation like a God 
 And sees that it is glorious, drives him 
 
 on 
 The wreck of his own will, the scorn of 
 
 eartli , 
 The outcast, the abandoned, the alone ? 
 Not Jove : while yet his frown shook 
 
 heaven, ay when 
 His adversary from adamantine chains 
 Cursed him, he trembled like a slave. 
 
 Declare 
 Who is liis master ? Is he too a slave ? 
 Demogorgon. All spirits are enslaved 
 
 which serve things evil : 
 Thou knowest if Jupiter be such or no. 
 Asia. Whom called'st thou God ? 
 Demogorgon. I spoke but as ye 
 
 speak, 
 
 For Jove is the supreme of living things. 
 
 Asia. Who is the master of the slave ? 
 
 Demogorgon. If the abysm 
 
 CouW vomit forth its secrets. . . But a 
 
 voice 
 Is wanting, the deep truth is imageless ; 
 For what would it avail to bid thee gaze 
 On tlie revolving world? What to bid 
 
 speak 
 Fate, Time, Occasion, Chance, and 
 
 Change ? To these 
 All things are subject but eternal Love. 
 Asia. So much I asked before, and 
 
 my lieart gave 
 The response thou hast given ; and of 
 
 sucli truths 
 Each to itself must be the oracle. 
 One more demand ; and do thou answer 
 
 me 
 As mine own soul would answer, did it 
 
 know 
 That which I ask. Prometlieus shall 
 
 arise 
 Henceforth the sun of this rejoicing 
 
 world : 
 When shall the destined hour arrive ? 
 Demogorgon. Beliold ! 
 
 Asia. The rocks are cloven, and 
 
 through the purple night 
 I see cars drawn by rain bow- winged 
 
 steeds 
 Which trample the dim winds : in each 
 
 there stands 
 A wild-eved charioteer urging their 
 
 flight. 
 
 Some look behind, as fiends pui'sued 
 
 them there. 
 And yet I see no shapes but tlie keen 
 
 stars : 
 Others, with burning eyes, lean forth, 
 
 and drink 
 With eager lips the wind of their own 
 
 speed, 
 As if the tiling they loved fled on before. 
 And now, even now, tliey clasped it. 
 
 Their briglit locks 
 Stream like a comet's flashing hair : they 
 
 all 
 Sweep onward. 
 
 Demogorgon. These are the immortal 
 
 Hours, 
 Of whom thou didst demand. One 
 
 waits for thee. 
 Asia. A spirit witli a dreadful coun- 
 tenance 
 Checks its dark chariot by the craggy 
 
 gulf. 
 Unlike thy brethren, ghastly charioteer, 
 Who art thou ? Whither wouldst thou 
 
 bear me ? Speak ! 
 Spirit. I am the shadow of a destiny 
 More dread than is my aspect : ere yon 
 
 phinet 
 Has set, the darkness which ascends 
 
 with me 
 Sliall wrap in lasting night heaven's 
 
 kingless throne. 
 Asia. What meanest thou ? 
 Panthea. That terrible shadow 
 
 floats 
 Up from its throne, as may the lurid 
 
 smoke 
 Of earthquake-ruined cities o'er the sea. 
 Lo ! it ascends the car ; the coursers fly 
 Terrified : watch its path among the 
 
 stars 
 Blackening the night ! 
 Asia. Thus I am answ^ered ; 
 
 strange ! 
 Panthea. See. near the verge, another 
 
 chariot stays ; 
 An ivory shell inlaid with crimson fire. 
 Which comes and goes within its sculp- 
 tured rim 
 Of delicate strange tracery ; the young 
 
 spirit 
 That guides it has the dove-like eyes of 
 
 hope ; 
 How its soft smiles attract the soul ! as 
 
 light 
 Lures winged insects through tlie lamp- 
 less air. 
 
 Spirit 
 My coursers are fed with the lightning, 
 
320 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Tliey drink of the whirlwind's stream, 
 And when tlie red morning is brightning 
 
 They batlie in the fi'esli sunbeam ; 
 
 They have strength for their swiftness 
 I deem, 
 Then ascend with me, daughterof Ocean. 
 
 I desire ; and their speed makes night 
 kindle ; 
 I fear : they outstrip the Typhoon ; 
 
 Ere tlie cloud piled on Atlas can dwindle 
 We encircle tlie earth and the moon : 
 We shall rest from long labors at noon : 
 
 Then ascend with me,daughter of Ocean. 
 
 SCENE V. — The Car pauses within 
 A Cloud on the Top op a Snowy 
 Mountain. Asia. Panthea, and the 
 Spirit op the Hour. 
 
 Spirit 
 
 On the brink of the night and the 
 morning 
 My coursers are wont to respire ; 
 But the Eartli has just whispered a warn- 
 ing 
 That their flight must be swifter than 
 
 fire : 
 They shall drink the hot speed of 
 
 desire ! 
 Asia. Thou breathest on their nostrils, 
 but my breath 
 Would give them swifter speed. 
 Spirit. Alas ! it could not. 
 
 Panthea. Oh Spirit ! pause, and tell 
 whence is the light 
 Which fills the cloud ? the sun is yet 
 unrisen. 
 Spirit. The sun will rise not until 
 noon. Apollo 
 Is held in heaven by wonder ; and the 
 
 light 
 
 Which fills this vapor, as the aerial hue 
 
 Of fountain-gazing roses fills the water, 
 
 Flows from thy mighty sister. 
 
 Panthea. Yes, I feel — 
 
 Asia. What is it with thee, sister ? 
 
 Thou art pale. 
 Panthea. How thou art changed ! I 
 dare not look on thee ; 
 I feel but see thee not. I scarce endure 
 The radiance of thy beauty. Some good 
 
 change 
 Is working in the elements, which suffer 
 Thy presence thus unveiled. The Ne- 
 reids tell 
 That on the day when the clear hyaline 
 Was cloven at thy uprise, and thou didst 
 stand 
 
 Within a veined shell, which floated on 
 Over the calm floor of the crystal sea, 
 Among the ^gean isles, and by the 
 
 shores 
 Which bear thy name ; love, like the 
 
 atmosphere 
 Of the sun's fire filling the living world, 
 Burst from thee, and illumined earth 
 
 and heaven 
 And the deep ocean and the sunless 
 
 caves 
 And all that dwells wnthin tlieni ; till 
 
 grief cast 
 Eclipse upon the soul from which it 
 
 came : 
 Such art thou now ; nor is it I alone. 
 Thy sister, thy companion, thine own 
 
 chosen one, 
 But the whole world which seeks thy 
 
 sympathy. 
 Hearest thou not sounds i'the air which 
 
 speak the love 
 Of all articulate beings? Feelest thou 
 
 not 
 The inanimate winds enamoi'ed of thee ? 
 
 List ! {Music.) 
 Asia. Thy words are sweeter than 
 
 aught else but his 
 Whose eclioes they are : yet all love is 
 
 sweet, 
 Given or returned. Common as light 
 
 is love. 
 And its familiar voice wearies not ever. 
 Like the wide heaven, the all-sustaining 
 
 air. 
 It makes the reptile equal to the God : 
 They who inspire it most are fortunate, 
 As I am now ; but those who feel itiuost 
 Are happier still, after long sufferings, 
 As I shall soon become. 
 Panthea. List ! Spirits speak. 
 
 Voice in the Air Singing 
 
 Life of Life ! thy lips enkindle 
 With their love the breath between 
 them ; 
 And thy smiles before they dwindle 
 Make the cold air fire ; then screen 
 them 
 In those looks, whei'e whoso gazes 
 Faints, entangled in their mazes. 
 
 Child of Light ! thy limbs are burning 
 Thro' the vest which seems to hide 
 them ; 
 
 As the radiant lines of morning 
 Tluo' the clouds ere they divide them ; 
 
 And this atmosphere divinest 
 
 Shrouds thee wheresoe'er thou shinest. 
 
 J 
 
SHELLEY 
 
 321 
 
 Fair are others ; none beholds thee. 
 But thy voice sounds low and tender 
 
 Like the fairest, for it folds tliee 
 
 From the siglit, tliat liquid splendor, 
 
 And all feel, yet see thee never, 
 
 As I feel now, lost for ever ! 
 
 Lamp of Eartli ! where'er tlioii movest 
 Its dim shapes are clad with brigiit- 
 ness. 
 
 And tlie souls of whom thou lovest 
 Walk upon the winds with lightness, 
 
 Till they fail, as I am failing, 
 
 Dizzy, lost, yet unbewailing ! 
 
 Asia 
 
 My soul is an enchanted boat, 
 
 Wiiich, like a sleeping swan, doth 
 float 
 Upon the silver waves of thy sweet 
 singing ; 
 And thine doth like an angel sit 
 Beside a, helm conducting it. 
 Whilst all the winds with melody are 
 ringing. 
 It seems to float ever, for ever. 
 Upon that many-winding river, 
 Between mountains, woods, abysses, 
 A paradise of wildernesses ! 
 Till, like one in slumber bound. 
 Borne to tlie ocean, I float down, 
 
 around. 
 Into a sea profound, of ever-spreading 
 sound : 
 
 Meanwhile thy spirit lifts its pinions 
 In music's most serene dominions ; 
 Catching the winds that fan that happy 
 heaven. 
 And we sail on, away, afar, 
 Without a course, without a star. 
 But, by the instinct of sweet music 
 driven ; 
 Till through Elysian garden islets 
 By thee, most beautiful of pilots, 
 Wliere never mortal pinnace glided. 
 The boat of my desire is guided : 
 Realms where the air we breathe is 
 
 love. 
 Which in the winds and on the waves 
 
 doth move. 
 Harmonizing this earth with what we 
 feel above. 
 
 We have pass'd Age's icy caves, 
 And Manhood's dark and tossing 
 waves. 
 And Youtli's smooth ocean, smiling to 
 betray : 
 21 
 
 Beyond the glassy gulfs we flee 
 Of shadow-peopled Infancy, 
 Through Death and Birth, to a diviner 
 day : 
 A paradise of vaulted bowers. 
 Lit by downward-gazing flowers. 
 And watery paths that wind between 
 Wildernesses calm and green, 
 Peopled by shapes too bright to see. 
 And rest, having beheld ; somewhat 
 
 like thee : 
 Which walk upon the sea, and chant 
 melodiously ! 
 
 ACT III 
 
 SCENE I.— Heaven. Jupiter on 
 }iis Throne ; Thetis and the other] 
 Deities assembled. > 
 
 Jupiter. Ye congregated powers of 
 
 heaven, who share 
 The glory and the strength of him ye 
 
 serve, 
 Rejoice ! henceforth I am omnipotent. 
 All else had been subdued to me ; alone 
 The soul of man, like unextinguished fii'e. 
 Yet burns towards heaven with fierce 
 
 reproach, and doubt. 
 And lamentation, and reluctant prayer. 
 Hurling up insurrection, which might 
 
 make 
 Our antique empire insecure, though 
 
 built 
 On eldest faith, and hell's coeval, fear ; 
 And tho' my curses thro' the pendulous 
 
 air, 
 Like snow on herbless peaks, fall flake 
 
 by flake. 
 And cling to it ; tho' under my wrath's 
 
 night 
 It climbs the crags of life, step after step. 
 Which wound it, as ice wounds unsan- 
 
 dalled feet, 
 It yet remains supreme o'er misery. 
 Aspiring, unrepressed, yet soon to fall : 
 Even now have I begotten a strange 
 
 wonder, 
 That fatal child, the terror of the earth. 
 Who waits but till the destined hour 
 
 arrive. 
 Bearing from Demogorgon's vacant 
 
 throne 
 The dreadful might of ever-living limbs 
 Wliicli clothed that awful spirit un- 
 
 beheld. 
 To redescend, and trample out the spark. 
 
 Pour forth heaven's wine, Idaean Gany- 
 mede, 
 
322 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 And let it fill the Daedal cups like fire, 
 And fi-oin the flower-inwoven soil divine 
 Ye all-triumphant harmonies arise, 
 As dew from earth under the twilight 
 
 stars : 
 Drink ! be tlie nectar circling thro' your 
 
 veins 
 The soul of joy, ye ever-living Gods, 
 Till exultation burst in one wide voice 
 Like music from Elysian winds. 
 
 And thou 
 Ascend beside me, veiled in the light 
 Of the desire wliich makes thee one with 
 
 me, 
 Thetis, bright image of eternity ! 
 When thou didst cry, " Insufferable 
 
 night ! 
 God ! Spare me ! I sustain not the quick 
 
 flames. 
 The penetrating presence ; all my being. 
 Like him whom the Numidian seps did 
 
 thaw 
 Into a dew with poison, is dissolved. 
 Sinking thro' its foundations : " even then 
 Two mighty spirits, mingling, made a 
 
 third 
 Mightier than either, w^hich, unbodied 
 
 now, 
 Between us floats, felt, although unbe- 
 
 held. 
 Waiting the incarnation, whicli ascends, 
 (Hear ye the thunder of the fiery wlieels 
 Griding tlie winds?) f i-om Demogorgon's 
 
 throne. 
 Victory ! victory ! Feel'st thou not, O 
 
 world. 
 The earthquake of his chariot thunder- 
 ing up 
 Olympus ? 
 
 [The Car of the Hour arrives. 
 
 Demogorgon descends, mid moires 
 
 towards the Throne of Jupiter. 
 
 Awful shape, what art thou ? 
 
 Speak ! 
 Demogorgon. , Eternity. Demand no 
 direr name. 
 Descend, and follow me down the abyss. 
 I am th}' child, as thou wert Saturn's 
 
 child ; 
 ilightier than thee : and we must dwell 
 
 together 
 Henceforth in darkness. Lift thy light- 
 nings not. 
 The tyranny of lieaven none may retain. 
 Or reassume, or hold, succeeding thee : 
 Yet if thou wilt, as 'tis the destiny 
 Of trodden worms to writhe till they 
 
 are dead. 
 Put forth thy might. 
 
 Jupiter. Detested prodigy ! 
 
 Even thus beneath the deep Titanian 
 
 prisons 
 I trample thee ! thou lingerest ? 
 
 Mercj'^ ! mercy ! 
 No pity, no release, no respite ! Oh, 
 That tliou wouldst make mine enemy 
 
 my judge. 
 Even where he hangs, seared by my 
 
 long revenge. 
 On Caucasus ! he would not doom me 
 
 thus. 
 Gentle, and just, and dreadless, is he 
 
 not 
 The monarch of the world ? What then 
 
 art thou ? 
 No refuge ! no appeal ! 
 
 Sink with me tlien. 
 We too will sink on the wide waves of 
 
 ruin. 
 Even as a vulture and a snake outspent 
 Drop, twisted in inextricable fight, 
 Into a slioreless sea. Let liell unlock 
 Its mounded oceans of tempestuous fire. 
 And wlielm on them into the bottomless 
 
 void 
 This desolated world, and thee, and me. 
 Tlie conqueror and the conquered, and 
 
 the wreck 
 Of that for which thej' combated. 
 
 Ai ! Ai ! 
 The elements obey me not. I sink 
 Dizzily down, ever, for ever, down. 
 And. like a cloud, mine enemy above 
 Darkens my fall with victorj' ! Ai, Ai ! 
 
 SCENE II. — The Mouth of a great 
 RrvER IN THE Island Atlantis. Ocean 
 is discovered reclining near the Shore ; 
 Apollo stands beside him. 
 
 Ocean. He fell, thou sayest, beneath 
 
 his conqueror's frown ? 
 
 Apollo. Aje, when the strife was 
 
 ended which made dim 
 
 The orb I rule, and shook the solid stars. 
 
 The terrors of his eye illumined heaven 
 
 With sanguine light, through the thick 
 
 ragged skirts 
 Of the victorious darkness, as he fell : 
 Like the last glare of day's red agonj\ 
 Which, from a rent among the fiery 
 
 clouds. 
 Burns far along the tempest-wrinkled 
 deep. 
 Ocean. He sunk to the abyss? To the 
 
 dark void ? 
 Apollo. An eagle so caught in some 
 bursting cloud 
 
SHELLEY 
 
 3^^ 
 
 On Caucasus, his thunder-baffled wings 
 Entangled in the whirlwind, aud his 
 
 eyes 
 Which gazed on the undazzling sun, 
 
 now blinded 
 By the white lightning, while the pon- 
 derous hail 
 Beats on his struggling form, which 
 
 sinks at length 
 Prone, and the aerial ice clings over it. 
 Ocean. Henceforth the fields of 
 
 Heaven-reflecting sea 
 Which are my realm, will heave, un- 
 stained with blood. 
 Beneath the uplifting winds, like plains 
 
 of corn 
 Swayed by the summer air ; my streams 
 
 will flow 
 Round many-peopled continents, and 
 
 round 
 Fortunate isles ; and from their glassy 
 
 thrones 
 Blue Proteus and his humid nymphs 
 
 shall mark 
 The shadow of fair ships, as mortals see 
 The floating bark of the light- laden 
 
 moon 
 With that white star, its sightless pilot's 
 
 crest. 
 Borne down the rapid sunset's ebbing 
 
 sea ; 
 Tracking their path no more by blood 
 
 and groans. 
 And desolation, and the mingled voice 
 Of slavery and command ! but by the 
 
 light 
 Of wave-reflected flowers, and floating 
 
 odors, 
 And music soft, and mild, free, gentle 
 
 voices. 
 And sweetest music, such as spirits love. 
 Apollo. And I shall gaze not on the 
 
 deeds which make 
 My mind obscure with sorrow, as eclipse 
 Darkens the sphere I guide ; but list, I 
 
 hear 
 The small, clear, silver lute of the young 
 
 Spirit 
 That sits i' the morning star. 
 
 Ocean. Thou must away ; 
 
 Thy steeds will pause at even, till when 
 
 farewell : 
 The loud deep calls me home even now 
 
 to feed it 
 With azure calm out of the emerald 
 
 urns 
 Which stand for ever full beside my 
 
 throne. 
 Behold the Nereids under the green sea, 
 
 Their wavering limbs borne on the wind- 
 like stream. 
 
 Their white arras lifted o'er their stream- 
 ing hair 
 
 With garlands pied and starry sea-flower 
 crowns. 
 
 Hastening to grace their mighty sister's 
 joy. [^4 sound of ivaves is heard. 
 
 It is the unpastured sea hungering for 
 c;ilm. 
 
 Peace, monster ; I come now. Fare- 
 well. 
 Apollo. Farewell. 
 
 SCENE III. — Caucasus. Prometheus, 
 Hercules, Ione. the Earth, Spir- 
 its. Asia, and Panthea, home 
 in the Car with the Spirit of the 
 Hour. Hercules unbinds Prome- 
 theus, icho descends. 
 
 Hercnles. Most glorious among 
 
 spirits, thus doth strength 
 To wisdom, courage, and long-suffering 
 
 love. 
 And thee, who art the form they ani- 
 mate, 
 Minister like a slave. 
 
 Prometheus. Thy gentle words 
 
 Are sweeter even than freedom long 
 
 desired 
 And long dela5'ed. 
 
 Asia, thou light of life, 
 Sliadow of beauty un beheld : and ye. 
 Fair sister nymphs, who made long 
 
 years of pain 
 Sweet to remember, thro' your love and 
 
 cai'e : 
 Henceforth we will not part. There is 
 
 a cave. 
 All overgrown with trailing odorous 
 
 plants. 
 Which curtain out the day with leaves 
 
 and flowers. 
 And paved with veined emerald, and a 
 
 fountain 
 Leaps in the midst with an awakening 
 
 sound. 
 From its curved roof the mountain's 
 
 frozen tears 
 Like snow, or silver, or long diamond 
 
 spires. 
 Hang downward, raining forth a doubt- 
 ful light : 
 And there is heard the ever-moving air, 
 Whispering without from tree to tree, 
 
 and birds, 
 And bees ; and all around are mossy 
 
 seats, 
 
324 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 And the rough walls are clothed with 
 
 long soft grass ; 
 A simple dwelling, which shall be our 
 
 own ; 
 Where we will sit and talk of time and 
 
 change, 
 As the world ebbs and flows, ourselves 
 
 unclianged. 
 What can hide man from mutability ? 
 And if j-e sigh, then I will smile ; and 
 
 thou, 
 lone, shalt chant fragments of sea- 
 music. 
 Until I weep, when ye shall smile away 
 The tears she brought, which yet were 
 
 sweet to shed. 
 We will entangle buds and flowers and 
 
 beams 
 Which twinkle on the fountain's brim, 
 
 and make 
 Strange combinations out of common 
 
 things, 
 Like human babes in their brief inno- 
 cence ; 
 And we will search, with looks and 
 
 words of love, 
 For hidden thouglits, each lovelier than 
 
 the last. 
 Our unexhausted spirits ; and like lutes 
 Touched by the skill of the enaxnored 
 
 wind. 
 Weave harmonies divine, j'^et ever new. 
 From difference sweet where discord 
 
 cannot be ; 
 And hither come, sped on the charmed 
 
 winds. 
 Which meet from all the points of 
 
 heaven, as bees 
 From every flower aerial Enna feeds. 
 At their known island-homes in Hiiiiera, 
 The echoes of the human world, which 
 
 tell 
 Of the low voice of love, almost un- 
 heard. 
 And dove-eyed pity's murmured pain, 
 
 and music. 
 Itself the echo of the heart, and all 
 That tempers or improves man's life, 
 
 now free ; 
 And lovel}' apparitions, dim at first. 
 Then radiant, as the mind, arising 
 
 bright 
 From the embrace of beautj^, whence 
 
 tlie forms 
 Of which these are the phantoms, cast 
 
 on them 
 The gathered rays which are reality. 
 Shall visit us, the progeny immortal 
 Of Painting, Sculpture, and rapt Poesy, 
 
 And arts, tho" uniniagined, yet to be. 
 The wandering voices and the shadows 
 
 these 
 Of all that man becomes, the mediators 
 Of that best worsiiip love, by liim and us 
 Given and returned ; swift shapes and 
 
 sounds, which grow 
 More fair and soft as man grows wise 
 
 and kind. 
 And. veil by veil, evil and error fall : 
 Such virtue has the cave and place 
 
 around. 
 [Turning to the Sinrit of the Hour. 
 For thee, fair Spirit, one toil remains. 
 
 lone, 
 Give her that curved shell, which Pro- 
 teus old 
 Made Asia's nuptial boon, breathing 
 
 within it 
 A voice to be accomplished, and which 
 
 thou 
 Didst hide in grass under the hollow 
 
 rock. 
 lone. Thou most desired Hour, more 
 
 loved and lovely 
 Than all thy sisters, this is the mystic 
 
 shell ; 
 See the pale azure fading into silver 
 Lining it with a soft j'et glowing light : 
 Looks it not like lulled music sleeiJing 
 
 there ? 
 Sjyirit. It seeius in truth the fairest 
 
 shell of Ocean : 
 Its sounds mvist be at once both sweet 
 
 and strange. 
 Prometheus. Go, borne over the 
 
 cities of mankind 
 On whirlwind-footed coursers : once |J 
 
 again I 
 
 Outspeed the sun around the orbed world ; 
 And as thy chariot cleaves the kindling 
 
 air. 
 Thou breathe into the many-folded shell. 
 Loosening its mighty music ; it sliall be 
 As thunder mingled with clear echoes : 
 
 then 
 Return ; and thou shalt dwell beside our 
 
 cave. 
 And thou, O, Mother Earth !— 
 
 The Earth. I hear, I feel ; 
 
 Tliy lips are on me, and thj^ touch runs 
 
 down 
 Even to the adamantine central gloom 
 Along these marble nerves ; 'tis life, 'tis 
 
 joy. 
 
 And tlu-ough my withered, old and icy 
 
 frame 
 The warmth of an immortal youth shoots 
 
 down 
 
SHELLEY 
 
 325 
 
 Circling. Henceforth the many children 
 
 fair 
 Folded in my sustaining arms ; all 
 
 plants. 
 And creeping forms, and insects rain- 
 bow-winged, 
 And birds, and beasts, and fish, and 
 
 human sliapes, 
 Which drew disease and pain from my 
 
 wan bosom. 
 Draining the poison of despair, shiiil 
 
 take 
 And interchange sweet nutriment ; to me 
 Shall they become like sister antelopes 
 By one fair dam, snow-white and swift 
 
 as wind. 
 Nursed among lilies near a brimming 
 
 stream. 
 The dew-mists of my sunless sleep shall 
 
 float 
 Under tlie stars like balm : night-folded 
 
 flowers 
 Shall suck unwithering hues in their 
 
 repose : 
 And men and beasts in happy dreams 
 
 shall gathei' 
 Strength for the coming day. and all its 
 
 joy: 
 And death shall be the last embrace of 
 
 lier 
 Who takes the life she gave, even as a 
 
 mother 
 Folding her child, says, "Leave me not 
 
 again." 
 Asia. Oil, mother ! wherefore speak 
 
 tlie name of deatli ? 
 Cease tliey to love, and move, and 
 
 breathe, and speak. 
 Who die V 
 
 The Earth. It would avail not to 
 
 reply : 
 Thou art immortal, and this tongue is 
 
 known 
 But to the uncommunicating dead. 
 Death is the veil which those who live 
 
 call life : 
 They sleep, and it is lifted : and mean- 
 while 
 In mild variet.y tlie seasons mild 
 With rambow-skirted sliowers, and 
 
 odorous winds. 
 And long blue meteors cleansing the 
 
 dull night. 
 And the life-kindling sliafts of the keen 
 
 sun's 
 All-piercing bow, and the dew-mingled 
 
 rain 
 Of the calm moonbeams, a soft influence 
 
 mild, 
 
 Shall clothe the forests and the fields, 
 
 ay, even 
 Tlie crag-built deserts of the barren deep, 
 With ever-living leaves, and fruits, and 
 
 flowers. 
 And thou ! There is a cavern where my 
 
 spirit 
 Was panted forth in anguish whilst thy 
 
 pain 
 Made my heart mad, and those who did 
 
 inhale it 
 Became mad too, and built a temple 
 
 there. 
 And spoke, and were oracular, and lured 
 Tlie erring nations round to mutual war, 
 And faithless faith, such as Jove kept 
 
 with thee ; 
 Which breath now rises, as amongst tall 
 
 weeds 
 A violet's exhalation, and it fills 
 With a serener light and crimson air 
 Intense, j'et soft, the rocks and woods 
 
 around ; 
 It feeds the quick growth of the serpent 
 
 vine, 
 And the dark linked ivy tangling wild, 
 And budding, blown, or odor-faded 
 
 blooms 
 Which star the winds with points of 
 
 colored light. 
 As they rain thro' them, and bright 
 
 golden globes 
 Of fruit, suspended in their own green 
 
 heaven. 
 And thro' their veined leaves and amber 
 
 stems 
 The flowers whose purple and trans- 
 lucid bovs^ls 
 Stand ever mantling with aerial dew. 
 The drink of spirits : and it circles 
 
 round. 
 Like the soft waving wings of noonday 
 
 dreams, 
 Inspiring calm and happy thoughts, like 
 
 mine. 
 Now thou art thus restored. This cave 
 
 is thine. 
 Arise ! Appear ! 
 
 [A Spirit rises in the likeness of 
 a loinged child. 
 
 This is my torch-bearer ; 
 Who let his lamp out in old time with 
 
 gazing 
 On eyes from which he kindled it anew 
 With love, which is as fire, sweet 
 
 daughter mine. 
 For such is that within thine own. Run, 
 
 wayward. 
 And guide this company beyond the peak 
 
326 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Of Bacchic Nysa, Maenad-haunted moun- 
 tain, 
 And beyond Indus and its tribute rivers, 
 Tramjjling the torrent streams and glassy 
 
 lakes 
 With feet unwet, unwearied, undelaying, 
 And up tlie green ravine, across the vale. 
 Beside the windless and crystalline pool, 
 Where ever lies, on unerasing waves. 
 The image of a temple, built above, 
 Distinct with column, arch, and archi- 
 trave, 
 And palm-like capital, and over-wrouglit 
 And populous most with living imagery, 
 Praxitelean shapes, wliose marble smiles 
 Fill the hushed air with everlasting love. 
 It is deserted now, but once it bore 
 Thy name, Prometlieus ; there the emu- 
 lous youths 
 Bore to thy honor thro' the divine gloona 
 The lamp which was thine emblem ; 
 
 even as those 
 Who bear the untransmitted torch of 
 
 hope 
 Into the grave, across the night of life. 
 As tliou hast borne it most triumphantly 
 To this far goal of Time. Depart, fare- 
 well. 
 Beside that temple is the destined cave. 
 
 SCENE IV. A Forest. In the Back- 
 ground A Cave, Prometheus, Asia. 
 Panthea, Ione, and the Spirit of the 
 Earth. 
 
 Io7ie. Sister, it is not eai'thly : how it 
 glides 
 
 Under the leaves ! how on its head there 
 burns 
 
 A light, like a green star, whose em- 
 erald beams 
 
 Are twined with its fair hair ! how, as 
 it moves. 
 
 The splendor drops in flakes upon the 
 grass ! 
 
 Knowest thou it ? 
 Pcmthea. It is the delicate spirit 
 
 That guides the earth thro' heaven. 
 From afar 
 
 The populous constellations call that 
 Jight 
 
 The loveliest of the planets ; and some- 
 times 
 
 It floats along the spray of the salt sea, 
 
 Or makes its chariot of a foggy cloud. 
 
 Or walks thro' fields or cities while men 
 sleep. 
 
 Or o'er the mountain toi)s, or down the 
 rivers, 
 
 Or thro' the green waste wilderness, as 
 
 now, 
 Wondering at all it sees. Before Jove 
 
 reigned 
 It loved our sister Asia, and it came 
 Each lei.sure hour to drink the liquid 
 
 light 
 Out of her eyes, for which it said it 
 
 thirsted 
 As one bit by a dipsas, and with her 
 It made its childish confiaence, and told 
 
 her 
 All it had known or seen, for it saw 
 
 much. 
 Yet idly reasoned what it saw ; and 
 
 called her — 
 For wJience it sprung it knew not, nor 
 
 do I— 
 Mother, dear mother. 
 
 T]ie Spii'it of the Earth (running to 
 
 Asia). Motlier. dearest mother ; 
 May I then talk with thee as I was 
 
 wont ? 
 May I then hide my eyes in thy soft 
 
 arms. 
 After thy looks have made them tired of 
 
 joy? 
 May I then play beside thee the long 
 
 noons. 
 When work is none in the bright silent 
 
 air? 
 Asia, I love thee, gentlest being, and 
 
 henceforth 
 Can cherish thee unenvied : speak, I 
 
 pray : 
 Thy simple talk once solaced, now de- 
 lights. 
 Spirit of the Earth. Mother, I am 
 
 grown wiser, though a child 
 Cannot be wise like thee, within this 
 
 day ; 
 And happier too ; happier and wiser both. 
 Thou knowest that toads, .find snakes, 
 
 and loathly worms. 
 And venomous and malicious beasts, 
 
 and boughs 
 That bore ill berries in the woods, were 
 
 ever 
 An hindrance to my walks o'er the green . . 
 
 world : || 
 
 And that, among the liaunts of human- \ 1 
 
 kind. 
 Hard-featured men, or with proud, angry 
 
 looks. 
 Or cold, staid gait, or false and hollow 
 
 smiles. 
 Or the (lull sneer of self-loved ignorance. 
 Or otlier such foul masks, with which 
 
 ill thoughts 
 
SHELLEY 
 
 327 
 
 Hide that fair being whom we sjjirits 
 
 call man ; 
 And women too, ugliest of all things 
 
 evil, 
 (Tho' fair, even in a world where thou 
 
 art fair, 
 When good and kind, free and sincere 
 
 like thee). 
 When false or frowning made me sick 
 
 at heart 
 To pass them, tho' they slept, and I un- 
 seen. 
 Well, my path lately lay thro' a great 
 
 city 
 Into the woody hills surrounding it : 
 A sentinel was sleeping at the gate : 
 When tiiere was heard a sound, so loud 
 
 it shook 
 The towers amid the moonlight, yet 
 
 more sweet 
 Than any voice but thine, sweetest of 
 
 all ; 
 A long, long sound, as it would never 
 
 end : 
 And all the inhabitants leapt suddenly 
 Out of their rest, and gathered in the 
 
 streets, 
 Looking in wonder up to Heaven, while 
 
 yet 
 The music pealed along. I hid myself 
 Within a fountain in the public square, 
 Where I lay like the reflex of the moon 
 Seen in a wave under green leave,"- ; and 
 
 soon 
 Those ugly human shapes and visages 
 Of wliich I spoke as having wrought me 
 
 pain. 
 Passed floating thro' the air, and fading 
 
 still 
 Into the winds that scattered them ; and 
 
 those 
 From whom they passed seemed mild 
 
 and loyel}' forms 
 After some foul disguise had fallen, and 
 
 all 
 Were somewhat changed, and after brief 
 
 surprise 
 And greetings of delighted wonder, all 
 Went to their sleep again : and when 
 
 the dawn 
 Came, would'st thou think that toads, 
 
 and snakes, and efts. 
 Could e'er be beautiful ?.yet so they were. 
 And that with little change of shape or 
 
 hue : 
 All things had i>ut their evil nature off ; 
 I cannot tell my joy, when o'er a lake 
 Upon a drooping bough with night- 
 shade twined. 
 
 I saw two azure halcyons clinging down- 
 ward 
 And thinning one bright bunch of 
 
 amber berries. 
 With quick long beaks, and in the deep 
 
 there lay 
 Those lovely forms imaged as in a sky ; 
 So, with my thoughts full of these happy 
 
 changes, 
 We meet again, the happiest change of 
 
 all. 
 Asia. And never will we part, till 
 
 thy chaste sister 
 Who guides the frozen and inconstant 
 
 moon 
 Will look on thy more warm and equal 
 
 light 
 Till her heart thaw like flakes of April 
 
 snow 
 And love tliee. 
 Sjjirit of the Earth. What ; as 
 
 Asia loves Prometheus ? 
 Asia. Peace, wanton, thou art yet 
 
 not old enough. 
 Think ye by gazing on each other's eyes 
 To multiply your lovely selves, and fill 
 With sphered fires the interlunar air ? 
 Spirit of the Earth. Nay, mother, 
 
 wliile my sister trims her lamp 
 'Tis hard I should go darkling. 
 Asia. Listen ; look ! 
 
 The Spirit of the Hour enters. 
 
 Prometheus. We feel what thou hast 
 
 heard and seen ; yet speak. 
 Spirit of the Hour. Soon as the sound 
 had ceased whose thunder filled 
 
 The abysses of the sky and the wide earth, 
 
 There was a change : the impalpable 
 thin air 
 
 And the all-circling sunlight were trans- 
 formed , 
 
 As if the sense of love dissolved in them 
 
 Had folded itself round the sphered 
 world . 
 
 My vision then grew clear, and I could 
 see 
 
 Into the mysteries of the universe : 
 
 Dizzy as with delight I floated down ; 
 
 Winnowing the lightsome air with lan- 
 guid plumes. 
 
 My coursers sought their birthplace in 
 the sun, 
 
 Where they henceforth will live exempt 
 from toil 
 
 ■Pasturing flowers of vegetable fire ; 
 
 And where my moonlike car will stand 
 within 
 
 A temple, gazed upon by Phidian forms 
 
3^8 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Of thee, and Asia, and the Earth, and 
 
 me, 
 And you fair nymphs looking the love 
 
 we feel, — 
 In memory of the tidings it has borne, — 
 Beneath a dome fretted with graven 
 
 flowers, 
 Poised on twelve columns of resplendent 
 
 stone. 
 And open to the bright and liquid sky. 
 Yoked to it by an ainphisbenic snake 
 The likeness of those winged steeds will 
 
 mock 
 The flight from wliich they find repose. 
 
 Alas, 
 Whither has wandered now my partial 
 
 tongue 
 When all remains untold which ye 
 
 would hear ? 
 As I have said I floated to the earth : 
 It was, as it is still, the pain of bliss 
 To move, to breathe, to be ; I wander- 
 ing went 
 Among the haunts and dwellings of 
 
 mankind. 
 And first was disappointed not to see 
 Such mighty change as I had felt within 
 Expressed in outward tilings ; but soon 
 
 I looked. 
 And behold, thrones were kingless, and 
 
 men walked 
 One with the other even as spirits do, 
 None fawned, none trampled ; hate, 
 
 disdain, or fear. 
 Self-love or self-contempt, on human 
 
 brows, 
 No more inscribed, as o'er the gate of 
 
 hell, 
 " All hope abandon ye who enter here ; " 
 None frowned, none trembled, none 
 
 with eager fear 
 Gazed on another's eye of cold command. 
 Until the subject of the tyrant's will 
 Became, worse fate, the abject of liis 
 
 own, 
 Which spurred him, like an outspent 
 
 horse, to deatli. 
 None wrouglit his lips in trutli-entang- 
 
 ling lines 
 Which smiled the lie his tongue dis- 
 dained to speak ; 
 None, with firm sneer, trod out in his 
 
 own heart 
 The sparks of love and hope till there 
 
 remained 
 Those bitter ashes, a soul self -consumed, 
 And the wretch crept a vampire among 
 
 men. 
 Infecting all with liis own hideous ill ; 
 
 None talked that common, false, cold, 
 
 hollow talk 
 Which makes the heart deny the yes it 
 
 breathes. 
 Yet question that unmeant hypocrisy 
 With sucli a self-mistrust as has no 
 
 name. 
 And women, too, frank, beautiful, and 
 
 kind 
 As the free heaven which rains fresh 
 
 light and dew 
 On the wide earth, passed ; gentle radi- 
 ant forms. 
 From custom's evil taint exempt and 
 
 pure ; 
 Speaking tlie wisdom once they could 
 
 not tliink. 
 Looking emotions once they feared to 
 
 feel. 
 And changed to all which once they 
 
 dared not be. 
 Yet being now, made earth like heaven ; 
 
 nor pride. 
 Nor jealousy, nor envj-. nor ill shame, 
 The bitterest of those drops of treasured 
 
 gall. 
 Spoilt the sweet taste of the nepenthe, 
 
 love. 
 
 Thrones, altars, judgment-seats, and 
 
 prisons, wherein, 
 And beside which, by wretched men 
 
 were borne 
 Scejitres, tiaras, swords, and cliains, 
 
 and tomes 
 Of reasoned wrong, glozed on by ignor- 
 ance, 
 Were like those monstrous and barbaric 
 
 shapes. 
 The ghosts of a no more remembered 
 
 fame, 
 Wliich, from tlieir unworn obelisks, 
 
 look forth 
 In triumph o'er the palaces and tombs 
 Of those who were their conquerors : 
 
 mouldering round 
 Those imaged to the pride of kings and 
 
 priests, 
 A dark yet mighty faith, a power as 
 
 wide 
 As is the woi'ld it wasted, and are now 
 But an astonislinient ; even so the tools 
 And emblems of its last captivity, 
 Amid the dwellings of the peopled 
 
 earth, 
 Stand, not o'erthrown, but unregarded 
 
 now. 
 And those foul shapes, abhorred by god 
 
 and man, 
 
SHELLEY 
 
 329 
 
 Which, under many a name and many a 
 
 form. 
 Strange, savage, ghastly, dark and 
 
 execrable, 
 Were Jupiter, the tyrant of the world ; 
 And wliich the nations, panic-stricken, 
 
 served 
 With blood, and liearts broken by long 
 
 hope, and love 
 Dragged to liis altars soiled and garland- 
 less. 
 And slain among men's unreclaiming 
 
 tears, 
 Flattering the tiling they feared, which 
 
 fear was hate. 
 Frown, mouldering fast, o'er their 
 
 abandoned shrines : 
 The painted veil, by those who were, 
 
 called life. 
 Which mimicked, as wifla coloi's idly 
 
 spread, 
 All men believed and hoped, is torn 
 
 aside ; 
 The loathsome mask has fallen, the man 
 
 remains 
 Sceptreless, free, uncircumscribed, but 
 
 man 
 Equal, unclassed, tribeless, and nation- 
 less. 
 Exempt from awe, worship, degree, the 
 
 king 
 Over himself ; just, gentle, wise : but 
 
 man 
 Passionless ; no, yet free from guilt or 
 
 pain. 
 Which were, for his will made or suffered 
 
 them. 
 Nor yet exempt, tho' ruling them like 
 
 slaves. 
 From chance, and death, and mutability, 
 The clogs of that which else miglit over- 
 soar 
 The loftiest star of unascended Iieaven, 
 Pinnacled dim in the intense inane. 
 
 ACT IV 
 
 Scene, a Part of the Forest near the 
 Cave of Prometheus. Panthea 
 and loNE ai'c sleeping : they awaken 
 gradually during the first Song. 
 
 Voice of unseen S23irits 
 Tlie pale stars are gone ! 
 For the sun, tlieir swift shepherd, 
 To their folds them compelling. 
 In the depths of the dawn. 
 Hastes, in meteor-ecli[)sing array, and 
 they flee 
 
 Beyond his blue dwelling, 
 
 As fawns flee the leopard. 
 
 But where are ye ? 
 
 ^4. Train of dark Forms and Shadoivs 
 passes by confusedly, singing. 
 
 Here, oh, here : 
 
 We bear tlie bier 
 Of the Father of many a cancelled year ! 
 
 Specti'es we 
 
 Of the dead Hours be, 
 We bear Time to his tomb in eternity. 
 
 Strew, oh, strew 
 
 Hair, not yew ! 
 Wet the dusty pall with tears, not dew ! 
 
 Be the faded flowers 
 
 Of Death's bare bowers 
 Spread on the corpse of the King of 
 Hours ! 
 
 Haste, oh, haste ! 
 
 As shades are chased. 
 Trembling, by day, from heaven's blue 
 waste. 
 
 We melt away. 
 
 Like dissolving spray. 
 From the children of a diviner day, 
 
 With the lullaby 
 
 Of winds that die 
 On the bosom of their own harmony ! 
 
 lone 
 What dark forms were they ? 
 
 Panthea 
 The past Hours weak and gray, 
 With the spoil whicli their toil 
 
 Raked togetiier 
 From the conquest but One could 
 foil. 
 
 lone 
 Have they past ? 
 PantJiea 
 
 They have past ; 
 They outspeeded the blast. 
 While 'tis said, they are fled : 
 
 lone 
 Whither, oh, whither ? 
 
 Panthea 
 
 To the dark, to the past, to the dead. 
 
 Voice of unseen Spirits 
 
 Bright clouds float in heaven. 
 Dew-stars gleam on earth. 
 Waves assemble on ocean, 
 Tliey are gathered and driven 
 
33° 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 By the storm of delight, by the panic of 
 glee ! 
 Tliey sliake witli emotion, 
 They dance in their mirth. 
 But where are ye ? 
 
 The pine boughs are singing 
 Old songs with new gladness, 
 Tlie billows and fountains 
 Fresh music are flinging, 
 Like tlie notes of a spirit from land and 
 from sea ; 
 The storms mock the mountains 
 With the thunder of gladness. 
 But where are ye ? 
 
 lone. Wliat charioteers are these ? 
 Panihea. Where are their 
 
 chariots ? 
 
 Semichorus of Hours 
 
 The voice of the Spirits of Air and of 
 Earth 
 Have drawn back the figured curtain 
 of sleep 
 Whicli covered our being and darkened 
 our birth 
 In the deep. 
 
 A Voice 
 
 In the deep ? 
 
 Semichorus II 
 
 Oh, below the deep. 
 
 Semichorus I 
 
 An hundred ages we had been kept 
 
 Cradled in visions of liate and care, 
 And each one who waked as his brother 
 
 slei)t, 
 Found the truth — 
 
 Semichorus II 
 
 Worse than his visions were ! 
 
 Semichorus I 
 
 We liave lieard the lute of Hope in sleej) ; 
 We have known the voice of Love in 
 
 dreams. 
 We have felt the wand of Power, and 
 
 leap — 
 
 Seviichorus II 
 
 As the billows leap in the morning 
 beams ! 
 
 Chortis 
 
 Weave the dance on the floor of the 
 breeze, 
 Pierce with song heaven's silent light, 
 
 Enchant the day that too swiftly flees. 
 To check its flight ere the cave of 
 night. 
 
 Once the hungry Hours were hounds 
 Wliich chased tlie day like a bleeding 
 deer. 
 And it limped and stumbled with many 
 wounds 
 Through the nightly dells of the 
 'desert year. 
 
 But now, oh weave the mystic measure 
 
 Of music, and dance, and shapes of 
 
 light, 
 
 Let the Hours, and the spirits of might 
 
 and i^leasure, 
 
 Like the clouds and sunbeams, unite. 
 
 A Voice 
 
 Unite! 
 Panthea. See, where the Spirits of 
 the human mind 
 Wrapt in sweet sounds, as in bright veils, 
 approach. 
 
 Chorus of Spirits 
 
 We join the throng 
 
 Of the dance and the song. 
 By the whirlwind of gladness borne 
 along ; 
 
 As the flying-fish leap 
 
 From tlie Indian deep. 
 And mix with the sea-birds, half asleep. 
 
 Chorus of Hours 
 
 Whence come ye, so wild and so fleet, 
 For sandals of lightning are on vour 
 
 feet, ' 11 
 
 And your wings are soft and swift as II 
 
 thought, " 
 
 And your eyes are as love which is veiled 
 
 not? 
 
 Chorus of Spirits 
 
 We come from the mind 
 
 Of human kind 
 Whicli was late so dusk, and obscene, 
 and blind, 
 
 Now 'tis an ocean 
 
 Of clear emotion, 
 A heaven of serene and mighty motion ; 
 
 Fi'om that deep abyss 
 
 Of wonder and bliss. 
 Whose caverns ai'e crystal palaces ; 
 
 From those skiey towers 
 
 Where Thought's crowned powers 
 Sit wiitching your dance, ye happy 
 Hours ! 
 
SHELLEY 
 
 35^ 
 
 From the dim recesses 
 Of woven caresses, 
 Where lovers catch ye by your loose 
 tresses ; 
 From the azure isles. 
 Where sweet Wisdom smiles, 
 Delaying your ships with her siren 
 wiles. 
 
 From the temples high 
 
 Of Man's ear and eye, 
 Roofed over Sculpture and Poesy ; 
 
 From the murmurings 
 
 Of the unsealed springs 
 Where Science bedews his Daedal wings. 
 
 Years after years, 
 Through blood, and tears, 
 And a thick hell of hatreds, and hopes, 
 and fears ; 
 We waded and flew, 
 And the islets were few 
 Where the "bud-blighted flowers of hap- 
 piness grew. 
 
 Our feet now, every palm, 
 
 Are sandalled with calm, 
 And the dew of our wings is a rain of 
 balm ; 
 
 And, beyond our eyes, 
 
 The human love lies 
 Which makes all it gazes on Paradise. 
 
 Chonis of S2nrits and Hours 
 
 Then weave the web of the mystic 
 
 measure ; 
 From the depths of the sky and the ends 
 
 of the ear til, 
 Come, swift Spirits of might and of 
 
 pleasure, 
 Fill the dance and the music of mirth. 
 As the waves of a thousand streains 
 
 rush by 
 To an ocean of splendor and harmony ! 
 
 Chorus of Sjnrits 
 
 Our spoil is won, 
 
 Our task is done. 
 We are free to dive, or soar, or run ; 
 
 Beyond and around, 
 
 Or within the bound 
 Whicli clips the world with darkness 
 round. 
 
 We'll pass the eyes 
 Of the starry skies 
 Into the hoar deej) to colonise : 
 Death, Chaos, and Night, 
 
 From the sound of our flight, 
 Sliall flee, like mist from a tempest's 
 might. 
 
 And Earth, Air, and Light, 
 And the Spirit of Might, 
 Which drives round the stars in their 
 fiery flight ; 
 And Love, Thought, and Breath, 
 The powers that quell Death, 
 Wherever we soar shall assemble be- 
 neath. 
 
 And our singing shall build 
 In the void's loose field 
 A world for the Spirit of Wisdom to 
 wield : 
 We will take our plan 
 From the new world of man. 
 And our work shall be called the Pro- 
 methean. 
 
 Chorus of Hours 
 
 Break the dance, and scatter the song ; 
 Let some depart, and some remain. 
 
 Semichorus I 
 We, beyond heaven, are driven along ! 
 
 Semichorus H 
 Us the enchantments of earth retain : 
 
 Semichoi'us I 
 
 Ceaseless, and rapid, and fierce, and free, 
 With the Spirits which build a new earth 
 
 and sea. 
 And a lieaven where yet heaven could 
 
 never be. 
 
 Semichorus H 
 
 Solemn, and slow, and serene, and bright, 
 Leading the Day and outspeeding tlie 
 
 Night, 
 With tlie powers of a world of perfect 
 
 light. 
 
 Semichorus I 
 
 We whirl, singingloud, round the gather- 
 ing sphere, 
 
 Till the trees, and the beasts, and the 
 clouds appear 
 
 From its chaos made calm by love, not 
 fear. 
 
 Semichorus II 
 
 We encircle the ocean and mountains of 
 
 earth, 
 And the l)appy forms of its deatli and 
 
 birth 
 
332 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Change to the music of our sweet mirth. 
 Chorus of Hours and Spirits 
 
 Break the dance, and scatter the song, 
 
 Let some depart, and some remain, 
 Wherever we tiy we lead along 
 In leashes, like starbeams, soft yet 
 strong. 
 The clouds that are heavy with love's 
 sweet rain. 
 
 Panthea. Ha ! they are gone ! 
 lone. Yet feel you no delight 
 
 From the past sweetness? 
 
 Panthea. As the bare green hill 
 
 When some soft cloud vanishes into rain, 
 Laughs with a thousand drops of sunny 
 
 water 
 To the unpavilioned sky ! 
 
 lone. Even whilst we speak 
 
 New notes arise. What is that awful 
 
 sound? 
 Panthea. ' Tis the deep music of the 
 
 rolling world 
 Kindling within the strings of the waved 
 
 air, 
 ^olian modulations. 
 
 lone. Listen too, 
 
 How every pause is filled w^ith linder 
 
 notes, 
 Clear, silver, icy, keen, awakening tones. 
 Which pierce the sense, and live within 
 
 the soul, 
 As the sharp stars pierce winter's crystal 
 
 air 
 And gaze upon themselves witliin the sea. 
 Panthea. But see where througli two 
 
 openings in the forest 
 Which lianging branclies overcanopy. 
 And where two runnels of a rivulet. 
 Between tlie close moss violet-inwoven. 
 Have made their path of melody, like 
 
 sisters 
 Who iiart with siglis that they may meet 
 
 in smiles. 
 Turning their dear disunion to an isle 
 Of lovely grief, a wood of sweet sad 
 
 thoughts ; 
 Two visions of strange radiance float 
 
 upon 
 The ocean-like enchantment of strong 
 
 sound. 
 Which flows intenser, keener, deeper yet 
 Under the ground and through the wind- 
 less air. 
 lone. I see a chariot like that thinnest 
 
 boat, 
 In which the mother of the months is 
 
 borne 
 
 By ebbing night into her western cave. 
 When she upsprings from interlunar 
 
 dreams, 
 O'er which is curved an orblike canopy 
 Of gentle darkness, and the hills and 
 
 woods 
 Distinctly seen through that dusk airy 
 
 veil. 
 Regard like shapes in an enchanter's 
 
 glass ; 
 Its wheels are solid clouds, azure and 
 
 gold, 
 Such as the genii of tlie thvmderstorm 
 Pile on the floor of the illumined sea 
 When the sun rushes under it ; they roll 
 And move and grow as with an inward 
 
 wind ; 
 Within it sits a winged infant, white 
 Its countenance, like the whiteness of 
 
 bright snow. 
 Its plumes are as feathers of sunny frost. 
 Its limbs gleam white, through the wind 
 
 flowing folds 
 Of its white robe, woof of ethereal pearl. 
 Its hair is white, the biightness of vvhite 
 
 light 
 Scattered in strings ; yet its two eyes 
 
 are heavens 
 Of liquid darkness, which the Deity 
 Within seems pouring, as a storm is 
 
 poured 
 From jagged clouds, out of their arrowy 
 
 lashes, 
 Tempering the cold and radiant air 
 
 around. 
 With fire that is not brightness : in its 
 
 hand 
 It sways a quivering moonbeam, from 
 
 whose point 
 A guiding power directs the chariot's 
 
 prow 
 Over its wheeled clouds, which as tliey 
 
 roll 
 Over the grass, and flowers, and waves, 
 
 wake sounds, 
 Swefc,"^ as a singing rain of silver dew. 
 Panthea. And from the other open- 
 ing in the wood 
 Rushes, with loud and whirlwind har- 
 mony, 
 A sphere, which is as many thousand 
 
 spheres. 
 Solid as cr3\stal, yet throvigh all its mass 
 Flow, as through empty space, music 
 
 and light : 
 Ten thousand orbs involving and in- 
 volved. 
 Purple and azure, white, and green, and 
 
 golden, 
 
SHELLEY 
 
 333 
 
 Sphere within sphere ; and every space 
 
 between 
 Peopled with unimaginable shapes, 
 Such as ghusts dream dwell in the lamp- 
 less deep, 
 Yet eacii inter transpicuous, and they 
 
 whirl 
 Over eacii other with a thousand motions, 
 Upon a thousand sightless axles spin- 
 ning. 
 And with the force of self-destroying 
 
 swiftness. 
 Intensely, slowly, solemnly roll on. 
 Kindling with mingled sounds, and 
 
 many tones, 
 Intelligible words and music wild. 
 With mighty whirl the multitudinous 
 
 orb 
 Grinds the bright brook into an azure 
 
 mist 
 Of elemental subtlety, like light : 
 And the wild odor of tiie forest flowers, 
 Tiie music of the living gi-ass and air. 
 The emerald light of leaf-entangled 
 
 beams 
 Round its intense yet self-conflicting 
 
 speed , 
 Seem kneaded into one aerial mass 
 Which drowns the sense. Within the 
 
 orb itself. 
 Pillowed upon its alabaster arms. 
 Like to a child o'erwearied with sweet 
 
 toil. 
 On its own folded wings, and wavy hair, 
 The Spirit of the Earth is laid asleep. 
 And you can see its little lips are moving, 
 Amid tlie changing light of their own 
 
 smiles. 
 Like one who talks of what he loves in 
 
 di'eam. 
 lone. 'T is onl}'' mocking the orb's 
 
 harmony. 
 Panthea. And from a star upon its 
 
 forehead, shoot. 
 Like swords of azure fire, or golden 
 
 spears 
 With tyrant-quelling myrtle overtwined. 
 Embleming heaven and eartii united 
 
 now, 
 Vast beams like spokes of some invisible 
 
 wheel 
 Which whirl as the orb whirls, swifter 
 
 than thought. 
 Filling the ab^'ss with sun-like lighten- 
 
 ings, 
 And perpendicular now, and now trans- 
 verse. 
 Pierce the dark soil, and as they pierce 
 
 and pass, 
 
 Make bare the secrets of the earth's deep 
 
 heart ; 
 Infinite mine of adamant and gold. 
 Valueless stones, and unimagined gems. 
 And c;averns on crystalline columns 
 
 poised 
 Witii vegetable silver overspread ; 
 Wells of unfathomed fire, and M'ater 
 
 springs 
 Whence the great sea, even as a cliild is 
 
 fed, 
 Whose vapors clothe earth's monarcli 
 
 mountain- tops 
 With kingly ermine snow. The beams 
 
 flash on 
 And make appear the melancholy ruins 
 Of cancelled cycles ; anchors, beaks of 
 
 ships ; 
 Planks turned to marble ; quivers, helms, 
 
 and spears, 
 And gorgon-headed targes, and the 
 
 wheels 
 Of scythed chariots and the emblazonry 
 Of trophies, standards, and armorial 
 
 beasts. 
 Round which death laughed, sepulchred 
 
 emblems 
 Of dead destruction, ruin within ruin ! 
 Tlie wrecks beside of many a city vast. 
 Whose population which the earth grew 
 
 over 
 Was mortal, but not human : see. thev 
 
 lie, 
 Their monstrous works, and uncouth 
 
 skeletons, 
 Their statues, homes and fanes; pro- 
 digious shapes 
 Huddled in gray annihilation, split. 
 Jammed in the hard, black deep ; and 
 
 over these. 
 The anatomies of unknown winged 
 
 things. 
 And fishes which were isles of living 
 
 scale. 
 And serpents, bony chains, twisted 
 
 around 
 The iron crags, or within liea])s of dust 
 To which the tortuous strength of their 
 
 last pangs 
 Had crushed the iron crags ; and ovei' 
 
 these 
 The jagged alligator, and tlie might 
 Of earth-convulsing behemoth, which 
 
 once 
 Were monarch beasts, and on the slimj' 
 
 shores. 
 And weed-overgrown continents of earth. 
 Increased and multiplied like summer 
 
 worms 
 
334 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 On an abandoned corpse, till the blue 
 
 globe 
 Wrapt deluge round it like a cloak, and 
 
 thej' 
 Yelled, gasped, and were abolished ; or 
 
 some God 
 Wliose throne was in a comet, passed, 
 
 and cried, 
 Be not ! And like my words they were 
 
 no more. 
 
 Hie Earth 
 
 The joy, the triumpli, the delight, the 
 
 madness ! 
 The boundless, overflowing, bursting 
 
 gladness, 
 The vaporous exultation not to be con- 
 
 finei ! 
 Ha ! ha ! the animation of delight 
 Which wraps me, like an atmosphere 
 
 of light, 
 And bears me as a cloud is borne by its 
 
 own wind. 
 
 Tlie Moon 
 
 Brother mine, calm wanderer, 
 Happy globe of land and air. 
 Some Spirit is darted like a beam from 
 thee, 
 Winch penetrates my frozen frame, 
 And passes with the warmth of flame, 
 Witli love, and odor, and deep melody 
 Tlirough me, through me ! 
 
 The Earth 
 
 Ha ! ha ! the caverns of my liollow 
 
 mountains. 
 My cloven fire-crags, sound-exulting 
 
 fountains 
 Laugh with a vast and inextinguishable 
 
 laughter. 
 The oceans, and the deserts, and the 
 
 abysses. 
 And the deep air's unmeasured 
 
 wildernesses, 
 Answer from all their clouds and billows, 
 
 echoing after. 
 
 They cry aloud . as I do. Sceptred 
 curse. 
 
 Who all our green and azure universe 
 Threatenedst to muffle round with black 
 destruction, sending 
 
 A solid cloud to rain hot thunder- 
 stones. 
 
 And splinter and knead down my 
 children's bones, 
 All I bring forth, to one void mass, 
 battering and blending. 
 
 Until each crag-like tower, and 
 
 storied column, 
 Palace, and obelisk, and temple 
 
 solemn, 
 My imperial mountains crowned with 
 
 cloud, and snow, and fire ; 
 My sea-like forests, every blade and 
 
 blossom 
 Which finds a grave or cradle in my 
 
 bosom. 
 Were stamped bj^ thy strong hate into a 
 
 lifeless mire. 
 
 How art thou sunk, withdrawn, 
 
 covered, drunk up 
 By thirsty nothing, as the brackish 
 
 CUJ) 
 
 Drained by a desert-ti'oop, a little drop 
 for all ; 
 And from beneath, around, within, 
 
 above, 
 Filling thy void annihilation, love 
 Burst in like light on caves cloven by 
 the thunder-ball. 
 
 The Moon 
 
 The snow upon my lifeless mountains 
 Is loosened into living fountains. 
 My solid oceans flow, and sing, and 
 shine : 
 A spirit from my lieart bursts fortli, 
 It clothes with unexpected birth 
 My cold liare bosom : Oh ! it must be 
 thine 
 
 On mine, on mine ! 
 
 Gazing on thee I feel, I know 
 Green stalks burst forth, and bright 
 flowers grow, 
 And living shapes upon my bosom 
 move : 
 Music is in the sea and air, 
 Winged clouds soar here and there, 
 Dark with the rain new buds are dream- 
 ing of : 
 'Tis love, all love ! 
 
 The Earth 
 
 It interpenetrates my granite mass, 
 Through tangled roots and trodden 
 
 claj^ doth pass, 
 Into the utmost leaves and delicatest 
 
 flowers ; 
 Upon the winds, among the clouds 'tis 
 
 spread. 
 It wakes a life in the forgotten dead, 
 They breathe a spirit up from their 
 
 obscurest bowers, 
 
SHELLEY 
 
 335 
 
 And like a storm bursting its cloudy 
 prison 
 
 With thunder, and with whirlwind, 
 has arisen 
 Out of tlie lanipless caves of unimagined 
 being : 
 
 With earthquake sliock and swift- 
 ness making shiver 
 
 Thought's stagnant chaos, unremoved 
 for ever, 
 Tillliate, and fear, and pain, light-van- 
 quished shadows, fleeing. 
 
 Leave Man, who was a many-sided 
 
 mirror, 
 Which could distort to many a shape 
 of error, 
 Tliis true fair world of tilings, a sea re- 
 flecting love ; 
 Which over all his kind as the sun's 
 heaven 
 Gliding o'er ocean, smooth, serene, and 
 
 even 
 Darting from starry depths radiance and 
 life, doth move, 
 
 Leave Man, even as a leprous child 
 
 is left, 
 Who follows a sick beast to some 
 
 warm cleft 
 Of rocks, tlirough wliich the miglit of 
 
 liealing springs is poured ; 
 Tlien when it waiulers home witli 
 
 rosy smile, 
 Unconscious, and its mother fears 
 
 awliile 
 It is a spirit, then, weeps on lier child 
 
 restored — 
 
 Man, oh, not men ! a chain of linked 
 
 tliouglit. 
 Of love and might to be divided not. 
 Compelling the elements witli adaman- 
 tine stress ; [gaze. 
 As the sun rules, even with a t3a-ant's 
 The unquiet republic of the maze 
 Of planets, struggling fierce towards 
 heaven's free wilderness — 
 
 Man, one harmonious soul of many 
 
 a soul. 
 Whose nature is its own divine control. 
 Where all things flow to all, as rivers to 
 
 the sea ; [love ; 
 
 Familiar acts are beautiful through 
 Labor, and pain, and grief, in life's 
 
 green grove 
 Sport like tame beasts, none knew how 
 
 gentle they could be 1 
 
 His will, with all mean passions, bad 
 
 deliglits. 
 And selfish cares, its trembling 
 
 satellites, 
 A spirit ill to guide, but miglity to obey. 
 Is as a tempest-winged sliip, whose 
 
 lielm 
 Love rules, through waves which 
 
 dare not overwhelm, 
 Forcing life's wildest shores to own its 
 
 sovereign sway. 
 
 All things confess his strength. 
 
 Through the cold mass 
 Of marble and of color his dreams pass ; 
 Bright threads wlience mothers weave 
 the robes tlieir children wear ; 
 Language is a perpetual orpliic song, 
 Which rules with Daedal harmony a 
 throng 
 Of thoughts and forms, which else 
 senseless and shapeless were. 
 
 The lightning is his slave ; heaven's 
 utmost deep 
 
 Gives up her stars, and like a flock of 
 sheep 
 They pass before his eye, are numbered, 
 and roll on ! 
 
 The tempest is Iiis steed, lie strides 
 the air ; 
 
 And the abyss shouts from her depth 
 laid bare. 
 Heaven, hast thou secrets ? Man un- 
 veils me ; I have none. 
 
 The Moon 
 
 The shadow of white death has past 
 From my path in heaven at last, 
 A clinging shroud of solid frost and sleep ; 
 And through mj^ newly- woven bowers. 
 Wander hap])y paramours, 
 Less mighty, but as mild as those who 
 keep 
 
 Thy vales more deep. 
 
 The Earth 
 
 As the dissolving warmth of dawn 
 
 may fold 
 A half unfrozen dew-globe, green and 
 
 gold, 
 And crystalline, till it becomes a winged 
 
 mist. 
 And wanders up the vault of the blue 
 
 day, 
 Outlives the noon, and on the sun's 
 
 last ray 
 Hangs o'er the sea, a fleece of fire and 
 
 amethj'^st, 
 
336 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 The Moon 
 
 Tliou art folded, thou art lying 
 In tlie liglit which is undying 
 Of thine own joy, and heaven's smile 
 divine ; 
 All suns and constellations shower 
 On thee a light, a life, a power 
 Wliich doth array th}^ sphere ; thou 
 pourest thine 
 On mine, on mine ! 
 
 The Earth 
 
 I spin beneath my pyramid of niglit. 
 Which points into the heavens dream- 
 ing delight, 
 Murmuring victorious joy in my en- 
 chanted sleep ; 
 As a youth lulled in love-dreams faint- 
 ly sighing, 
 Under the shadows of liis beauty ly- 
 ing. 
 Wliicli round his rest a watcli of liglit 
 and warmth doth keep. 
 
 Tlie Moon 
 
 As in the soft and sweet eclipse, 
 When soul meets soul on lovers* lips, 
 High hearts are calm, and brightest eyes 
 are dull ; 
 So when thy shadow falls on me. 
 Then am I mute and still, by thee 
 Covered ; of thy love, Orb most beautiful, 
 Full, oh, too full ! 
 
 Thou art speeding round the sun 
 Brightest world of many a one ; 
 Green and azure sphere which shinest 
 With a light which is divinest 
 Among all the lamps of Heaven 
 To whom life and light is given ; 
 I, thy crystal paramour. 
 Borne beside thee bj^ a power 
 Like the polar Paradise, 
 Magnet-like of lovers' eyes ; 
 I, a most enamored maiden 
 Whose weak brain is overladen 
 With the pleasure of her love. 
 Maniac-like around thee move 
 Gazing, an insatiate bride. 
 On thy form from every side 
 Like a Maenad, round the cup 
 Which Agave lifted up 
 In the weird Cadmasan forest. 
 Bi'other, wheresoe'er thou soarest 
 I must hurry, whirl and follow 
 Through the heavens wide and hollow, 
 Sheltered by tlie warm embrace 
 Of thy soul from hungry space, 
 
 Drinking from th}' sense and sight 
 
 Beauty, majesty, and might, 
 
 As a lover or chameleon 
 
 Grows like what it looks upon 
 
 As a violet's gentle eye 
 
 Gazes on the azure sky 
 Until its hue grows like what it beholds, 
 
 As a gray and watery mist 
 
 Glows like solid amethyst 
 Atliwart the western mountain it en- 
 folds. 
 
 When the sunset sleeps 
 Upon its snow. 
 
 Tlie Earth 
 
 And the weak day weeps 
 That it should be so. 
 Oh, gentle Moon, the voice of thv de- 
 light 
 Falls on me like thy clear and tender 
 
 light 
 Soothing the seaman, borne the summer 
 night. 
 Through isles for ever calm : 
 Oh, gentle Moon, thy crystal accents 
 
 pierce 
 The caverns of my pride's deep universe, 
 Charming the tiger joy, whose tramp- 
 lings fierce 
 Made wounds which need thy balm. 
 Panthea. I rise as from a bath of 
 sparkling water, 
 A bath of azure light, among dark rocks. 
 Out of the stream of sound. 
 
 lone. Ah me ! sweet sister. 
 
 The stream of sound has ebbed away 
 
 from us, 
 And you pretend to rise out of its wave. 
 Because your words fall like the clear, 
 
 soft dew 
 Shaken from a bathing wood-nymph's 
 limbs and hair. 
 Panthea. Peace ! peace ! A mighty 
 Power, which is as darkness. 
 Is rising out of Earth, and from the sky 
 Is showered like night, and from within 
 
 the air . , 
 
 Bursts, like eclipse which had been ij 
 gathered up ll 
 
 Into the pores of sunlight : the bright 
 
 visions, 
 Wherein the singing spirits rode and 
 
 shone. 
 Gleam like pale meteors through a 
 watery night. 
 lone. There is a sense of words upon 
 
 mine ear. 
 Panthea. An universal sound like 
 words : Oh, list ! 
 
SHELLEY 
 
 337 
 
 Demogorgon 
 
 Thou, Earth, cahn empire of a happy 
 soul, 
 Sphere of divinest shapes and liar- 
 nionies. 
 Beautiful orb ! gathering as thou dost 
 roll 
 The love which paves thy path along 
 the skies : 
 
 The Earth 
 
 I hear : I am as a drop of dew that 
 dies. 
 
 Demogorgon 
 
 Thou, Moon, which gazeston thenightlv 
 Earth 
 With wonder, as it gazes upon thee : 
 Whilst each to men, and beasts, and the 
 swift birtli 
 Of birds, is beauty, love, calm, har- 
 mony : 
 
 The Moon 
 
 I hear : I am a leaf shaken by thee ! 
 
 Demogorgon 
 
 Ye kings of suns and stars, Demons and 
 Gods, 
 Ethereal Dominations, who possess 
 Elysian, windless, fortunate abodes 
 Beyond Heaven's constellated wilder- 
 ness : 
 
 A Voice from above 
 
 Our great Republic hears, we are 
 blest, and bless. 
 
 Demogorgon 
 
 Ye happy dead, whom beams of brightest 
 verse 
 Are clouds to hide, not colors to 
 portray, 
 Whether your nature is that universe 
 Which once ye saw and suffered — 
 
 A Voice from beneath 
 
 Or as they 
 Whom we have left, we change and 
 pass away. 
 
 Demogorgon 
 
 Ye elemental Genii, who have homes 
 From man's high mind even to the 
 central stone 
 
 Of sullen lead ; from Heaven's star- 
 fretted domes 
 
 22 
 
 To the dull weed some sea -worm 
 battens on : 
 
 A confused Voice 
 
 We hear : thy words waken Oblivion. 
 
 Demogorgon 
 
 Spirits, whose homes are flesh : ye beasts 
 and birds, 
 Ye worms, and fish ; ye living leaves 
 and buds ; 
 Lightning and wind ; and ye untame- 
 able herds. 
 Meteors and mists, which throng air's 
 solitudes : — 
 
 A Voice 
 
 Thy voice to us is wind among still 
 woods. 
 
 Demogorgon 
 
 Man,who wert once a despot and a slave; 
 
 A dujie and a deceiver ; a decay ; 
 A traveller from the cradle to the grave 
 
 Through tlie dim night of this im- 
 mortal day : 
 
 All 
 
 Speak : thy strong words may never 
 pass away. 
 
 Demogorgon 
 
 This is the day, wiiich down the void 
 
 abysm 
 At the Earth-born's spell yawns for 
 
 Heaven's despotism, 
 And Conquest is dragged captive 
 
 througli the deep : 
 Love, from its awful throne of patient 
 
 power 
 Li the wise heart, from the last giddy 
 
 hour 
 Of dead endurance, from the slippery, 
 
 steep. 
 And narrow verge of crag-like agony, 
 
 springs 
 And folds over the world its healing 
 
 wings. 
 
 Gentleness, Virtue, Wisdom, and En- 
 durance, 
 
 These are the seals of that most firm 
 assurance 
 Which bars the pit over Destruction's 
 strength ; 
 
 And if, with infirm hand, Eternity, 
 
 Motlier of many acts and hours, should 
 free 
 
338 
 
 BRiriSH POETS 
 
 The serpent that would clasp hei* with 
 
 his length ; 
 These are the spells by which to reas- 
 
 sume 
 An empire o'er the disentangled doom. 
 
 To suffer woes which Hope thinks in- 
 finite ; 
 
 To forgive wrongs darker than death or 
 night ; 
 To defy Power, which seems omni- 
 potent ; 
 
 To love, and bear ; to hope till Hope 
 creates 
 
 From its own wreck the thing it con- 
 templates ; 
 Neither to change, nor falter, nor re- 
 pent ; 
 
 This, like thy glory, Titan, is to be 
 
 Good, great and joyous, beautiful and 
 free ; 
 
 This is alone Life, Joy, Empire, and 
 Victory.i 1S19. 1820. 
 
 ' The prominent feature of Shelley's theory of 
 the destiny of the human species was that evil is 
 not inherent in the system of the creation, but 
 an accident that mi.^ht be expelled. This also 
 forms a portion of Christianity : God made 
 earth and man perfect, till he, by his fall, 
 
 " Brought death into the world and all our woe." 
 
 Shelley believed that mankind had only to will 
 that there should be no evil, and there would be 
 none. It is not my part in these Notes to notice 
 the arguments that have been urged against 
 this opinion, but to mention the fact that he en- 
 tertained it, and was indeed attached to it with 
 fervent enthusiasm. That man could be so per- 
 fectionized as to be able to expel evil from his 
 own nature, and from the greater part of the 
 creation, was the cardinal point of his system. 
 And the subject he loved best to dwell on was 
 the image of One warring with the Evil Princi- 
 ple, oppressed not only by it, but by all— even 
 the good, who were deluded into considering evil 
 a necessary portion of humanity ; a victim full 
 of fortitude and hope and the spirit of triumph, 
 emanating from a reliance in the ultimate 
 omnipotence of Good. Such he had depicted in 
 his last poem, when he made Laon the enemy 
 and the victim of tyrants. He now took a more 
 idealised image of the same subject. He fol- 
 lowed certain classical authorities in figuring 
 Saturn as the good principle, Jupiter the usurp- 
 ing evil one, and Prometheus as the regenerator, 
 who, unable to bring mankind back to primitive 
 innocence, used knowledge as a weapon to de- 
 feat evil, by leading mankind, beyond the state 
 wherein they are sinless through ignorance, to 
 that in which they are virtuous through wisdom. 
 Jupiter punished the temerity of the Titan by 
 chaining him to a rock of Caucasus, and causing 
 a vulture to devour his still-renewed heart. 
 There was a prophecy afloat in heaven portend- 
 ing the fall of Jove, the secret of averting which 
 was known only to Prometheus ; and tlie god 
 offered freedom from torture on conditii>n of its 
 being communicated to him. According to the 
 
 THE SENSITIVE PLANT 
 
 Part First 
 
 A Sensitive Plant in a garden grew, 
 And the young winds fed it with silver 
 
 dew. 
 And it opened its fan-like leaves to the 
 
 light, 
 And closed them beneath the kisses of 
 
 night. 
 
 And the Spring arose on the garden fair, 
 
 mythological story, this referred to the off- 
 spring of Thetis, who was destined to be greater 
 than his father. Prometheus at last bought 
 pardon for his crime of enriching mankind with 
 his gifts, by revealing the prophecy. Hercules 
 killed the vulture, and set him free ; and Thetis 
 was married to Peleus, the father of Achilles. 
 
 Shelley adapted the catastrophe of this story to 
 his peculiar views. The son greater than his 
 father, born of the nuptials of Jupiter and 
 Thetis, was to dethrone Evil, and bring back a 
 happier reign than that of Saturn. Prometheus 
 defies the power of his enemy, and endures cen- 
 turies of torture; till the hour arrives when 
 Jove, blind to the real event, but darkly guess- 
 ing that some great good to himself will flow, 
 espouses Thetis. At the moment, the Primal 
 Power of the world drives lum from his usurped 
 throne, and Strength, in the per.son of Hercules, 
 liberates Humanity, typified in Prometheus, 
 from the tortures generated by evil done or 
 suffered. Asia, one of the Oceanides, is the wife 
 of Prometheus — she was, according to other my- 
 thological interpretations, the same as Venus 
 and Nature. When the benefactor of mankind 
 is liberated, Nature resumes the beauty of her 
 prime, and is united to her husband, the emblem 
 of the human race, in perfect and happy union. 
 In the fourth Act, the Poet gives further scope 
 to his imagination, and idealizes the forms of 
 creation — such as we know them, instead of such 
 as they appeared to the Greeks. Maternal 
 Earth, the mighty parent, is superseded by the 
 Spirit of the Earth, the guide of our planet 
 through the realms of sky ; while his fair and 
 weaker companion and attendant, the Spirit of 
 tlie Moon, receives bliss from the annihilation of 
 Evil in the superior sphere. 
 
 Shelley develops more particularly in the 
 lyrics of this drama his abstruse and imagin- 
 ative theories with regard to the creation. It 
 requires a mind as svibtle and penetrating as his 
 own to understand the mystic meanings scat- 
 tered throughout the poem. They elude the 
 ordinary reader by their abstraction and deli- 
 cacy of distinction, but they are far from vague. 
 It was his design to write prose metaphysical es- 
 says on the nature of Man, which would have 
 served to explain much of what is obscure in his 
 poetry ; a few scattered fragments of observa- 
 tions and remarks alone remain. He considered 
 tliese philosophical views of Mind and Nature to 
 be instinct with the intensest spirit of poetry. 
 
 More popular poets clothe the ideal with fa- 
 miliar and sensible imagery. Shelley loved to 
 idealize the real— to gift the mechanism of the 
 material universe with a soul and a voice, and to 
 bestow such also on the. most delicate and ab- 
 stract emotions and thoughts of the mind. 
 Sophocles was his great master in this species oJ 
 imagery.— (Fcoj/t Mrs. Shelley's note.) 
 
SHELLEY 
 
 339 
 
 Like the Spirit of Love felt everywhere ; 
 And each flower and herb on Earth's 
 
 dark breast 
 Rose from the dreams of its wintry rest. 
 
 But none ever trembled and panted with 
 bliss 
 
 In the garden, the field, or the wilder- 
 ness. 
 
 Like a doe in the noontide with love's 
 sweet want, 
 
 As the companionless Sensitive Plant. 
 
 The snowdrop and then the violet. 
 Arose from the ground with warm rain 
 
 wet. 
 And their breath was mixed with fresh 
 
 odor, sent 
 From the turf, like the voice and the 
 
 instrument. 
 
 Then the pied wind-flowers and the 
 
 tulip tall. 
 And narcissi, tlie fairest among them all. 
 Who gaze on their eyes in the stream's 
 
 recess, 
 Till they die of their own dear loveliness ; 
 
 And the Naiad-like lily of the vale. 
 Whom youth makes so fair and passion 
 
 so pale, 
 That the light of its tremulous bells is 
 
 seen 
 Through their pavilions of tender green ; 
 
 And the hyacintli purple, and white, 
 
 and blue. 
 Which flung from its bells a sweet peal 
 
 anew 
 Of music so delicate, soft, .and intense. 
 It was felt like an odor within the 
 
 sense ; 
 
 And the rose like a nymph to the bath 
 addrest, 
 
 Whicli unveiled the depth of her glow- 
 ing breast, 
 
 Till, fold after fold, to the fainting air 
 
 The soul of her beauty and love lay 
 bare : 
 
 And the wand-like lil.y, whicli lifted up, 
 As a Maenad, its moonlight- colored cup, 
 Till tlie fiery star, which is its eye, 
 Gazed through clear dew on the tender 
 sky ; 
 
 And the jessamine faint, and the sweet 
 tuberose, 
 
 Tlie sweetest flower for scent that blows ; 
 And all rare blossoms from every clime 
 Grew in that garden in perfect prime. 
 
 And on the stream whose inconstant 
 bosom 
 
 Was prankt under boughs of embower- 
 ing blossom, 
 
 With golden and green light, slanting 
 tiirough 
 
 Their heaven of many a tangled hue, 
 
 Broad water-lilies lay tremulously, 
 And starry river-buds glimmered by, 
 And around them the soft stream did 
 
 glide and dance 
 With a motion of sweet sound and 
 
 radiance. 
 
 And the sinuous paths of lawn and of 
 
 moss, 
 Wliich led through the garden, along 
 
 and across, 
 Some open at once to the sun and the 
 
 breeze, 
 Some lost among bowers of blossoming 
 
 trees, 
 
 Wei"e all paved with daisies and delicate 
 
 bells 
 As fair as the fabulous asphodels. 
 And flowrets which drooping as day 
 
 drooped too 
 Fell into pavilions, white, purple, and 
 
 blue. 
 To roof the glow-worm from the evening 
 
 dew. 
 
 And from this undefiled Paradise 
 
 The flowers (as an infant's awakening 
 
 eyes 
 Smile on its mother, whose siuging 
 
 sweet 
 Can first lull, and at last must awaken 
 
 it), 
 
 When Heaven's blithe winds had un- 
 folded them, 
 As mine-lamps enkindle a hidden gem. 
 Shone smiling to Heaven, and every one 
 Shared joy in the light of the gentle sun ; 
 
 For each one was interpenetrated 
 
 V¥ith the light and the odor its neigh- 
 bor shed, 
 
 Like j'oung lovers whom youth and love 
 make dear 
 
 Wrapped and filled by their mutual 
 atmosphere. 
 
340 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 But the Sensitive Plant wliich could 
 
 give small fruit 
 Of the love which it felt from the leaf 
 
 to the root, 
 Received more than all, it loved more 
 
 than ever, 
 Where none wanted but it, could belong 
 
 to the giver, 
 
 For the Sensitive Plant has no bright 
 
 flower : 
 Radiance and odor are not its dower ; 
 It loves, even like Love, its deep heart 
 
 is full. 
 It desires what it has not, the beautiful ! 
 
 The light winds which from unsustain- 
 
 ing wings, 
 Shed tlie music of many murmurings ; 
 The beams which dart from many a 
 
 star 
 Of the flowers whose hues they bear 
 
 afar ; 
 
 The plumed insects swift and free, 
 Like golden boats on a sunny sea, 
 Laden with liglit and odor, which pass 
 Over the gleam of tlie living grass ; 
 
 The unseen clouds of the dew, wliich lie 
 Like fire in the flowers till the sun rides 
 
 high. 
 Then wander like spirits among the 
 
 spheres, 
 Each cloud faint with the fragrance it 
 
 bears ; 
 
 The quivering vapors of dim noontide. 
 Which like a sea o'er the warm earth 
 
 glide. 
 In which every sound, and odor, and 
 
 beam, 
 Move, as reeds in a single stream ; 
 
 Each and all like ministering angels 
 
 were 
 For the Sensitive Plant sweet joy to 
 
 bear, 
 Whilst the lagging hours of the day 
 
 went by 
 Like windless clouds o'er a tender skj'. 
 
 And when evening descended from 
 
 heaven above, 
 And the Earth was all rest, and the air 
 
 was all love. 
 And delight, tho' less bright, was far 
 
 more deej). 
 And the day's veil fell from the world 
 
 of sleep. 
 
 And the beasts, and the birds, and the 
 insects were drowned 
 
 In an ocean of dreams without a sound ; 
 
 Whose waves never mark, tho' they 
 ever impress 
 
 The light sand which paves it, conscious- 
 ness ; 
 
 (Only overhead the sweet nightingale 
 Ever sang more sweet as tlie day might 
 
 fail, 
 And snatches of its El3'sian chant 
 Were mixed with the dreams of the 
 
 Sensitive Plant.) 
 
 Tlie Sensitive Plant was the earliest 
 Up-gathered into the bosom of rest ; 
 A sweet child weary of its delight. 
 The feeblest and j-et the favorite. 
 Cradled within the eml)iace of night. 
 
 Part Second 
 
 There was a Power in this sweet place. 
 An Eve in this Eden ; a ruling grace 
 Which to the flowers did tliey waken or 
 
 dream. 
 Was as God is to the starry scheme. 
 
 A Lady, the wonder of her kind, 
 Whose form was upborne by a lovely 
 
 mind 
 Which, dilating, had moulded her mien 
 
 and motion 
 Like a sea-flower unfolded beneath the 
 
 ocean , 
 
 Tended the garden from morn to even : 
 And the meteors of that sublunar heaven, 
 Like the lamps of the air when night 
 
 walks forth, 
 Laughed round her footsteps up from 
 
 the Earth ! 
 
 She had no companion of mortal race, 
 
 But her tremulous breath and her flush- 
 ing face 
 
 Told, whilst the morn kissed the sleep 
 from her eyes 
 
 That her dreams were less slumber than 
 Paradise : 
 
 As if some bright Spirit for her sweet 
 
 sake 
 Had deserted heaven while the stars 
 
 were awake. 
 As if yet around lier he lingering were, 
 Tho' the veil of daylight concealed him 
 
 from her. 
 
SHELLEY 
 
 341 
 
 Her step seeuiecl to pity tlie grass it 
 
 pressed ; 
 You might liear by tlie heaving of her 
 
 breast, 
 That the coming and going of the wind 
 Brought pleasure there and left passion 
 
 behind. 
 
 And \A'herever her airy footstep trod. 
 Her trailing liair from the grassy sod 
 Erased its light vestige, vv'itli shadowy 
 
 sweep. 
 Like a sunny storm o'er the dark green 
 
 deep. 
 
 I doubt not the flowers of that garden 
 
 sweet 
 Rejoiced in the soundof her gentle feet ; 
 I doubt not tliey felt the spirit tliat came 
 From her glowing fingers tlu'o' all their 
 
 frame. 
 
 She sprinkled bright water from the 
 
 stream 
 On those that were faint witli tlie sunn v 
 
 beam ; 
 And out of tlie cups of the heavy flowers 
 She emptied the rain of the tiuinder 
 
 showers. 
 
 She lifted their heads with her tender 
 
 hands. 
 And sustained them with rods and osier 
 
 bands ; 
 If the flowers had been her own infants 
 
 she 
 Could never have nursed them more 
 
 tenderly. 
 
 And all killing insects and gnawing 
 
 worms, 
 And things of obscene and unlovely 
 
 forms, 
 She bore in a basket of Indian woof. 
 Into tlie rough woods far aloof. 
 
 In a basket, of grasses and wild-flowers 
 
 full, 
 The freshest lier gentle hands could pull 
 For the poor banished insects, whose 
 
 intent. 
 Although they did ill, was innocent. 
 
 But the bee and the beamlike ephemeris 
 Whose path is tlie liglitning's, and soft 
 
 moths that kiss 
 The sweet lips of the flowers, and harm 
 
 not, did she 
 Make her attendant angels be. 
 
 And many an antenatal tomb, 
 
 AVhere butterflies dream of the life to 
 
 come. 
 She left clinging round tlie smooth and 
 
 dark 
 Edge of the odorous cedar bark. 
 
 Tills fairest creature from earliest spring 
 Thus moved through the garden minis- 
 tering 
 All the sweet season of summer tide. 
 And ere the first leaf looked brown — she 
 died ! 
 
 Part Third 
 
 Three days the flowers of tlie garden fair, 
 Like stars when the moon is awakened, 
 
 were. 
 Or the waves of Baije, ere luminous 
 She floats up through the smoke of 
 
 Vesuvius. 
 
 And on the fourth, the Sensitive Plant 
 Felt the sound of the funeral chant. 
 And the steps of the bearers, heavy and 
 
 slow. 
 And the sobs of the mourners deep and 
 
 low ; 
 
 The weary sound and the heavy breath, 
 And the silent motions of passing death. 
 And the smell, cold, oppressive, and 
 
 dank. 
 Sent through the pores of the coffin 
 
 plank ; 
 
 The dark grass, and the flowers among 
 
 the grass. 
 Were briglit with teai's as the crowd did 
 
 pass ; 
 From their sighs the wind caught a 
 
 mournful tone. 
 And sate in the pines, and gave groan 
 
 for groan. 
 
 The garden once fair, became cold and 
 
 foul. 
 Like the corpse of her who had been its 
 
 soul, 
 Which at first was lovely as if in sleep, 
 Then slowly changed, till it grew a heap 
 To make men tremble who never weep. 
 
 Swift summer into the autumn flowed, 
 And frost in the mist of the morning 
 
 rode. 
 Though the noonday sun looked clear 
 
 and bright. 
 Mocking the spoil of the secret night. 
 
342 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 The rose leaves, like flakes of crimson 
 
 snow, 
 Paved the turf and the moss below. 
 The lilies were drooping, and white, and 
 
 wan. 
 Like the head and the skin of a dying 
 
 man. 
 
 And Indian plants, of scent and hue 
 The sweetest tliat ever were fed on dew. 
 Leaf by leaf, day after day. 
 Were massed into the common clay. 
 
 And the leaves, brown, yellow, and graj-, 
 
 and red. 
 And white with the whiteness of what 
 
 is dead, 
 Like troops of ghosts on tlie dry wind 
 
 past ; 
 Their whistling noise made the birds 
 
 agiiast. 
 
 And the gusty winds waked the winged 
 
 seeds. 
 Out of tlieir birthplace of ugly weeds, 
 Till they clung round many a sweet 
 
 flower's stem, 
 Which rotted into the earth with them. 
 
 The water-blooms under the rivulet 
 Fell from the stalks on which they were 
 
 set ; 
 And the eddies drove them here and 
 
 there, 
 As the winds did those of the upper air. 
 
 Then the rain came down, and the 
 
 broken stalks, 
 AVere bent and tangled across the walks; 
 And the leafless network of parasite 
 
 bowers 
 Massed into ruin ; and all sweet flowers. 
 
 Between the time of the wind and the 
 
 snow. 
 All loathliest weeds began to grow. 
 Whose coarse leaves were splashed with 
 
 manj^ a sijeck. 
 Like the water-snake's belly and the 
 
 toad's back. 
 
 And thistles, and nettles, and darnels 
 rank. 
 
 And the dock, and henbane, and hem- 
 lock dank. 
 
 Stretched out its long and lioUow shank. 
 
 And stifled the air till tiie dead wind 
 stank. 
 
 And plants, at whose names the verse 
 feels loath, 
 
 Filled the place with a monstrous imder 
 
 growth, 
 Prickly, and pulpous, and blistering, and 
 
 blue, 
 Livid, and starred with a lurid dew. 
 
 And agarics, and fungi, with mildew 
 
 and mould 
 Started like mist from the wet ground 
 
 cold ; 
 Pale, fleshy, as if the decajang dead 
 With a spirit of growtli had been 
 
 animated ! 
 
 Spawn, weeds, and filth, a leprous scum. 
 Made the running rivulet thick and 
 
 dumb 
 And at its outlet flags huge as stakes 
 Dammed it up with roots knotted like 
 
 water snakes. 
 
 And hour by hour, when the air was 
 
 still. 
 The vapors arose which have strength 
 
 to kill : 
 At morn they were seen, at noon they 
 
 were felt. 
 At night they were darkness no star 
 
 could melt. 
 
 And unctuous meteors from spray to 
 
 spray 
 Crept and flitted in broad noonday 
 Unseen ; eveiy branch on which they 
 
 alit 
 By a venemous blight was burned and 
 
 bit. 
 
 The Sensitive Plant like one forbid 
 Wept, and the tears within eacli lid 
 Of its folded leaves which together grew 
 Were changed to a blight of frozen 
 glue. 
 
 For the leaves soon fell, and the branches 
 
 soon 
 By the heavy axe of the blast were 
 
 hewn ; 
 The sap shrank to the root through 
 
 every pore 
 As blood to a heart that will beat no 
 
 more. 
 
 For Winter came : the wind was his 
 
 whip : 
 One clioppy finger was on his lip : 
 He had torn the cataracts fron\ the hills 
 And they clanked at his girdle like 
 
 manacles ; 
 
SHELLEY 
 
 343 
 
 His breath was a chain which without 
 
 a sound 
 The earth, and the air, and the water 
 
 bound ; 
 He came, fierceh' driven, in his chariot- 
 
 tlirone 
 By the tenfold blasts of the arctic zone. 
 
 Then the weeds which were forms of 
 
 living death 
 Fled from tlie frost to the earth beneatli. 
 Their decay and sudden flight from frost 
 AVas but like tlie vanishing of a ghost ! 
 
 And under the roots of the Sensitive 
 
 Plant 
 The moles and the dormice died for 
 
 want : 
 The birds dropped stiff from the frozen 
 
 air 
 And were caught in tlie branches naked 
 
 and bai-e. 
 
 First tliere came down a thawing rain 
 And its dull drops froze on the boughs 
 
 again, 
 Then there steamed up a freezing dew 
 Which to the drops of the thaw-rain 
 
 grew ; 
 
 And a northern whirlwind, wandering 
 
 about 
 Like a wolf that had smelt a dead child 
 
 out. 
 Shook the boughs thus laden, and heavy 
 
 and stiff. 
 And snapped them off with his rigid 
 
 griff. 
 
 When winter had gone and spring came 
 
 back 
 The Sensitive Plant was a leafless wreck ; 
 But the mandrakes, and toadstools, and 
 
 docks, and darnels. 
 Rose like the dead from their ruined 
 
 charnels. 
 
 Conclusion 
 
 Wliether the Sensitive Plant, or that 
 Which within its boughs like a spirit 
 
 sat 
 Ere its outward form had known decay. 
 Now felt this change, I cannot say, 
 
 Wliether that lady's gentle mind, 
 No longer with the form combined 
 Which scattered love, as stars do light, 
 Found sadness, where it left deliglit. 
 
 I dare not guess ; but in this life 
 Of error, ignorance, and strife. 
 Where nothing is, but all things seem, 
 And we the shadows of the dream, 
 
 It is a modest creed, and yet 
 Pleasant if one considers it, 
 To own that death itself must be, 
 Like all the rest, a mockery. 
 
 That garden sweet, that lady fair, 
 And all sweet sliapes and odors there. 
 In truth have never passed away : 
 'Tis we, 'tis ours, are changed ; not they. 
 1820. 1820. 
 
 THE CLOUD 
 
 I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting 
 flowers. 
 From the seas and the sti-eams ; 
 I bear light shade for tlie leaves when 
 laid 
 In their noonday dreams. 
 From my wings are shaken the dews 
 that waken 
 The sweet buds every one. 
 When rocked to rest on their mother's 
 breast, 
 As she dances about the sun. 
 I wield the flail of the lashing hail. 
 
 And whiten the green plains under, 
 And then again I dissolve it in rain, 
 And laugh as I pass in thunder. 
 
 I sift the snow on the mountains below, 
 And tlieir gi-eat pines groan aghast ; 
 And all the night 'tis my pillow white, 
 While I sleep in the arms of the 
 blast. 
 Sublime on the towers of my skiey 
 bowers, 
 Lightning my pilot sits. 
 In a cavern under is fettered the thunder. 
 
 It struggles and howls at fits ; 
 Over earth and ocean, with gentle 
 motion. 
 This pilot is guiding me. 
 Lured by the love of the genii that move 
 
 In tlie depths of the purple sea ; 
 Over the rills, and tlie crags, and the 
 hills. 
 Over the lakes and the plains. 
 Wherever he dream, under mountain or 
 stream, 
 Tlie Spirit he loves remains ; 
 And I all the while bask in heaven's 
 blue smile. 
 Whilst he is dissolving in rains. 
 
344 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor 
 eyes, 
 And liis burning plumes outspi'ead, 
 Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, 
 
 When the morning star shines dead, 
 As on the jag of a mountain crag. 
 
 Which an earthquake rocks and 
 s%vings, 
 An eagle alit one moment may sit 
 
 In the light of its golden wings. 
 And when sunset maj^ breathe, from the 
 lit sea beneatli, 
 Its ardors of rest and of love. 
 And the crimson pall of eve may fall 
 From the de})th of heaven above, 
 With wings folded I rest, on mine airy 
 nest, 
 As still as a brooding dove. 
 
 That orbed maiden with white fire laden. 
 
 Whom mortals call the moon. 
 Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like 
 floor. 
 By the midnight breezes strewn ; 
 And wherever the beat of her unseen 
 feet. 
 Which only the angels hear. 
 May have broken tlie woof of my tenfs 
 thin roof, 
 Tlie stars peep behind her and j>eer ; 
 And I laugh to see them whirl and flee. 
 
 Like a swarm of golden bees, 
 When I widen the rent in my wind-built 
 tent, 
 Till the caltn rivers, lakes, and seas, 
 Like strips of the sky fallen through me 
 on high, 
 Are each paved witli the moon and 
 these. 
 
 I bind the sun's throne with a burning 
 zone. 
 And the moon's with a girdle of 
 pearl ; 
 The volcanoes are dim, and the stars 
 reel and swim, 
 Wlien the whirlwinds my banner 
 unfurl. 
 From cape to cape, with a bridge-like 
 shape, 
 Over a torrent sea. 
 Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof, 
 The mountains its columns be. 
 The triumphal arch through which I 
 march 
 With hurricane, fire, and snow. 
 When the powers of the air are chained 
 to my chair, 
 Is the million-colored bow ; 
 
 The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove, 
 Wliile the moist earth was laugliing 
 below. 
 
 I am the daughter of earth and water. 
 
 And the nursling of the sky ; 
 I pass through the pores of the ocean 
 and shores : 
 I cliange. but I cannot die. 
 For after the rain when with never a 
 stain. 
 The pavilion of heaven is bare. 
 And the winds and sunbeams with their 
 convex gleams, 
 Build up tlie blue dome of air, 
 I silently laugh at my own cenotaph. 
 
 And out of the caverns of rain. 
 Like a cliild from the womb, like a 
 ghost from the tomb, 
 I arise and unbuild it again. 
 
 1820. 1820. 
 
 TO A SKYLARK 
 
 Hail to thee, blithe spirit ! 
 
 Bird thou never wert, 
 That from heaven, or near it, 
 
 Pourest tli}^ full lieart 
 In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. 
 
 Higher still and higher 
 
 From the earth thou springest 
 Like a cloud of fire ; 
 Tlie blue deep thou wingest. 
 And singing still dost soar, and soaring 
 ever singest. 
 
 In the golden lightning 
 
 Of tlie sunken sun, 
 O'er which clouds are brightning, 
 Thou dost float and run ; 
 Like an unbodied joy whose I'ace is just 
 begun. 
 
 The pale purple even 
 
 Melts arovmd thy flight ; 
 Like a star of heaven. 
 In the broad daylight 
 Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy 
 .shrill delight, 
 
 Keen as are the arrows 
 Of that silver sphere, 
 Whose intense lamp narrows 
 In the white dawn clear. 
 Until we hardlj' see, we feel that it is 
 there. 
 
 All the earth and air 
 With thy voice is loud, 
 
SHELLEY 
 
 345 
 
 As. when night is bare, 
 From one lonely cloud 
 The moon rains out lier beams, and 
 heaven is overflowed. 
 
 Wliat thou art we know not ; 
 
 What is most like thee ? 
 From rainbow clouds tliere flow not 
 Drops so bright to see, 
 As from tliy presence showers a rain of 
 melody. 
 
 Like a poet hidden 
 
 In the light of thought, 
 Singing hymns unbidden. 
 
 Till the world is wrought 
 To sympathy with hoi^es and fears it 
 
 heeded not : 
 
 Like a high-born maiden 
 
 In a palace-tower, 
 Soothing her love-laden 
 Soul in secret hour 
 With music sweet as love, which OA'er- 
 flows her bower : 
 
 Like a glow-worm golden 
 
 In a dell of dew, 
 Scattering unbeholden 
 Its aerial hue 
 Among the flowers and grass, which 
 screen it from the view : 
 
 Like a rose embowered 
 
 In its own green leaves. 
 By warm winds deflowei'ed. 
 Till the scent it gives 
 Makes faint with too much sweet these 
 heavy-winged tliieves : 
 
 Sound of vernal showers 
 On the twinkling grass, 
 Rain-awakened flowers, 
 All that ever was 
 Joyous, and clear, and fresli, thy music 
 doth surpass : 
 
 Teach us, sprite or bird. 
 
 What sweet thoughts are thine: 
 I have never heard 
 Praise of love or wine 
 That i^anted forth a flood of rapture so 
 divine. 
 
 Chorus Hymeneal, 
 
 Or triumphal chant. 
 Matched with thine would be all 
 But an empty vaunt, 
 A thing wherein we feel there is some 
 hidden want. 
 
 What objects are the fountains 
 
 Of thy happy strain ? 
 AVhat fields, or waves, or mountains ? 
 Wliat shapes of sky or plain ? 
 What love of thine own kind ? what ig- 
 norance of pain ? 
 
 AVith th}'- clear keen joyauce 
 
 Languor cannot be : 
 Shadow of annoyance 
 Never came near thee : 
 Thou lovest ; but ne'er knew love's sad 
 satiety. 
 
 Waking or asleep, 
 
 Tho^^ of death must deem 
 Things more true and deep 
 Tlian we mortals dream, 
 Or how could thy notes flow in such a 
 crystal stream? 
 
 AVe look before and after. 
 
 And pine for what is not : 
 Our sincerest laughter 
 
 AVith some pain is fraught ; 
 Our sweetest songs are those that tell of 
 saddest thought. 
 
 . Yet if we could scorn 
 
 Hate, and pride, and fear ; 
 If we were things born 
 Not to shed a tear, 
 I know not how tliy joy we ever should 
 come near. 
 
 Better than all measures 
 
 Of delightful sound. 
 Better than all treasures 
 That in books are found. 
 Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of 
 the ground ! 
 
 Teach me half the gladness 
 
 That thy brain must know, 
 Such harmonious madness 
 From my lips would flow. 
 The world should listen then, as I am 
 listening now. ISJO. 1820. 
 
 TO 
 
 A 
 
 I FEAR thy kisses,' gentle maiden, 
 Thou needest not fear mine ; 
 
 My spirit is too deeply laden 
 Ever to burthen thine. 
 
 I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion. 
 Thou needest not fear mine ; 
 
 Innocent is the heart's devotion 
 AVith which I worship thine. 
 
 1820. Ib2-i. 
 
346 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 ARETHUSA 
 
 Arethusa arose 
 
 From her couch of snows 
 In the Aeroceraunian mountains, — 
 
 From cloud and from crag, 
 
 With many a jag, 
 Sliepherding her bright fountains. 
 
 She leapt down the rocks. 
 
 With her rainbow locks 
 Streaming among the streams ; — 
 
 Her steps paved with green 
 
 The downward ravine 
 Which slopes to tlie western gleams : 
 
 And gliding and springing 
 
 She went, ever singing. 
 In murmurs as soft as sleep ; 
 
 The Earth seemed to love her. 
 
 And Heaven smiled above her. 
 As she lingered towards the deep. 
 
 Then Alpheus bold. 
 
 On his glacier cold, 
 AVith his trident the mountains strook 
 
 And opened a chasm 
 
 In the rocks ; — with the spasm 
 All Erymanthus shook. 
 
 And the black south wind 
 
 It concealed belli nd 
 The urns of the silent snow, 
 
 And earthquake and thunder 
 
 Did rend in sunder 
 The bars of the springs below. 
 
 The beard and t'he hair 
 
 Of the Rivei--god were 
 Seen through the torrenfs sweep. 
 
 As he followed the light 
 
 Of the fleet nymph's flight 
 To the brink of the Dorian deep. 
 
 " Oh, save me ! Oh, guide me ! 
 
 And bid the deep hide nie, 
 For he grasps me now by the hair ! " 
 
 The loud Ocean heard, 
 
 To its blue depth stirred, 
 And divided at her prayer ; 
 
 And under the water 
 
 The Earth's white daughter 
 Fled like a sunny beam ; 
 
 Behind her descended 
 
 Her billows, unblended 
 With the brackish Dorian stream : — 
 
 Like a gloomy stain 
 
 On the emerald main 
 Alpheus rushed behind, — 
 
 As an eagle pursuing 
 
 A dove to its ruin 
 Down the streams of the cloudv wind. 
 
 Under tlie br)\\ ers 
 
 Where the Ocean Powers 
 Sit on tlieir pearled thrones. 
 
 Through tlie coral woods 
 
 Of the weltering floods. 
 Over heaps of unvalued stones ; 
 
 Through the dim beams 
 
 Which amid the streams 
 Weave a network of colored light ; 
 
 And under the caves. 
 
 Where the sViadowj- waA^es 
 Are as green as the forest's night ; — 
 
 Outspeeding the shark. 
 
 And the sword-fish dark, 
 Under the ocean foam. 
 
 And np through the rifts 
 
 Of the mountain clifts 
 They" passed to their Dorian home. 
 
 And now from their fountains 
 
 In Enna's mountains, 
 Down one vale where the morning basks, 
 
 Like friends once parted 
 
 Grown single-hearted, 
 They ply their watery tasks. 
 
 At sunrise they leap 
 
 From their cradles steep 
 In the cave of the shelving hill ; 
 
 At noontide they flow 
 
 Through the woods below 
 And tlie meadows of Asphodel ; 
 
 And at night thej^ sleep 
 
 In the rocking deep 
 Beneath the Ortj^gian shore ; 
 
 Like spirits that lie 
 
 In the azure sky 
 When they love but live no more. 
 
 1820. 1824. 
 
 HYMN OF PAN 
 
 From the forests and highlands 
 
 We come, we come ; 
 Frona the river-girt islands. 
 
 Where loud waves are dumb 
 Listening to my sweet pipings. 
 The wind in the reeds and the rushes. 
 
 The bees on the bells of thyme. 
 The birds on the myrtle bushes. 
 The cicale above in the lime. 
 And the lizards below in the grass. 
 Were as silent as ever old Tmolns was. 
 Listening to my sweet pipings. 
 
 Liquid Peneus was flowing. 
 
 And all dark Tempe lay 
 
 In Pelion's shadow, outgrowing 
 The light of the dying day. 
 Speeded by my sweet pipings. 
 
SHELLEY 
 
 347 
 
 The Sileni, and Sylvans, and Fauns, 
 And the Nymphs of tlie woods and 
 wa.ves, 
 To the edge of the moist river-lawns. 
 
 And the brink of the dewy caves, 
 And all that did tlien attend and follow 
 Were silent with love, as you now, 
 Apollo, 
 With envy of my sweet piping^. 
 
 I sang of the dancing stars, 
 
 I sang of the deedal Earth, 
 And of Heaven — and the giant wars. 
 
 And Love, and Death, and Birth, — 
 And then I changed my pip- 
 ings,— 
 Singing how down the vale of Menalus 
 I pursued a maiden and clasp'd a reed : 
 Gods and men, we are all deluded thus ! 
 It breaks in our bosom and then we 
 bleed : 
 All wept, as I think both ye now would. 
 If envy or age had not frozen your blood. 
 At the sorrow of my sweet pipings. 
 ISm. 1834. 
 
 THE QUESTION 
 
 I DREAMED that, as I wandered by the 
 way, 
 Bare winter suddenly was changed to 
 spi'ing. 
 And gentle odors led my steps astray. 
 Mixed with a sound of waters mur- 
 muring 
 Along a shelving bank of turf, wliich lay 
 Under a copse, and hardly dared to 
 fling 
 Its green arms round the bosom of the 
 
 stream. 
 But kissed it and then fled, as thou 
 miglitest in dream. 
 
 Tliere grew pied wind-flowers and violets, 
 Daisies, those pearled Arcturi of the 
 earth. 
 The constellated flower that never sets ; 
 Faint ox lips ; tender bluebells, at 
 whose birth 
 The sod scarce heaved ; and that tall 
 flower that wets — 
 Like a child, half in tenderness and 
 mirtli — 
 Its mother's face with heaven's collected 
 
 tears, 
 When the low wind, its playmate's voice, 
 it hears. 
 
 And in the warm hedge grew lush 
 eglantine, 
 
 Green cowbind and the moonlight- 
 colored Ma}', 
 And cherry-blossoms, and white cups, 
 whose wine 
 Was the bright dew, yet drained not 
 by the day ; 
 And wild roses, and ivy serpentine, 
 Witli its dark buds and leaves, wan- 
 dering astray ; 
 And flowers azure, black, and streaked 
 
 with gold. 
 Fairer than any wakened eyes behold. 
 
 And nearer to the river's trembling edge. 
 There grew broad flag-flowers, jiurple 
 prankt with white. 
 And starry river buds among the sedge. 
 And floating water-lilies, broad and 
 bright. 
 Which lit the oak that overliung the 
 hedge 
 Witli moonlight beams of their own 
 watery light ; 
 And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep 
 
 green 
 As soothed the dazzled eye with sober 
 sheen. 
 
 Methought that of these visionarj' flowers 
 I made a nosegay, bound in such a 
 
 waj^ 
 That the same hues, which in their 
 
 natural bowers 
 Were mingled or opposed, the like 
 
 array 
 Kept these imprisoned children of the 
 
 Hours 
 Within my hand, — and then, elate 
 
 and gay, 
 I hastened to the spot whence I had 
 
 come. 
 That I might there present it ! — oh ! to 
 
 whom ? ISJO. 1834. 
 
 SONG 
 
 Rarely, rarely, comest thou. 
 
 Spirit of Delight ! 
 Wherefore hast thou left me now 
 
 Many a day and night? 
 Many a weary night and day 
 'Tis since thou art fled away. 
 
 How shall ever one like me 
 
 Win thee back again ? 
 With the joyous and tiie free 
 
 Thou wilt scoff at pain. 
 Spirit false ! thoti iiast forgot 
 All but those who need thee not. 
 
348 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 As a lizard with the sliade 
 
 Of a trembling leaf. 
 Thou witli sorrow art dismayed ; 
 
 Even the sigiis of grief 
 Repi'oach thee, that thou art not near, 
 And reproach thou wilt not hear. 
 
 Let me set ni}' mournful ditty 
 
 To a merry measure, 
 Thou wilt never come for pity, 
 
 Thou wilt come for pleasure, 
 Pity then will cut away 
 Those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay. 
 
 I love all that thou lovest. 
 
 Spirit of Delight ! 
 The fresli Earth in new leaves drest, 
 
 And the stariy niglit ; 
 Autumn evening, and the morn 
 
 When^the golden mists are born. 
 
 1 love snow, and all tlie forms 
 
 Of the radiant frost ; 
 I love waves, and winds, and storms, 
 
 Every thing almost 
 Which is Nature's, and may be 
 Untainted by man's misery. 
 
 I love tranquil solitude. 
 
 And such society 
 As is quiet, wise, and good ; 
 
 Between thee and me 
 Wliat difference ? but thou dost possess 
 Tlie things I seek, not love them less. 
 
 I love Love — thougli he has wings. 
 
 And like ligiit can flee. 
 But above all other things, 
 
 Spirit, I love tiiee — 
 Tliou art love and life ! Oh come. 
 Make once more my heart thy home. 
 18:^0. 1 1824. 
 
 TO THE MOON 
 
 Art thou pale for weariness 
 Of climbing heaven and gazing on the 
 earth. 
 Wandering companionless 
 Among the stars that have a different 
 
 birth,— 
 And ever changing, like a joyless eye 
 That finds no object worth its constancy? 
 1S.'0. 1824. 
 
 ' Though included by Mrs. Shelley, and by later 
 editors, among the poems of 1821, there is a 
 copy of this poem in the Harvard College Man- 
 uscripts, dated in Shelley's handwritinsr, " Pisa, 
 May, 1830." See uote in Edward Dowden's, 
 Edition of Shelley. 
 
 THE WORLD'S WANDERERS 
 
 Tell me, thou star, whose wings of light 
 Speed thee in thy fiery flight. 
 In what cavern of the night 
 
 Will thy pinions close now ? 
 
 Tell me, moon, thou pale and gray 
 Pilgrim of heaven's homeless way, 
 In what depth of night or day 
 Seekest thou repose now ? 
 
 AVeary wind, who wanderest 
 Like the world's rejected guest, 
 Hast tliou still some seci'et nest 
 On the tree or billow ? 
 
 IS.'O. 1824. 
 
 TIME LONG PAST 
 
 Like the ghost of a dear friend dead 
 
 Is Time long past. 
 A tone wliich is now forever fled, 
 A hope which is now forever past, 
 A love so sweet it could not last. 
 
 Was Time long past. 
 
 There were sweet dreams in the night 
 Of Time long past : 
 xVnd, was it sadness or delight. 
 Each day a sliadow onward cast 
 Which made us wish it yet might la.st — 
 That Time long past. 
 
 There is regret, almost remorse. 
 
 For Time long past. 
 'Tis like a child's beloved corse 
 A father watches, till at last 
 Beauty is like remembrance, cast 
 
 From Time long past. 
 1S:20. 1824. 
 
 EPIPSYCHIDION 
 
 VERSES ADDRESSED TO THE NOBI^E AND 
 
 UNFORTUNATE LADY, EMILIA V , 
 
 NOW IMPRISONED IN THE CONVENT 
 OF 
 
 L'anima amante si slancia fuori del create, e 
 si area nel infinite un Mondo tutto per essa, 
 diverse assai daquesto oscuro e pauroso baratro. 
 Her own words. 
 
 Sweet Spirit ! Sister of that orphan 
 
 one, 
 Wliose empire is tlie name thou weepest 
 
 on. 
 In my heart's temple I suspend to thee 
 These votive wreaths of withered 
 
 memorj-. 
 
SHELLEY 
 
 349 
 
 Poor captive bird ! who, from thy 
 narrow cage, 
 
 Pourest such music, that it might as- 
 suage 
 
 Tlie rugged hearts of tliose who prisoned 
 thee, 
 
 AVei'e they not deaf to all sweet melody : 
 
 This song shall be thy rose : its petals 
 pale 
 
 Are dead, indeed, my adored Nightin- 
 gale ! 
 
 But soft and fragrant is the faded 
 blossom, 
 
 And it has no thorn left to wound thy 
 bosom. 
 
 High, spirit-winged Heart ! who dost 
 
 for ever 
 Beat thine unfeeling bars with vain en- 
 deavor, 
 Till those briglit plumes of thought, in 
 
 which arrayed 
 It over-soared this low and worldly 
 
 shade, 
 Lie shattered ; and thy panting, wounded 
 
 breast 
 Stains with dear blood its unmaternal 
 
 nest ! 
 I weep vain tears : blood would less 
 
 bitter be. 
 Yet poured forth gladlier, could it profit 
 
 thee. 
 
 Seraph of Heaven ! too gentle to l)e 
 
 human, 
 Veiling beneath that radiant form of 
 
 Woman 
 All that is insupportable in thee 
 Of liglit, and love, and immortality ! 
 Sweet Benediction in the eternal Curse ! 
 Veiled Glory of this lampless Universe ! 
 Thou Moon beyond the clouds ! Thou 
 
 living Form 
 Among the Dead ! Tliou Star above the 
 
 Storm ! 
 Thou Wonder, and thou Beauty, and 
 
 thou Teri-or ! 
 Thou Harmony of Nature's art ! Thou 
 
 Mirror 
 In whom, as in the sj^lendor of the Sun, 
 All shapes look glorious which thou 
 
 gazest on ! 
 Ay, even tlie dim words which obscure 
 
 tiiee now 
 Flash, lightning-like, with unaccus- 
 tomed glow ; 
 I pray thee that thou blot from this sad 
 
 song 
 All of its much mortality and wrong, 
 
 With those clear drops, wliicli start like 
 
 sacred dew 
 From the twin lights thy sweet soul 
 
 darkens through, 
 Weeping, till sorrow becomes ecistasy : 
 Then smile on it, so that it may not die. 
 
 I never thought before my death to 
 
 see 
 Youth's vision tlius made perfect. 
 
 Emily, 
 I love tliee ; thougli the world by no 
 
 thin name 
 Will iiide that love, from its unvalued 
 
 shame. 
 Would we two had been twins of the s;une 
 
 mother ! 
 Or, that the name my heart lent to 
 
 another 
 Could be a sister's bond for liiev and 
 
 tliee. 
 Blending two beams of one eternity ! 
 Yet were one lawful and tlie otiier true, 
 Tliese names, though dear, could paint 
 
 not, as is due. 
 How beyond refuge I am thine. Ali me ! 
 I am not tliine : I am a part of tlwe. 
 
 Sweet Lamp ! my moth-like Muse has 
 
 burnt its wings ; 
 Or, like a dying swan who soars and 
 
 sings, 
 Young Love should teach Time, in his 
 
 own gray style. 
 All that tliou art. Art thou not void of 
 
 guile, 
 A lovely soul formed to be blest and 
 
 bless ? 
 A well of sealed and secret happiness, 
 Wliose waters like blitlie light and 
 
 music are. 
 Vanquishing dissonance and gloom? A 
 
 Star 
 Whicii moves not in the moving 
 
 Heavens, alone? 
 A smile amid dark frowns? a gentle 
 
 tone 
 Amid rude voices? a beloved liglit ? 
 A Solitude, a Refuge, a Delight? 
 A Lute which tliose wliom Love has 
 
 taught to play 
 Make music on, to soothe the roughest 
 
 day 
 And lull fond grief asleep? a buried 
 
 treasure ? 
 A cradle of young thoughts of wingless 
 
 pleasure ; 
 A violet-shrouded grave of Woe? — I 
 
 measure 
 
35° 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 The world of fancies, seeking one like 
 
 thee, 
 And find — alas ! mine own infirmity. 
 
 She met me, Stranger, upon life's 
 rough way, 
 And lured me towards sweet Death ; as 
 
 Niglit by Day, 
 Winter by Spring, or Sorrow by swift 
 
 Hope. 
 Led into light, life, peace. An antelope. 
 In the suspended impulse of its light- 
 ness, 
 Were less ethereally liglit : the bright- 
 ness 
 Of her divinest presence trembles 
 
 through 
 Her limbs, as underneath a cloud of dew 
 Embodied in the windless Heaven of 
 
 June 
 Amid the splendor-winged stars, the 
 
 Moon 
 Burns, inextinguishably beautiful : 
 Ajid from her lips, as from a hyacinth 
 
 full 
 Of honey-dew, a liquid murmur drops, 
 Killing the sense with passion ; sweet 
 
 as stops 
 Of planetary music heard in trance. 
 In her mild lights the starry spirits 
 
 dance. 
 The sunbeams of those wells which ever 
 
 leap 
 Under the lightnings of the soul — too 
 
 deep 
 For the brief fathom-line of thought or 
 
 sense. 
 The glory of her being, issuing thence, 
 Stains the dead, blank, cold air with a 
 
 warm shade 
 Of unentangled intermixture, made 
 By Love, of light and motion : one in- 
 tense 
 Diffusion, one serene Omnipresence, 
 Whose flowing outlines mingle in their. 
 
 flowing 
 Around her clieeks and utmost fingers 
 
 glowing 
 With the unintermitted blood, which 
 
 there 
 Quivers (as in a fleece of snow-like air 
 The crimson pulse of living morning 
 
 quiver), 
 Continuously prolonged, and ending 
 
 never. 
 Till they are lost, and in that Beauty 
 
 furled 
 Which penetrates and clasps and fills 
 
 the world ; 
 
 Scarce visible from extreme loveliness. 
 Warm fragrance seems to fall from her 
 
 light dress 
 And her loose hair ; and where some 
 
 heavj- tress 
 The air of her own speed has disentwined, 
 The sweetness seems to satiate the faint 
 
 wind ; 
 And in the soul a wild odor is felt, 
 Beyond the sense, like fiery dews that 
 
 melt 
 Into the bosom of a frozen bud. — 
 See where she stands! a mortal shape 
 
 indued 
 With love and life and light and deity. 
 And motion which may change but can- 
 not die ; 
 An image of some bright Eternity ; 
 A shadow of some golden dream ; a 
 
 Splendor 
 Leaving the third sphere pilotless ; a 
 
 tender 
 Reflection of the eternal Moon of Love 
 Under whose motions life's dull billows 
 
 move ; 
 A Metaphor of S^jring and Youth and 
 
 Morning ; 
 A Vision like incarnate April, warning, 
 With smiles and tears, Frost the 
 
 Anatomy 
 Into his summer grave. 
 
 Ah, woe is me ! 
 What have I dared ? where am I lifted ? 
 
 how 
 Shall I descend, and perish not ? I know 
 That Love makes all things equal : I 
 
 have heard 
 By mine own heart this joyous truth 
 
 averred : 
 Tlie spirit of the worm beneath the sod 
 In love and worship, blends itself with 
 
 God. 
 
 Spouse ! Sister ! Angel ! Pilot of the 
 
 Fate 
 Whose course has been so starless ! Oh, 
 
 too late 
 Beloved ! Oli, too soon adored, by me ! 
 For in the fields of immortality 
 My spirit should at first have worshipped 
 
 thine, 
 A divine presence in a place divine ; 
 Or should have moved beside it on this 
 
 earth, 
 A shadow of that substance, from its 
 
 birth ; 
 But not as now : — I love thee ; yes, I feel 
 That on the fountain of my heart a seal 
 
SHELLEY 
 
 351 
 
 Is set, to keep its waters pnve and briglit 
 For thee, since in those tears thou hast 
 
 delight. 
 We — are we not formed, as notes of 
 
 music are, 
 For one another, though dissimilar ; 
 Such difference without discord, as can 
 
 make 
 Those sweetest sounds, in which all 
 
 spirits shake 
 As trembling leaves in a continuous air ? 
 
 Thy wisdom speaks in me, and bids 
 
 me dare 
 Beacon tlie rocks on which high hearts 
 
 are wrecked. 
 I never was attached to that great sect. 
 Whose doctrine is, that each one should 
 
 select 
 Out of the crowd a mistress or a friend. 
 And all the rest, though fair and wise, 
 
 commend 
 To cold oblivion, though it is in the 
 
 code 
 Of modern morals, and the beaten road 
 Which tliose poor slaves with weary 
 
 footsteps tread. 
 Who travel to their home among tlie 
 
 dead 
 By the broad highway of the world, and 
 
 so 
 With one chained friend, perhaps a 
 
 jealous foe, 
 The dreariest and the longest journey go. 
 
 True Love in tliis differs from gold 
 
 and clay 
 That to divide is not to take away. 
 Love is like understanding, that grows 
 
 bright, 
 Gazing on many truths ; 'tis like thy 
 
 light, 
 Imagination ! which from earth and sky, 
 And from the depths of human plian- 
 
 tasy, 
 As fi'om a tliousand prisms and mirrors, 
 
 fills 
 The Universe with glorious beams, and 
 
 kills 
 Error, the worm, with many a sun-like 
 
 arrow 
 Of its reverberated lightning. Narrow 
 The heart that loves, the brain that 
 
 contemplates. 
 The life that wears, the spirit that 
 
 creates 
 One object, and one form, and builds 
 
 thereby 
 A sepulchre for its eternity. 
 
 Mind from its object differs most in 
 
 this : 
 Evil from good ; misery from liappiness ; 
 The baser from the nobler ; the impure 
 And frail, from what is clear and must 
 
 endure. 
 If you divide suffering and dross, you 
 
 maj' 
 Dimhiish till it is consumed away ; 
 If you divide pleasure and love and 
 
 thought. 
 Each part exceeds the whole ; and we 
 
 know not 
 How much, while any yet remains un- 
 shared, 
 Of pleasure may be gained, of sorrow 
 
 spared : 
 This truth is that deep well, whence 
 
 sages draw 
 The unen vied light of hope ; the eternal 
 
 law 
 By which those live, to whom this world 
 
 of life 
 Is as a garden ravaged, and whose strife 
 Tills for the promise of a later birth 
 The wilderness of this Elysian earth. 
 
 There was a Being whom my spirit 
 
 oft 
 Met on its visioned wanderings, far 
 
 aloft. 
 In the clear golden prime of my youth's 
 
 dawn. 
 Upon the fairy isles of sunny lawn. 
 Amid the enchanted mountains, and the 
 
 caves 
 Of divine sleep, and on the air-like 
 
 waves • 
 Of wonder-level dream, whose tremu- 
 lous floor 
 Paved her light steps; — on an imagined 
 
 siiore, 
 Under the gray beak of some promon- 
 tory 
 She met me, robed in such exceeding 
 
 glory. 
 That I beheld her not. In solitudes 
 Her voice came to me through the 
 
 whispering woods, 
 And from the fountains, and the odors 
 
 deep 
 Of flowers, which, like lips murmuring 
 
 in their sleep 
 Of the sweet kisses which had lulled 
 
 them there. 
 Breathed but of herio tlie enamored air ; 
 And from the breezes wliether low or 
 
 loud, 
 And from the rain of ever}' passing cloud. 
 
352 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 And from the singing of the summer 
 
 birtls, 
 And from all sounds, all silence. In 
 
 the words 
 Of antique verse and high romance, — in 
 
 form, 
 Sound, color — in wliatever checks that 
 
 Storm 
 Wliich with the shattered present chokes 
 
 the past ; 
 And in that best philosophy, whose taste 
 Makes this cold common hell, our life, a 
 
 doom 
 As glorious as a fiery mart.yrdom ; 
 Her Spirit was the harmony of truth. — 
 
 Then, f roui the caverns of my dreamy 
 
 youth 
 I sprang, as one sandalled with plumes 
 
 of fire. 
 And towards the loadstar of my one 
 
 desire, 
 I flitted, like a dizzy moth, whose flight 
 Is as a dead leafs in tlie owlet light. 
 When it would seek in Hesper's setting 
 
 sphere 
 A radiant death, a fieiy sepulchre, 
 As if it were a lam]) of earthly flame.— 
 But She, whom prayers or tears then 
 
 could not tame. 
 Passed, like a God throned on a winged 
 
 planet, 
 Whose burning jDlumes to tenfold swift- 
 ness fan it. 
 Into the dreary cone of our life's shade ; 
 And as a man with might^y loss dismayed, 
 I would have followed, though the 
 
 grave between 
 Yawned like a gulf whose spectres are 
 
 imseen : 
 When a voice said : — •' O Thou of hearts 
 
 the weakest. 
 The phantom is beside thee whom thou 
 
 seekest." 
 Then I — "Where?" the world's echo 
 
 answered " where ! " 
 And in that silence, and in my despair, 
 I questioned every tongueless wind that 
 
 flew 
 Over my tower of mourning, if it knew 
 Whither ' twas fled, this soul out of jny 
 
 soul ; 
 And murmured names and spells which 
 
 have control 
 Over the sightless t}'rants of our fate ; 
 But neither prayer nor verse could dis- 
 
 si|)ate 
 The night wliich closed on her ; nor 
 
 vuicreate 
 
 That world within this Chaos, mine and 
 
 me, 
 Of which she was tiie veiled Divinity, 
 The world I say of thoughts that wor- 
 shipped lier : 
 And therefore I went forth, with hope 
 
 and fear 
 And every gentle passion sick to death, 
 Feeding my course witii expectation's 
 
 breath, 
 Ijito the wintry forest of our life ; 
 And struggling through its error with 
 
 vain strife. 
 And stumbling in my weakness and my 
 
 haste. 
 And half bewildered by new forms, I past 
 Seeking among those untaught foresters 
 If I could find one form resembling hers, 
 In which she might have masked her- 
 
 .self from me. 
 There, — One, whose voice was venomed 
 
 melody 
 Sate by a well, vmder blue nightshade 
 
 bowers ; 
 The breath of her false mouth was like 
 
 faint flowers. 
 Her touch w-as as electric poison, — flame 
 Out of her looks into mv vitals came. 
 And from her living cheeks and bosom 
 
 flew 
 A killing air, which jiierced like honey- 
 dew 
 Into the core of my green heart, and lay 
 Upon its leaves ; until, as hair grown gray 
 O'er a young brow, they hid its unblown 
 
 l^rime 
 With ruins of unseasonable time. 
 
 In many mortal forms I rashly sought 
 Tlie shadow of that idol of my tliought. 
 And some were fair — but beauty dies 
 
 awa.y : 
 Others were wise — but honeyed words 
 
 betray : 
 And One was true — oii ! wliy not true 
 
 to me ? 
 Then, as a hunted deer that could not 
 
 flee, 
 I turned upon my thoughts, and stood 
 
 at bay. 
 Wounded and weak and panting ; the 
 
 cold day 
 Trembled, for pity of my strife and pain. 
 When, like a noonday dawn, there 
 
 shone again 
 Deliverance. One stood on my path 
 
 who seemed 
 As like the glorious shape which I had 
 
 dreamed, 
 
SHELLEY 
 
 353 
 
 As is the Moou, whose changes ever run 
 Into themselves, to the eternal Sun ; 
 Tlie cold cliaste Moon, the Queen of 
 
 Heaven's bright isles, 
 Wlio makes all beautiful on which she 
 
 smiles. 
 That wandering shrine of soft yet icy 
 
 flame 
 Which ever is transformed, yet still the 
 
 same. 
 And warms not but illumines. Young 
 
 and fair 
 As the descended Spirit of that sphere. 
 She hid me, as the Moou may hide the 
 
 night 
 F^'om its own darkness, until all was 
 
 bright 
 Between the Heaven and Earth of my 
 
 calm mind. 
 And. as a cloud charioted by the wind, 
 She led me to a cave in that wild place. 
 And sate beside me, with her downward 
 
 face 
 Illumining my slumbers, like the Moon 
 Waxing and waning o'er Endymion. 
 And I was laid asleep, spirit and limb, 
 And all my being became bright or dim 
 As the Moon's image in a summer sea. 
 According as she smiled or frowned on 
 
 me ; 
 And there I lay, within a chaste cold 
 
 bed : 
 Alas. I then was nor alive nor dead ; — 
 For at her silver voice came Death and 
 
 Life. 
 Unmindful each of their accustomed 
 
 strife, 
 Masked like twin babes, a sister and a 
 
 brother. 
 The wandering hopes of one abandoned 
 
 mother, 
 And through the cavern without wings 
 
 they flew. 
 And cried " Away, he is not of our 
 
 crew." 
 I wept, and though it be a dream, I 
 
 weep. 
 
 What storms then shook the ocean of 
 
 my sleep. 
 Blotting that Moon, whose pale and 
 
 waning lips 
 Then shrank as in the sickness of 
 
 eclipse ; — 
 And how my soul was as a lampless sea. 
 And who was then its Tempest ; and 
 
 when She, 
 The Planet of that hour, was quenched, 
 
 what frost 
 
 23 
 
 Crept o'er those waters, till from coast 
 
 to coast 
 The moving billows of my being fell 
 Into a death of ice, immovable ; — 
 And then — what earthquakes made it 
 
 gape and split, 
 The white Moon smiling all the while 
 
 on it. 
 These words conceal : — If not, each word 
 
 would be 
 The key of stanchless tears. Weep not 
 
 for me ! 
 
 At length, into the obscure Forest 
 
 came 
 The Vision I had sought through grief 
 
 and shame. 
 Athwart that wintry wilderness of 
 
 thorns 
 Flashed from her motion splendor like 
 
 tlie Morn's 
 And from her presence life was radiated 
 Through the gray earth and branches 
 
 bare and dead ; 
 So that her way was paved, and roofed 
 
 above 
 With flowers as soft as thoughts of bud- 
 ding love ; 
 And music from her respiration spread 
 Like light, — all other sounds were pene- 
 trated 
 By the small, still, sweet spirit of that 
 
 sound, 
 So that the savage winds hung mute 
 
 around ; 
 And odors warni and fresh fell from her 
 
 hair, 
 Dissolving the dull cold in the frore air : 
 Soft as an Incarnation of the Sun. 
 When light is changed to love, this 
 
 glorious One 
 Floated into the cavern where I lay, 
 And called my Spirit, and the dreaming 
 
 clay 
 Was lifted by the thing that dreamed 
 
 below 
 As smoke by fire, and in her beauty's 
 
 glow 
 I stood, and felt the dawn of my long 
 
 night 
 Was penetrating me with living light : 
 I knew it was the Vision veiled from me 
 So many years — that it was Emily. 
 
 Twin Spheres of light who rule tins 
 
 passive Earth, 
 This world of love, this me; and into 
 
 birth [dart 
 
 Awaken all its fruits and flowers, and 
 
354 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Magnetic might into its central heart ; 
 And lift its billows and its mists, and 
 
 guide 
 By everlasting laws, eacli wind and tide 
 To its fit cloud, and its appointed cave ; 
 And lull its storms, each in the craggy 
 
 grave 
 Which was its cradle, luring to faint 
 
 bovvers 
 The armies of the rainbow-winged 
 
 showers ; 
 And, as those married liglits, which 
 
 from tlie towers 
 Of Heaven look forth and fold the wan- 
 dering globe 
 In liquid sleep and splendor, as a robe ; 
 And all their many-mingled influence 
 
 blend, 
 If equal, yet unlike, to one sweet end ; — 
 So ye, bright regents, with alternate 
 
 sway 
 Govern my sphere of being, night and 
 
 day ! 
 Thou, not disdaining even a borrowed 
 
 might : 
 Thou, not eclipsing a remoter light ; 
 And, through the shadow of the 
 
 seasons three, 
 From Spring to Autumn's sere maturity. 
 Light it into the Winter of tlie tomb, 
 Where it may ripen to abrigliter bloom. 
 Thou too, O Comet beautiful and fierce. 
 Who drew the heart of this frail Uni- 
 verse 
 Towards tliine own ; till, wrecked in 
 
 that convulsion. 
 Alternating attraction and repulsion, 
 Thine went astray and that was rent in 
 
 twain ; 
 Oh, float into our azui'e heaven again ! 
 Be tliere love's folding-star at thy return ; 
 The living Sun will feed thee from its 
 
 urn [horn 
 
 Of golden flre ; the Moon will veil her 
 In thj"^ last smiles ; adoring Even and 
 
 Morn 
 Will worship thee with incense of calm 
 
 breath 
 And lights and shadows; as the star of 
 
 Death 
 And Birth is worsliipped by those 
 
 sisters wild 
 Called Hope and Fear — upon the heart 
 
 are piled 
 Their offerings, — of this sacrifice divine 
 A world shall be the altar. 
 
 Lady mine. 
 Scorn not these flowers of thought, the 
 
 fading birth 
 
 Which from its heart of hearts that plant 
 
 puts forth 
 Whose fruit, made perfect by thy sunny 
 
 eyes. 
 Will be as of the trees of Paradise. 
 
 The day is come, and thou wilt fly 
 
 with me. 
 To wliatsoe'er of dull mortalitj' 
 Is mine, remain a vestal sister still ; 
 To the intense, the deep, the imperish- 
 able, 
 Not mine but me, henceforth be thou 
 
 united 
 Even as a bride, delighting and de- 
 lighted. 
 The hour is come : — the destined Star 
 
 lias risen 
 Which shall descend upon a vacant 
 
 prison. 
 The walls are high, the gates are strong, 
 
 thick set 
 The sentinels — but true love never yet 
 Was thus constrained : it overleaps all 
 
 fence : 
 Like lightning, with invisible violence 
 Piercing its continents ; like Heaven's 
 
 free breath. 
 Which he who grasps can hold not ; 
 
 liker Death, 
 Who rides upon a thought, and makes 
 
 his way 
 Through temple, tower, and palace, and 
 
 the array 
 Of arms ; more strength has Love than 
 
 he or they ; 
 For it can burst his charnel, and make 
 
 free 
 The limbs in chains, the heart in agony, 
 The soul in dust and chaos. 
 
 Emily, 
 A ship is floating in the harbor now, 
 A wind is hovering o'er the mountain's 
 
 brow ; 
 There is a path on the sea's azure floor. 
 No keel has ever ploughed that path 
 
 before ; 
 The halcyons brood around the foamless 
 
 isles ; [wiles ; 
 
 The treacherous Ocean has forsworn its 
 The merry mariners are bold and free : 
 Say, ray heart's sister, wilt thou sail 
 
 . with me ? 
 Our bark is as an albatross, whose nest 
 Is a far Eden of the purjjle East ; 
 And we between her wings will sit, 
 
 while Night 
 And Day, and storm, and Calm, pursue 
 
 their flight. 
 
SHELLEY 
 
 355 
 
 Our ministers, along tlie boundless Sea, 
 Treading each other's heels, unheededly. 
 It is an Isle under Ionian skies, 
 Beautiful as a wreck of Paradise, 
 And, for the harbors are not safe and 
 
 good, 
 This land would have remained a soli- 
 tude 
 But for some pastoral people native 
 
 tiiere. 
 Who from the Elysian, clear, and golden 
 
 ^ir 
 Draw the last spirit of tlie age of gold. 
 Simple and spirited ; innocent and bold. 
 The blue ^gean girds this chosen home, 
 With ever-changing sound and light and 
 
 foam, 
 Kissing the sifted sands, and caverns 
 
 hoar ; 
 And all the winds wandering along the 
 
 shore 
 Undulate with the undulating tide : 
 There are thick woods where sylvan 
 
 forms abide ; 
 And majiy a fountain, rivulet, and pond, 
 As clear as elemental diamond. 
 Or serene morning air ; and far beyond, 
 The mossy tracks made by the goats 
 
 and deer 
 (Which the rough shepherd treads but 
 
 once a year), 
 Pierce into glades, caverns, and bowers, 
 
 and halls 
 Built round with ivy, which the Avater- 
 
 falls 
 Illumining, with sound tiiat never fails 
 Accompany the noonday nightingales; 
 And all the place is peopled with sweet 
 
 airs ; 
 The light clear element which the isle 
 
 wears 
 Is heavy with the scent of lemon-flowers. 
 Which floats like mist laden wnth unseen 
 
 showers 
 And falls upon the eyelids like faint 
 
 sleep ; 
 And from the moss violets and jonquils 
 
 peep. 
 And dart their arrowy odor through the 
 
 brain 
 Till you might faint with that delicious 
 
 pain. 
 And every motion, odor, beam, and tone 
 Willi that deep music is in unison : 
 Which is a soul within tlie soul — they 
 
 seem 
 Like echoes of an antenatal dream. — 
 It is an isle 'twixt Heaven, Air, Earth, 
 
 and Sea, 
 
 Cradled, and hung in clear tranquility ; 
 Bright as that wandering Eden Lucifer, 
 Washed by the soft blue Oceans of 
 
 young air. 
 It is a favored place. Famine or Blight, 
 Pestilence, War, and Earthquake, never 
 
 light 
 Upon its mountain-peaks ; blind vul- 
 tures, tiiey 
 Sail onward far upon their fatal way : 
 The winged storms, chanting their 
 
 tliuiuler-psalm 
 To other lands, leave azure chasms of 
 
 calm 
 Over tills isle, or weep themselves in dew, 
 From which its fields and woods ever 
 
 renew 
 Their green and golden immortality. 
 And from the sea there rise, and from 
 
 the sky 
 There fall, clear exhalations, soft and 
 
 bright, 
 Veil after veil, each hiding some delight. 
 Which Sun or Moon or zephyr draw 
 
 aside. 
 Till the isle's beaut}% like a naked bride 
 Glowing at once with love and loveli- 
 ness, 
 Blushes and trembles at its own excess : 
 Yet, like a buried lamp, a Soul no less 
 Burns in the heart of this delicious isle. 
 An atom of th' Eternal, whose own 
 
 smile 
 Unfolds itself, and may be felt, not seen 
 O'er the gray rocks, blue waves, and 
 
 forests green. 
 Filling their bare and void interstices. — 
 But tiie chief marvel of the wilderness 
 Is a lone dwelling, built by whom or 
 
 how 
 None of the rustic island-people know ; 
 'Tis not a tower of strength, though 
 
 with its height 
 It overtops the woods ; but, for delight, 
 Some wise and tender Ocean-King, ere 
 
 crime 
 Had been invented, in the world's young 
 
 prime, 
 Reared it, a wonder of that simple time. 
 An envy of the isles, a pleasure-liouse 
 Made sacred to his sister and his spouse. 
 It scarce seems now a wreck of human 
 
 art. 
 But, as it were Titanic ; in the heart 
 Of Earth having assumed its form, then 
 
 grown 
 Out of the mountains, from the living 
 
 stone. 
 Lifting itself in caverns light and high ; 
 
35^ 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 For all tlie antique and learned imagery- 
 Has been erased, and in tlie place of it 
 Tl>e ivy and the wild-vine interknit 
 The volumes of their many twining 
 
 stems ; 
 Parasite floweis illume with dewy gems 
 The lampless halls, and when they fade, 
 
 the sky^ 
 Peeps through their winter-woof of 
 
 tracery 
 With Moonlight patches, or star atoms 
 
 keen. 
 Or fragments of the day's intense 
 
 serene ; — 
 Working mosaic on tlieir Parian floors. 
 And, day and night, aloof, from the 
 
 high towers 
 And terraces, tlie Earth and Ocean seem 
 To sleep in one another's arms, and dream 
 Of waves, flowers, clouds, woods, rocks, 
 
 and all that we 
 Read in their smiles, and call reality. 
 
 This isle and house are mine, and I 
 
 have vowed 
 Thee to be lady of the solitude. — 
 And I have fitted up some chambers 
 
 there 
 Looking towards the golden Eastern air, 
 And level with the living winds, which 
 
 flow 
 Like waves above the living waves 
 
 below. — 
 I have sent books and music there, and 
 
 all 
 Those instruments with which high 
 
 spirits call 
 The future from its cradle, and the past 
 Out of its grave, and make the present 
 
 last 
 In thouglits and joys which sleep, but 
 
 cannot die, 
 Folded within tlieir own eternity. 
 Our simple life wants little, and true 
 
 taste 
 Hires not the pale drudge Luxury, to 
 
 waste 
 Tlie scene it would adorn, and therefore 
 
 still. 
 Nature with all her children, haunts the 
 
 hill. 
 Tlie ring-dove, in the embowering ivy, 
 
 yet 
 Keeps up her love-lament, and the owls 
 
 flit 
 Round the evening tower, and the young 
 
 stars glance 
 Between the quick bats in their twilight 
 
 dance ; 
 
 The spotted deer bask in the fresh 
 
 moonlight 
 Before our gate, and the slow, silent 
 
 night 
 Is measured by the pants of their calm 
 
 sleep. 
 Be this our home in life, and when years 
 
 heap 
 Their withered hours, like leaves, on 
 
 our decay, 
 Let us become tlie overhanging day, 
 The living soul of this Elysian isLe, 
 Conscious, inseparable, one. Meanwhile 
 We two will rise, and sit, and walk 
 
 together. 
 Under tlie roof of blue Ionian weather, 
 And wander in the meadows, or ascend 
 The mossy mountains, where the blue 
 
 heavens bend 
 With lightest winds, to touch their para- 
 mour ; 
 Or linger, where the pebble-paven shore. 
 Under the quick, faint kisses of the sea 
 Trembles and sparkles as with ecstasy, — 
 Possessing and possest by all that is 
 Within that calm circumference of bliss. 
 And by each other, till to love and live 
 Be one : — or, at the noontide hour, arrive 
 Where some old cavern hoar seems yet 
 
 to keep 
 The moonlight of the expired night 
 
 asleep, 
 Through which the awakened day can 
 
 never peep ; 
 A veil for our seclusion, close as Night's, 
 Where secure sleep may kill thine 
 
 innocent lights ; 
 Sleep, the fresh dew of languid love, the 
 
 rain 
 AVhose drops quench kisses till they 
 
 burn again. 
 And we will talk, until thought's melody 
 Become too sweet for utterance, and it 
 
 die 
 In words, to live again in looks, which 
 
 dart 
 With thriling tone into the voiceless 
 
 heart, 
 Harmonising silence without a sound. 
 Our breath shall intermix, our bosoms 
 
 bound. 
 And our veins beat together ; and our 
 
 lips 
 With other eloquence than words, eclipse 
 The soul that burns between them, and 
 
 the wells 
 Which boil under our being's inmost 
 
 cells. 
 The fountains of our deepest life, shall be 
 
SHELLEY 
 
 357 
 
 Confused in passion's golden purity, 
 As mountain-springs undei' the morning 
 
 Sun. 
 We shall become the same, we shall be 
 
 one 
 Spirit within two frames, oh ! wherefore 
 
 two ? 
 One passion in twin-hearts, which grows 
 
 and grew. 
 Till like two meteors of expanding flame. 
 Those splieres instinct with it become 
 
 the same, 
 Touch, mingle, are transfigured ; ever 
 
 still 
 Burning, yet ever inconsumable : 
 In one another's substance finding foo<l, 
 Like flames too pure and light and un- 
 
 imbued 
 To nourish their bright lives with baser 
 
 prey. 
 Which point to HeavSn and cannot pass 
 
 away : 
 One hope within two wills, one will 
 
 beneath 
 Two overshadowing minds, one life, one 
 
 death. 
 One Heaven, one Hell, one immortality, 
 And one annihilation. Woe is me ! 
 The winged words on which my soul 
 
 wovild pierce 
 Into the height of love's rare Universe, 
 Are chains of lead around its flight of 
 
 fire — 
 I pant, I sink, I tremble, I expire ! 
 
 Weak Verses, go, kneel at your 
 
 Sovereign's feet. 
 And say : — " We are the mastei's of tliy 
 
 slave ; 
 What wouldest thou with us and ours 
 
 and thine ? " 
 Then call your sisters from Oblivion's 
 
 cave. 
 All singing loud : " Love's very pain is 
 
 sweet, 
 But its reward is in the world divine 
 Which, if not here, it builds beyond the 
 
 grave." 
 So shall ye live when I am there. Then 
 
 haste 
 Over the hearts of men, until ye meet 
 Marina, Vanna, Primus, and the rest. 
 And bid them love each other and be 
 
 blest ; 
 And leave the troop which errs, and 
 
 which reproves. 
 And come and be my guest, — for T am 
 
 Love's. 1S21. 1831. 
 
 TO NIGHT 
 
 Swiftly walk over the western wave, 
 
 Spirit of Night ! 
 Out of thy misty eastern cave, 
 Where all the long and lone daylight. 
 Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear. 
 Which make thee terrible and dear, — 
 
 Swift be thy flight ! 
 
 Wrap thy form in a mantle gray, 
 
 Star-inwrought ! 
 Blind with thine hair tlie eyes of Day ; 
 Kiss her until she be wearied out. 
 Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land 
 Touching all with thine opiate wand — 
 
 Come, long sought ! 
 
 When I arose and saw the dawn, . 
 
 I sighed for thee ; 
 When light rode high, and the dew was 
 
 gone, 
 And noon lay heavy on flower and tree, 
 And the weary Day turned to his rest, 
 Lingering like an unloved guest, 
 
 I sighed for thee. 
 
 Thy brother Death came, and cried, 
 
 Wouldst thou me ? 
 Thy sweet cliild Sleep, the filmy-eyed, 
 Murmured like a noontide bge, 
 Sliall I nestle near thy side ? 
 Wouldst thou me ? — And I replied. 
 
 No, not thee ! 
 
 Death will come when thou art dead 
 
 Soon, too soon — 
 Sleep will come when thou art fled ; 
 Of neither would I ask the boon 
 I ask of thee, beloved Night — 
 Swift be thine approaching flight. 
 
 Come soon, soon ! 
 
 • 1821. 1824. 
 
 TIME 
 
 Unfathomable Sea ! whose waves are 
 years. 
 Ocean of Time, whose waters of deep 
 woe 
 Are brackish with the salt of human 
 tears ! 
 Thou shoreless flood, which in thy 
 ebb and flow 
 Claspest the limits of mortality ! 
 And sick of prey, yet howling on tor 
 more, 
 Vomitest thy wrecks on its inhospitable 
 shore ; 
 
358 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Treacherous in calm, and terrible in 
 storm, 
 Who shall put fortli on thee, 
 Unfathomable Sea ? 18:21. 1824. 
 
 SONNET : POLITICAL GREATNESS 
 
 Nor happiness, nor majesty, nor fame. 
 Nor peace, nor strength, nor skill in 
 
 arms or arts. 
 Shepherd those herds wlK)m tyrannj^ 
 
 makes tame ; 
 Verse echoes not one beating of their 
 
 hearts. 
 History is but the shadow of their 
 
 shame, 
 Art veils her glass, or from the pageant 
 
 starts 
 As to oblivion their blind millions 
 
 fleet, 
 Staining that Heaven with obscene 
 
 imagery 
 Of their own likeness. What are 
 
 numbers knit 
 B}"^ force or custom ? Man who man 
 
 would be, 
 Must rule the empire of himself ; in it 
 Must be supreme, establishing his 
 
 throne 
 On vanquished will, quelling the an- 
 archy 
 Of hopes and fears, being liimself alone. 
 ISJl. 1824. 
 
 MUTABILITY 
 
 THE_fl ower that smiles to-da v 
 
 To-morrow dies ; 
 AH that we wish to slay 
 
 Tempts and thehflies. 
 What is this world's delight ? 
 Lightning tliat mocks the night, 
 
 Brief even as bright. 
 
 yirtuCjliow frail it is ! 
 
 Fi'iendsliip how' rare ! 
 Love, how if sells poor bliss 
 
 For proud despair ! 
 But we, though soon tliey fall, 
 Survive tlieir jo3\ and all 
 
 Which ours we call. 
 
 Whilst skies are blue and bright. 
 Whilst flowers are gay. 
 
 Whilst eyes tliat change ere night 
 Make glad the day ; 
 
 Whilst yet the calm liours creep. 
 
 Dream thou — and from tliy sleep 
 Then wake to wee]i. 
 
 ISJl. 1824. 
 
 A LAMENT 
 
 O world ! O life ! O time ! 
 On whose last steps I climb 
 Trembling at that where I had stood 
 before : 
 When will return the glory of your 
 prime ? 
 No more — Oh, never more ! 
 
 Out of the day and night 
 A joy has taken flight ; 
 
 Fresh spring, and summer, and winter 
 hoar, 
 Move my faint heart with grief, but with 
 delight 
 No more — Oh, never more ! 
 
 1821. 1824. 
 
 TO 
 
 Music, wliensoft ^ices die, 
 Vibrates in the memory — 
 Odors, when sweet violets sicken, 
 Live within the sense they quicken, 
 
 Rose leaves, when the rose is dead. 
 
 Are heaped for tine beloved's bed ; 
 
 And so thy thoughts, when thou art 
 
 gone 
 Love itself shall slumber on. 
 
 1821. 1824. 
 
 ADONAIS 
 
 AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF JOHN KEATS, 
 AUTHOR OP ENDYMION, HYPERION, ETC, 
 
 'AoTT/p nplv IJ.EV tTiafiTTEq kvl H^uoimv 'EcJof 
 T^vv de Oaviiv AdfiwEiq "'EoKepoc; kv (pftifiivoig. 
 
 Plato. 
 
 I WEEP for Adonais — he is dead ! 
 
 Oh weep for Adonais! tliough our tears 
 
 Thaw not the frost which binds so dear 
 
 a head ! 
 And thou, sad Hour, selected from all 
 
 years 
 To mourn our loss, rouse thy obscure 
 
 compeers, 
 And teach them thine own sorrow ! Say : 
 
 " With me 
 Died Adonais ; till the Future dares 
 Forget the Past, his fate and fame shall 
 
 be 
 An echo and a light unto eternity ! " 
 
 Where wert thou mighty Mother, when 
 
 he lay. 
 When tliy Sr>n lay, pierced by the shaft 
 
 whicli flies 
 
SHELLEY 
 
 359 
 
 In darkness ? where was lorn Urania 
 When Adonais died ? With veiled eyes, 
 'Mid listening Echoes, in her Paradise 
 She sate, while one, with soft enamored 
 
 breath. 
 Rekindled all the fading melodies 
 With which, like flowers that mock 
 
 the corse beneath. 
 He had adorned and hid the coming bulk 
 
 of death. 
 
 Oh weep for Adonais — lie is dead ! 
 
 Wake, melanclioly Motlier, wake and 
 weep ! 
 
 Yet wherefore ? Quench within their 
 burning bed 
 
 Thy fiery tears, and let thy lov'd heart 
 keep. 
 
 Like his, a mute and uncomplaining 
 sleep ; 
 
 For he is gone, wliere all things wise 
 and fair 
 
 Descend; — oh, dream not that the am- 
 orous Deep 
 
 Will yet restore him to tlie vital air ; 
 
 Death feeds on his mute voice, and 
 laughs at our despair. 
 
 Most musical of mourners, weep again 
 Lament anew-, Urania ! — He died. 
 Who was the Sire of an immortal strain, 
 Blind, old, and lonely, when his 
 
 country's pride. 
 The priest, the slave, and the liberticide. 
 Trampled and mocked with many a 
 
 loatlied rite 
 Of lust and blood ; he went, unterrified. 
 Into the gulf of deatli ; but his clear 
 
 Sprite 
 Yet reigns o'er earth ; the third among 
 
 the sons of liglit. 
 
 Most musical of mourners, weep anew ! 
 Not all to that bright station dared to 
 
 climb ; 
 And happier they their happiness who 
 
 knew, 
 Whose tapers yet burn through that 
 
 niglit Oi time 
 In which suns perished ; others moi'e 
 
 sublime. 
 Struck by the envious wrath of man 
 
 or God, 
 Have sunk, extinct in their refulgent 
 
 prime ; 
 And some yet live, treading the thorny 
 
 road. 
 Which leads, through toil and hate, to 
 
 Fame's serene abode. 
 
 But now, thy youngest, dearest one 
 
 has perished. 
 The nursling of thy widowhood, who 
 
 grew, 
 Like a pale flower by some sad maiden 
 
 cherished. 
 And fed with true love tears, instead of 
 
 dew ; 
 Most musical of mourners, weep anew ! 
 Thy extreine hope, the loveliest and 
 
 the last, 
 The bloom, whose petals nipt before 
 
 they blew 
 Died on the promise of the fruit, is 
 
 waste ; 
 The broken lily lies — the storm is over- 
 past. 
 
 To that high Capital, where kingly Death 
 Keeps his pale court in beauty and 
 
 decay. 
 He came ; and bought, with price of 
 
 purest breath, 
 A grave among the eternal. — Come 
 
 away ! 
 Haste, while the vault of blue Italian 
 
 day 
 Is yet his fitting charnel-roof ! while still 
 He lies, as if in dewy sleep lie lay ; 
 Awake him not ! surely lie takes his fill 
 Of deep and liquid rest, forgetful of all 
 
 ill. 
 
 He will awake no more, oh, never 
 
 more ! — 
 Within the twilight chamber spreads 
 
 apace, 
 The shadow of white Death, and at the 
 
 door 
 Invisible Corruption waits to trace 
 His extreme way to her dim dwelling- 
 place ; 
 The eternal Hunger sits, but pity and 
 
 awe 
 Soothe her pale rage, nor dares she to 
 
 deface 
 So fair a prey, till darkness, and the law 
 Of change shall o'er his sleep the mortal 
 
 curtain draw. 
 
 Oh weep for Adonais ! — The quick 
 
 Dreams, 
 The passion-winged Ministers of thought. 
 Who were his flocks, whom near the 
 
 living streams 
 Of his young spirit he fed, and whom he 
 
 taught 
 The love which was its music, wander 
 
 not, — 
 
360 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Wander no more, from kindling brain to 
 
 brain, 
 But droop there, whence they sprung ; 
 
 and mourn their lot 
 Round the cold heart, wliere, after their 
 
 sweet pain. 
 They ne'er will gather strength, or find 
 
 a home again. 
 
 And one with trembling hands clasps 
 
 his cold head. 
 And fans him with her moonlight wings, 
 
 and cries ; 
 " Our love, our hope, our sorrow, is not 
 
 dead ; 
 See, on the silken fringe of his faint 
 
 eyes, 
 Like dew upon a sleeping flower, there 
 
 lies 
 A tear some Dream has loosened from 
 
 his brain." 
 Lost Angel of a ruined Pai'adise ! 
 She knew not 'twas her own ; as with no 
 
 stain 
 She faded, like a cloud which had out- 
 wept its rain. 
 
 One from a lucid urn of starry dew 
 Washed his light limbs as if embalming 
 
 them ; 
 Another dipt her profuse locks, and 
 
 threw 
 The wreath upon him, like an anadem. 
 Which frozen tears instead of pearls 
 
 begem ; 
 Another in her wilful grief would 
 
 break 
 Her bow and winged reeds, as if to 
 
 stem 
 A greater loss with one which was more 
 
 weak ; 
 And dull the barbed fire against his frozen 
 
 cheek. 
 
 Another Splendor on his mouth alit. 
 
 That mouth, wiience it was wont to draw 
 the breath 
 
 Which gave it strength to pierce the 
 guarded wit. 
 
 And pass into the panting heart be- 
 neath 
 
 With lightning and with music : the 
 damp death 
 
 Quenched its caress upon his icy lips ; 
 
 And, as a dying meteor stains a wreath 
 
 Of moonlight vapor, which the cold 
 night clips. 
 
 It flushed tlu'ough liis pale limbs, and 
 passed to its eclipse. 
 
 And others came . . . Desires and 
 Adorations, 
 
 Winged Persuasions and veiled Des- 
 tinies, 
 
 Splendors and Glooms, and glimmering 
 Incarnations 
 
 Of hopes and fears, and twilight Phan- 
 tasies ; 
 
 And Sorrow, with her family of Sighs, 
 
 And Pleasure, blind with tears, led by 
 the gleam 
 
 Of lier own dying smile instead of eyes. 
 
 Came in slow pomp ; — the moving pomp 
 might seem 
 
 Like pageantry of mist on an autumnal 
 stream. 
 
 All he had loved, and moulded into 
 
 thought. 
 From shape, and hue, and odor, and 
 
 sweet sound. 
 Lamented Adonais. Morning sought 
 Her eastern watchtower, and her hair 
 
 unbound. 
 Wet with the tears which should adorn 
 
 tlie ground, 
 Dimmed tlie aerial eyes that kindle day ; 
 Afar the melancholy thunder moaned, 
 Pale Ocean in unquiet slumber lay, 
 And tlie wild winds flew round, sobbing 
 
 in their dismay. 
 
 Lost Echo sits amid the voiceless moun- 
 tains, 
 And feeds her grief with his remembered 
 
 lay. 
 And will no more reply to winds or 
 
 fountains. 
 Or amorous birds perched on the young 
 
 green spray, 
 Or herdsman's horn, or bell at closing 
 
 day ; 
 Since she can mimic not his lips, more 
 
 dear 
 Than those for whose disdain she pined 
 
 away 
 Into a shadow of all sounds : — a drear 
 Murmur, between their songs, is all the 
 
 woodmen hear. 
 
 Grief made the young Spring wild, and 
 
 she threw down 
 Her kindling buds, as if she Autumn 
 
 were. 
 Or they dead leaves ; since her delight is 
 
 flown 
 For whom should she have waked the 
 
 sullen year ? 
 To Phoebus was not Hyacinth so dear 
 
SHELLEY 
 
 -.61 
 
 • Nor to himself Narcissus, as to both 
 Thou Adonais : wan they stand and 
 
 sere 
 Amid tlie faint companions of their 
 
 youth, 
 With dew all turned to tears ; odor, to 
 
 sighing ruth. 
 
 Thy spirit's sister, the lorn nightingale, 
 Mourns not her mate with such melodi- 
 ous pain ; 
 Not so the eagle, who like thee could 
 
 scale 
 Heaven, and could nourish in the sun's 
 
 domain 
 Her mighty youth with morning, doth 
 
 complain, 
 Soaring and screaming round her empty 
 
 nest. 
 As Albion wails for thee ; the curse of 
 
 Cain 
 Light on his head wlio pierced thy iniao- 
 
 cent breast 
 And scared the angel soul that was its 
 
 earthly guest ! 
 
 Ah woe is me ! Winter is come and 
 
 gone. 
 But grief returns with the revolving 
 
 year ; 
 The airs and streams renew their joj^ous 
 
 tone : 
 The ants, the bees, the swallows re- 
 appear ; 
 Fresh leaves and flowers deck the dead 
 
 Seasons' bier ; 
 The amorous birds now pair in every 
 
 brake. 
 And build tlieir mossy homes in field and 
 
 brere ; 
 And the green lizard, and the golden 
 
 snake, 
 Like unimprisoned flames, out of their 
 
 trance awake. 
 
 Tlirough wood and stream and field and 
 
 hill and Ocean 
 A quickening life from the Earth's heart 
 
 has burst 
 As it has ever done, with change and 
 
 motion, 
 ■ From the great morning of the world 
 
 when first 
 God dawned on Chaos ; in its stream im- 
 mersed 
 The lamps of Heaven flash with a softer 
 
 light ; 
 All baser things pant with life's sacred 
 
 thirst ; 
 
 Diffuse themselves ; and spend in love's 
 
 delight. 
 The beauty and the joy of their renewed 
 
 might. 
 
 The leprous corpse touched by this spirit 
 
 tender 
 Exiiales itself in flowers of gentle breath ; 
 Like incarnations of the stars, when 
 
 splendor 
 Is changed to fragrance, they illumine 
 
 death 
 And mock the merry worm that wakes 
 
 beneath ; 
 Nought we know, dies. Shall that alone 
 
 which knows 
 Be as a sword consumed before the 
 
 sheath 
 By siglitless lightning ? — th' intense 
 
 atom glows 
 A moment, then is quenched in a most 
 
 cold repose. 
 
 Alas ! that all we loved of him should be 
 But for our grief, as if it had not been, 
 And grief itself be mortal ! Woe is me ! 
 Whence are we, and why are we ? of 
 
 what scene 
 The actors or spectators? Gi'eat and 
 
 mean 
 Meet massed in death, who lends what 
 
 life must borrow. 
 As long as skies are blue, and fields are 
 
 green. 
 Evening must usher night, night urge 
 
 the morrow, 
 Month follow month with woe, and year 
 
 wake year to sorrow. 
 
 He will awake no more, oh, nevermore ! 
 "Wake tliou," cried Misery, "child- 
 less Mother, rise 
 Out of thy sleep, and slake, in thy 
 
 heart's core, 
 A wound more fierce than his with tears 
 
 and sighs." 
 And all the Dreams that watched 
 
 Urania's eyes. 
 And all the Echoes whom their sister's 
 
 song 
 Had held in holy silence, cried : 
 
 " Arise ! " 
 Swift as a Tliought by the snake Memory 
 
 stung, . 
 From her ambrosial rest the fading 
 
 Splendor sprung. 
 
 She rose like an autumnal Night, that 
 springs 
 
362 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Out of the East, and follows wild and 
 drear 
 
 The golden Day, which, on eternal 
 wings. 
 
 Even as a ghost abandoning a bier, 
 
 Had left the Earth a corpse. Sorrow 
 and fear 
 
 So struck, so roused, so rapt Urania ; 
 
 So saddened round her like an atmo- 
 sphere 
 
 Of stormy mist ; so swept her on her 
 way 
 
 Even to the mournful place where 
 Adonais lay. 
 
 Out of her secret Paradise she sped. 
 
 Through camj)s and cities rough with 
 stone, and steel. 
 
 And human hearts, which to her airy 
 tread 
 
 Yielding not, wounded the invisible 
 
 Palms of her tender feet where'er they 
 fell: 
 
 And barbed tongues, and thoughts more 
 sharp than they 
 
 Rent tlie soft Form they never could 
 re])el. 
 
 Whose sacred blood, like the young 
 tears of May, 
 
 Paved with eternal flowers that unde- 
 serving way. 
 
 In the death chamber for a moment 
 
 Death 
 Shamed by the pi-esence of that living 
 
 Might 
 Blushed to annihilation, and the breath 
 Revisited those lips, and life's pale light 
 Flashed through those limbs, so late her 
 
 dear delight. 
 " Leave me not wild and drear and 
 
 comfortless. 
 As silent liglitning leaves the starless 
 
 night ! 
 Leave me not!" cried Urania: lier 
 
 distress 
 Rovised Death : Death rose and smiled, 
 
 and met her vain caress. 
 
 "Stay yet awhile! speak to me once 
 
 again ; 
 Kiss me. so long but as a kiss may live ; 
 And in my heartless breast and bvirning 
 
 brain . 
 
 That word, that kiss, shall all thoughts 
 
 else survive. 
 With food of saddest memory kept alive, 
 Now thou art dead, as if it were a part 
 Of thee, my Adonais ! I would give 
 
 All that I am to be as thou now art ! 
 But I am chained to Time, and cannot 
 thence depart ! 
 
 '■ O gentle child, beautiful as thou wert. 
 Why didst thou leave the trodden paths 
 
 of men 
 Too soon, and with weak hands though 
 
 mighty heai't 
 Dare the unpastured dragon in his den ? 
 Defenceless as thou wert, oh where was 
 
 then 
 Wisdom tlie mirrored shield, or scorn 
 
 the spear ? 
 Or liadst thou waited the full cycle, 
 
 wlien 
 Tliy spirit sliould have filled its crescent 
 
 s])here, 
 Tiie monsters of life's waste had fled 
 
 from thee like deer. 
 
 " The herded wolves, bold only to 
 
 pursue ; 
 The obscene I'avens, clamorous o'er the 
 
 d(>ad ; 
 The vultures to the conqueror's banner 
 
 true 
 Who feed where Desolation first has fed. 
 And whose wnngs rain contagion ; — how 
 
 they fled, 
 When like Apollo, from his golden bow, 
 The I'j'thian of tlie age one arrow sped 
 And smiled !— The spoilers tempt no 
 
 second blow. 
 They fawn on the proud feet that spurn 
 
 them lying low. 
 
 " The sun comes forth, and many rep- 
 tiles spawn ; 
 He sets, and each ephemeral insect then 
 Is gathered into death without a dawn, 
 And the immortal stars awake again : 
 So is it in the world of living men : 
 A godlike mind soars forth, in its delight 
 Making earth bare and veiling heaven, 
 
 and when 
 It sinks, the swarms that dimmed or 
 
 shared its light 
 Leave to its kindred lamps the spirit's 
 awful night." 
 
 Thus ceased she : and the mountain 
 
 shepherds came, 
 Their garlands sere, their magic mantles 
 
 rent ; 
 The Pilgrim of Eternity, whose fame 
 Over his living head like Heaven is bent. 
 An early l.>ut enduring monument. 
 Came, veiling all the lightnings of his 
 
 song 
 
SHELLEY 
 
 3^3 
 
 In soirovv ; from liei" wilds lerne sent 
 The sweetest lyrist of her saddest wrong, 
 And love taught grief to fall like music 
 from his tongue. 
 
 Midst others of less note, came one 
 
 frail Form, 
 A phantom among men ; companionless 
 As the last cloud of an expiring storm 
 Whose thunder is its knell ; he, as I 
 
 guess. 
 Had gazed on Nature's naked loveliness, 
 Actaeon-like, and now he filed astray 
 With feeble steps o'er the world's wil- 
 derness, 
 And his own thoughts, along that rugged 
 
 way, 
 Pursued, like raging hounds, their father 
 and their prey. 
 
 A pardlike Spirit beautiful and swift — 
 A Love in desolation masked ; — a Power 
 Girt round with weakness ; — it can 
 
 scarce iiplift 
 The weight of the superincumbent hour ; 
 It is a dying lamp, a falling shower, 
 A breaking billow ; — even whilst we 
 
 speak 
 Is it not broken ? On the withering 
 
 flower 
 The killing sun smiles brightly : on a 
 
 cheek 
 The life can burn in blood, even while 
 
 the heart may break. 
 
 His head was bound with pansies over- 
 blown. 
 And faded violets, white, and pied, and 
 
 blue ; 
 And a light spear topped with a cypress 
 
 cone, 
 Eound whose rude shaft dark ivy tresses 
 
 grew 
 Yet dripping with the forest's noonday 
 
 dew, 
 Vibrated, as the ever-beating heart 
 Shook the weak hand that grasped it ; 
 
 of that crew 
 He came the last, neglected and apart ; 
 A herd-abandoned deer struck by the 
 
 hunter's dart. 
 
 All stood aloof, and at his partial moan 
 Smiled tlirough their tears ; well knew 
 
 that gentle band 
 Who in another's fate now wept his own ; 
 As in the accents of an unknown land. 
 He sung new sorrow ; sad Urania 
 
 scanned 
 
 The Stranger's mien, and murmvired: 
 
 " Who art thou? " 
 He answered not, but with a sudden 
 
 liand 
 Made bare his branded and ensanguined 
 
 brow. 
 Which was like Cain's or Christ's — oh, 
 
 that it should be so ! 
 
 What softer voice is hushed over the 
 
 dead? 
 Athwart what brow is that dark mantle 
 
 thrown ? 
 What form leans sadly o'er the white 
 
 deathbed. 
 In mockery of monumental stone. 
 The heavy heart heaving without a 
 
 moan ? 
 If it be He, who, gentlest of the wise, 
 Taught, soothed, loved, honored the 
 
 departed one ; 
 Let me not vex, with inharmonious 
 
 sighs 
 The silence of that heart's accepted 
 
 sacriiice. 
 
 Our Adonais has drunk poison — oh ! 
 What deaf and viperous murderer could 
 
 crown 
 Life's early cup with such a draught of 
 
 woe ? 
 The nameless worm would now- itself 
 
 disown : 
 It felt, yet could escape the magic tone 
 Whose prelude held all envy, hate, and 
 
 wrong. 
 But what was howling in one breast 
 
 alone, 
 Silent with expectation of the song, 
 Whose master's handis cold, whose silver 
 
 lyre unstrung. 
 
 Live thou, whose infamy is not thy 
 
 fame ! 
 Live ! fear no heavier chastisement from 
 
 me, 
 Thou noteless blot on a remembered 
 
 name ! 
 But be thyself, and know thyself to be ! 
 And ever at thy season be thou free 
 To spill the venom when thy fangs o'er- 
 
 flow : 
 Remorse and Self-contempt shall cling 
 
 to thee ; 
 Hot Shame shall burn upon thy secret 
 
 brow. 
 And like a beaten hound tremble thou 
 
 shalt — as now.i 
 
 1 See the note ou page 354. 
 
364 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Nor let us weep tliat our delight is fled 
 Far from these carrion kites that scream 
 
 below ; 
 He wakes or sleeps with the enduring 
 
 dead ; 
 Thou canst not soar where he is sitting 
 
 now. — 
 Dust to the dust ! but the pure spirit 
 
 shall flow 
 Back to the burning fountain whence 
 
 it came. 
 A portion of the Eternal, which must 
 
 glow 
 Through time and change, unquench- 
 
 ably the same, 
 Wliilst thy cold embers choke the sordid 
 
 hearth of shame. 
 
 Peace, peace ! he is not dead, he doth 
 
 not sleep 
 He hath awakened from the dream of 
 
 life— 
 'Tis we, who lost in stormy visions, keep 
 With phantoms an unprofitable strife. 
 And in mad trance, strike with our 
 
 spirit's knife 
 Invulnerable nothings. — We decay 
 Like corpses in a cliarnel ; fear and grief 
 Convulse us and consume us day by day, 
 And cold hopes swarm like worms with- 
 in our living clay. 
 
 He has outsoared the shadow of our 
 night ; 
 
 Envy and calumny and hate and pain. 
 
 And tliat unrest which men miscall de- 
 light, 
 
 Can touch liim not and torture not again ; 
 
 From the contagion of the world's slow 
 stain 
 
 He is secure, and now can never mourn 
 
 A heart grown cold, a head grown gray 
 in vain ; 
 
 Nor, when tlie spirit's self has ceased to 
 burn. 
 
 With sparkless ashes load an unlamented 
 urn. 
 
 He lives, he wakes — 'tis Death is dead, 
 
 not he ; 
 Mourn not for Adonais, — Thou young 
 
 Dawn [thee 
 
 Turn all thy dew to splendor, for from 
 The spirit thou lamentest is not gone ; 
 Ye caverns and ye forests, cease to moan ! 
 Cease ye faint flowers and fountains, 
 
 and thoU Air 
 Which like a mourning veil thy scarf 
 
 hadst thrown 
 
 O'er the abandoned Earth, now leave it 
 
 bare 
 Even to tlie joyous stars which smile on 
 
 its despair ! 
 
 He is made one with Nature : there is 
 
 heard 
 His voice in all her music, from the moan 
 Of thunder to the song of night's sweet 
 
 bird ; 
 He is a presence to be felt and known 
 In darkness and in light, from herb and 
 
 stone, 
 Spi'eading itself where'er that Power 
 
 may move 
 Which lias withdrawn his being to its 
 
 own ; 
 Which wields the world with never 
 
 wearied love. 
 Sustains it from beneath, and kindles it 
 
 above. 
 
 He is a portion of the loveliness 
 Which once he made more lovely : he 
 
 doth bear 
 His part, while the one Spirit's plastic 
 
 stress 
 Sweeps through the dull dense world, 
 
 compelling there 
 All new successions to the forms they 
 
 wear ; 
 Torturing th' unwilling dross that 
 
 checks its flight 
 To its own likeness, as each mass may 
 
 bear ; 
 And bursting in its beaut}'- and its might 
 From trees and beasts and men into the 
 
 Heaven's light. 
 
 Tlie splendors of the firmament of time 
 May be eclipsed, but are extinguished 
 
 not ; 
 Like stars to their appointed height 
 
 thej^ climb 
 And deatli is a low mist which cannot 
 
 blot 
 The brightness it may veil. When lofty 
 
 thought 
 Lifts a young heart above its mortal lair. 
 And love and life contend in it, for what 
 Shall be its earthly doom, the dead live 
 
 there 
 And move like winds of light on dark 
 
 and stormy air. 
 
 The inheritors of unfulfilled renown 
 Rose from their thrones, built beyond 
 
 mortal tliought. 
 Far in th© Unapparent. Chatterton 
 
SHELLEY 
 
 365 
 
 Rose pale, his solemn agony had not 
 Yet faded from him ; Sidney, as he 
 
 fought 
 And as he fell and as he lived and loved 
 Sublimely mild, a Spirit witliout spot, 
 Arose ; and Lucan, by his death 
 
 approved : 
 Oblivion as they rose shrank like a thing 
 
 reproved. 
 
 And many more, whose names on Eartli 
 
 are dark 
 But whose transmitted effluence cannot 
 
 die 
 So long as fire outlives the parent spark, 
 Rose, robed in dazzling immortality. 
 " Thou art become as one of us," they 
 
 cry, 
 " It was for thee yon kingless spheie 
 
 has long 
 Swung blind in unascended majesty, 
 Silent alone amid an Heaven of Song. 
 Assume tliy winged throne, thou Vesper 
 
 of our throng ! " 
 
 Who mourns for Adonais ? Oh come 
 
 forth 
 Fond wretch ! and know thyself and 
 
 him aright. 
 Clasp with thy panting soul the 
 
 pendulous Earth ; 
 As from a centre, dart thy spirit's light 
 Beyond all worlds, until its spacious 
 
 might 
 Satiate the void circumference : then 
 
 shrink 
 Even to a point within our day and 
 
 night ; 
 And keep thy heart light lest it make 
 
 thee sink 
 When hope has kindled hope, and lured 
 
 thee to the brink. 
 
 Or go to Rome, which is the sepulchre 
 Oh ! not of him, but of our joy : ' tis 
 
 nought 
 That ages, empires, and religions there 
 Lie buried in the ravage they have 
 
 wrought ; 
 For such as he can lend, — they borrow 
 
 not 
 Glory from those who made the world 
 
 their prey ; 
 And he is gathered to the kings of 
 
 thought 
 Who waged contention with their time's 
 
 decay, 
 And of the past are all that cannot pa.ss 
 
 away. 
 
 Go thou to Rome. — at once the Paradise, 
 The grave, the city, and the wilderness ; 
 And where its wrecks like shattered 
 
 mountains rise, ' 
 
 And flowering weeds, and fragrant 
 
 copses dress 
 The bones of Desolation's nakedness. 
 Pass, till the Spirit of the spot shall lead 
 Thy footsteps to a slope of green access 
 Where, like an infant's smile, over the 
 
 dead 
 A light of laughing flowers along the 
 
 gra,ss is spread. 
 
 And gray walls moulder round, on which 
 
 dull Time 
 Feeds, like slow fire upon a hoary brand ; 
 And one keen pyramid with wedge sub- 
 lime. 
 Pavilioning the dust of him who planned 
 This refuge for his memory, doth stand 
 Like flame transformed to marble ; and 
 
 beneath, 
 A field is spread, on which a newer band 
 Have pitched in Heaven's smile their 
 
 camp of death 
 Welcoming him we lose with scarce ex- 
 tinguished breath. 
 
 Here pause : tlie.se graves are all too 
 young as yet 
 
 To have outgrown the sorrow which 
 consigned 
 
 Its charge to each ; and if the .seal is set. 
 
 Here, on one fountain of a mourning 
 mind, 
 
 Break it not thou ! too surely .shalt thou 
 find [iiome. 
 
 Thine own well full, if thou returnest 
 
 Of tears and gall. From the world's 
 bitter wind 
 
 Seek shelter in the shadow of the tomb. 
 
 What Adonais is, why fear we to be- 
 come ? 
 
 The One remains, the many change and 
 
 pass ; 
 Heaven's light forever shines, Earth'.s 
 
 shadows fly ; 
 Life, like a dome of many-colored glass, 
 Stains the white radiance of Eternity, 
 Until Death tramples it to fragments. 
 
 —Die, 
 If thou wouldst be with that wiiich 
 
 thou dost seek ! 
 Follow where all is fled ! — Rome's azure 
 
 sky, [are weak 
 
 Flowers, ruins, statues, music, words, 
 The glory they transfuse with fitting 
 
 truth to speak. 
 
366 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Why linger, why turn back, why shrink, 
 
 my Heart ? 
 Thy hopes are gone before : from all 
 
 tilings here 
 They have departed ; thou shouldst now 
 
 depart ! 
 A light is past from the revolving year, 
 And man, and woman ; and what still 
 
 is dear 
 Attracts to crush, repels to make thee 
 
 wither. 
 The soft sk}"^ smiles, — the low wind 
 
 whispers near ; 
 'Tis Adonais calls ! oh, hasten thither, 
 No more let Life divide what Death can 
 
 join together. 
 
 That Light whose smile kindles the 
 
 Univei"se, 
 That Beauty in which all things work 
 
 and move. 
 That Benediction which the eclipsing 
 
 Curse 
 Of birth can quench not, that sustain- 
 ing Love 
 Which through the web of being blindly 
 
 wove 
 By man and beast and earth and air and 
 
 sea. 
 Burns bright or dim, as each are mirrors of 
 The fire for which all tliirst ; now beams 
 
 on me, 
 Consuming the last clouds of cold 
 
 mortality. 
 
 The breath whose miglit I liave invoked 
 
 in song 
 Descends on me ; my spirit's bark is 
 
 driven. 
 Far from the shore, far from tlie trem- 
 bling throng 
 Whose sails were never to the tempest 
 
 given ; 
 The massy earth and sphered skies are 
 
 riven ! 
 I am borne darkly, fearfully, afar ; 
 Whilst burning through the inmost veil 
 
 of Heaven, 
 The soul of Adonais, like a star. 
 Beacons from the abode where the 
 
 Eternal are. 1S21. 1821. 
 
 LIFE MAY CHANGE, BUT IT MAY 
 FLY NOT 
 
 Life may change, but it may fly not ; 
 Hope may vanish, but can die not ; 
 Truth be veiled, but still it burnetii ; 
 Love repulsed, — but it returneth I 
 
 Yet were life a charnel where 
 Hope lay coffined with Despair ; 
 Yet were truth a sacred lie, 
 Love were lust — If Liberty 
 
 Lent not life its soul of light, 
 Hope its iris of delight. 
 Truth its prophet's robe to wear, 
 Love its power to give and bear. 
 
 From Hellas. ISfn. 1822. 
 
 WORLDS ON WORLDS ARE ROLL- 
 ING EVER 
 
 Worlds on worlds are rolling ever 
 
 From creation to decay. 
 Like the bubbles on a river 
 Sparkling, bursting, borne away. 
 But they are still immortal 
 Who, through birth's orient portal 
 And death's dark chasm hvxrrying to and 
 fro. 
 Clothe their unceasing flight 
 In the brief dust and light 
 Gathered around their chariots as they 
 go; 
 New shapes they still may weave, 
 New gods, new laws receive. 
 Bright or dim are they as the robes thej"^ 
 last 
 On Death's bare ribs lind cast. 
 
 A power from the unknown God, 
 A Promethean com[ueror canie ; 
 Like a triumphal path he trod 
 The thorns of death and shame. 
 A mortal shape to him 
 Was like the vapor dim 
 Which the orient planet animates with 
 light ; 
 Hell, Sin, and Slavery came. 
 Like bloodhounds mild and tame. 
 Nor preyed, until their Lord had taken 
 flight ; 
 The moon of Mahomet 
 Arose, and it shall set : 
 While blazoned as on heaven's immortal 
 noon 
 The cross leads generations on. 
 
 Swift as the radiant shapes of sleep 
 
 From one wliose dreams are Paradise 
 Fly, when the fond wretch wakes to 
 weep, 
 And day peers forth with her blank 
 
 eyes ; 
 So fleet, so faint, so fair. 
 The Powers of eartii and air 
 Fled from the folding star of Bethlehem : 
 
SHELLEY 
 
 567 
 
 Apollo, Pun, and Love, 
 And even Olympian Jove 
 Grew weak, for killing Truth had glared 
 on them ; 
 Our hills and seas and streams 
 Dispeopled of their dreams, 
 Their waters turned to blood, their dew 
 to tears, 
 Wailed for the golden years. 
 
 From Hellas. 1821. 1832. 
 
 SONGS FROM HELLAS 
 
 Darkness has dawned in the East 
 
 On the noon of time : 
 The deatli-birds descend to their feast, 
 
 From the hungry clime. 
 Let Freedom and Peace flee far 
 
 To a sunnier strand, 
 And follow Love's folding star 
 
 To tlie Evening land ! 
 
 The young moon has fed 
 Her exhausted horn, 
 With the sunset's tire : 
 The vpeak day is dead. 
 
 But the night is not born ; 
 And, like loveliness panting with wild 
 desire [light. 
 
 While it trembles with fear and de- 
 Hespei'us flies from awakening night. 
 And pants in its beauty and speed with 
 light 
 Fast flashing, soft, and bright. 
 Thou beacon of love ! tliou lan)p of the 
 free ! 
 Guide us far, far away, 
 To climes where now veiled by the 
 ai'dor of day 
 Thou art hidden 
 From waves on which weary noon 
 Faints in her summer swoon, 
 . Between Kingless continents sinless 
 as Eden, [lably 
 
 Around mountains and islands invio- 
 Prankt on the sapjDhire sea. 
 
 Through the sunset of hope, 
 Like the shapes of a <Iream, 
 What Paradise islands of glory 
 gleam ! 
 Beneath Heaven's cope. 
 Their shadows more clear float by — 
 The sound of their oceans, the light 
 
 of their sky, 
 The music and fragrance their soli- 
 tudes breathe 
 Burst, like morning on dream, or like 
 Heaven on death 
 
 Through the walls of our prison : 
 And Greece, which was dead, is arisen ! 
 
 1S21. 182.2. 
 
 THE WORLD'S GREAT AGE BEGINS 
 ANEW 
 
 The world's great age begins anew, 
 
 The golden years return. 
 The earth doth like a snake renew 
 
 Her winter weeds outworn : 
 Heaven smiles, and faitiis and empires 
 
 gleam. 
 Like wrecks of a dissolving dream. 
 
 A brighter Hellas rears its mountains 
 
 From waves serener far ; 
 A new Peneus rolls his fountains 
 
 Against the morning star. 
 Where fairer Tempes blootn, there sleep 
 Young Cyclads on a sunnier deep. 
 
 A loftier Argo cleaves the main. 
 
 Fraught with a later prize ; 
 Another Orpheus sings ag;iin, 
 
 And loves, and weeps, and dies. 
 A new Ulysses leaves once more 
 Calypso for his native shore. 
 
 Oh, write no more the tale of Troy, 
 If earth Death's scroll must be ! 
 
 Nor mix with Laian rage the joy 
 Which dawns upon tiie free : 
 
 Although a subtler Spliinx renew 
 
 Riddles of death Thebes never knew. 
 
 Another Athens shall arise, 
 
 And to remoter time 
 Bequeath, like sunset to the skies. 
 
 The splendor of its prime ; 
 And leave, if nought so bright may live, 
 All earth can take or Heaven can give. 
 
 Saturn and Love their long repose 
 Shall burst, more bright and good 
 
 Than all who fell, than One who rose, 
 Than many unsubdued : ^ 
 
 1 Saturn and Love were among the deities of a 
 real or imaginary state of innocence and happi- 
 ness. All those ivhofell, or the Gods of Greece, 
 Asia, and Egypt ; the One who rose, or Jesus 
 Christ, at whose appearance the idols of the 
 Pagan World were ainercetl of their worship ; 
 and the many unsubdued, or tlie monstrous ob- 
 jects of the idolatry of China. India, the Antarc- 
 tic islands, and the native tribes of America, 
 certainly have reigned over the understandings 
 of men in conjunction or in succession, during 
 periods in which all we know of evil has been in 
 a state of portentous, anil, until the revival nf 
 learning and the arts, perpetually increasing 
 activity. (From ShcUey's Note.) 
 
368 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Not gold, not blood, their altar dowers. 
 But votive tears and symbol flowers. 
 
 Oil, oease ! must liate and death return ? 
 
 Cease ! must men kill and die ? 
 Cease ! drain not to its dregs the urn 
 
 Of bitter prophecy. 
 Tlie world is weary of the past, 
 Oh, might it die or rest at last ! 
 
 Final Chorus from Hellas. 
 
 TO-MORROW 
 
 Where art thou, beloved To-morrow ? 
 When young and old and strong and 
 weak. 
 Rich and poor, through joy and sorrow, 
 
 Thy sweet smiles we ever seek, — 
 In thy place — ah ! well-a-day ! 
 We find the thing we fled — To-day. 
 
 1821. 1824. 
 
 TO 
 
 One word is too often profaned 
 
 For me to profane it, 
 One feeling too falsely disdained 
 
 For thee to disdain it. 
 One hope is too like despair 
 
 For prudence to smother. 
 And pity from thee more dear 
 
 Than that from anotiier. 
 
 I can give not what men call love, 
 
 But wilt thou accept not 
 The worship the heart lifts above 
 
 And the Heavens reject not. 
 The desire of the moth for the star, 
 
 Of the night for the morrow, 
 The devotion to something afar 
 
 From the sphere of our sorrow ? 
 1S21. 1824. 
 
 WITH A GUITAR, TO JANE 
 
 Ariel, to Miranda. — Take 
 
 This slave of Music, for tlie sake 
 
 Of him who is the slave of thee. 
 
 And teach it all tlie harmony 
 
 In which thou canst, and only thou, 
 
 Make the delighted spirit glow. 
 
 Till joy denies itself again, 
 
 And, too intense, is turned to pain ; 
 
 For by, permission and command 
 
 Of thine own Prince Ferdinand, 
 
 Poor Ariel sends this silent token 
 
 Of more than ever can be spoken ; 
 
 Your guardian spirit, Ariel, who, 
 
 From life to life, must still pursue 
 
 Your happiness ;— for thus alone 
 
 Can Ariel ever find his own. 
 
 From Prospero's enchanted cell, 
 
 As the mighty verses tell. 
 
 To the throne of Naples, lie 
 
 Lit you o'er the trackless sea. 
 
 Flitting on, your prow before, 
 
 Like a living meteor. 
 
 When you die, the silent Moon, 
 
 In her interlunar swoon, 
 
 Is not sadder in her cell 
 
 Than deserted Ariel. 
 
 When you live again on earth, 
 
 Like an unseen star of birth, 
 
 Ariel guides you o'er the sea 
 
 Of life from your nativity. 
 
 Many changes have been run. 
 
 Since Ferdinand and you begun 
 
 Your course of love, and Ariel still 
 
 Has tracked your steps, and served 
 
 3'^our will ; 
 Now, in humbler, happier lot, 
 This is all remembei'ed not ; 
 And now, alas ! the jjoor sprite is 
 Imprisoned, for some fault of his. 
 In a body like a grave ; — 
 From you lie only dares to crave. 
 For his service and his sorrow, 
 A smile to-day, a song to-morrow. 
 
 The artist who this idol wrought, 
 To echo all harmonious thought. 
 Felled a tree, while on the steep 
 The woods were in their winter sleep, 
 Rocked in that repose divine 
 On tiie wind-swept Apennine ; 
 And dreaming, some of Autumn past. 
 And some of Spring approaching fast, 
 And some of April buds and showers, 
 And some of songs in July bowers. 
 And all of love ; and so this tree, — 
 Oh that such our death may be ! — 
 Died in sleep, and felt no pain. 
 To live in happier form again : 
 From which, beneath Heaven's fairest 
 
 star, 
 The artist wrought this loved Guitar, 
 And taught it justly to reply. 
 To all who question skilfully, 
 In language gentle as thine own ; 
 Whispering in enamored tone 
 Sweet oracles of woods and dells, 
 And summer winds in sylvan cells ; 
 For it had learnt all harmonies 
 Of the plains and of the skies. 
 Of the forests and the mountains. 
 And the many-voiced fountains ; 
 The clearest echoes of the hills, 
 
SHELLEY 
 
 3^9 
 
 The softest notes of falling rills, 
 The melodies of birds and bees, 
 Tlie murmuring of summer seas. 
 And pattering i-ain, and breathing dew 
 And airs of evening ; and it knew 
 Tliat seldom-heard mysterious sound, 
 Which, driven on its diurnal round, 
 As it floats tlu-ough boundless day. 
 Our world enkindles on its way — 
 All this it knows, but will not tell 
 To those who cannot question well 
 The spirit that inhabits it ; 
 It talks according to tlie wit 
 Of its companions ; and no more 
 Is heard than has been felt before, 
 By those who tempt it to betray 
 These secrets of an elder day : 
 But sweetly as its answers will 
 Flatter hands of jierfect skill, 
 It keeps its highest, holiest tone 
 For our beloved Jane alone. 
 
 1822. 1832-1833. 
 
 LINES : "WHEN THE LAMP IS 
 SHATTERED " 
 
 When the lamp is shattered 
 The light in the dust lies dead — 
 
 When the cloud is scattered 
 The rainbow's glory is shed. 
 
 When the lute is broken. 
 Sweet tones are remembered not ; 
 
 When the lips have spoken, 
 Loved accents are soon forgot. 
 
 As music and splendor 
 Survive not the lamp and the lute, 
 
 The heart's echoes render 
 No song when the spirit is mute : — 
 
 No song but sad dirges. 
 Like the wind throvigh a ruined cell. 
 
 Or tiie mournful surges 
 That ring the dead seaman's knell. 
 
 24 
 
 When hearts have once mingled 
 Love first leaves the well-built nest. 
 
 The weak one is singled 
 To endure what it once possessed. 
 
 O Love ! who bewailest 
 The frailty of all things here. 
 
 Why choose you the frailest 
 For your cradle, your home, and your 
 bier ? 
 
 Its passions will rock thee 
 As the storms rock the ravens on high : 
 
 Bright reason will mock thee, 
 Like the sun from a wintry sky. 
 
 From thy nest every rafter 
 Will rot, and thine eagle home 
 
 Leave tiiee naked to laughter, 
 When leaves fall and cold winds come. 
 1822. 1824. 
 
 SONG FROM CHARLES THE FIRST 
 
 A WIDOW bird sate moui'ning for her 
 love 
 
 Upon a wintry bough ; 
 The frozen wind crept on above. 
 
 The freezing stream below. 
 
 There was no leaf upon the forest bare. 
 No flower upon the ground, 
 
 And little motion in the air 
 Except the mill-wheel's sound. 
 
 1822. 1824. 
 
 A DIRGE 
 
 Rough wind, that meanest loud 
 
 Grief too sad for song ; 
 Wild wind, when sullen cloud 
 
 Knells all the night long ; 
 Sad storm, whose tears are vain. 
 Bare woods, whose branches strain, 
 Deep caves and dreary main, 
 
 Wail, for the world's wrong ! 
 
 1822. 1824. 
 
 > 
 
KEATS 
 
 LIST OF REFERENCES 
 
 * * Complete Works, edited by H. Buxton Forman, 4 volumes (the 
 standard edition). Complete Poetical Works, together with the Letters, 
 Cambridge edition, 1 volume. Poetical Works, Globe edition, 1 volume. 
 Aldine Poets, 1 volume. Golden Treasury Series (edited by Palgrave), 
 1 volume. 
 
 Biography 
 
 * MiLNEs (R. M.) (Lord Houghton), Life, Letters and Literary Remains, 
 1st edition, 1848 ; 2nd, revised, edition, 1867. * Colvix (Sidney), Keats 
 (English Men of Letters Series), 1887. * Rossetti (W. M.), Keats (Great 
 Writers Series), 1887. Gothein (M.), John Keats' Leben und Werke, 
 1897. 
 
 Remfniscences and Early Criticism 
 
 Hunt (Leigh), Lord Byron and some of his Contemporaries. Hunt 
 (Leigh), Autobiography. Hunt (Leigh), Review of La Belle Dame sans 
 Merci, in The Indicator, May 10, 1890 ; Review of the Poems of 1820, in 
 The Indicator of August 2 and 9, 1820. (Given in Forman's edition of 
 Keats, Vol. II). Hunt (Leigh), Imagination and Fancy, 1844. VGifford 
 (William), Review of Endymion, in the Quarterly Review, No. 37, 1818. 
 Jeffrey (Lord Francis), Edinburgh Review, No. 67, Art. 10, August, 
 1820 : Keats' Poetry. Mitford (M. L.), Recollections of a Literary Life. 
 Clarke (Charles and Mary Cowden), Recollections of Writers. De 
 QuiNCEY, Works, Masson's edition. Vol. XL Haydon (B. R.), Correspon- 
 dence and Table-Talk. — See also Medwin's Life of Shelley, Shelley Memo- 
 rials by Lady Shelley, Taylor's Life of B. R. Haydon, and Medwin's 
 Conversations of Lord Byron. 
 
 Later Criticism 
 
 * Arnold (M.), Essays, Vol. II. Dilke (C. W.), The Papers of a Critic. 
 DowDEN (Edward), Studies in Literature: Transcendental Movement and 
 Literature. Gosse (E.), Critical Kit-kats. * Lang (Andi^ew), Letters on 
 
 37° 
 
 I 
 
KEATS 371 
 
 Literature. * Lowell, Prose Works, Vol. I : Keats. Mabie (H. W.), 
 Essays in Literary Interpretation : John Keats, Poet and Man. Masson 
 (David), Wordsworth, Shelley, Keats, and Other Essays. Owex (F. M.), 
 Keats, a study. Phillips (S.), Essays from the Times, Vol. I. Robert- 
 son (J. M.), New Essays Towards a Critical Method. Kossetti (W. M.), 
 Lives of Famous Poets. Shelley (Henry C), Keats and his Circle. 
 
 * Swinburne (A. C), Miscellanies. Texte (Joseph), Etudes de Littera- 
 ture europeenne : Keats et le Neo-Hellenisme dans la Poesie anglaise. 
 
 * WooDBERRY (G. E.), Studics in Letters and Life. 
 
 Brooks (S. W.), English Poets. Caine (T. Hall), Cobwebs of Criti- 
 cism. Carr (J. C.), Essays on Art. Courthope (W. G.), Liberal Move- 
 ment in English Literature. Dawson (W. J.), Makers of Modern Eng- 
 lish. De Vere (A.), Essays, chiefly on Poetry. Devey (J.), Comparative 
 Estimate of Modern English Poets. Dixon (W. M.), English Poetry. 
 Hallard (J. H.), Gallica : Poetry of Keats. Hudson (W. H.), Studies in 
 Interpretation : Keats, Clough, Arnold. Mixto (William), The Georgian 
 Era. Nencioni (E.), Letteratura inglese (on Colvin's Biography). Noel 
 (R.), Essays on Poetry and Poets. Sharp (R. F.), Architects of English 
 Literature. Swanwick (A.), Poets the Interpreters of Their Age. Tuc- 
 KERMAN (H. T.), Thoughts on the Poets. Willis (N. P.), Pencillings by 
 the Way. 
 
 Tributes in Verse 
 
 * * Shelley, Adonais. * Shelley, Fragment on Keats' Epitaph. Hunt 
 (Leigli) Foliage, or Poems Original and Translated : To John Keats ; On 
 Receiving a Crown of Ivy from the Same ; On the Same ; * To the Grass- 
 hopper and the Cricket. (Four Sonnets to Keats. Given also in For- 
 man's edition of Keats, Vol. I). * Rossetti, Five English Poets : John 
 Keats. * Gilder (R. W.), Poems. Longfellow, Keats, a Sonnet. 
 Lowell, Poems : Sonnet to the Spirit of Keats. Moore (G. L.), Keats, a 
 Sonnet. Tabb (John B.), Keats, a Sonnet. Payn (James), Stories from 
 Boccaccio, and other Poems : Sonnet to John Keats. Scott (W. B.), 
 Poems : Sonnet on the Inscrii^tion, Keats' Tombstone ; Ode to the Memory 
 of John Keats. * Spingarn (J. E.), in Columbia Verse 1892-97: Keats. 
 
 * Browning (E. B.), in Aurora Leigh, Book T. * Browning (R.), 
 Popularity, 
 
 Bibliography 
 
 Providence Public Library, Reading List; Monthly Bulletin, 1895, No. 
 11. Anderson (J. P.), Appendix to Rossetti's Life of Keats. 
 
KEATS 
 
 IMITATION OF SPENSEEi 
 
 Now Morning from her orient chamber 
 
 came, 
 And her iirst footsteps touch'd a verdant 
 
 hill ; 
 Crowning its lawny cresj^ with amber 
 
 flame, 
 Silv'ring the untainted gushes of its rill ; 
 Which, pure from mossy beds, did down 
 
 distill, 
 And after parting beds of simple flowers, 
 By many streams a little lake did fill. 
 Which round its marge reflected woven 
 
 bowers. 
 And, in its middle space, a sky that never 
 
 lowers. 
 
 There the king-fisher saw his plumage 
 bright 
 
 Vieing with fish of brilliant dye below ; 
 
 Whose silken fins, and golden scales 
 light 
 
 Cast upward, through the waves, a ruby 
 glow : 
 
 There saw the swan his neck of arched 
 snow, 
 
 And oar'd himself along with majesty ; 
 
 Sparkled his jetty eyes ; his feet did 
 show 
 
 Beneath the waves like Afric's ebony. 
 
 And on his back a fay reclined volup- 
 tuously. 
 
 Ah ! could I tell the wonders of an isle 
 That in that fairest lake had placed 
 
 been, 
 I could e'en Dido of her grief beguile ; 
 Or rob from aged Lear his bitter teen : 
 For sure so fair a place was never seen, 
 Of all that ever charm'd romantic eye : 
 
 ^ " It was the FaeHe Queene that awakened 
 his genius. In Spenser's fairy-land he was en- 
 elianted, breathed in a new world, and became 
 another being ; till, enamored of the stanza, he 
 attempted to imitate it, and succeeded. . . . 
 This, his earliest attempt, the ' Imitation of 
 Spenser', is in his first volume of poems." 
 (Quoted by Colvin from the Houghton MSS.) 
 
 It seem'd an emerald in the silver sheen 
 Of the bright waters ; or as when on 
 
 high. 
 Through clouds of fleecy white, lauglis 
 
 the cerulean sky. 
 
 And all around it dipp'd luxuriously 
 Slopings of verdure through the glossy 
 
 tide. 
 Which, as it were in gentle amitj', 
 Rippled delighted up the flowery side ; 
 As if to glean tlie ruddy tears, it tried, 
 Which fell profusely from tlie rose-tree 
 
 stem ! 
 Haply it was the workings of its pride, 
 In strife to throw upon tlie shore a gem 
 Outvieing all the buds in Flora's diadem. 
 1813 or IS 14. 1817.1 
 
 TO SOLITUDE 
 
 O SOLITUDE ! if I must with thee dwell. 
 Let it not be among the jumbled iieap 
 Of murky buildings ; climb with me the 
 
 steep, — 
 Nature's observatory — whence the dell. 
 Its flowery slopes, its river's crystal swell 
 May seem a span ; let me thy vigils keep 
 'Mongst boughs pavilion'd where the 
 
 deer's swift leap 
 Startles the wild bee from the fox-glove 
 
 ■ bell. 
 But though I'll gladly trace these scenes 
 
 with thee, 
 Yet the sweet converse of an innocent 
 
 mind, 
 Whose words are images of thoughts 
 
 refin'd. 
 Is my soul's jileasure ; and it sure must be 
 Almost the highest bliss of liuman-kind. 
 When to thy haunts two kindred spirits 
 
 flee. • ?1S15. May 5, 1816.2 
 
 ' The dates for Keats' poems are made up from 
 Sidney CiUvin's careful study of the order of 
 composition of the poems, in his Life of Keats, 
 and from H. Buxton Forman's excellent nfites in 
 his edition of Keats' Works. 
 
 - In Leigh Hunt's Examiner. Probably the 
 first Hues of Keats ever printed. 
 
 372 
 
KEATS 
 
 zn 
 
 HOW MANY BARDS GILD THE 
 LAPSES OF TIME 
 
 How many bards gild tlie lapses of time! 
 A few of them liave ever been the food 
 Of my delighted fancy, — I could brood 
 Over their beauties, earthly, or sublime : 
 And often, when I sit me down to rhyme, 
 These will in throngs before my mind 
 
 intrude : 
 But no confusion, no disturbance rude 
 Do they occasion : 'tis a pleasing chime. 
 So the unnumber'd sounds that evening 
 
 store ; 
 The songs of birds— the whisp'ring of the 
 
 leaves — 
 The voice of watei's — the great bell that 
 
 heaves 
 AVith solemn sound, — and thousand 
 
 others more, 
 That distance of recognizance bereaves, 
 Make pleasing music, and not wild vip- 
 
 roar. ?1S16. 1817. 
 
 KEEN, FITFUL GUSTS ARE WHIS- 
 PERING HERE AND THERE 
 
 Keen, fitful gusts are whispering here 
 
 and there 
 Among the bushes half leafless, and dry; 
 The stars look very cold about the sky. 
 And I have many miles on foot to fare. 
 Yet feel I little of the cool bleak air. 
 Or of the dead leaves rustling drearily, 
 Or of those silver lamps that burn on 
 
 high. 
 Or of the distance frona home's pleasant 
 
 lair : 
 For I am brimful of the friendliness 
 That in a little cottage I have found ; 
 Of fair-hair'd Milton's eloojient distress, 
 And all his love for gentle Lycid drown 'd; 
 Of lovely Laura in her light green dress, 
 And faithful Petrarch gloriously 
 
 crown'd. 91816. 1817. 
 
 TO ONE WHO HAS BEEN LONG IN 
 CITY PENT 
 
 To one vvlio has been long in citv pent 
 'Tis very sweet to look into the fair 
 And open face of heaven, — to breathe a 
 
 prayer 
 Full in the smile of the blue firmament. 
 Who is more happj, when, with lie;irt"s 
 
 content. 
 Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair 
 Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair 
 
 And gentle tale of love and languishment? 
 Returning home at evening, with an ear 
 Catching the notes of Philomel, — an eye 
 Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright 
 
 career. 
 He mourns that day so soon has glided 
 
 by: 
 E'en like the passage of an angel's tear 
 That falls through the clear etlier silently. 
 June, 1S16. 1817. 
 
 ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAP- 
 MAN'S HOMER 
 
 Much have I travell'd in the realms of 
 
 gold. 
 And many gqodly states and kingdoms 
 
 seen ; 
 Round many western islands have I 
 
 been 
 Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. 
 Oft of one wide expanse had I been told 
 That deep-browed Homer ruled as his 
 
 demesne ; 
 Yet did I never bi-eathe its pure serene 
 Till I heard Chapman speak out loud 
 
 and bold : 
 Then felt I like some watcher of the 
 
 skies 
 When a new planet swims into his ken ; 
 Or like stout Cortez when with eagle 
 
 eyes 
 He star'il at the Pacific — and all his men 
 Look'd at eacli other with a wild sur- 
 mise — 
 Silent, upon a peak in Darien. 
 
 ISIO. 1817. 
 
 GREAT SPIRITS NOW ON EARTH 
 ARE SOJOURNING 
 
 Great spirits now on earth are sojourn- 
 ing ; 
 
 He of the cloud, tlie cataract, the lake. 
 
 Who on Helvellyn's summit, wide 
 awake. 
 
 Catches his freshness from Archangel's 
 wing ; 
 
 He of tlie^-ose, the violet, the spring. 
 
 The social smile, the chain for Freedom's 
 sake : 
 
 And lo ! — whose steadfastness would 
 never take 
 
 A meaner sound than Raphael's whis- 
 pering. 
 
 And other spirits there are standing 
 apart 
 
 Upon the forehead of the age to come ; 
 
374 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 These, these will give the world another 
 
 heart 
 And other pulses. Hear ye not the hum 
 Of mighty workings in the human mart ? 
 Listen awhile ye nations, and be dumb. 
 November, 1S16. 1817. 
 
 ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND 
 CRICKET 
 
 The poetry of earth is never dead : 
 When all the birds are faint with the 
 
 hot sun , 
 And hide in cooling trees, a voice will 
 
 run 
 From hedge to hedge about the new- 
 mown mead ; 
 That is the Grasshopper's — he takes the 
 
 lead 
 In summer luxuiy, — he has never done 
 With his deliglits ; for when tired out 
 
 with fun 
 He rests at ease beneath some jjleasant 
 
 weed. 
 The poetry of earth is ceasing n<^ver : 
 On a lone winter evening, wlien tlie 
 
 frost 
 Has wrought a silence, from the stove 
 
 there shrills 
 The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing 
 
 ever, 
 And seems to one in drowsiness half 
 
 lost. 
 The Grasshopper's among some grassy 
 
 hills. December 30, 1816. 1817. 
 
 SLEEP AND POETRY 
 
 " As I lay in my bed slepe full unmete 
 " Was unto me, but why that I ne might 
 " Rest I ne wist, for there n"as erthly wight 
 " [As I suppose] had more of hertis ese 
 " Than I, for I n'ad sicknesse nor disese." 
 
 Chaucer. 
 
 What is more gentle than a wind in 
 
 summer ? 
 What is more soothing than the pretty 
 
 hummer 
 That stays one moment in an open 
 
 flower, 
 And buzzes cheerily from bower to 
 
 bower ? 
 What is more tranquil than a musk- 
 rose blowing 
 In a green island, far from all men's 
 
 knowing ? 
 More healthful than the leafiness of 
 
 dales ? 
 
 More secret than a nest of nightingales ? 
 
 More serene than Cordelia's counte- 
 nance ? 
 
 More full of visions than a high ro- 
 mance ? 
 
 What, but thee. Sleep? Soft closer of 
 our eyes ! 
 
 Low nuirmurer of tender lullabies ! 
 
 Light hoverer around our happy pil- 
 lows ! 
 
 Wreather of poppy buds, and weeping 
 willows ! 
 
 Silent entangler of a beauty's tresses 1 
 
 Most happy listener ! when the morning 
 blesses 
 
 Thee for enlivening all the cheerful 
 eyes 
 
 That glance so brightly at the new sun- 
 rise. 
 
 But \y\vAt is higher bevond thought than 
 thee ? 
 
 Fresher than berries of a mountain tree ? 
 
 More strange, more beautiful, more 
 smooth, more regal. 
 
 Than wings of swans, than doves, than 
 dim-seen eagle ? 
 
 What is it? And to what shall I com- 
 pare it ? 
 
 It has a glory, and nought else can 
 share it : 
 
 The thought thereof is awful, sweet, and 
 holy. 
 
 Chasing away all worldliness and folly ; 
 
 Coming sometimes like fearful claps of 
 thunder, 
 
 Or tlie low rumblings earth's regions 
 under ; 
 
 And sometimes like a gentle whispering 
 
 Of all the secrets of some wondrous 
 thing . 
 
 That breathes about us in the vacant 
 air : 
 
 So that we look around with prying 
 stare, 
 
 Perhaps to see shapes of light, aerial 
 limning. 
 
 And catch soft floatings fi-om a faint- 
 heard hymning ; 
 
 To see the laurel wreath, on high sus- 
 pended. 
 
 That is to crown our name when life is 
 ended. 
 
 Sometimes it gives a glory to the voice. 
 And from the heart up-springs, rejoice 1 
 
 rejoice ! 
 Sounds which will reach the Framer of 
 
 all things. 
 And die away in ardent mutterings. 
 
KEATS 
 
 37: 
 
 No one who once the glorious sun has 
 
 seen 
 And all the clouds, and felt his bosom 
 
 clean 
 For his great Maker's presence, but must 
 
 know 
 What 'tis I mean, and feel his being 
 
 glow : 
 Tlierefore no insult will I give his spirit. 
 By telling what he sees from native 
 
 merit. 
 
 O Poesy ! for thee I hold my pen 
 
 That am not yet a glorious denizen 
 
 Of thy wide heaven — Should I rather 
 
 kneel 
 Upon some mountain-top until I feel 
 A glowing splendor round about me 
 
 hung. 
 And eclio back the voice of thine own 
 
 tongue ? 
 O Poesy ! for thee I grasp my ])en 
 That am not yet a glorious denizen 
 Of thy wide heaven ; yet, to my ardent 
 
 \n-dyei\ 
 Yield from thy sanctuary some clear air, 
 Smoothed for intoxication by the breatli 
 Of flowering baj^s, that I may die a 
 
 death 
 Of luxury, and my young spirit follow 
 The morning sun-beams to the great 
 
 Apollo 
 Like a fresh sacrifice ; or if T axn bear 
 The o'erwlielming sweets, 'twill bring 
 
 me to the fair 
 Visions of all places : a bowery nook 
 Will be elysium — an eternal l)ook 
 Whence I may copy many a lovely saying 
 About the leaves, and flowers — about 
 
 the playing 
 Of njMuphs in woods, and fountains ; and 
 
 the shade 
 Keeping a silence round a sleeping 
 
 maid 
 And many a verse from so strange in- 
 fluence 
 That we must ever wonder how, and 
 
 whence 
 It came. Also imaginings will hover 
 Round my fireside, and haply there dis- 
 cover 
 Vistas of solemn beauty, wliere I'd 
 
 wander 
 In happy silence, like the clear meander 
 Tlirough its lone vales ; and where I 
 
 found a spot 
 Of awfuller sliade, or an enchanted grot, 
 Or a green hill o'erspi'ead with chequered 
 
 dress 
 
 Of flowers, and fearful from its love- 
 liness, 
 
 Write on my tablets all that was per- 
 mitted , 
 
 All tliat was for our human senses fitted. 
 
 Tlien the events of this wide world I'd 
 seize 
 
 Like a strong giant, and my spirit teaze 
 
 Till at its slioulders it should proudly see 
 
 Wings to find out an immortality. 
 
 Stop and consider ! life is but a day : 
 A fragile dew-drop on its perilous way 
 From a tree's summit ; a poor Indian's 
 
 sleep 
 While his boat hastens to the monstrous 
 
 steep 
 Of Montmorenci. Why so sad a moan ? 
 Life is tlie rose's hope while yet unblown; 
 Tiie reading of an ever-changing tale ; 
 The light uplifting of a maiden's veil ; 
 A pigeon tumbling in clear summer an- ; 
 A laughing school-bo}', without grief or 
 
 care 
 Riding the springy brandies of an elm. 
 
 O for ten years, that I may overwhelm 
 Myself in poesy : so I may do tlie deed 
 That my own soul has to itself decreed. 
 Then I will pass tlie countries that I see 
 In long perspective, and continually 
 Taste their pure fountains. First the 
 
 realm I'll pass 
 Of Flora, and old Pan ; sleep in the grass, 
 Feed upon apples red, and strawberries, 
 And choose each pleasure that my fancy 
 
 sees ; 
 Catch tlie white-handed nymphs in 
 
 shady places. 
 To woo sweet kisses from averted 
 
 faces, — 
 Play with their fingers, touch their 
 
 shoulders white 
 Into a pretty shrinking with a bite 
 As hard as lips can make it : till agreed, 
 A lovely tale of human life we'll read. 
 And one will teach a tame dove how it 
 
 best 
 May fan the cool air gently o'er my rest ; 
 Another, bending o'er her nimble tread, 
 Will set a green robe floating round her 
 
 head. 
 And still will dance with ever varied 
 
 ease. 
 Smiling upon the flowers and the trees : 
 Another will entice me on, and on 
 Through almond blossoms and rich cin- 
 namon ; 
 Till in the bosom of a leafy world 
 
376 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 We rest in silence, like two gems up- 
 
 curl'd 
 In the recesses of a pearly shell. 
 
 And can I ever bid tliese joys farewell ? 
 Yes, I must pass them for a nobler life, 
 Where I may find tlie agonies, the strife 
 Of human hearts : for lo ! I see afar, 
 O'er-sailing the blue cragginess, a car 
 And steeds witli streamy manes — the 
 
 charioteer 
 Looks out ujjon the winds with glorious 
 
 fear : 
 And now the numerous tramplings 
 
 quiver lightly 
 Along a huge cloud's ridge ; and now 
 
 with spriglitly 
 Wheel downward come they into fresher 
 
 skies, 
 Tipt round with silver from the sun's 
 
 briglit eyes. 
 Still downward with capacious whirl 
 
 they glide ; 
 And now I see them on a green-hill's 
 
 side 
 In breezy rest among the nodding stalks. 
 The charioteer with wond'rous gesture 
 
 talks 
 To the trees and mountains ; and there 
 
 soon appear 
 Shapes of delight, of mystery, and fear, 
 Passing along before a dusky space 
 Made, by some mighty oaks : as they 
 
 would chase 
 Some ever-fleeting music on they sweep. 
 Lo ! how they murmur; laugh, and 
 
 smile, and weep : 
 Some with upholden hand and mouth 
 
 severe ; 
 Some with their faces muffled to the ear 
 Between their arms ; some, clear in 
 
 youthful bloom, 
 Go glad and smilingly athwart the 
 
 gloom ; 
 Some looking back, and some with up- 
 ward gaze ; 
 Yes, thousands in a thousand different 
 
 ways 
 Flit onward — now a lovely wreath of 
 
 girls 
 Dancing their sleek hair into tangled 
 
 curls ; 
 And now broad wings. Most awfully 
 
 intent 
 The driver of those steeds is forward 
 
 bent, 
 And seems to listen : O that I might 
 
 know [glow. 
 
 All that he writes with such a hurrying 
 
 The visions all are fled — the car is fled 
 Into the light of heaven, and in their 
 
 stead 
 A sense of real things comes doubly 
 
 strong, 
 And, like a muddy stream, would bear 
 
 along 
 My soul to nothingness : but I will strive 
 Against all doublings, and will keep 
 
 alive 
 The thought of that same cliariot, and 
 
 the .strange 
 Journey it went. 
 
 Is tliere so small a range 
 In the presentstrengthof manhood, that 
 
 the high 
 Imagination cannot freely fly 
 As she was wont of old ? j^repare her 
 
 steeds, 
 Paw up against the liglit,and do strange 
 
 deeds 
 Upon the clouds ? Has she not shewn us 
 
 all? 
 From the clear space of ether, to the 
 
 small 
 Breath of new buds unfolding ? From 
 
 tlie meaning 
 Of Jove's large eye-brow, to the tender 
 
 greening 
 Of April meadows ? Here her altar 
 
 shone, 
 E'en in this isle ; and wlio could paragon 
 The fervid choir that lifted up a noise 
 Of harmony, to where it aye will poise 
 Its mighty self of convoluting sound, 
 Huge as a planet, and like that roll 
 
 round, 
 Eternally around a dizzy void ? 
 Ay, in those days the Muses were nigh 
 
 cloy'd 
 With honors ; nor had any other care 
 Than to sing out and soothe their wavy 
 
 hair. 
 
 Could all this be forgotten ? Yes, a 
 
 scliism 
 Nurtured by foppery and barbarism. 
 Made great Apollo blush for this his 
 
 land. 
 Men were thought wise who could not 
 
 understand 
 His glories : with a puling infant's force 
 They sway'd about upon a rocking liorse. 
 And thouglit it Pegasus. Ah dismal 
 
 soul'd ! 
 The winds of heaven blew, tlie ocean 
 
 roU'd [bhie 
 
 Its gathering waves — ye felt it not. The 
 
KEATS 
 
 377 
 
 Bared its eternal bosom, and the dew 
 Of summer nights collected still to make 
 The inorning precious : beauty was 
 
 awake ! 
 Why were ye not awake? But ye were 
 
 dead 
 To things ye knew not of, — were closely 
 
 wed 
 To musty laws lined out with wretched 
 
 rule 
 And compass vile : so that ye taught a 
 
 school 
 Of dolts to smooth, inlay, and clip, and 
 
 fit, 
 Till, like the certain wands of Jacob's 
 
 wit, 
 Their verses tallied. Easy was tlie task : 
 A thousand handicraftsmen wore the 
 
 mask 
 Of Poesy. Ill-fated, impious race ! 
 That blasphemed the bright Lyrist to his 
 
 face. 
 And did not know it, — no. they went 
 
 about, 
 Holding a poor, decrepit standard out 
 Mark'd with most flimsy mottos, and in 
 
 large 
 The name of one Boileau ! 
 
 O ye whose charge 
 It is to hover round our pleasant hills ! 
 Whose congregated majesty so fills 
 My boundly reverence, that I cannot 
 
 trace 
 Your hallowed names, in this unholy 
 
 place. 
 So near those common folk ; did not 
 
 their shames 
 Aflfriglit you ? Did our old lamenting 
 
 Thames 
 Delight you ? Did ye never cluster 
 
 round 
 Delicious Avon, with a mournful sound, 
 And weep? Or did ye wholly bid adieu 
 To regions where no more the laurel 
 
 grew ? 
 Or did ye stay to give a welcoming 
 To some lone spirits who could proudly 
 
 sing 
 Their youth away, and die ? 'Twas even 
 
 so : 
 But let me think away those times of 
 
 woe : 
 Now "tis a fairer season ; ye have 
 
 breathed 
 Rich benedictions o'er us ; ye have 
 
 wreathed 
 Fresh garlands :' for sweet music has 
 
 been heard 
 
 In many places ; — some has been up- 
 
 stirrVi 
 From out its ciystal dwelling in a lake, 
 By a swan's ebon bill ; from a tliick 
 
 brake. 
 Nested and quiet in a valley mild. 
 Bubbles a pipe ; fine sounds are floating 
 
 wild 
 About the earth : iiappy areyeandglad. 
 
 These things are doubtless : yet in truth 
 
 we've had 
 Strange thunders from the potency of 
 
 song ; 
 Mingled indeed with what is sweet and 
 
 strong. 
 From majesty : but in clear truth tlie 
 
 themes 
 Are ugly clubs, the Poets Polyphemes 
 Disturbing the grand sea. A drainless 
 
 shower 
 Of light is poesy ; 'tis the supreme of 
 
 jjower ; 
 'Tis might half slumb'ring on its own 
 
 right arm. 
 The very archings of her eye-lids charm 
 A thousand willing agents to obe.y. 
 And still she governs with the mildest 
 
 sway : 
 But strengtli alone though of the Muses 
 
 burn 
 Is like a fallen angel : trees uptorn, 
 Darkness, and worms, and shrouds, and 
 
 sepulchres 
 Delight it ; for it feeds upon the burrs 
 And thorns of life ; forgetting the great 
 
 end 
 Of poesy, that it should be a friend 
 To soothe the cares, and lift the thoughts 
 
 of man. 
 
 Yet I rejoice : a myrtle fairer than 
 E'er grew in Paphos, from the bitter 
 
 weeds 
 Lifts its sweet head into the air, and feeds 
 A silent space with ever sprouting green. 
 All tenderest birds there find a pleasant 
 
 screen, 
 Creep through the shade with jaunty 
 
 fluttering. 
 Nibble the little cupped flowers and sing. 
 Then let us clear away the choking 
 
 thorns 
 From round its gentle stem ; let the 
 
 young fawns, 
 Yeaned in after times, when we are 
 
 flown. 
 Find a fresh sward beneath it, overgrown 
 With simple flowers : let there nothing be 
 
378 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 More boisterous than a lover's bended 
 
 knee ; 
 Nought more ungentle than the placid 
 
 look 
 Of one who leans upon a closed book ; 
 Nought more untranquil than the grassy 
 
 slopes 
 Between two hills. All hail delightful 
 
 hopes ! 
 As she was wont, th' imagination 
 Into most lovely labyrinths will be gone, 
 And tliey shall be accounted poet kings 
 Who simply tell the most heart-easing 
 
 things. 
 O may these joys be ripe before I die. 
 
 Will not some say that I presumptuously 
 Have spoken ? tliat from liastening dis- 
 grace 
 'Twere better far to hide my foolish 
 
 face ? 
 That whining boyliood should with re- 
 verence bow 
 Ere the dread thunderbolt could reach ? 
 
 How ! 
 If I do hide myself, it sure shall be 
 In the very fane, the light of Poesy : 
 If I do fall, at least I will l)e laid 
 Beneath the silence of a poplar shade : 
 And over me the grass sliall be smooth 
 
 shaven : 
 And there shall be a kind memorial 
 
 graven. 
 But off Despondence ! miserable bane ! 
 Tliey should not know thee, who athirst 
 
 to gain 
 A noble end, are thirst}^ every hour. 
 What though I am not wealthy in the 
 
 dower 
 Of spanning wisdom ; though I do not 
 
 know 
 The shiftings of the mighty winds that 
 
 blow 
 Hither and thither all tlie changing 
 
 thoughts 
 Of man : though no great minist'ring 
 
 reason sorts 
 Out the dark mj^steries of human souls 
 To clear conceiving : j^et there ever rolls 
 A vast idea before me, and I glean 
 Therefrom my liberty ; thence too I've 
 
 seen 
 The end and aim of Poesy. 'Tis clear 
 As anything most true ; as that the year 
 Is made of the four sensons — manifest 
 As a large cross, some old cathedral's 
 
 crest. 
 Lifted to the white clouds. Therefore 
 
 should I 
 
 Be but the essence of deformity, 
 
 A coward, did my very eye- lids wink 
 
 At speaking out what I have dared to 
 
 think. 
 Ah ! rather let me like a madman run 
 Over some precipice : let the hot sun 
 Melt my Dedalian wings, and drive me 
 
 down 
 Convuls'd and headlong ! Stay ! an in- 
 ward fro\vn 
 Of conscience bids me be more calm 
 
 awhile. 
 An ocean dim, sprinkled with many an 
 
 isle, 
 Spreads awfully before me. How much 
 
 toil ! 
 How many dajs ! what desperate tur- 
 moil ! 
 Ere I can have explored its widenesses. 
 Ah, what a task ! upon my liended knees, 
 I could unsay those — no, impossible ! 
 Impossible ! 
 
 For sweet relief I'll dwell 
 On humbler thoughts, and let tliis 
 
 strange assay 
 Begun in gentleness die so away. 
 E'en now all tumult from my bosom 
 
 fades : 
 I turn full hearted to the friendly aids 
 That smooth the patii of honor ; brother- 
 hood. 
 And friendliness tlie nurse of mutual 
 
 good. 
 The hearty grasp that sends a pleasant 
 
 sonnet 
 Into the brain ere one can think upon it ; 
 The silence when some rhymes are 
 
 coming out ; 
 And when they're come, the very 
 
 pleasant rout : 
 The message certain to be done to- 
 morrow. 
 'Tis perhaps as well that it should be to 
 
 borrow 
 Some precious book from out its snug 
 
 retreat. 
 To cluster round it when we next shall 
 
 meet. 
 Scarce can I scribble on ; for lovely tiirs 
 Are fluttering round the room like doves 
 
 in pairs ; 
 Many delights of tliat glad day recalling. 
 When first my senses caught their tender 
 
 falling. 
 And witli these airs come forms of 
 
 elegance 
 Stooping their shoulders o'er a horse's 
 
 Ijrance, 
 
KEATS 
 
 379 
 
 Careless, and grand — fingers soft and 
 
 round 
 Parting luxuriant curls ; — and the swift 
 
 bound 
 Of Bacchus from his chariot, when his 
 
 eye 
 Made Ariadne's cheek look blushingly. 
 Thus I remember all the pleasant flow 
 Of words at opening a portfolio. 
 
 Things such as these are ever harbingers 
 To trains of peaceful images : the stirs 
 Of a swan's neck unseen among tlie 
 
 rushes : 
 A linnet starting all about the bushes : 
 A butterfly, with golden wings broad 
 
 parted 
 Nestling a rose, convuls'd as though it 
 
 smarted 
 With over pleasure — many, many more, 
 Miglit I indulge at large in all my store 
 Of luxuries : yet I must not forget 
 Sleep, quiet, with his poppy coronet : 
 For what there may be worthy in these 
 
 rhymes 
 I partly owe to him : and thus, the 
 
 chimes 
 Of friendly voices had just given place 
 To as sweet a silence, wlien I 'gan retrace 
 The pleasant day, upon a couch at ease. 
 It was a poet's house ^ wlio keeps the keys 
 Of pleasure's temple. Round about were 
 
 hung 
 The glorious features of the bards wdio 
 
 sung 
 In other ages— cold and sacred busts 
 Smiled at each other. Happy he who 
 
 trusts 
 To clear Futurity his darling fame ! 
 Then there were fauns and satyrs taking 
 
 aim 
 At swelling apples with a frisky leap 
 And reaching fingers, 'mid a luscious 
 
 heap 
 Of vine leaves. Then there rose to view 
 
 a fane 
 Of liny marble, and thereto a train 
 Of nymphs approaching fairly o'er the 
 
 swai'd : 
 One, loveliest, holding her white hand 
 
 toward 
 The dazzling sun-rise : two sisters sweet 
 Bending their graceful figures till they 
 
 meet 
 Over the trippings of a little child : 
 And some are hearing, eagerly, the wild 
 
 ' Lei^h Hunt's. The following lines are a de- 
 scription of the room in which the poem was 
 written, with its decorations. 
 
 Thrilling liquidity of dewy piping. 
 
 See, in another picture, nymphs are 
 wiping 
 
 Cherishingly Diana's timorous limbs ; — 
 
 A fold of lawny mantle dabbling swims 
 
 At the bath's edge, and keeps a gentle 
 motion 
 
 With the subsiding crystal : as when 
 ocean 
 
 Heaves calmly its broad swelling smooth- 
 ness o'er 
 
 Its rocky marge, and balances once 
 more 
 
 The patient weeds ; that now unshent 
 by foam 
 
 Feel all about their undulating home. 
 
 Sappho's meek head was there half 
 
 smiling down 
 At nothing ; just as though the earnest 
 
 frown 
 Of over thinking had that nioTuent gone 
 From oflf her brow, and left her all alone. 
 
 Great Alfred's too, with anxious, pitj'- 
 
 ing eyes, 
 As if he always listened to the sighs 
 Of the goaded world ; and Kosciusko's 
 
 w^orn 
 By horrid suflfrance — mightily forlorn. 
 
 Peti'arch, outstepping from the sliadj^ 
 
 green , 
 Starts at the sight of Laura ; nor can 
 
 ^;\'ean 
 His eyes from her sweet face. Most 
 
 liappy they ! 
 For over them was seen a free display 
 Of out-spread wings, and from between 
 
 them shone 
 The face of Poesy : from off her throne 
 She overlook'd things that I scarce could 
 
 tell. 
 The very sense of where I was might 
 
 well 
 Keep Sleep aloof : but more than that 
 
 there came 
 Thought after thought to nourish up 
 
 the flame 
 Within my breast ; so that the morning 
 
 light 
 Surprised me even from a sleepless night; 
 And up I rose refresh'd, and glad, and 
 
 .2;ay, 
 Resolving to begin that very, day 
 These lines ; and howsoeve-r they be 
 
 done, 
 I leave them as a father does his son. 
 ? ism. 1817. 
 
38o 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 AFTER DARK VAPORS HAVE 
 OPPRESSED OUR PLAINS 
 
 After dark vapors have oppressed our 
 plains 
 
 For a long dreary season, comes a day 
 
 Born of tlie gentle South, and clears 
 away 
 
 From the sick heavens all unseemly 
 stains. [pains. 
 
 The anxious month, relieved from its 
 
 Takes as a long-lost right the feel of 
 May. 
 
 The eyelids with the passing coolness 
 play. 
 
 Like rose leaves with the drip of sum- 
 mer rains. 
 
 And calmest thoughts come round us — 
 as, of leaves 
 
 Budding, — fruit ripening in stillness, — 
 autumn suns 
 
 Smiling at eve upon the quiet sheaves, — 
 
 Sweet Sappho's cheek, — a sleeping in- 
 fant's breath, — 
 
 The gradual sand that through an hour- 
 glass runs. — 
 
 A woodland rivulet, a Poet's deatli. 
 January, 1S17. February 33, 1817. 
 
 TO LEIGH HUNT, ESQ. 
 
 [Dedication of the volume of 1817] 
 
 GLf)RY and loveliness have passed away ; 
 For if we wander out in early morn. 
 No wreatlied incense do we see up- 
 borne 
 Into the east, to meet the smiling da}' : 
 No crowd of nymphs soft voic'd and 
 
 young, and gay. 
 In woven baskets bringing ears of 
 
 corn. 
 Roses, and pinks, and violets, to adorn 
 Tiie slirine of Flora in lier early May. 
 But there are left deliglits as high as 
 
 these, 
 And I shall ever bless my destinj'^. 
 That in a time, when under pleasant 
 
 trees 
 Pan is no longer sought, I feel a free 
 A leafy luxury, seeing I could please 
 With these poor offerings, a man like 
 thee. 1S17. 1817. 
 
 ON SEEING THE ELGIN MARBLES 
 
 My spirit is too weak — mortality 
 Weiglis heavily on me like unwilling 
 sleep, 
 
 And each imagin'd pinnacle and steep 
 Of godlike liardship tells me I must die 
 Like a sick Eagle looking at the sky. 
 Yet 'tis a gentle luxury to weep 
 That I have not the cloudy winds to 
 
 keep. 
 Fresh for the opening of the morning's 
 
 eye. 
 Such dim-conceived glories of the brain 
 Bring round the heart an vmdescri- 
 
 bable feud ; 
 So do these wonders a most dizzy pain. 
 That mingles Grecian grandeur with 
 
 tlie rude 
 Wasting of old Time — with a billowy 
 
 main — 
 A sun — a shadow of a magnitude. 
 
 1817. March 9, 1817. 
 
 ON A PICTURE OF LEANDER 
 
 Come hither all sweet maidens soberl}^ 
 Down-looking aye, and with a chastened 
 
 light 
 Hid in the fringes of your e3'elids white. 
 And meekly let your fair hands joined 
 
 be. 
 As if so gentle tliat ye could not see. 
 Untouched', a victim of your beauty 
 
 bright. 
 Sinking awny to his young spirit's night, 
 Sinking bewildered 'mid the dreary sea : 
 'Tis young Leander toiling to his death ; 
 Nigh swooning, he doth purse his weary 
 
 lips 
 For Hero's cheek, and smiles against 
 
 her smile. 
 O horrid dream ! see how his body dips 
 Dead-heavy ; arms and shoulders gleam 
 
 awhile : 
 He's gone ; up bubbles all his amorous 
 
 breath ! ? . . . . 1829. 
 
 ON THE SEA 
 
 It keeps eternal whisperings around 
 
 Desolate shores, and with its mighty 
 swell 
 
 Gluts twice ten thousand caverns, till 
 the spell 
 
 Of Hecate leaves them their old shad- 
 owy sound. 
 
 Often 'tis in such gentle temper found. 
 
 That scarcely will tlie very smallest 
 shell 
 
 Be moved for days from whence it some- 
 time fell, 
 
 When last the winds of heaven were un- 
 bound. 
 
KEATS 
 
 381 
 
 Oh ye 1 wlio have your eye-balls vexed 
 
 and tired. 
 Feast them upon the wideness of the 
 
 Sea ; 
 Oh ye ! whose ears are dinned with 
 
 uproar rude. 
 Or fed too much with cloying melody, — • 
 Sit ye near some old cavern's mouth, and 
 
 brood 
 Until ye start, as if the sea-nymphs 
 
 quired ! August, 1817. 1848. 
 
 WHEN I HAVE FEARS THAT I 
 MAY CEASE TO BE 
 
 When I liave fears that I may cease to be 
 Before my pen has glean'd my teeming 
 
 brain, 
 Before high piled books, in charact'iy. 
 Hold like rich garners the fuU-ripen'd 
 
 grain ; 
 When I behold, upon the night's starr'd 
 
 face. 
 Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, 
 And thiidi that I may iiever live to trace 
 Their shadows, with the magic hand of 
 
 chance ; 
 And when I feel, fair creature of an 
 
 hour ! 
 That I shall never look upon thee more, 
 Never liave relish in the faery power 
 Of unreflecting love ! — then on the 
 
 sliore 
 Of the \vi<le world I stand alone, and 
 
 think 
 Till Love and Fame to notliingness do 
 
 sink. 1S17. 1848. 
 
 FROM ENDYMION 
 BOOK I 
 
 A THING of beauty is a joy for ever : 
 Its loveliness increases ; it will never 
 Pass into nothingness ; but still will 
 
 keep 
 A bower quiet for us, and a sleep 
 Full of sweet dreams, and health, and 
 
 quiet breathing. 
 Therefore, on every morrow, are we 
 
 wreathing 
 A flovvery band to bind us to the earth. 
 Spite of despondence, of tlie inhuman 
 
 dearth 
 Of noble natures, of tlie gloomy days, 
 Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened 
 
 ways 
 
 Made for our searching : yes, in spite of 
 
 all. 
 Some shape of beauty moves away the 
 
 pall 
 From our dark spirits. Such the sun, 
 
 the moon. 
 Trees old and young, sprouting a shady 
 
 boon 
 For simple sheep ; and sucli are daffodils 
 With the gi-een world tliey live in ; and 
 
 clear rills 
 That for themselves a cooling covert 
 
 make 
 'Gainst the hot season ; the mid-forest 
 
 brake. 
 Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose 
 
 blooms : 
 And such too is the grandeur of the 
 
 dooms 
 We have imagined for the mighty dead ; 
 All lovely tales that we have heard or 
 
 read : 
 An endless fountain of immortal driidc , 
 Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink. 
 
 Nor do we merely feel these essences 
 For one siiort hour ; no, even as the trees 
 Tliat whisper round a temple become 
 
 soon 
 Dear as the temple's self, so does the 
 
 moon. 
 The passion poesy, glories infinite, 
 Haunt us till they become a cheering 
 
 light 
 Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast. 
 That, whether there be shine, or gloom 
 
 o'ercast. 
 They alway must be with us, or we die. 
 
 Therefore, 'tis with full happiness 
 
 that I 
 Will trace the story of Endymion. 
 The very music of the name has gone 
 Into my being, and each pleasant scene 
 Is growing fresh before me as tlie green 
 Of our own valleys : so I will begin 
 Now wliile I cannot hear the city's din ; 
 Nowwliile.the early budders are just 
 
 new. 
 And run in mazes of the j^oungest hue 
 About old forests; while the willow trails 
 Its delicate amber ; and the dairy pails 
 Bring home increase of milk. And, as 
 
 the year 
 Grows lush in juicy stalks, I'll smoothly 
 
 steer 
 My little boat, for many quiet hours. 
 With streams that deepen fresldy into 
 
 bovvers. 
 
 © 
 
 ^ -^ -= t^' ^^ 
 
 
 -A 
 
382 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Many and many a verse I hope to write, 
 Before the daisies, vermeil rimm'd and 
 
 white, 
 Hide in deep herbage ; and ere yet the 
 
 bees 
 Hum about globes of clover and sweet 
 
 peas, 
 I must be near the middle of my story. 
 O may no wintry season, bare and hoary. 
 See it lialf finished : but let Autumn 
 
 bold, 
 With universal tinge of sober gold. 
 Be all about me wlien I make an end. 
 And now at once, adventuresome, I send 
 My herald thought into a wilderness : 
 Tliere let its trumpet blow, and quickly 
 
 dress 
 My uncertain path with green, that I 
 
 may speed 
 Easily onward, thorough flowers and 
 
 weed. 
 
 HYIVm TO PAN 
 
 O THOU, whose mighty palace roof 
 
 doth hang 
 From jagged trunks, and overshadoweth 
 Eternal whispers, glooms, the birth, life, 
 
 deatli 
 Of unseen flowers in heavy peacefulness ; 
 Who lov'st to see the hamadryads dress 
 Their ruffled locks where meeting hazels 
 
 darken ; 
 And through whole solemn hours dost 
 
 sit, and hearken 
 The dreary melody of bedded reeds — 
 In desolate places, where dank moisture 
 
 breeds 
 The pipy hemlock to strange over- 
 growth ; 
 Bethinking thee, how melancholy loth 
 Thou wast to lose fair Syrinx — do tliou 
 
 now. 
 By thy love's milky brow ! 
 By all the trembling inazes that she ran, 
 Hear us, great Pan ! 
 
 O thou, for whose soul-soothing quiet, 
 turtles 
 
 Passion their voices cooingly 'mong 
 myrtles, 
 
 Wliat time thou wanderest at eventide 
 
 Through sunny meadows, that outskii't 
 the side 
 
 Of thine enmossed realms : O thou, to 
 whom 
 
 Broad leaved fig trees even now fore- 
 doom 
 
 Their ripen'd fruitage ; yellow girted 
 bees 
 
 Their golden honeycombs ; our village 
 leas 
 
 Their fairest-blos.som'd beans and pop- 
 pied corn ; 
 
 The chuckling linnet its five 3^oung un- 
 born, 
 
 To sing for thee ; low creeping straw- 
 berries 
 
 Their summer coolness ; pent up butter- 
 flies 
 
 Their freckled wings ; yea, the fresh 
 budding year 
 
 All its completions — be quickly near. 
 
 By every wind that nods tlie mountain 
 pine, 
 
 O forester divine ! 
 
 Thou, to whom every fawn and satyr 
 flies 
 For willing service ; whether to surprise 
 Tlie squatted hare while in half sleeping 
 
 fit ; 
 Or upward ragged precipices flit 
 To save poor lambkins from the eagle's 
 
 maw ; 
 Or by mysterious enticement draw 
 Bewildered shepherds to their path 
 
 again ; 
 Or to tread breathless round the frothy 
 
 main. 
 And gather up all fancifullest shells 
 For tliee to tumble into Naiads' cells. 
 And, being hidden, laugh at their out- 
 peeping ; 
 Or to delight thee with fantastic leap- 
 ing. 
 The while they pelt each other on the 
 
 crown 
 With silvery oak apples, and fir cones 
 
 brown — 
 By all the echoes that about thee ring, 
 Hear us, O satj r king ! 
 
 O Hearkener to the loud clapping 
 
 shears. 
 While ever and anon to his shorn peers 
 A I'am goes bleating : Winder of the 
 
 horn. 
 When snouted wild-boars routing tender 
 
 corn 
 Anger our huntsman : Breather round 
 
 our farms. 
 To keep off mildews, and all weather 
 
 liarms : 
 Strange ministrant of undescribed 
 
 sounds, 
 Tliat come a swooning over hollow 
 
 grounds. 
 And wither drearily on barren moors : 
 
KEATS 
 
 383 
 
 Dread opener of the mysterious doors 
 Leading to universal knowledge — see, 
 Great son of Dry ope, 
 The many that are come to pay their 
 
 vows 
 With leaves about their brows ! 
 
 Be still the unimaginable lodge 
 For solitary thinkings ; such as dodge 
 Conception to the very bourne of 
 
 heaven. 
 Tiien leave the naked brain : be still 
 
 the leaven. 
 That spreading in tliis dull and clodded 
 
 eartli 
 Gives it a toucli ethereal — a new birth : 
 Be still a symbol of immensity ; 
 A firmament reflected in a sea ; 
 An element filling the space between ; 
 An unknown — but no more : we humbly 
 
 screen 
 With uplift hands our foreheads, lowly 
 
 bending, 
 And giving out a shout most heaven- 
 rending, 
 Conjure thee to receive our humble 
 
 Paean, 
 Upon thy Mount Lycean ! 
 
 THE COMING OF DIAN 
 
 [Endyniion speaks, to his Sister Peona.] 
 
 " Tills river does not see the naked sky. 
 Till it begins to progress silverly 
 Around tlie western border of the wood, 
 Whence, from a certain spot, its winding 
 
 flood 
 Seems at the distance like a crescent 
 
 moon ; 
 And in that nook, the very pride of June, 
 Had I been used to pass my weary eves ; 
 There rather for the sun unwilling leaves 
 So dear a picture of his sovereign power. 
 And I could witness his most kingly liour. 
 When he doth lighten up the golden 
 
 reins. 
 And paces leisurely down amber plains 
 His snorting four. Now when his chariot 
 
 last 
 Its beams against the zodiac-lion cast, 
 Tliere blossom'd suddenly a magic bed 
 Of sacred ditamy. and poppies red : 
 At wliich I wondered greatly, knowing 
 
 well 
 Tiiat but one night had wrought this 
 
 flowery spell ; 
 And, sitting down close by, began to 
 
 muse 
 
 What it might mean. Perhaps, thought 
 
 I, Morpheus, 
 In passing here, his owlet pinions shook ; 
 Or, it may be, ere matron Night uptook 
 Her ebon urn, young Mercury, by stealth. 
 Had dipt his rod in it : such garland 
 
 wealth 
 Came not by common growth. Thus on 
 
 I thought. 
 Until my head was dizzy and distraught. 
 Moreover, through the dancing poppies 
 
 stole 
 A breeze, most softly lulling to my soul ; 
 And sliaping visions all about my sight 
 Of colors, wings, and bursts of spangly 
 
 light ; 
 The which became more strange, and 
 
 strange, and dim. 
 And then were gulf'd in a tumultuous 
 
 swim : 
 And then I fell asleep. Ah, can I tell 
 Tlie enchantment that afterwards befell ? 
 Yet it was but a dream : yet such a dream 
 That never tongue, although itoverteem 
 With mellow utterance, like a cavern 
 
 spring, 
 Could figure out and to conception bring 
 All I belield and felt. Methought I lay 
 Watching the zenith, where the milky 
 
 way 
 Among the stars in virgin splendor 
 
 jjours ; 
 And travelling my eye, until the doors 
 Of lieaven appeared to open for my flight, 
 I became loth and fearful to alight 
 From such high soaring by a downward 
 
 glance : 
 So kept me stedfast in that airy trance. 
 Spreading imaginary pinions wide. 
 When, presentlj^ the stars began to glide, 
 And faint away, before my eager view : 
 At which I sigh'd that I could not pursue. 
 And dropped my vision to the horizon's 
 
 verge ; [emerge 
 
 And lo ! from opening clouds, I saw 
 The loveliest moon, tliat ever silver'd o'er 
 A slieil for Neptune's goblet : she did 
 
 soar 
 So passionately briglit, my dazzled soul 
 Commingling with her argent spheres 
 
 did roll 
 Through clear and cloudy, even when 
 
 she went 
 At last into a dark and vapory tent — 
 Whereat, methought, tlie lidless-eyed 
 
 train 
 Of planets all were in the blue again. 
 To t;ommune with those orbs, once more 
 
 I rais'd 
 
384 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 My sight right upward : but it was quite 
 
 dazed 
 By a bright something, sailing down 
 
 apace. 
 Making me quickly veil my eyes and 
 
 face : 
 Again I look'd, and, O ye deities, 
 Who from Olympus watch our destinies ! 
 Whence that completed form of all com- 
 pleteness ? 
 Whence came that high perfection of all 
 
 sweetness ? 
 Speak, stubborn earth, and tell me 
 
 wliere, O wliere 
 Hast thou a symbol of her golden hair ? 
 Not oat-sheaves drooping in the western 
 
 sun ; [shvin 
 
 Not — thy soft hand, fair sister ! let me 
 Such foilying before thee — yet she had. 
 Indeed, locks bright enougli to make me 
 
 mad ; 
 And they were simply gordian'd up and 
 
 braided, 
 Leaving, in naked comeliness, unshaded. 
 Her pearl round ears, white neck, and 
 
 orbed brow ; 
 The which were blended in, I know not 
 
 how. 
 With such a paradise of lips and eyes. 
 Blush-tinted clieeks, lialf smiles, and 
 
 faintest sighs. 
 That, when I tliink thereon, my spirit 
 
 clings 
 And plays about its fancy, till the stings 
 Of human neighborhood envenom all. 
 Unto what awful ])ower shall I call ? 
 To what high fane ? — Ah ! see her hover- 
 ing feet, 
 More bluely vein'd, more soft, more 
 
 whitely sweet 
 Than tliose of sea-born Venus, when she 
 
 rose 
 From out her cradle shell. The wind 
 
 out-blows 
 Her scarf into a fluttering pavilion ; 
 'Tis blue, and ovei'-spangled with a mil- 
 lion 
 Of little eyes, as though thou wert to 
 
 shed, 
 Over the darkest, lushest blue-bell bed, 
 Handfuls of daisies." — " Endymion, how 
 
 strange ! 
 Dream within dream ! " — " She took an 
 
 airy range. 
 And then, towards me, like a very maid. 
 Came blusliing, waning, willing, and 
 
 afraid. 
 And press'd me by the hand : Ah ! 'twas 
 
 too much ; 
 
 Methought I fainted at the charmed 
 
 touch, 
 Yet held my recollection, even as one 
 Who dives three fathoms where the 
 
 waters run ' 
 
 Gurgling in beds of coral : for anon, 
 I felt upmounted in that region 
 Where falling stars dart their artillery 
 
 forth. 
 And eagles struggle with the buffeting 
 
 north 
 Tliat balances the heavy meteor-stone ; — 
 Felt too, I was not fearful, nor alone. 
 But lapp'd and luU'd along the danger- 
 ous sky. 
 Soon, as it seem'd, we left our journey- 
 ing high. 
 And straightway into frightful eddies 
 
 swoop'd ; 
 Such as aye muster where gray time has 
 
 scoop'd 
 Huge dens and caverns in a mountain's 
 
 side : 
 Their hollow sounds arous'd me, and I 
 
 sigh'd 
 To faint once more by looking on my 
 
 bliss — 
 I was distracted ; madly did I kiss 
 The wooing arms which held me, and 
 
 did give 
 My eyes at once to death : but 'twas to 
 
 live. 
 To take in draughts of life f 10m the gold 
 
 fount 
 Of kind and passionate looks ; to count, 
 
 and count 
 The moments, by some greedy help that 
 
 seem'd [deem'd 
 
 A second self, that each might be re- 
 AtuI plunder'd of its load of blessedness. 
 Ah, desperate mortal ! I ev'n dar'd to 
 
 press 
 Her very cheek against my crowned lip. 
 And, at that moment, felt my body dip 
 Into a warmer air : a moment more. 
 Our feet were soft in flowers. There 
 
 was store 
 Of nevvest joys upon that alp. Some- 
 times 
 A scent of violets, and blossoming limes, 
 Loiter'd around us ; then of honey cells, 
 Made delicate from all white-flower 
 
 bells ; 
 And once, above the edges of our nest. 
 An arch face peep'd, — an Oread as I 
 
 guess'd. 
 
 "Why did I dream that sleep o'er- 
 power'd me 
 
KEATS 
 
 385 
 
 In midst of all this heaven ? Why not 
 
 see. 
 Far off, tlie shadows of liis pinions dark. 
 And stare them from me ? But no, like 
 
 a spark 
 That needs must die, although its little 
 
 beam 
 Reflects upon a diamond, my sweet dream 
 Fell into nothing — into stupid sleep. 
 And so it was, until a gentle creep, 
 A careful moving caught my waking 
 
 ears, 
 And up I started : Ah ! my siglis, my 
 
 tears. 
 My clenched hands ; — for lo ! the poppies 
 
 hung [sung 
 
 Dew-dabbled on their stalks, the ouzel 
 A heavy ditt\\ and the sullen day 
 Had chidden herald Hesperus away, 
 With leaden looks : tlie solitary breeze 
 Bluster'd, and slept, and its wild self did 
 
 teaze 
 With wayward melancholy ; and I 
 
 thought, 
 Mark me, Peona ! that sometimes it 
 
 brought. 
 Faint fare-thee-wells, and sigh-shrilled 
 
 adieus ! — 
 Away I vvander'd — all the pleasant luies 
 Of heaven and earth- had faded : deei)est 
 
 shades 
 Were deepest dungeons ; heatiis and 
 
 sunny glades 
 Were full of pestilent light ; our taintless 
 
 rills 
 Seem'd sooty, and o'er-spread with up- 
 
 turn'd gills 
 Of dying flsh ; the vermeil rose had blown 
 In frightful scarlet, and its thorns out- 
 grown 
 Like spiked aloe. If an innoceiit bird 
 Before my heedless footsteps stirr'd, and 
 
 stirr'd 
 In little journeys, I beheld in it 
 A disguis'd demon, missioned to knit 
 My soul with under darkness ; to entice 
 My stumblings down some monstrous 
 
 precipice : 
 Tlierefore I eager followed, and did curse 
 The disappointment. Time, that aged 
 
 nurse, 
 Rock'd me to patience. Now, thank 
 
 gentle heaven ! 
 These things, with all their comfortings, 
 
 are given 
 To my down-sunken hours, and with 
 
 thee. 
 Sweet sister, help to stem the ebbing sea 
 Of weary life." 
 
 25" 
 
 FROM BOOK II 
 
 INVOCATION TO THE POWER OF LOVE 
 
 O SOVEREIGN power of love ! O grief ! 
 
 O balm ! 
 All records, saving thine, come cool, and 
 
 calm, 
 And shadowy, through the mist of 
 
 passed years : 
 For others, good or bad, hatred and tears 
 Have become indolent ; but touching 
 
 thine. 
 One sigh doth echo, one poor sob doth 
 
 pine. 
 One kiss brings honey-dew from buried 
 
 days. 
 The woes of Troy, towers smothering 
 
 o'er their blaze, 
 Stiff-holden shields, far-piercing spears, 
 
 keen blades. 
 Struggling, and blood, and shrieks — all 
 
 dimly fades 
 Into some backward corner of the brain ; 
 Yet, in our very souls, we feel amain 
 The close of Troilus and Cressid sweet. 
 Hence, pageant history ! hence, gilded 
 
 cheat ! 
 Swart planet in the universe of deeds ! 
 Wide sea, that one continuous murmur 
 
 breeds 
 Along the pebbled shore of memory ! 
 Many old rotten-timber'd boats tliere be 
 Upon thy A-aporous bosom, niagnilied 
 To goodly vessels : manj^ a sail of pride. 
 And golden keel'd, is left unlaunch'd 
 
 and dry. 
 But wlierefore this ? What care, though 
 
 owl did fly 
 About the great Athenian admiral's 
 
 mast ? 
 What care, though striding Alexander 
 
 past 
 The Indus with his Macedonian numbers ? 
 Tliough old Ulysses tortured from his 
 
 shnnbers 
 The glutted Cyclops, what care? — Juliet 
 
 leaning 
 Amid her window-flowers, — sighing, — 
 
 weaning 
 Tenderly her fancy from its maiden 
 
 snow, [flow 
 
 Doth more avail than these : the silver 
 Of Hero's tears, the swoon of Imogen, 
 Fair Pastorella in the bandit's den. 
 Are things to brood on with more ardency 
 Than the death-day of empires. Fearfully 
 Must such conviction come upon his 
 
 head, 
 
386 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Who, thus far, discontent, has dared to 
 tread, 
 
 Without one muse's smile, or kind be- 
 hest. 
 
 The path of love and poesy. But rest, 
 
 In chafing restlessness, is yet more 
 drear 
 
 Than to be crush'd, in striving to uprear 
 
 Love's standard on the battlements of 
 song. 
 
 So once more days and nights aid me 
 along, 
 
 Like legion'd soldiers. 
 
 FROM BOOK IV 
 
 ROUNDELAY 
 
 "0 Sorrow, 
 
 Why dost borrow 
 The natural hue of health, from vermeil 
 lips ? 
 
 To give maiden blushes 
 
 To tlie white rose buslies ? 
 Or is it thy dewy hand the daisy tips ? 
 
 " O Sorrow, 
 
 Why dost borrow 
 Tlie lustrous passion fioni a falcon -eye ? — 
 
 To give the glow-worm light? 
 
 Or, on a moonless niglit, 
 To tinge, on siren shores, tlie salt sea- 
 spray ? 
 
 " O Sorrow, 
 
 Wliy dost borrow 
 The mellow ditties from a mourning 
 tongue ? — 
 
 To give at evening pale 
 
 Unto the nightingale. 
 That thou mavst listen the cold dews 
 
 " O Sorrow, 
 Why dost borrow 
 
 Heart's liglitness froiu ihe merriment of 
 May ?— 
 A lover would not tread 
 A cowslip on the head. 
 
 Though he should dance from eve till 
 peep of day — 
 Nor any drooping flower 
 Held sacred for tliy bower, 
 
 Wherever he may sport himself and play. 
 
 " To Sorrow, 
 I bade good-morrow. 
 And thought to leave her far away be- 
 hind ; 
 
 But cheerly, cheerly. 
 
 She loves ine dearly ; 
 She is so constant to me, and so kind : 
 
 I would deceive her 
 
 And so leave her, 
 But ah ! she is so constant and so kind. 
 
 " Beneath my palm trees, by the river 
 
 side, 
 I sat a-weeping : in the whole world wide 
 There was no one to ask me win' I wept, — 
 
 And so I kept 
 Brimming the water-lih' cups with tears 
 
 Cold as my fears. 
 
 "Beneath my palm trees, by the river 
 
 side, 
 I sat a-weeping : what enamor'd bride. 
 Cheated by shadowy wooer from the 
 clouds. 
 But hides and shrouds 
 Beneath dark palm trees by a river side ? 
 
 " And as I sat, over the light blue hills 
 There came a noise of revellers : the rills 
 Into the wide stream came of purple 
 
 hue — 
 ' Twas Bacchus and his crew ! 
 The earnest trumpet spake, and silver 
 
 tin-ills 
 From kissing cymbals made a merry 
 
 din — 
 ' Twas Bacchus and his kin 1 
 Like to a moving vintage down they 
 
 came, 
 Crown'd with green leaves, and faces all 
 
 on flame ; 
 All madly dancing through the pleasant 
 
 vallej'. 
 To scare thee. Melancholy ! 
 O then, O then, thou wast a simple 
 
 name ! 
 And I forgot thee, as the berried holly 
 By shepherds, is forgotten, when, in 
 
 June, 
 Tall chestnuts keep away the sun and 
 
 moon : — 
 I rush'd into the folly ! 
 
 " Within his car, aloft, young Bacchus 
 
 stood. 
 Trifling his ivy-dart, in dancing mood. 
 
 With sidelong laughing ; 
 And little rills of crimson wine imbrued 
 His plump white arms, and shoulders, 
 enough white 
 
 For Venus' pearly bite ; 
 And near him rode Silenus on his ass, 
 Pelted with flowers as he on did pass 
 
 Tipsily quaffing. 
 
KEATS 
 
 387 
 
 " Whence came ye, merry Damsels ! 
 
 whence came ye ! 
 So many, and so many, and such glee ? 
 Why liave ye left your bowers desolate, 
 Your lutes, and j^entler fate ? — 
 ' We follow Bacchus ! Bacchus on the 
 wing, 
 A conquering ! 
 Bacchus, young Bacclius ! good or ill be- 
 tide. 
 We dance before him thorough kingdoms 
 
 wide : — 
 Come hither, lady fair, and joined be 
 To our wild minstrelsy ! ' 
 
 " Whence came ye, jolly Satyrs ! whence 
 came ye ! 
 
 So many, and so many, and such glee ? 
 
 Why have ye left your forest haunts, 
 why left 
 Your nuts in oak-tree cleft ? — 
 
 ' For wine, for wine we left our kernel 
 tree ; 
 
 For wine we left our heath, and yellow 
 brooms. 
 And cold mushrooms ; 
 
 For wine we follow Bacchus tlirough the 
 earth ; 
 
 Great God of breathless cups and chirp- 
 ing mirth ! — 
 
 Come liither, lady fair, and joined be 
 
 To our mad minstrelsy ! ' 
 
 " Over wide streams and mountains great 
 
 we went, [tent, 
 
 And. save when Bacchus kept his ivy 
 On\yard tlie tiger and the leopard pants. 
 
 With Asian elephants : 
 Onward these myriads — with song and 
 
 dance. 
 With zebras striped, and sleek Arabians' 
 
 prance. 
 Web-footed alligators, crocodiles. 
 Bearing upon their scaly backs, in files. 
 Plump infant laughers mimicking the 
 
 coil 
 Of seamen, and stout galley-rower's toil : 
 With toying oars and silken sails they 
 
 glide, 
 Nor care for wind and tide. 
 
 " Mounted on panthers' furs and lions' 
 manes, [plains : 
 
 From rear to van tliey scour about tlie 
 A three days' journej' in a moment done : 
 And always, at the rising of the sun, 
 About the wilds they hunt with spear 
 and horn. 
 On spleenful unicorn. 
 
 '• I saw Osirian Egj-pt kneel adown 
 
 Before the vine-wreath ci'own ! 
 I saw parch'd Abyssinia rouse and sing 
 
 To the silver cymbals' ring ! 
 I saw the whelming vintage hotly pierce 
 
 Old Tartary the fierce ! 
 The kings of Inde their jewel-sceptres 
 
 vail, 
 And from tlieir treasures scatter pearled 
 
 hail ; 
 Great Brahma from his mystic heaven 
 groans. 
 And all his priesthood moans. 
 Before young Bacchus' eye-wink turning 
 
 pale. — 
 Into these regions came I following 
 
 him, 
 Sick-hearted, weary — so I took a whim 
 To stray away into these forests drear 
 
 Alone, without a peer : 
 And I have told thee all thou mayest 
 hear. 
 
 " Young stranger ! 
 
 I've been a ranger 
 In search of pleasure throughout every 
 clime : 
 
 Alas ! 'tis not for me ! 
 
 Bewitch'd I sure must be, 
 To lose in gi-ievnig all my maiden prime. 
 
 " Come then. Sori'ow ! 
 
 Sweetest Sorrow ! 
 Like an own babe I nurse thee on my 
 breast : 
 
 I tliought to leave thee 
 
 And deceive tliee, 
 But now of all the world I love thee best. 
 
 "There is not one. 
 
 No, no, not one 
 But thee to comfort a poor lonely maid ; 
 
 Thou art her mother, 
 
 And her brother. 
 Her playmate, and her wooer in the 
 shade." 
 
 THE FEAST OF DIAN 
 
 Who, who from Dian's feast would be 
 
 away ? 
 For all t1\3 golden bowers of the day 
 Are empty left ? Who, wjio away would 
 
 be 
 From Cynthia's wedding and festivity? 
 Not Hesperus: lo ! upon his silver 
 
 wings 
 He leans away for highest heaven and 
 
 sings, 
 
388 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Snapping his lucid fingers merrilj' ! — 
 
 Ah, Zephyius ! art liere, and Flora too ! 
 
 Ye tender bibbers of the rain and dew. 
 
 Young playmates of the rose and daffo- 
 dil. 
 
 Be careful, ere ye enter in, to fill 
 Your Imskets high 
 
 With fennel green, and balm, and gold- 
 en pines, 
 
 Savory, latter-mint, antl columbines, 
 
 Cool parsley, basil sweet, and sunny 
 thyme ; 
 
 Yea, every flower and leaf of every 
 clime. 
 
 All gather'd in the dewy morning : hie 
 Away ! fly. fly !— 
 
 Crystalline brotlierof the belt of heaven. 
 
 Aquarius ! to whom king Jove has given 
 
 Two liquid pulse streams 'stead of 
 feather'd wings. 
 
 Two fan-like fountains, — thine illumin- 
 ings 
 
 For Dian play : 
 
 Dissolve the frozen purity of air ; 
 
 Let thy white shoulders silvery and 
 bare 
 
 Slievv cold through watery pinions ; 
 make more bright 
 
 Tiie Star-Queen's crescent on her mar- 
 riage night : 
 
 Haste, haste away ! — 
 
 Castor has tamed the planet Lion, see ! 
 
 And of the Bear has Pollux mastery : 
 
 A third is in the race ! who is tiie 
 third, 
 
 Speeding away swift as the eagle bird ? 
 The tramping Centaur ! 
 
 Tiie Lion's mane's on end : the Bear 
 how fierce ! 
 
 Tlie Centaur's arrow ready seems to 
 pierce 
 
 Some enemy : far forth his bow is bent 
 
 Into the blue of heaven. He'll beshent. 
 Pale unrelentor, 
 
 Wiien he shall hear the wedding lutes a- 
 playhig.— 
 
 Andromeda! sweet vp^oman ! why delay- 
 ing 
 
 So timidly among the stars : come hither ! 
 
 Join tliis briglit throng, and nimbly fol- 
 low whither 
 
 They all are going. 
 
 Danae's Son, befoi'e Jove newly bow'd. 
 
 Has wept for thee, calling to Jove 
 aloud. 
 
 Thee, gentle lady, did he disenthral : 
 
 Ye shall for ever live and hn-e, fen- all 
 Thy tears are flowing. 
 
 1S17. iyi8. 
 
 ROBIN HOOD 
 
 No ! those days are gone away, 
 And their hours arc old and gray. 
 And their minutes buried all 
 Under the down-trodden pall 
 Of the leaves of manj^ years : 
 Many times have winter's shears. 
 Frozen North, and chilling East, 
 Sounded tempests to the feast 
 Of tlie forest's whispering fleeces. 
 Since men knew nor rent nor leases. 
 
 No, the bugle sounds no more. 
 And the twanging bow no naore ; 
 Silent is the ivory shrill 
 Past the heath and up the hill ; 
 There is no mid-forest laugh. 
 Where lone Echo gives the half 
 To some wiglit, amaz'd to hear 
 Jesting, deep in forest drear. 
 
 On the fairest time of June 
 You may go, witli sun or moon, 
 Or the seven stars to light J'ou, 
 Or the polar ray to right you ; 
 But you never may behokl 
 Little John, or Robin bold ; 
 Never one, of all the clan, 
 Thrumming on an empty can 
 Some old hunting ditty, while 
 He doth his green way beguile 
 To fair hostess Merriment, 
 Down beside the jjasture Trent ; 
 For he left the merry tale 
 Messenger for spicy ale. 
 
 Gone, the merry morris din ; 
 Gone, the song of Gamelyn ; 
 Gone, tlie tough-belted outlaw 
 Idling in the " grene shawe ; " 
 All are gone away and past ! 
 And if liobin should be cast 
 Sudden from his turfed grave, 
 And if Marian should have 
 Once again her forest days, 
 Slie w^ould weep, and he would craze : 
 He would swear, for all his oaks, 
 Fall'n beneath the dockyard strokes, 
 Have rotted on the briny seas ; 
 She would weep that her wil<l bees 
 Sang not to her — strange ! that lioney 
 Can't be got without hard money ! 
 
 So it is : yet let us sing. 
 Honor to the old bow-string ! 
 Honor to the bugle- horn ! 
 Honor to the woods nnsliorn ! 
 Honor to the Lincoln green ! 
 
KEATS 
 
 389 
 
 Honor to the archer keen ! 
 Honor to tight Little John, 
 And the horse he rode upon ! 
 Honor to bold Robin Hood, 
 Sleeping in the underwood ! 
 Honor to Maid Marian, 
 And to all the Sherwood-clan ! 
 Though their daj's have hurried by, 
 Let us two a burden try. 
 
 February 3, 181S. 1820. 
 
 IN A DREAR-NIGHTED DECEMBER 
 
 In a drear- nighted December, 
 
 Too happ5% happy tree, 
 
 Thy branches ne'er remember 
 
 Their green felicity : 
 
 The north cannot undo them, 
 
 With a sleety wiiistle through them : 
 
 Nor frozen tliawings glue them 
 
 From budding at the prime. 
 
 In a drear-nighted December, 
 
 Too happ\', happy brook. 
 
 Thy bubblings ne'er remember 
 
 Apollo's summer look ; 
 
 But with a sweet forgetting. 
 
 They stay tlieir crystal fretting, 
 
 Never, never petting 
 
 About the frozen time. 
 
 Ah ! would 'twere so with many 
 A gentle girl and boy ! 
 But were tliere ever any 
 Writhed not at passed joy ? 
 To know tlie change and feel it. 
 When there is none to lieal it, 
 Nor numbed sense to steal it, 
 Was never said in rhyme. 
 
 ?. . . 1829. 
 
 TO AILSA ROCK 
 
 Hearken, tliou craggy ocean pyramid I 
 
 Give answer from thy voice, tlie sen- 
 fowls' screams ! 
 
 Wlien were thy slioulders mantled in 
 huge streams ? 
 
 When, from the sun, was thy broad fore- 
 head hid ? 
 
 How long is't since the mighty power bid 
 
 Thee heave to airy sleep from fathom 
 dreams ? 
 
 Sleep in tlie lap of thunder or sun- 
 beams. 
 
 Or wlien gray clouds are thj' cold cover- 
 lid. 
 
 Thou answer'st not ; for tliou art dead 
 asleep ; 
 
 Thy life »s but two dead eternities — 
 The last in air, the former in the deep, 
 First with the whales, last with the 
 
 eagle-skies — 
 Drown'd wast thou till an earthquake 
 
 made thee steep. 
 Another cannot wake thy giant size. 
 July, ISIS. 1819. 
 
 THE HUMAN SEASONS 
 
 Four Seasons fill the measure of the 
 
 year ; 
 There are four seasons in the mind of 
 
 man : 
 He has his lustj' Spring, when fancy clear 
 Takes in all beauty with an easy span : 
 He has his Summer, wlien luxuriously 
 Spring's honey'd cud of youthful thought 
 
 he loves 
 To ruminate, and by such dreaming high 
 Is nearest unto heaven : quiet coves 
 His soul has in its Autumn, when his 
 
 wings 
 He f urleth close ; contented so to look 
 On mists in idleness — to let fair things 
 Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook. 
 He has his Winter too of pale misfeature, 
 Or else he would forego his mortal na- 
 ture. ?. . . 1819. 
 
 TO HOMER 
 
 Standing aloof in giant ignorance, 
 
 Of thee I hear and of the Cyclades, 
 
 As one who sits ashore and longs per- 
 chance 
 
 To visit Dolphin-coral in deep seas. 
 
 So thou wast blind ; — but then the veil 
 was rent. 
 
 For Jove uncurtained Heaven to let thee 
 live. 
 
 And Neptune made for thee a spumy 
 tent, 
 
 And Fan made sing for thee his forest- 
 hive. 
 
 Aye, on the shores of darkness there is 
 light. 
 
 And precipices show untrodden green. 
 
 There is a budding morrow in mid- 
 night, ^ 
 
 There is a triple sight in blindness keen ; 
 
 Such seeing hadst thou, as it once 
 befell 
 
 To Dian, Queen of Earth, and Heaven, 
 and Hell. 1818. 1848. 
 
 • Forman records in his notes that Rossetti 
 considered this to be " Keats' finest single line 
 of poetry." (Keats' Works, II., 2.38.) 
 
39° 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 LINES 
 
 ON 
 
 THE MERMAID TAVERN 
 
 Souls of Poets dead and gone, 
 What Elj'sium have ye known, 
 Happy field or mossy cavern. 
 Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern ? 
 Have 3'e tippled di'ink more fine 
 Than mine host's Canary wine ? 
 Or are fruits of Paradise 
 Sweeter than those dainty pies 
 Of venison ? O generous food ! 
 Di-est as though bold Robin Hood 
 Would, with his maid Marian, 
 Sup and bowse from horn and can. 
 
 I have heard tliat on a day 
 Mine host's sign-board flew away, 
 Nobodj' knew whither, till 
 An astrologer's old quill 
 To a sheepskin gave the story. 
 Said he saw you in j'our glorj', 
 Underneath a new old sign 
 Sipping beverage divine, 
 And pledging with contented smack 
 The Mermaid in the Zodiac. 
 
 Souls of Poets dead and gone, 
 Wliat Elysium have ye known, 
 Happy field or mossy cavern. 
 Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern ? 
 
 ISIS. 1820. 
 
 FANCY 
 
 Ever let the Fancy roam. 
 
 Pleasure never is at home : 
 
 At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth, 
 
 Like to bubbles when rain pelteth ; 
 
 Tlien let winged Fancy wander 
 
 Through the thought still si)read beyond 
 
 her : 
 Open wide the mind's cage-door. 
 She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar. 
 O sweet Fancy ! let her loose ; 
 Summer's joys are spoilt by use. 
 And tlie enjoying of the Spring 
 Fades as does its blossoming ; 
 Autumn's red-lipp'd fruitage too. 
 Bkishing through the mist and dew, 
 Cloys with tasting : What do then ? 
 Sit thee by the ingle, when 
 Tlie sear fagot blazes bright, 
 Spirit of a winter's night ; 
 When tlie soundless earth is muffled, 
 And the caked snow is shuffleil 
 From the plougliboy"s heavy shoon : 
 
 When the Night doth meet the Noon 
 
 In a dark conspiracy 
 
 To banish Even from her sky. 
 
 Sit tliee tliere, and send abroad. 
 
 With a mind self-overaw'd 
 
 Fancy, high-commission'd : — send her ! 
 
 She has vassals to attend lier : 
 
 She will bring, in spite of frost. 
 
 Beauties that the earth liatli lost ; 
 
 She will bring thee, all together. 
 
 All delights of summer weiitber ; 
 
 All the buds and bells of May, 
 
 From dewy sward or thorny spray : 
 
 All the lieaped Autumn's wejiltli. 
 
 With a still, niysterious stealth : 
 
 Slie will mix these pleasures up 
 
 Like three fit wines in a cup. 
 
 And thou shalt quaff it : — thou shalt 
 
 hear 
 Distant harvest-carols clear ; 
 Rustle of the reaped corn ; 
 Sweet birds antheming the morn : 
 And, in the same moment — hark I 
 'Tis the early April lark. 
 Or the rooks, with busy caw, 
 Foraging for sticks and straw. 
 Thou shalt, at one glance, behold 
 Tlie daisy and the marigold ; 
 White-pkiin'd lilies, and the first 
 Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst ; 
 Sliaded hyacintli, alvvay 
 Sapphire queen of the mid-May ; 
 And every leaf, and every flower 
 Pearled with the self-same shower. 
 Thou slialt see the field-mouse peep 
 Meagre from its celled sleep ; 
 And the snake all winter-thin 
 Cast on sunny bank its skin ; 
 Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see 
 Hatching in tlie liawthorn-tree, 
 AVhen tlie henbird's wing doth rest 
 Quiet on her mossy nest ; 
 Then the hurry and alarm 
 When the bee-hive casts its swarm ; 
 Acorns ripe down-pattering, 
 Wliile the autumn breezes sing. 
 
 Oh, sweet Fancy ! let her loose ; 
 Every thing is spoilt by use : 
 Where's the cheek that doth not fade. 
 Too much gaz'd at? Where's the maid 
 Whose lip mature is ever new ? 
 Whei'e's the eye, however blue, 
 Dotli not weary ? Where's the face 
 One would meet in every place ? 
 Where's the voice, however soft. 
 One would hear so very oft ? 
 At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth 
 Like to bubbles wlien rain peltetli. 
 
KEATS 
 
 391 
 
 Let, then, winged Fancy find 
 
 Thee a mistress to thj^ mind : 
 
 Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter, 
 
 Ere the God of Torment taught her 
 
 How to frown and how to chide ; 
 
 With a waist and with a side 
 
 White as Hebe's, when lier zone 
 
 Slipped its golden clasp, and down 
 
 Fell her kirtle to her feet. 
 
 While she held the goblet sweet. 
 
 And Jove grew languid. — Break the 
 
 mesh 
 Of the Fancy's silken leash ; 
 Quickly break her prison-string 
 And sucli joys as these she'll bring. — 
 Let the winged Fancy roam. 
 Pleasure never is at home. 1818. 1820. 
 
 ISABELLA 
 
 OR 
 THE POT OF BASIL 
 
 A STORY FROM BOCCACCIO 
 
 Fair Isabel, poor simple Isabel ! 
 
 Lorenzo, a j^oung palmer in Love's 
 eye! 
 They could not in the self-same mansion 
 dwell 
 Without some stir of heart, some 
 malady ; 
 They could not sit at meals but feel how 
 well 
 It sootlied each to be tlie other by ; 
 They could not, sure, beneath the same 
 
 roof sleep 
 But to each other dream, and nightly 
 weep. 
 
 With every morn their love grew ten- 
 derer. 
 With everv eve deeper and tenderer 
 still : 
 He might not in house, field, or garden 
 stir, 
 But her full shape would all his seeing 
 fill; 
 And his continual voice was pleasanter 
 To her, than noise of trees or hidden 
 rill ; 
 Her lute-string gave an echo of his name. 
 She spoilt her lialf-done broidery with 
 the same. 
 
 He knew whose gentle hand was at the 
 latch, 
 Before the door had given her to his 
 eyes ; 
 
 And from her chamber-window he 
 would catch 
 Her beauty farther than the falcon 
 spies ; 
 
 And constant as her vespers would he 
 watch. 
 Because her face was turn'd to the 
 same skies ; 
 
 And with sick longing all the night out- 
 wear, 
 
 To liear her morning-step upon the stair. 
 
 A whole long month of May in this sad 
 plight 
 Made their cheeks paler by the break 
 of June : 
 "To-morrow will I bow to my delight. 
 To-morrow will I ask my lady's 
 boon." — 
 " O may I never see another night, 
 Lorenzo, if thy lips breatlie not 
 love's tune." — 
 So spake they to their pillows ; but, alas, 
 Honeyless days and days did he let pass ; 
 
 Until sweet Isabella's untovich'd cheek 
 Fell sick within the rose's just domain. 
 Fell thin as a young mother's, who doth 
 seek 
 By every lull to cool her infant's pain : 
 " How ill she is," said he, " I may not 
 speak. 
 And yet I will, and tell my love all 
 plain : 
 If looks speak love-laws, I will drink 
 
 her tears. 
 And at the least 'twill startle off her 
 cares." 
 
 So said he one fair morning, ancj all day 
 His heart beat awfvilly against his 
 side ; 
 And to his heart he inwardly did pray 
 For power to speak ; but still the ruddy 
 tide 
 Stifled his voice, and puls'd resolve 
 away — 
 Fever'd his high conceit of such a 
 bride. 
 Yet brought him to the meekness of a 
 
 child : 
 Alas ! when passion is both meek and 
 wild ! 
 
 So once more he had wak'd and an- 
 guished 
 
 A dreary night of love and misery. 
 If Isabel's quick eye had not been wed 
 
 To every symbol on his forehead high ; 
 
392 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 She saw it waxing very pale and dead, 
 And straight all fiush'd ; so, lisped 
 
 tenderly, 
 " Lorenzo ! " — here she ceas'd her timid 
 
 quest, 
 But in her tone and look he read the rest. 
 
 " O Isabella, I can half perceive 
 That I may speak my grief into thine 
 ear ; 
 If thou didst ever anything believe, 
 Believe how I love thee, believe how 
 near 
 My soul is to its doom : I would not 
 grieve 
 Thy hand by unwelcome pressing, 
 would not fear 
 Thine eyes by gazing ; but I cannot 
 
 live 
 Another night, and not my passion 
 shrive. 
 
 ' ' Love ! thou art leading me from wintry 
 
 cold. 
 Lady ! thou leadest me to summer 
 
 clime, 
 And I must taste the blossoms that 
 
 unfold 
 In its ripe warmth this gracious 
 
 morning time."' 
 So said, his erewliile timid lips grew 
 
 bold. 
 And poesied with hers in dewy rhyme : 
 Great bliss was with tliem, and great 
 
 happiness 
 Grew, like a lusty flower in June's 
 
 caress. 
 
 Parting they seem'd to tread upon the 
 air, 
 Twin roses bj^ the zephyr blown apart 
 Only to meet again more close, and share 
 The inward fragrance of each other's 
 heart. 
 She, to her chamber gone, a ditty fair 
 Sang, of delicious love and honey'd 
 dart ; 
 He with light steps went up a western 
 
 hill, 
 And bade the sun farewell, and ioy'd 
 his fill. 
 
 All close they met again, before tlie dusk 
 Had taken from tlie stars its pleasant 
 veil. 
 All close they met, all eves, before the 
 dusk 
 Had taken from the stars its pleasant 
 veil, 
 
 Close in a bower of hyacinth and musk. 
 Unknown of any, free frona whisper- 
 ing tale. 
 Ah ! better had it been for ever so, 
 Than idle ears should pleasure in their 
 woe. 
 
 Were they unhappy then ? — It cannot 
 be- 
 Too many tears for lovers have been 
 slied. 
 Too many sighs give we to them in fee, 
 
 Too much of pitj^ after they are dead, 
 Too many doleful stories do we see. 
 Whose matter in brigiit gold were best 
 be read ; 
 Except in such a page where Tlieseus' 
 
 spouse 
 Over the pathless waves towards him 
 bows. 
 
 But, for the general award of love. 
 The little sweet dotli kill much bitter- 
 ness ; 
 Though Dido silent is in under-grove, 
 
 And Isabella's was a great distress. 
 Tliough young Lorenzo in warm Indian 
 clove 
 Was not embalm'd, this truth is not 
 the less — 
 Even bees, the little almsmen of spring- 
 bowers, 
 Know there is richest juice in poison- 
 flowers. 
 
 With her two brothers this fair lady 
 dwelt, 
 Enriched from ancestral merchandise, 
 And for them many a weary hand did 
 swelt 
 In torched mines and noisy factories. 
 And many once proud-quiver'd loins did 
 melt 
 In blood from stinging whip ; — with 
 hollow eyes 
 Many all day in dazzling river stood, 
 To take the rich-ored driftings of the 
 flood. 
 
 For them the Ceylon diver held his 
 
 breath, 
 And went all naked to the hungry 
 
 si 1 ark : 
 For them his ears gush'd blood ; for 
 
 them in death 
 Tlie seal on the cold ice with piteous 
 
 bark 
 Lay full of darts ; for them alone did 
 
 seethe 
 
KEATS 
 
 393 
 
 A thousand men in troubles wide and 
 
 dark : 
 Half-ignorant, they turn'd an easy 
 
 wheel. 
 That set sharp racks at work, to pinch 
 
 and peel. 
 
 Why were thej' proud ? Because their 
 
 marble founts 
 Gush'd with more pride than do a 
 
 wretch's tears ? — 
 Why were they proud? Because fair 
 
 orange-mounts 
 Were of more soft ascent than lazar 
 
 stairs ? — 
 Why were they proud ? Because red- 
 
 lin'd accounts 
 AVere riclier than the songs of Grecian 
 
 years ? — 
 Why were they proud ? again we ask 
 
 aloud. 
 Why in the name of Glory were they 
 
 proud ? 
 
 Yet were these Florentines as self -re- 
 tired 
 In hungry pride and gainful cowardice, 
 As two close Hebrews in that land in- 
 spired. 
 Paled in and vineyarded from beggar- 
 spies ; 
 The hawks of ship-mast forests — the un- 
 titled 
 And pannier'd mules for ducats and 
 old lies — 
 Quick cat's-paws on the generous stray- 
 ^ away, — 
 
 Great wits in Spanish, Tuscan, and 
 Malay. 
 
 How was it these same ledger-men could 
 spy 
 Fair Isabella in lier downy nest ? 
 How could they find out in Lorenzo's eye 
 A straying fi'om his toil? Hot Egypt's 
 pest 
 Into their vision covetous and sly ! 
 How could these money-bags see east 
 and west ?— 
 Yet so they did — and every dealer fair 
 Must see behind, as doth the hunted liare. 
 
 O eloquent and famed Boccaccio ! 
 
 Of thee we now sliould ask forgiving 
 boon. 
 And of thy spicy myrtles as they blow. 
 And of thy roses amorous of the moon. 
 And of thy lilies, that do paler grow 
 Now they can no more hear thy ghit- 
 tern's tune, 
 
 For venturing syllables that ill beseem 
 Tlie quiet glooms of such a piteous 
 tlieme. 
 
 Grant thou a pardon here, and then tiie 
 tale 
 Sliall move on soberly, as it is meet ; 
 Tliere is no other crime, no mad assail 
 To make old prose in modern rhyme 
 more sweet : 
 But it is done — succeed tlie verse or 
 fail- 
 To honor thee, and thy gone spirit 
 greet ; 
 To stead thee as a verse in English 
 
 tongue. 
 An echo of thee in the north-wind sung. 
 
 These brethren having found by many 
 signs 
 What love Lorenzo for their sister had, 
 And how she lov'd liim too, each uncon- 
 fines 
 His bitter thoughts to other, well-nigh 
 mad 
 That he, the servant of their trade de- 
 signs, 
 Should in tlieir sister's love be blithe 
 and glad 
 Wlien 'twas their plan to coax her by 
 
 degrees 
 To some high noble and his olive-trees. 
 
 And many a jealous conference had 
 tliey. 
 And many times they bit their lips 
 alone. 
 Before thcj^ fix'd upon a surest way 
 To make tlie youngster for his crime 
 atone ; 
 And at the last, these men of cruel clay 
 Cut Mercy with a sharp knife to the 
 bone ; 
 For they resolved in some forest dim 
 To kill Lorenzo, and there bury him. 
 
 So on a pleasant morning, as he leant 
 Into tiie sun-rise, o'er the balustrade 
 Of the garden-terrace, towards him they 
 bent 
 Their footing througli the dews ; and 
 to iiim said, 
 "You seem there in the quiet of con- 
 tent, 
 Lorenzo, and we are most loth to 
 invade 
 Calm speculation ; but if you are wise. 
 Bestride j^our steed while cold is in the 
 skies. 
 
394 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 " To-day we purpose, ay, this hour we 
 mount 
 To spur three leagues towards tlie 
 Apennine ; 
 Come down, we praj^ thee, ere the hot 
 sun count 
 His dewy rosary on the eglantine." 
 Lorenzo, courteously as he was wont, 
 Bow'd a fair greeting to these ser- 
 pents' whine ; 
 And went in liaste, to get in readiness. 
 With belt, and spur, and bracing liunts- 
 man's dress. 
 
 And as he to the court-yard pass'd along. 
 Each third step did he pause, and 
 listen'd oft 
 If he could hear his ladN^'s matin-song. 
 Or the liglit whisper of her footstep 
 soft ; 
 And as he thus over his passion hung. 
 He lieard a laugh full musical aloft ; 
 Wlien, looking up, he saw lier features 
 
 bright 
 Smile thi-ough an in-door lattice, all 
 delight. 
 
 " Love, Isabel ! " said he, " I was in pain 
 Lest I should miss to bid tliee a good 
 morrow : 
 Ah ! what if I should lose thee, when 
 so fain 
 I am to stifle all the lieavy sorrow 
 Of a poor tliree hours' absence ? but 
 we'll gain 
 Out of the amorous dark what daj' 
 doth borrow. 
 Goodbye! I'll soon be back." — "Good 
 
 bye ! " said slie : — 
 And as he went she clianted merrily. 
 
 So the two brothers and their murder'd 
 
 man 
 Rode past fair Florence, to where 
 
 Arno's sti'eam 
 Gurgles tlirough straiten'd banks, and 
 
 still doth fan 
 Itself witli dancing bulrush, and the 
 
 bi'eain 
 Keeps head against tlie freshets. Sick 
 
 and wan 
 The brothers' faces in the ford did 
 
 seem, 
 Lorenzo's flush with love. — They pass'd 
 
 the water 
 Into a forest quiet for the slavighter. 
 
 There was Lorenzo slain and buried in. 
 There in that forest did his great love 
 cease ; 
 
 Ah ! when a soul doth thvis its freedom 
 
 win. 
 It aches in loneliness — is ill at peace 
 As the break-covert blood-hounds of 
 
 such sin : 
 The}^ dipp'd tlieir swords in the water, 
 
 and did tease 
 Tlieir horses homeward, with convulsed 
 
 spur, 
 Each riclier by liis being a murderer. 
 
 They told their sister how, with sudden 
 speed, 
 Lorenzo had ta'en ship for foreign 
 lands* 
 Because of some great urgency and need 
 In their affairs, requiring trust}- hands. 
 Poor Girl ! jjut on thy stifling widow's 
 weed , 
 And 'scape at once from Hope's ac- 
 cursed bands ; 
 To-day thou wilt not .see him, nor to- 
 morrow. 
 And the next day will be a day of sorrow. 
 
 She weeps alone for plea,sures not to be ; 
 
 Sorely she wept until the night came 
 on. 
 And tlien, instead of love, O misery ! 
 
 She brooded o'er the luxury alone : 
 His image in the dusk she seem'd to .see, 
 
 And to the silence made a gentle moan, 
 Si)reading her perfect arms upon the air. 
 And on her couch low murmuring, 
 " Where ? O where ? " 
 
 But Selfishness, Love's cousin, held not 
 long 
 
 Its fiery vigil in her single breast ; 
 She fretted for the golden liour, and iumg 
 
 Upon the time with feverish unrest — 
 Not long — for soon into her heart a 
 throng 
 
 Of higher occupants, a richer zest. 
 Came tragic ; passion not to be subdued. 
 And sorrow for her love in travels rude. 
 
 In the mid days of autumn. on their eves 
 The breath of Winter comes from far 
 away. 
 And the sick west continually bereaves 
 Of some gold tinge, and plays a round- 
 elay 
 Of death among the bushes and the 
 leaves 
 To make all bare before he cares to 
 stray 
 From his north cavern. So sweet Isabel 
 .By gradual decay from beauty fell, 
 
KEATS 
 
 395 
 
 Because Lorenzo came not. Oftentimes 
 She ask'd her brothers, with an eye all 
 pale, 
 Striving to be itself, what dungeon 
 climes 
 Could keep him off so long ? They 
 spake a tale. 
 Time after time, to quiet her. Their 
 crimes 
 Came on them, like a smoke from 
 Hinnom's vale ; 
 And every night in dreams they groan'd 
 
 aloud. 
 To see their sister in her snowy shroud. 
 
 And she had died in drowsy ignorance. 
 But for a thing more deadly dark than 
 
 all; 
 It came like a fierce potion, drunk by 
 
 chance, 
 Which saves a sick man from the 
 
 feather'd pall 
 For soine few gasping moments ; like a 
 
 lance. 
 Waking an Indian from his cloudy 
 
 hall 
 With cruel pierce, and bringing him 
 
 again 
 Sense of the gnawing fire at heart and 
 
 brain. 
 
 It was a vision. — In the drowsy gloom. 
 The dull of midnight, at her couch's 
 foot 
 Lorenzo stood, and wept : the forest 
 tomb 
 Had marr'd his glossy hair which once 
 could shoot 
 Lustre into the sun, and put cold doom 
 Upon his lips, and taken the soft lute 
 From his lorn voice, and past hisloamed 
 
 ears 
 Had made a miry channel for his tears. 
 
 Strange sound it was, when the pale 
 shadow spake ; 
 For there was striving, in its piteous 
 tongue. 
 To speak as when on earth it was awake, 
 
 And Isabella on its music hung : 
 Languor there was in it, and tremulous 
 shake, 
 As in a palsied Druid's harp unstrung ; 
 And through it moan'd a ghostly under- 
 song. 
 Like hoarse night-gusts sepulchral briars 
 among. 
 
 Its eyes, though wild, were still all dew}' 
 bright 
 
 With love, and kept all phantom fear 
 aloof 
 From the poor girl by magic of their 
 light. 
 The while it did unthread the horrid 
 woof 
 Of the late darken'd time, — the murder- 
 ous spite 
 Of pride and avarice, the dark pine 
 roof 
 In the forest, — and the sodden turfed 
 
 dell. 
 Where, without any word, from stabs 
 he fell. 
 
 Saying moreover, "Isabel, my sweet! 
 Red whortle-berries droop above my 
 head. 
 
 And a large flint-stone weighs upon my 
 feet ; 
 Around me beeches and high chest- 
 nuts shed 
 
 Their leaves and prickly nuts ; a sheep- 
 fold bleat 
 Comes from beyond the river to my 
 bed: 
 
 Go, shed one tear upon my heather- 
 bloom. 
 
 And it shall comfort me within the 
 tomb. 
 
 "I am a shadow now, alas ! alas ! 
 Upon the skirts of human-nature 
 dwelling 
 Alone : I chant alone the holy mass. 
 While little sounds of life are round 
 me knelling. 
 And glossy bees at noon do field ward 
 pass, 
 And many a chapel bell the hour is 
 
 telling. 
 Paining me through : those sounds 
 
 grow strange to me. 
 And thou art distant in Humanity. 
 
 " I know what was, I feel full well what 
 is, 
 And I should rage, if spirits could go 
 mad ; 
 Though I forget the taste of earthly 
 bliss. 
 That paleness warms my grave, as 
 though I had 
 A Seraph chosen from the bright abyss 
 To be my spouse: thy paleness makes 
 me glad ; 
 Thy beaut)^ grows uj^on ine, and I feel 
 A greater love through all my essence 
 steal." 
 
396 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 The Spirit mourn'd "Adieu!" — dis- 
 solv'd, and left 
 The atom darkness in a slow turmoil ; 
 As when of healthful midnight sleep 
 bereft, 
 Thinking on rugged hours and fruit- 
 less toil, 
 We put our eyes into a pillowy cleft, 
 And see the spangly gloom froth up 
 and boil : 
 It made sad Isabella's eyelids ache. 
 And in the dawn she started up awake ; 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! " said she, " I knew not tliis 
 
 hard life, 
 I thought the worst was simple 
 
 misery ; 
 I thought some Fate with pleasure or 
 
 with strife 
 Portion 'd us — happy days, or else to 
 
 die ; 
 But there is crime — a brother's bloody 
 
 knife ! 
 Sweet Spirit, thou hast school'd my 
 
 infancy : 
 ril visit thee for this, and kiss thine 
 
 eyes, 
 And greet thee morn and even in the 
 
 skies." 
 
 When the full morning came, she had 
 devised 
 How she might secret to the forest hie ; 
 How she might find the clay, so dearly 
 prized. 
 And sing to it one latest lullaby ; 
 How her short absence might be un- 
 surmised, 
 While she the inmost of the dream 
 would try, 
 Resolv'd, she took with her an aged nurse. 
 And went into that dismal forest-hearse. 
 
 See. as they creep along the riverside. 
 How she doth whisper to that aged 
 Dame, 
 And, after looking round the champaign 
 wide. 
 Shows her a knife. — "What feverous 
 hectic flame 
 Burns in thee, child ? — What good can 
 thee betide, 
 That thou should'st smile again?" — 
 The evening came. 
 And they had found Lorenzo's earthy bed ; 
 The flint was there, the berries at his 
 head. 
 
 Who hath not loiter'd in a green church- 
 yard, 
 
 And let his spirit, like a demon-mole, 
 Work through the clayey soil and 
 gravel hard. 
 To see skull, coffin'd bones, and 
 funeral stole ; 
 Pitying each form that hungry Death 
 hath marr'd. 
 And filling it once more with human 
 soul ? 
 Ah ! this is holiday to what was felt 
 When Isabella by Lorenzo knelt. 
 
 She gaz'd into the fresh-thrown mould, 
 as thougli 
 
 One glance did fuUj' all its secrets tell ; 
 Clearly she saw, as other eyes would know 
 
 Pale limbs at bottom of a crj stal well ; 
 Upon tiie murderous ajjot she seem'd to 
 grow, 
 
 Like to a Jiative lily of the dell : 
 Tiien with her knife, allsndden. she began 
 To dig moi"e fervently than misers can. 
 
 Soon she turn'd up a soiled glove, whereon 
 
 Her silk had play'd in purple phantasies. 
 
 She kiss'd it with a lip more chill than 
 
 stone. 
 
 And put it in her bosom, where it dries 
 
 And freezes utterly unto the bone 
 
 Those dainties made to still an infant's 
 cries : 
 Then 'gan she work again ; nor stay'd 
 
 her care. 
 But to throw back at times her veiling 
 hair. 
 
 That old nurse stood beside her wondering 
 
 Until her heart felt pity to the core 
 At sight of sucli a dismal laboring. 
 
 And so she kneeled, with her locks 
 all hoar. 
 And put her lean hands to the horrid 
 thing : 
 Three hours they labor'd at this travail 
 sore ; 
 At last thej^ felt the kernel of the grave, 
 And Isabella did not stamp and rave. 
 
 Ah ! wherefore all this wormy circum- 
 stance ? 
 Why linger at the j^awning tomb so 
 long ? 
 O for the gentleness of old Romance, 
 The simple plaining of a minstrel's 
 song ! 
 Fair reader, at the old tale take a glance, 
 For here, in truth, it doth not well 
 belong 
 To speak : — O turn thee to the very tale, 
 And taste the music of that vision pale. 
 
KEATS 
 
 397 
 
 With duller steel than the Persean sword 
 They cut away no formless monster's 
 head, 
 Butone, whose gentlenessdid wellaccord 
 With deatli, as life. Tlie ancient 
 harps have said. 
 Love never dies, but lives, immortal 
 Lord : 
 If Love impersonate was ever dead. 
 Pale Isabella kiss"d it, and low moan'd 
 'Twas love ; cold, — dead indeed, but not 
 dethroned. 
 
 In anxious secrecy they took it home. 
 
 And then the prize was ail for Isabel : 
 Siie calm'd its wild hair with a golden 
 comb, 
 And all around eacli eye's sepulchral 
 cell 
 Pointed eac^h fringed lash ; the smeared 
 loam 
 With tears, ascliillyasadrippiiig well, 
 She drench'd away : — and still she 
 
 comb'd, and kept 
 Sighing all day — and still she kiss'd, and 
 wept. 
 
 Then in a silken scarf, sweet with the 
 dews 
 Of precious flowers pluck'd in Araby, 
 And divine liquids come with odorous 
 ooze 
 Through the cold serpent ])ipe refresh- 
 fully,— 
 She wrapp'd it up ; and for its tomb did 
 choose 
 A garden-pot, wherein sl)e laid it by 
 And cover'd it witti mf)uld ;\nd. o'er it set 
 Sweet Basil, which her tears kept ever 
 wet. 
 
 And she forgot the stars, tlie moon, and 
 
 sun. 
 And she forgot tiie blue above the trees, 
 And slie forgot the dells where waters 
 
 run, 
 And she forgot the chilly autumn breeze ; 
 She had no knowledge when the day 
 
 was done. 
 And the new morn she saw not : but 
 
 in peace 
 Hung over her sweet Basil evermore. 
 And moisten'd it with tears unto the core. 
 
 And so she ever fed it with thin tears. 
 Whence thick, and green, and beauti- 
 ful it grew. 
 
 So that it smelt more balmy than its peprs 
 Of Basil-tufts in Florence ; for it drew 
 
 Nurture besides, and life, from human 
 
 fears. 
 From the fast mouldering head there 
 
 shut from view : 
 So that tlie jewel, safely casketed. 
 Came fortli, and in perfumed leatits 
 
 spread. 
 
 O Melancholy, linger here awhile ! 
 
 O Music, Music, breathe despondingly ! 
 O Echo, Echo, from some sombre isle. 
 
 Unknown, Lethean, sigh to us — O sigh ! 
 
 Spirits in grief, lift up your heads, and 
 
 smile ; 
 
 Lift up your heads, sweet Spirits, 
 
 heavily. 
 
 And make a pale light in your cypress 
 
 glooms, [tombs. 
 
 Tinting with silver wan your marble 
 
 Moan hither, all ye syllables of woe. 
 From the deep throat of sad Mel- 
 
 pomene 
 
 Through bronzed lyre in tragic order go, 
 
 And touch tlie strings into a mystery ; 
 
 Sound mournfully upon the winds and 
 
 low ; 
 
 For simple Isabel is soon to be 
 
 Among the dead : She withers, like a 
 
 pal m 
 Cut by an Indian for its juicy balm. 
 
 O leave the palm to wither by itself ; 
 Let not quick Winter chill its dying 
 hour !— 
 It may not be — those Baalites of pelf, 
 Her brethren, notetl tiie continual 
 shower 
 From iier dead eves ; and many a curious 
 elf, 
 Among her kindred, wonder'd that 
 such dower 
 Of youth and beauty should be thrown 
 
 aside 
 By one mark'd out to be a Noble's bride. 
 
 And, furthermore, her brethren won- 
 der'd much 
 Why she sat drooping by the Basil 
 green, 
 A nd wiiy it flourish'd, as bj' magic touch ; 
 Greatly they wonder'd what the thing 
 niiglit mean 
 They could not surely give belief, that 
 such 
 A very nothing would have power to 
 wean 
 Her from her own fair youth, and 
 pleasures gay, [''<.v- 
 
 And even remembrance of her love's de- 
 
398 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Tlierefore they watcli'd a time when they 
 might sift 
 This hidden whim ; and long they 
 watcli'd in vain ; 
 For seldom did she go to chapel-shrift, 
 
 And seldom felt she any hunger-pain ; 
 And when she left, she hurried back, as 
 swift 
 As bird on wing to breast its eggs 
 again ; 
 And. patient as a hen-bird, sat her there 
 Beside her Basil, weeping through her 
 hair. 
 
 Yet tliey contriv'd to steal the Basil-pot, 
 And to examine it in secret place : 
 
 The thing was vile with green and livid 
 spot. 
 
 And yet they knew it was Lorenzo's face ; 
 
 The guerdon of their murder they had 
 got. 
 And so left Florence in a moment's 
 space, 
 
 Never to turn again. — Away they went. 
 
 With blood upon their heads, to banish- 
 ment. 
 
 O Melancholy, turn thine eyes away ! 
 
 O Music, Music, breathe despondingly ! 
 O Echo, Echo, on some other day. 
 
 From isles Lethean, sigh to us — O sigh ! 
 Spirits of grief, sing not your " Well-a- 
 way ! " 
 
 For Isabel, sweet Isabel, will die : 
 Will die a death too lone and ineomjdete, 
 Now they have ta'en away her Basil 
 sweet. 
 
 Piteous she look'd on dead and senseless 
 things. 
 Asking for her lost Basil amorously : 
 And with melodious chuckle in the 
 strings 
 Of her lorn voice, she oftentimes 
 would cry 
 After the Pilgrim in his wanderings. 
 To ask him where her Basil was ; and 
 wlij' 
 'Twas hid from her : " For cruel 'tis," 
 
 said she, 
 " To steal my Basil-pot away from me." 
 
 And so she pined, and so she died forlorn, 
 
 Imijloring for her Basil to tlie last. 
 No lieart was there in Florence but did 
 mourn 
 In pity of her love, so overcast. 
 And a sad ditty of this story born 
 
 Froni mouth to mouth through all the 
 countrj' pass'd : 
 
 Still is the burthen sung — " O cruelty. 
 " To steal my Basil-pot away from 
 me ! " 1818. 1830. 
 
 THE EVE OF ST. AGNES 
 
 St. AaNES" Eve— Ah, bitter chill it was ! 
 The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold ; 
 The hare limp'd trembling through the 
 
 frozen grass. 
 And silent was the flock in woolly fold : 
 Numb were the Beadsman's fingei-s, 
 
 while he told 
 His rosar)', and while his frosted breath. 
 Like pious incense from a censer old, 
 Seem'd taking flight for heaven, with- 
 out a death. 
 Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while 
 his prayer he saitli. 
 
 His i^rayer he saith, tiiis patient, holy 
 
 man 
 Then takes his lamp, and riseth from 
 
 his knees. 
 And back returneth, meagre, barefoot. 
 
 wan. 
 Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees : 
 The sculi)tur'd dead, on each side, seem 
 
 to freeze, 
 Emprison'd in black, purgatorial rails : 
 Knights, ladies, praying in dumb ora- 
 
 t'ries. 
 He passeth by ; and his weak spirit fails 
 To think how thej^ niay aclie in icy 
 
 hoods and mails. 
 
 Northward he turneth through a little 
 
 door. 
 And scarce three steps, ere Music's 
 
 golden tongue 
 Flatter'd to tears this aged man and 
 
 poor ; 
 But no —already had his deathbell rung ; 
 The joys of all his life were said and 
 
 sung : 
 His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' 
 
 Eve: 
 Another way he went, and soon among 
 Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve. 
 And all night kept awake, for sinners' 
 
 sake to grieve. 
 
 That ancient Beadsman heard the pre- 
 lude soft ; 
 
 And so it chanc'd, for many a door was 
 wide. 
 
 From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft. 
 
 The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to 
 chide : [pride, 
 
 The level chambei-s, ready with their 
 
KEATS 
 
 399 
 
 Were glowing to receive a thousand 
 guests : 
 
 The carved angels, ever eager-eyed, 
 
 Star'd where upon their heads the cor- 
 nice rests. 
 
 With liair blown back, and wings put 
 cross-wise on their breasts. 
 
 At length burst in the argent revelry, 
 Witli plume, tiara, and all rich array, 
 Numerous as shadows haunting fairily 
 The bi-ain, new stuflE'd, in youth, with 
 
 triumphs gay 
 Of old romance. These let us wish 
 
 away, 
 And turn, sole-thoughted, to one Lady 
 
 there. 
 Whose heart had brooded, all that win- 
 try day, 
 On love, and wing'd St. Agnes' saintly 
 
 care. 
 As she had heard old dames full many 
 times declare. 
 
 They told her how, upon St. Agnes' Eve, 
 Young virgins might have visions of 
 
 delight. 
 And soft adorings from their loves re- 
 ceive 
 Upon tlie honey'd middle of the niglit 
 If ceremonies due the}' did ariglit ; 
 As, supperless to bed they must retire, 
 And couch supine their beauties, lily 
 
 white ; 
 Nor look behind, nor sideways, but re- 
 quire 
 Of Heaven with upward eyes for all 
 that they desire. 
 
 Full of this whim was tlioughtful 
 Madeline ; 
 
 The music, yearning like a God in pain. 
 
 She scarcely heard : her maiden eyes 
 divine. 
 
 Fix'd on the floor, saw many a sweeping 
 train 
 
 Pass by — she heeded not at all : in vain 
 
 Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier, 
 
 And back retu'd ; not cool'd by high 
 disdain. 
 
 But she saw not : her heart was other- 
 where : 
 
 She sigh'd for Agnes' dreams, tlie sweet- 
 est of the year. 
 
 Slie danc'd along with vague, regardless 
 
 eyes. 
 Anxious her lips, her breathing quick 
 
 and short : 
 
 The hallow'd hour was near at hand : 
 she sighs 
 
 Amid the timbrels, and the throng'd 
 resort 
 
 Of whisperers in anger, or in sport ; 
 
 'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and 
 scorn, 
 
 Hoodwink'd with faery fancy ; all amort, 
 
 Save to St. Agnes and her lambs un- 
 shorn. 
 
 And all the bliss to be before to-morrow 
 morn. 
 
 So, purposing each moment to retire. 
 She linger'd still. Meantime, across the 
 
 moors. 
 Had come young Porphyro, with heart 
 
 on fire 
 For Madeline. Beside the portal doors. 
 Buttressed from moonlight, stands he, 
 
 and implores 
 All saints to give him sight of Madeline, 
 But for one moment in the tedious liours, 
 That he might gaze and worship all 
 
 unseen ; 
 Percliance speak, kneel, touch, kiss — in 
 
 sooth such things have been. 
 
 He ventures in : let no buzz'd whisper 
 
 tell: 
 All eyes be muffled, or a hundred 
 
 swords 
 Will storm his heart. Love's fev'rous 
 
 citadel : 
 For him, those chambers held barbarian 
 
 hoi'des. 
 Hyena foemen,and hot-blooded lords. 
 Whose very dogs would execrations Iiowl 
 Against liis lineage : not one breast 
 
 affords 
 Him any mercy, in that mansion fovil. 
 Save one old beldame, weak in body 
 
 and in soul. 
 
 Ah, happy cliance! the aged creature 
 
 came. 
 Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand, 
 To where he stood, liid from the torch's 
 
 flame. 
 Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond 
 The sound of merriment and chorus 
 
 bland : 
 He startled her ; but soon she knew his 
 
 face. 
 And grasp'd iiis fingers in her palsied 
 
 hand. 
 Saying, "Mercy. Porphyro! liie thee 
 
 from tliis place ; 
 They are all here to-night, the whole 
 
 blood-thirsty race ! 
 
400 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Get hence ! get hence ! tliere's dwarfish 
 
 Hildebrand ; 
 He had a fever kite, and in tlie fit 
 He cursed tliee and thine, botli house 
 
 and lantl : 
 Then there's that old Lord Maurice, not 
 
 a whit 
 More tame for liis gray liairs — Alas me ! 
 
 flit! 
 Flit like a ghost away." — "Ah, Gossip 
 
 dear, 
 We're safe enough ; liere in this arm- 
 chair sit, 
 And tell me how" — •• Good Saints ! not 
 
 liere, not here : 
 " Follow me, cliild, or else these stones 
 
 will be thy bier." 
 
 He f olio w'd through alowl)^ arched way, 
 Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty 
 
 plume ; 
 And as she mutter'd " Well-a — well-a- 
 
 day ! " 
 He found him in a little moonlight 
 
 room, 
 Pale, lattic'd, chill, and silent as a tomb. 
 "Now tell me wliere is Madeline," 
 
 said he, 
 " O tell me, Angela, by the holy loom 
 Which none but secret sisterhood may 
 
 see, 
 When they St. Agnes' wool are weaving 
 
 piously." 
 
 " St. Agnes ! Ah ! it is St. Agnes' Eve- 
 Yet men will nuu'der upon lioly days : 
 Thou must hold water in a witcli's sieve, 
 And be liege-lord of all the Elves and 
 
 Fays, 
 To venture so : it fills me witli amaze 
 To see thee, Porphyro ! — St. Agnes' Eve ! 
 God's help ! my lady fair the conjurer 
 
 plays 
 This very night ; good angels her de- 
 ceive ! 
 But let me laugh awhile, I've mickle 
 time to grieve." 
 
 Feebly she laugheth in the languid 
 moon , 
 
 While Porphyro upon lier face doth look, 
 
 Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone 
 
 Wlio keepeth clos'd a wond'rous riddle- 
 book . 
 
 As spectacled she .sits in chimney nook. 
 
 But soon liis eyes grew brilliant, wlien 
 she told 
 
 His lady's jnirpose ; and he scarce could 
 brook 
 
 Tears, at the thought of those enchant- 
 ments cold. 
 
 And Madeline asleep in lap of legends 
 old. 
 
 Sudden a thought came like a full- 
 blown rose. 
 Flushing his brow, and in his pained 
 
 heart 
 Made purple riot : then doth he propose 
 A stratagem, that makes the beldame 
 
 start : 
 •' A cruel man and impious thou art : 
 Sweet lady, let her praj% and sleep, and 
 
 drefim 
 Alone with her good angels, far apart 
 From wicked men like thee. Go, go ! — 
 
 I deem 
 Tiiou canst not surely be the same that 
 thou didst seem. 
 
 "I will not harm her, by all saints I 
 
 swear," 
 Quoth Porphyro: " O may I ne'er find 
 
 grace 
 When my weak voice shall whisper its 
 
 last prayer, 
 If one of her soft ringlets I displace. 
 Or look with ruffian pas.sion in her face: 
 Good Angela, believe me by these tears ; 
 Or I will, even in a moment's space. 
 Awake, witli horrid shout, my foemen's 
 
 ears, 
 And beard them, though tliey be more 
 
 fang'd than wolves and bears." 
 
 "Ah! why wilt thou affright a feeble 
 soul "? 
 
 A poor, weak, palsy-stricken church- 
 yard thing. 
 
 Whose passing-bell may ere the mid- 
 night toll ; 
 
 Whose prayers for thee, each morn and 
 evening, 
 
 Were never miss'd." Thus plaining, 
 doth slie bring 
 
 A gentler speech from burning Por- 
 phyro ; 
 
 So woful. and of such deep sorrowing. 
 
 That Angela gives promise she will do 
 
 Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal 
 or woe. 
 
 Which was, to lead him. in close secrecy, 
 Even to Madeline's chamber, and there 
 
 hide 
 Him iji a closet, of such privacy 
 Tliat he niiglit see her beauty unespied. 
 And win ])erhaps tliat niglit a peerless 
 
 bride, 
 
KEATS 
 
 401 
 
 While legion"d fairies pa.c'd the coverlet. 
 And pale enchantment held lier sleepy- 
 eyed. 
 Never on such a night have lovers met, 
 Since Merlin paid his Demon all tlie 
 monstrous debt. 
 
 "It shall be as thou wisliest," said tlie 
 
 Dame : 
 " All cates and dainties shall be stored 
 
 there 
 Quickly on tliis feast-night : by the 
 
 tambour frame 
 Her own lute thou wilt see : no time to 
 
 spare, 
 For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare 
 On such a catering ti-ust my dizzy bead. 
 Wait here, my child, witli patience ; 
 
 kneel in prayer 
 The while : Ah I thou must needs tlie 
 
 lady wed, 
 Or may I never leave my grave among 
 
 the dead." 
 
 Ro saying, she hobbled oflf Avith busy fear. 
 The lover's endless minutes slowly 
 
 pass'd ; 
 The dame return'd, and whisper'd in his 
 
 ear 
 To follow her ; with aged eyes aghast 
 From fright of dim esfnal. Safe at last. 
 Through many a dusky gallery, they 
 
 gain 
 The maiden's cliamber, silken, hushVl, 
 
 and ciiaste ; 
 Wliere Porphyro took covert, jjleas'd 
 
 amain. 
 His poor guide hurried back with agues 
 
 in her brain. 
 
 Her falt'ring hand upon the balustrade 
 Old Angela was feeling for the stair. 
 When Madeline, St Agnes' charmed 
 
 maid. 
 Rose, like a mission'd spirit, unaware : 
 With silver taper's light, and pious care. 
 She turn'd. and down the aged gossip led 
 To a safe level matting. Now prepare. 
 Young Porphj-ro, for gazing on that bed ; 
 She comes, she conies again, like ring- 
 dove fray'd and fled. 
 
 Out went the taper as she hurried in ; 
 Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, 
 
 itd : 
 She cfos'fi the door, she panted, all akin 
 I'l! spirits of the air, and visions wide : 
 \i' uttered syllable, or, woe betide ! 
 Hut to her heart, her heart was voluble, 
 
 Paining with eloquence her balmy side ; 
 As though a tongueless nightingale 
 
 should swell 
 Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, 
 
 in her dell. 
 
 A casement high and triple arch'd there 
 
 was, 
 All garlanded with carven imag'ries 
 Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of 
 
 knot-grass. 
 And diamonded with panes of quaint 
 
 device. 
 Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes. 
 As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd 
 
 wings ; 
 And in the midst, 'niong thousand 
 
 heraldries. 
 And twilight saints, and dim emblazon- 
 
 ings, 
 A shielded scutcheon blush'd with blood 
 
 of queens and kings. 
 
 Full on this casement shone the wintry 
 
 moon, 
 And threw warm gules on Jladeline's 
 
 fair breast. 
 As down she knelt for heaven's grace 
 
 and boon ; 
 Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together 
 
 prest. 
 And on iier silver cross soft amethyst, 
 And on her hair a glory, like a saint : 
 Slie seem'd a splendid angel, newly drest. 
 Save wings, for heaven : Porphyro grew 
 
 faint : 
 She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from 
 
 mortal taint. 
 
 Anon his heart revives : her vespers done, 
 Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she 
 
 frees ; 
 Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one 
 Loosens her fragrant boddice ; by de- 
 grees 
 Her rich attire creejjs rustling to her 
 
 knees ; 
 Half-hidden, like a mermaid in seaweed. 
 Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and 
 
 sees. 
 In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed. 
 But dares not look behind, or all the 
 charm is fled. 
 
 Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly 
 
 nest. 
 In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex'd she 
 
 lay. 
 Until the poppied warmth of sleep ojj- 
 
 press'd 
 
402 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued 
 
 away ; 
 Flown, like a thouglit, until the nior- 
 
 rovv-day ; 
 Blissfully haven'd both from joy and 
 
 pain ; 
 Clasp'd like a missal where swart 
 
 Payuims pray ; 
 Blinded alike from sunshine and from 
 
 rain. 
 As thougii a rose should shut, and be a 
 
 bud again. 
 
 Stol'n to this paradise, and so en- 
 tranced, 
 
 Porphjao gazed upon her empty dress. 
 
 And listened to her breatliing, if it 
 chanced 
 
 To wake into a slumberous tenderness ; 
 
 Which when he heard, tliat minute did 
 he bless, 
 
 And breath'd himself : then from the 
 closet crept, 
 
 Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness, 
 
 And over tlie hush'd carpet, silent, 
 stepped, 
 
 And 'tween the curtains peep'd, where, 
 lo ! — how fast she slept. 
 
 Tlien by the bed-side, where the faded 
 moon 
 
 Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set 
 
 A table, and, half-auguish'd, threw 
 tliereon 
 
 A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and 
 jet:- 
 
 O for some drowsy Morphean amulet ! 
 
 The boisterous, midnight, festive cla- 
 rion. 
 
 The kettle-drum, and far-heard cla- 
 rionet, 
 
 Aflfray his ears, though but in dying 
 tone : — 
 
 The hall door shuts again, and all the 
 noise is gone. 
 
 And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep, 
 In blanched linen, smooth, and laven- 
 der 'd, 
 While he from forth the closet brought 
 
 a heap 
 Qf candied apple, quince, and plum, and 
 
 gourd ; 
 With jellies soother than the creamy 
 curd, [mon ; 
 
 And lucent syrops, tinct with cinna- 
 Manna and dates, in argosy transferr'd 
 From Fez ; and spiced dainties, ever}^ 
 one, [banon. 
 
 From silken Samarcand to cedar'd Le- 
 
 Tliese delicates he heap'd with glowing 
 
 hand 
 On golden dishes and in baskets bright 
 Of wreatlied silver : sumptuous they 
 
 stand 
 In the retired quiet of the night. 
 Filling tlie chilly room witli perfume 
 
 liglit.— 
 " And now, my love, my seraph fair, 
 
 awake ! 
 Tliou art my heaven, and I thine 
 
 eremite : 
 Open thine ej'es, for meek St. Agnes' 
 
 sake. 
 Or I sliall drowse beside thee, so my 
 
 soul dotii ache." 
 
 Tluis whispering, his warm, unnerved 
 
 arm 
 Sank in her pillow. Sluided was her 
 
 dream 
 By the dusk curtains : — 'twas a mid- 
 night charm 
 Impossible to melt as iced stream : 
 The lustrous salvers in the moonlight 
 
 gleam : 
 Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies : 
 It seem'd he never, never could redeem 
 From such a stedfast spell his lady's eyes ; 
 So mus'd awhile, entoil'd in woofed 
 phantasies. 
 
 Awakening up, betook her hollow lute, — 
 Tumultuous. — and, in chords that tend- 
 
 erest be, 
 He play'd an ancient ditty, long since 
 
 mute. 
 In Provence call'd, " La belle dame sans 
 
 mercy : " 
 Close to her ear touching the melody ; — 
 Wherewith disturb'd, she utter'd a soft 
 
 moan : 
 He ceased — she panted quick — and sud- 
 denly 
 Her blue atfrayed eyes wide open shone : 
 Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth- 
 sculptiu-ed stone. 
 
 Her eyes were open, but she still beheld, 
 Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep : 
 There was a painful ciiange, that nigh 
 
 expeird 
 The blisses of her dream so pure and deep 
 At which fair Madeline began to wee]), 
 And moan forth witless words with 
 
 many a sigh ; [kee]> ; 
 
 While still her gaze on Porpliyro would 
 Who knelt, with joined hands and 
 
 l)iteous e^^e, [dreamingly. 
 
 Fearing to move or speak, she look'd so 
 
KEATS 
 
 403 
 
 "Ah, P<)ri)'iyro ! " said she, "buteven 
 now 
 
 Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine 
 ear, 
 
 Made tuneable with every sweetest vow ; 
 
 And those sad eyes were spiritual and 
 clear : 
 
 How chang'd tliouart ! liow pallid, chill, 
 and drear ! 
 
 Give me tliat voice again, my Porphyrc), 
 
 Tliose looks immortal, those complain- 
 ings dear ! 
 
 Oh leave me not in this eternal woe, 
 
 For if tliou diest, my Love, I know not 
 where to go." 
 
 Beyond a mortal man impassion'd far 
 At these voluptuous accents, lie arose. 
 Ethereal, flusli'd, and like a throbbing 
 
 star 
 Seen mid the sapphire heaven's deep 
 
 repose : 
 Into her dream he melted, as the rose 
 Blendeth its odor with the violet,— 
 Solution sweet : meantime the frost 
 
 wind blows 
 Like Love's alarum pattering the sharp 
 
 sleet 
 Against tlie window-panes ; St. Agnes' 
 
 moon hath set. 
 
 'Tis dark : quick pattereth the flaw- 
 blown sleet : 
 " Tills is no dream, my bride, my 
 
 Madeline ! " 
 'Tis dark : the iced gusts still rave and 
 
 beat : 
 " No dream, alas ! alas ! and woe is mine! 
 Porphyro will leave me here to fade and 
 
 pine. — 
 Cruel ! what traitor could thee hither 
 
 bring? 
 I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine. 
 Though thou forsakest a deceived 
 
 thing ; — 
 A dove forlorn and lost with sick un- 
 
 pruned wing." 
 
 "My Madeline ! sweet dreamer ! lovely 
 
 bride ! 
 Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest ? 
 Thy beauty's shield, heart-shap'd and 
 
 vermeil dyed ? 
 Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my 
 
 rest 
 After so many hours of toil and quest, 
 A famish'd pilgrim, — saved by miracle. 
 Though I have found, I will not rob thy 
 
 nest 
 
 Saving of thy sweet self ; if thou 
 think'st well 
 
 To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude in- 
 fidel. 
 
 " Hark ! 'tis an elfin-storm from faery 
 
 land, 
 Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed : 
 Arise — arise ! the morning is at hand ; — 
 The bloated wassaillers will never 
 
 heed : — 
 Let us away, my love, with happy speed ; 
 There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see, — 
 Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy 
 
 mead : 
 Awake ! arise ! my love, and fearless be, 
 For o'er the southern moors I have a 
 
 liome for thee." 
 
 She hurried at his words, beset with 
 
 fears. 
 For tliere were sleeping dragons all 
 
 around, 
 At glaring watch, perliaps, with ready 
 
 spears — 
 Down tlie wide stairs a darkling way 
 
 tliey found. — 
 In all the house was heard no human 
 
 sovind. 
 A chain-droop'd lamp was flickering by 
 
 each door ; 
 Tlie arras, rich with horseman, hawk, 
 
 and hound, 
 Flutter'd in tiie besieging wind's uproar ; 
 And the long carpets rose along the 
 
 gusty floor. 
 
 They glide, like phantoms, into the wide 
 
 hall ; 
 Like phantoms, to the iron porch, they 
 
 glide ; 
 Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl, 
 With a huge empty flagon by his side : 
 The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook 
 
 his hide. 
 But his sagacious eye an inmate owns : 
 By one, and one, the bolts full easy 
 
 slide : — 
 The chains lie silent on the footworn 
 
 stones ; — 
 Tlie key turns, and the door upon its 
 
 hinges groans. 
 
 And they are gone : ay. ages long ago 
 These lovers fled away into the storm. 
 That night the Baron dreamt of many 
 
 a woe. 
 And all his warrior-guests, with shade 
 
 and form 
 
404 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Of witch, and demon, and large coffin- 
 worm. 
 
 Were long be-nightmar'd. Angela the 
 old 
 
 Died palsy-twitch'd, with meagre face 
 deform ; 
 
 The Beadsman, after thousand avestold. 
 
 For aye unsought for slept among his 
 ashes cold. 
 
 January, 1819. 1830. 
 
 THE EVE OF SAINT MARK 
 
 A Fragment 
 
 Upon a Sabbath-day it fell ; 
 Twice holy was the Sabbath-bell, 
 That call'd the folks to evening prayer ; 
 Tlie city streets were clean and fair 
 From wholesome drencli of April rains ; 
 And, on the western window panes, 
 The chilly sunset faintly told 
 Of unmatur'd green valleys cold, 
 Of the green thorny bloomless hedge, 
 Of rivers new with spring-tide sedge, 
 Of primroses by shelter'd rills, 
 And daisies on the aguish hills. 
 Twice holy was the Sabbath-bell : 
 Tlie silent streets were crowded well 
 With staid and pious companies. 
 Warm from their fire-side orafries ; 
 And moving, with demurest air, 
 To even-song, and vesper praj'er. 
 Each arched porch, and entry low. 
 Was fiird with patient folk and flow. 
 With whispers hush, and sliuffling feet. 
 While play'd tlie organ loud and sweet. 
 
 The bells had ceas'd, the prayers begun, 
 And Bertha had not yet half done 
 A curious volume, patch'd and torn. 
 That all day long, from earliest morn, 
 Had taken captive her two eyes, 
 Among its golden broideries ; 
 Ferplex'd her with a thousand things. — 
 The stars of Heaven, and angels' wings. 
 Martyrs in a fiery blaze. 
 Azure saints and silver rays. 
 Moses' breastplate, and the seven 
 Candlesticks Jolin saw in Heaven, 
 Tlie winged Lion of St. Mark, 
 And the Covenantal Ark, 
 With its many mysteries. 
 Cherubim and golden mice. 
 
 Bertha was a maiden fair. 
 Dwelling in th' old Minster-square ; 
 From her fire-side she could see, 
 Sidelong, its rich antiquity, 
 
 Far as the Bishop's garden- wall : 
 Where sycamores and elm-trees tall. 
 Full-leav'd, the forest had outstript, 
 By no sharp north-wind ever nipt. 
 So shelter'd bj^ the mighty pile. 
 Bertha arose, and read awhile, 
 With forehead 'gainst the window-pane 
 Again she try'd, and then again, 
 Until the dusk eve left her dark 
 Upon the legend of St. Mark. 
 From plated lawn-frill, fine and thin, 
 She lifted up lier soft warm chin. 
 With aching neck and swimming eyes, 
 And daz'd with saintly imageries. 
 
 All was gloom, and silent all. 
 Save now and then the still foot-fall 
 Of one returning homewards late, 
 Past the echoing minster-gate. 
 The clamorous daws, that all the day 
 Above tree-tops and towers play, 
 Pair by pair liad gone to rest, 
 Each in its ancient belfry nest, 
 Where asleep they fall betimes. 
 To music and the drowsy chimes. 
 
 All was silent, all was gloom. 
 Abroad and in the liomely room : 
 Down she sat, poor cheated soul ; 
 And struck a lamp from the dismal coal; 
 Lean'd forward, with bright di'ooping 
 
 hair 
 And slant look, full against the glare. 
 Her shadow, in uneasy guise, 
 HoverVl about, a giant size. 
 On ceiling-beam and old oak chair, 
 The parrot's cage, and panel square ; 
 And the warm angled winter-screen, 
 On which were manj^ monsters seen, 
 Call'd doves of Siam, Lima mice, 
 And legless birds of Paradise, 
 Macaw, and tender Avadavat, 
 And silken-furr'd Angora cat. 
 Untir'd she read, her shadow still 
 Glower'd about, as it would fill 
 Tlie room with wildest forms and shades. 
 As though some ghostly queen of spades 
 Had come to mock behind her back. 
 And dance, and ruffle her garments 
 
 black. 
 Untir'd she read the legend page, 
 Of holy Mark, from youth to age. 
 On land, on sea, in pagan chains, 
 Rejoicing for his many pains. 
 Sometimes the learned eremite, 
 Witli golden star, or dagger bright, 
 Referr'd to pious poesies 
 Written in smallest crow-quill size 
 Beneath the text : and thus the rliyme 
 
KEATS 
 
 405 
 
 Was parcerd out from time to time : 
 
 " Als writeth lie of swevens, 
 
 ]\Ieii han before they wake in bliss, 
 VVhaniie that hir friendes thinke him 
 
 bound 
 In crimped shroude faiTe under grounde : 
 And liow a litling childe mote be 
 Asr.iiit er its nativitie. 
 Gif that the modre (God lier blesse !) 
 Kepen in solitarinesse. 
 And kissen devout the lioly croce. 
 Of Goddes love, and Satlian's force, — 
 He writith ; and tliin^es many mo 
 Of swiche thinges I may not show. 
 Bot I must tellen verilie 
 Somdel of Sainte Cicilie. 
 And chiefly what he auctoretlie 
 Of Sainte Markis life and dethe : " 
 
 At length her constant eyelids come 
 Upon the fervent martyrdom ; 
 Then lastly to his liolv shrine, 
 Exalt amid the tapers' sliine 
 At Venice. — 
 January and September, IS19. 1848. 
 
 ODE ON INDOLENCE 
 
 " They toil not, neither do they spin." 
 
 One morn before me were three figures 
 seen , 
 With bowed necks, and joined hands, 
 side-faced ; 
 And one behind the other stepp'd serene, 
 In placid sandals, and in white robes 
 graced ; 
 They pass . iike figures on a marble iirn , 
 When snifted round to see tlie other 
 side ; 
 They came again ; as when the urn 
 once more 
 Is shifted round, the first seen shades 
 return ; 
 And they were sti-ange to me, as may 
 betide 
 With vases, to one deep in Phidian 
 lore. 
 
 How is it Shadows ! that I knew ye not ? 
 How c^time ye muffled in so hush a 
 mask ? 
 Was it a silent deep-disguised plot 
 To steal away, and leave without a 
 task 
 My idle days ? Ripe was tlie drowsy 
 hour ; 
 The blissful cloud of summer-indo 
 lence 
 
 Benumbed my eyes ; my pulse grew 
 less and less ; 
 Pain had no sting, and pleasure's wreath 
 no flower : 
 O why did ye not melt, and leave my 
 sense 
 Unhaunted quite of all but — notii- 
 ingness ? 
 
 A third time passed the}' by, and, pass- 
 ing, turn'd 
 Each one the face a moment whiles to 
 me ; 
 Tlien faded, and to follow them Iburn'd 
 And ach'd for wings, because I knew 
 the three ; 
 Tiie first was a fair Maid, and Love her 
 name ; 
 Tlie second was Ambition, pale of 
 clieek. 
 And ever watchful with fatigued 
 eye; 
 The last, whom I love more, the more of 
 blame 
 Is lieap'd upon her, maiden most un- 
 meek, — 
 I knew to be my demon Poesy. 
 
 They faded, and forsooth ! I wanted 
 wings : 
 O folly ! Wiiat is Love ? and wliere is 
 it? 
 And for tliat poor Ambition ! it springs 
 From a man's little heart's short fever- 
 fit : 
 For Poes}" ! — no, — she has not a joy, — 
 At least for me, — so sweet as drowsy 
 noons. 
 And evenings steep'd in honied in- 
 dolence : 
 O. for an age so sheltered from annoy. 
 That I may never know how change 
 the moons. 
 Or hear the voice of busy common- 
 sense ! 
 
 And once more came they by ; — alas ! 
 wherefore ? 
 My sleep had been enibroider'd with 
 dim dreams ; 
 My soul had been a lawn besprinkled 
 o'er 
 With flovi'ers. and stirring shades, and 
 baffled beams : [fell. 
 
 The mom was clouded, but no shower 
 Tho' in lier lids hung the sweet tears 
 of May ; 
 The open casement press'd a new- 
 leav'd vine, 
 
4o6 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Let in the budding warmth and thros- 
 tle's lay ; 
 O Shadows ! 'twas a time to bid fare- 
 well ! 
 Upon your skirts had fallen no tears 
 of mine. 
 
 So, 3^e three Ghosts, adieu ! Ye cannot 
 raise 
 My head cool-bedded in the flowery 
 grass ; 
 For I would not be dieted with praise, 
 
 A pet-lamb in a sentimental farce ! 
 Fade softly from my eyes, and be once 
 more 
 In masque-like Figures on the dreamy 
 urn ; 
 Farewell ! I 3^et have visions for the 
 niglit. 
 And for tlie day faint visions there is 
 store : 
 Vanisli, ye Pliantoms ! from my 
 idle spright. 
 Into the clouds, and never more re- 
 turn ! March, IS 10. 1848, 
 
 ODE 
 
 Bards of Passion and of Mirth. 
 Ye have left your souls on earth ! 
 Have }'e souls in heaven too. 
 Double-lived in regions new? 
 Yes. and those of heaven comnnxne 
 Witli the spheres of sun and moon ; 
 With tlie noise of fountains wond'rous. 
 And the parle of voices thund'rous ; 
 With the whisper of heaven's trees 
 And one anotlier, in soft ease 
 Seated on Elysian lawns 
 Brows'd by none but Dian's fawns ; 
 Underneath large blue-bells tented, 
 Where the daisies are rose-scented, 
 And the rose herself has got 
 Perfume which on eai'th is not ; 
 Where the nigJitingale doth sing 
 Not a senseless, tranced thing, 
 But divine melodious truth ; 
 Philosophic numbers smooth ; 
 Tales and golden histories 
 Of heaven and its mysteries. 
 
 Thus ye live on high, and then 
 On the earth ye live again ; 
 And tlie souls ye left behind you 
 Teach us, here, the way to find you. 
 Where your otlier souls are jojaiig. 
 Never sUimber'd. never cloying. 
 Here, yonr earth-born souls still speak 
 To mortals, of their little week ; 
 
 Of tlieir sorrows and delights ; 
 Of their passions and their spites ; 
 Of their glory and their shame ; 
 What doth strengthen and what maim. 
 Thus ye teach us, every day. 
 Wisdom, though fled far away. 
 
 Bards of Passion and of Mirth, 
 Ye have left your souls on earth ! 
 Ye iiave souls in heaven too, 
 Double-lived in regions new ! 
 
 March 26, 1819. 1820. 
 
 ODE TO PSYCHE 
 
 Goddess ! hear these tuneless num- 
 
 bers, wrung 
 By sweet enforcement and remem- 
 brance dear. 
 And pardon tliat thy secrets should be 
 sung 
 Even into thine own soft-conched ear ; 
 Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see 
 The winged Psyche with awaken'd 
 eyes ? 
 
 1 wander'd in a forest thoughtlessly. 
 And, on the sudden, fainting with 
 
 surprise, [side 
 
 Saw two fair creatures, couched side by 
 In deepest grass, beneath the whis- 
 pering roof 
 Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where 
 there ran 
 A brooklet, scarce espied : 
 'Mid hush'd, cool-rooted flowers, fra- 
 grant-eyed. 
 Blue, silver-wliite, and budded Tj'rian, 
 They lay calm-breathing on the bedded 
 grass ; 
 Their arms embraced, and their pin- 
 ions too ; 
 Their lips touch'd not, but had not 
 bade adieu. 
 As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber. 
 And ready still past kisses to outnumber 
 At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love : 
 
 The winged boy I knew ; 
 But who wast thou, O happy, happy 
 dove ? 
 His Psyche true ! 
 
 O latest born and loveliest vision far 
 
 Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy ! 
 
 Fairer than Phoebe's sapphire-region'd 
 
 star, [sky ; 
 
 Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the 
 
 Fairer than these, though temple thou 
 
 hast none. 
 
 Nor altar heap'd with flowers ; 
 
' v^^ 
 
 'J 
 
 KEATS 
 
 407 
 
 Nor virgin-clioir to make delicious moan 
 
 Upon the midniglit liours ; 
 
 No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense 
 
 sweet 
 
 Fioni chain-swung censer teeming : 
 
 No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat 
 
 Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming. 
 
 brightest ! though too late for antique 
 
 vows. 
 Too, too late for the fond believing 
 lyre. 
 When holy were the haunted forest 
 boughs. 
 Holy the air, the water, and the fire ; 
 Yet even in these days so far retir'd 
 From happy pieties, thy lucent fans. 
 Fluttering among the faint Olymp- 
 ians, 
 
 1 see, and sing, by my own eyes inspired. 
 So let me be tiiyclioir, and make a moan 
 
 Upon the midnight hours : 
 Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy in- 
 cense sweet 
 From swinged censer teeming ; 
 Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy 
 heat 
 Of pale-mouth'd jirophet dreaming. 
 
 Yes, I will be tliy priest, and build a fane 
 In some untrodden region of my mind, 
 Wliere hranclied tliougjits, new grown 
 with pleasant pain. 
 Instead of pines shall murmur in the 
 wind : 
 Far, far around shall those dark-clusterVl 
 trees 
 Fledge the vvild-ridged mountains 
 steep by steep : 
 And there i)y zephyrs, streams, and 
 birds, and bees. 
 The moss-lain Dryads shall be lullVlto 
 sleep ; 
 And in the midst of this wide quietness 
 A rosy sanctuary will I dress 
 With the wreatli'd trellis of a working 
 brain. 
 With buds, and bells, and stars with- 
 ovit a name. 
 With all the gardener Fiincy e'er could 
 feign, 
 Who breeding flowers, will never breed 
 the same : [ligl't 
 
 And there shall be for thee all soft de- 
 
 That shadowy thought can win, 
 A briglit torch, and a casement ope at 
 night. 
 To let the warm Love in ! 
 
 April, 1819. 1820. 
 
 ODE ON A GRECIAN URN 
 
 Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness, 
 Thou foster-child of silence and slow 
 time. 
 Sylvan historian, who canst thus ex- 
 press 
 A flowery tale more sweetly than our 
 riiyme : 
 What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about 
 thy shape 
 Of deities or mortals, or of botli. 
 In Tempe or the dales of Arcady ? 
 What men or gods are these ? What 
 
 maidens lotli ? 
 What mad pui'suit ? What struggle to 
 escape ? 
 What pipes and timbrels ? What 
 wild ecstasy ? 
 
 Heard melodi es are sweet, but those un- 
 
 Ar e swee ter ; therefore, ye soft pipes, 
 pTay~on ; 
 Not to tliQ sensual ear, but, more en- 
 dear'd , 
 Pipe to tlie spirit ditties of no tone : 
 Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou 
 canst not leave 
 Thy song, nor ever can those trees be 
 bare ; 
 Bold Lo ver ^ never, never can st tliQii 
 kiss 
 Thougii winning near the goal — yet, do 
 not grieve ; 
 She cannot fade, thouglithou hast not 
 thy bliss. 
 For ever wilt thou love, and she be 
 fair ! 
 
 Ah, happy, happy boughs ! that cannot 
 shed 
 Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring 
 adieu ; 
 And, happy melodist, unwearied. 
 
 Forever piping songs for ever new ; 
 More happy love ! more happ}^ happy 
 love ! 
 For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd, 
 For ever panting, and for ever 
 young ; 
 All breathing human passion far above. 
 That leaves a hear t high-sorrowful and 
 cloy^3^ 
 A burning forehead , and a parching 
 tongue. 
 
 Who are these coming to the sacrifice ? 
 To what green altar, O mysterious 
 priest, 
 
4o8 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the 
 skies, 
 And all lier silken flanks with garlands 
 dressed ? 
 What little town by river or sea shore. 
 Or mountain-built with peaceful cit- 
 adel, 
 Is emptied of this folk, this pious 
 morn ? 
 And, little town, thy streets for ever- 
 more 
 Will silent be ; and not a soul to tell 
 Why thou art desolate, can e'er re- 
 turn. 
 
 O Attic shape ! Fair attitude ! with 
 brede 
 Of marble men and maidens over 
 wrought. 
 With forest branches and the trodden 
 weed ; 
 Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of 
 thought 
 As doth eternity : Cold Pastoral ! 
 
 When old age shall this generation 
 waste. 
 Thou shalt remain, in midst of other 
 woe 
 Than ours, a frien<l to man, to vvliom 
 thou say'st, 
 " Beauty is truth, truth beauty, " — 
 that is all 
 Ye know on earth, and all ye need 
 to know. 
 
 1S19. January, 1820. 
 
 ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE 
 
 My heart aches, and a drowsy numb- 
 ness pains 
 My sense, as though of hemlock I had 
 drunk, ' 
 Or emptied some dull opiate to tlie drains 
 One minute past, and Lethe-wards 
 had sunk : 
 'Tis not througii envy of thy happy lot. 
 But being too happy in thine happi- 
 ness. — 
 That thou, light winged Dryad of 
 the trees. 
 
 In some melodious plot 
 Of beechen green, and shadows 
 numberless, 
 Singest of summer in full-throated 
 ease. 
 
 _ 0, for a dr aught of vintage ! that liath 
 
 beefr — [eartli, 
 
 Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved 
 
 Tasting of Flora and the country green, 
 Dance, and Provengal song, and sun- 
 burnt mirth ! 
 
 for a beaker full of the warm South, 
 Full of the true, the blushful Hippo- 
 
 crene. 
 With beaded bubbles winking at tiie 
 brim. 
 
 And purple-stained mouth ; 
 That I might drink, and leave the 
 world unseen, 
 And with thee fade away into the 
 forest dim : 
 
 Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget 
 What tliou among the leaves liast 
 never known, 
 Tlie weariness, the fever, and the fret 
 Here, wliere men sit and hear each 
 otlier groan ; 
 Where jialsy sliakes a few, sad, last gray 
 hairs, 
 Where youtii grows pale, and spectre- 
 tliin, and dies ; 
 Where but to think is to be full of 
 sorrow 
 
 And leaden-eyed despairs, 
 Where Beauty cannot keep her 
 lustrous eyes. 
 Or new Love pine at them beyond 
 to-morrow. 
 
 A>vTiy ! away ! for I will fly to thee, 
 y Not cliarioted by Bacchus and his 
 
 pards. 
 But on the viewless wings of Poesy, 
 Thougli the dull brain perplexes and 
 retards : 
 Already with thee ! tender is the night. 
 And haply the Queen-Moon is on her 
 throne. 
 Cluster'd around by all her starry 
 Fays; 
 
 But here there is no ligiit. 
 Save what from heaven is with tlie 
 breezes blown 
 Tlirough verdurous glooms and 
 winding mossy ways. 
 
 1 cannot see what flowers are at my 
 
 feet, 
 Nor wliat soft incense hangs upon the 
 bouglis. 
 But, in embalmed darkness, guess each 
 sweet 
 Wherewith the seasonable month 
 endows 
 The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree 
 wild ; 
 
KEATS 
 
 409 
 
 White hawthorn, and the pastoral 
 eglantine ; 
 Fast fading violets cover'd up in 
 leaves ; 
 
 And mid-May's eldest child, 
 The coming musk-rose, full of dewy 
 wine. 
 The murmurous haunt of flies on 
 summer eves. 
 
 Darkling I listen ; and, for many a time 
 I have been half in love witli easeful 
 Deatli, 
 Call'd him soft names in many a mused 
 rhyme. 
 To take into the air my quiet breatli ; 
 Now more than ever seems it rich to die, 
 To cease upon the midnight with no 
 pain. 
 While thou art pouring forth thy 
 soul abroad 
 
 In sucli an ecstasy ! 
 Still wouldst thou sing, and I have 
 ears in vain — 
 To thy high requiem become a sod. 
 
 Thou wast not born for death, immortal 
 Bird ! 
 No hungry generations tread tliee 
 down : 
 The voice I hear this passing night was 
 heard 
 In ancient days by emperor and clown; 
 Perhaps the self -same song that found a 
 path 
 Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, 
 sick for home. 
 She stood in tears amid the alien 
 corn : 
 
 The same tiiat oft-times liatli 
 Charm'd magic casements, opening 
 on the foam 
 Of perilous seas, in faery lands for- 
 lorn. 
 
 Forlorn ! the very word is like a bell 
 To toll me back from thee to my sole 
 self ! 
 Adieu ! the fancy cannot cheat so well 
 
 As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf. 
 Adieu ! adieu ! tliy plaintive antlieni 
 fades 
 Past the near meadows, over tlie still 
 stream, [deep 
 
 Up the hill-side ; and now "tis buried 
 In the next valley-glades : 
 Was it a vision, or a waking dream ? 
 Fled is that music : — Do I wake or 
 sleep? May, 1819. July, 1819. 
 
 ODE ON MELANCHOLY 
 
 No, no. go not to Lethe, neither twist 
 Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poi- 
 sonous wine ; 
 Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be ki.ss'd 
 By nightshade, ruby grape of Proser- 
 pine ; 
 Make not-your rosary of yew-berries. 
 Nor let the beetle, nor the deatli-moth 
 be 
 Your mournful Psyclie, nor the 
 downy owl 
 A partner in your sorrow's mysteries : 
 For .sliade to shade will come too 
 drowsily. 
 And drown tiie wakeful anguish of 
 the soul. 
 
 But wlien the melancholy fit shall fall 
 Sudden from heaven like a weeping 
 cloud, 
 Tliat fosters the droop-headed flowers 
 all. 
 And hides the green hill in an April 
 shroud ; 
 Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose. 
 Or on the rainbow of the salt sand- 
 wave. 
 Or on the wealth of globed peonies ; 
 Or if tliy mistress some rich anger shows, 
 Emprison her soft hand, and let her 
 rave. 
 And feed deep, deep upon her peer- 
 less eyes. 
 
 She dwells with Beauty — Beauty that 
 must die ; 
 And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips 
 Bidding adieu; and acliing Pleasure nigh. 
 Turning to poison while the bee- 
 mouth sips : 
 Ay. in the very temple of Delight 
 Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran 
 shrine. 
 Though seen ofnonesavehimwho.se 
 strenuous tongue 
 Can burst Joy's grape against his palate 
 fine : 
 His .soul shall taste tlie sadness of her 
 might, 
 And be among her cloudy ti'ophies 
 hung. ISIO. 1820. 
 
 TO AUTUMN 
 
 Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness. 
 Close bosom-friend of the maturing 
 
4IO 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Conspiring with hitn how to load and 
 bless 
 With fruit tlie vines that round the 
 thatch-eves run ; 
 To bend with apples tlie nioss'd cottage- 
 trees. 
 And fill all fruit with ripeness to tlie 
 core ; 
 To swell the gourd, and plump the 
 hazel shells 
 With a sweet kernel ; to set budding 
 more. 
 And still more, later flowers for the 
 
 bees, 
 Until they think warm days will never 
 cease. 
 For Summer lias o'er-brimm'd their 
 clammy cells. 
 
 Wlio hatli not .seen thee oft amid thy 
 store ? 
 Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may 
 find 
 Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, 
 Thy liair soft-lifted by the winnowing 
 wind ; 
 Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep. 
 Drows'd witli the fume of poppies, 
 wliile thy liook 
 Spares the next swath and all its 
 twined flowers : 
 And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost 
 keep 
 Steady thy laden head across a brook ; 
 Or by a cider-press, with patient look, 
 Thou watchest the last oozings lioui's 
 bj^ hours. 
 
 Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, 
 where ai'e they ? 
 Tliink not of them, thou hast thy mu- 
 sic too. — 
 While barred clouds bloom tlie soft- 
 dying day, 
 And touch the stubble-plains with 
 ros}" hvie ; 
 Tlien in a wailful choir the small gnats 
 mourn 
 Among the river sallows, borne aloft 
 Or sinking as the liglit wind lives or 
 dies ; 
 And full-grown lambs loud bleat from 
 hilly bourn ; 
 Hedge-crickets sing ; and now with 
 treble soft [croft ; 
 
 The I'ed-breast whistles from agarden- 
 And gathering swallows twitter in 
 tlie skies. 
 
 September, ISIO. 1820. 
 
 HYPERION 
 
 A FRAGMENT 
 
 BOOK I„ 
 
 Deep in the shady sadness of a vale 
 Far sunken from the healthy breath of 
 
 morn. 
 Far from the fiery noon, and eve's one 
 
 star. 
 Sat gray-hair'd Saturn, quiet as a stone. 
 Still as the silence round about liis lair ; 
 Forest on forest liung about his liead 
 Like cloud on cloud. No stir of air was 
 
 there. 
 Not so mucli life as on a summer's day 
 Robs not one light seed fi'om the 
 
 featlier'd grass. 
 But where the dead leaf fell, there did 
 
 it rest. 
 A stream went voiceless b\% still dead- 
 ened more 
 By reason of his fallen divinity 
 Spreading a shade : the Naiad 'mid her 
 
 reel Is 
 Press'd her cold finger clo.ser to Iier lips. 
 
 Along the margin-sand large foot- 
 marks went. 
 No further than to where his feet had 
 
 stray 'd. 
 And slept there since. Upon the sodden 
 
 ground 
 His old right hand lay nerveless, listless. 
 
 dead. 
 Unsceptred ; and liis realniless eyes 
 
 were closed ; 
 While his bow'd liead seem'd list'ning 
 
 to the Eartli, 
 His ancient mother, for some comfort 
 
 yet. 
 
 It seem'd no force could wake him 
 from his place ; 
 
 But there came one, who with a kindred 
 hand 
 
 Touch'd his wide shoulders, after bend- 
 ing low 
 
 With reverence, though to one who knew 
 it not. 
 
 She was a Goddess of the infant world ; 
 
 By her in stature the tall Amazon 
 
 Had stood a pigmj^'s lieight : she would 
 have ta'en 
 
 Achilles by the hair and bent his neck ; 
 
 Or with a finger stay'd Ixion's wlieel. 
 
 Her face was large as that of Memphian 
 spliinx, 
 
 Pedestal'd haply in a palace court, 
 
KEATS 
 
 411 
 
 When sages look'd to Egypt for their 
 
 lore. 
 But oh ! how unlike marble was that 
 
 face : 
 How beautiful, if sorrow had not made 
 Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's 
 
 self. 
 There was a listening fear in her regard, 
 As if calamit)' had but begun : 
 As if the vanward clouds of evil days 
 Had spent their malice, and the sullen 
 
 rear 
 Was with its stored tliunder laboring up. 
 One hand she press'd upon that aching 
 
 spot 
 Where beats the human heart, as if just 
 
 there, 
 Thougli an immortal, she felt cruel pain ; 
 Tlie other upon Saturn's bended neck 
 Slie laid, and to tlie level of liis ear 
 Leaning witli parted lips, some words 
 
 she spake 
 In solemn tenor and deep organ tone : 
 Some mourning words, whicli in our 
 
 feeble tongue 
 Would come in these like accents ; O 
 
 how frail 
 To that large utterance of tlie early 
 
 Gods ! 
 "Saturn, look up! — tliough wherefore, 
 
 poor old King ? 
 I have no comfort for thee, no not one : 
 I cannot say, ' O wherefore sleepest 
 
 tliou?' feartli 
 
 For heaven is parted from thee, and the 
 Knows thee not, thus afflicted, for a 
 
 God; 
 And ocean too, with all its solemn noise. 
 Has from thy sceptre pass'd ; and all 
 
 the air 
 Is emptied of tliine hoary majesty. 
 Thy thunder, conscious of the new com- 
 mand, 
 Rumbles rekictant o'er our fallen house : 
 And thy sharp lightning in unpractised 
 
 liands 
 Scorches and burns our once serene 
 
 domain. 
 O aching time ! O moments big as years ! 
 All as ye pass swell out the monstrous 
 
 trutli. 
 And press it so upon our weary griefs 
 That unbelief has not a space to breatlie. 
 Saturn, sleep on : — O thoughtless, wliy 
 
 did I 
 Thus violate th}^ slumbrous solitude? 
 Why should I ope thy melancholy eyes ? 
 Saturn, sleep on ! while at thy feet I 
 
 weep." 
 
 As when, upon a tranced summer- 
 night, 
 Those green-rob'd senators of mighty 
 
 woods, 
 Tall oaks, branch-charmed by the 
 
 earnest stars, 
 Dream, and so dream all night without 
 
 a stir, 
 Save froni one gradual solitary gust 
 Which comes upon the silence, and dies 
 
 off, 
 As if the ebbing air had but one wave ; 
 So came these words and went ; tlie 
 
 while in tears 
 She touch'd her fair large forehead to 
 
 the ground. 
 Just where her falling hair might be 
 
 outspi'ead 
 A soft and silken mat for Saturn's feet. 
 One moon, with alteration slow, had 
 
 shed 
 Her silver seasons four upon the night. 
 And still these two were postui-ed mo- 
 tionless, 
 Like natural sculpture in cathedral cav- 
 ern ; 
 The frozen God still couchant on tlie 
 
 earth , 
 And the sad Goddess weeping at his feet : 
 Until at length old Saturn lifted up 
 His faded eyes, and saw his kingdom 
 
 gone. 
 And all the gloom and sorrow of the 
 
 place. 
 And that fair kneeling Goddess ; and 
 
 then spake. 
 As with a palsied tongue, and while his 
 
 beard 
 Shook liorrid with such aspen-malady : 
 " O tender spouse of gold Hyperion, 
 Thea. I feel thee ere I see thy face ; 
 Look up, and let me see our doom in it ; 
 Look up, and tell me if this feeble shape 
 Is Saturn's ; tell me, if thou hear'st the 
 
 voice 
 Of Saturn ; tell me, if tliis wrinkling 
 
 brow. 
 Naked and bare of its great diadem. 
 Peers like the front of Saturn. Who 
 
 had power 
 To make me desolate? wlience came the 
 
 strength ? 
 How was it nurtur'd to such bursting 
 
 forth. 
 While Fate seem'd strangled in my 
 
 nervous grasp ? 
 But it is so ; and I am smother'd up, 
 And buried from all godlike exercise 
 Of influence benign on planets pale, 
 
412 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Of admuiiitiuns to the winds and seas, 
 Of peaceful sway above man's harvest- 
 ing. 
 And all those acts wliich Deity supreme 
 Doth ease its heart of love in. — I am gone 
 Away from my own bosom : I have left 
 My strong identity, my i-eal self. 
 Somewhere between the throne, and 
 
 wiieie I sit 
 Here on tliis spot of earth. Search, 
 
 Then, search ! 
 Open thine eyes eterne. and sphere them 
 
 round 
 Upon all space : space starr'd. and lorn 
 
 of light ; 
 Space region'd with life-air ; and barren 
 
 void ; 
 Spaces of fire, and all the yawn of hell. — 
 Search. Thea, search ! and tell me, if 
 
 thou seest 
 A certain shape or shadow, making way 
 With wings or chariot fierce to repossess 
 A heaven he lost erewhile : it must — it 
 
 must 
 Be of ripe progress — Saturn must be 
 
 King. 
 Yes, there nuist be a golden victory ; 
 Tliere must be Gods thrown down, and 
 
 trumpets blown 
 Of triumph calm, and liymns of festival 
 Upon tlie gold clouds metroiM)litan. 
 Voices of soft i)roclaini, and silver stir 
 Of strings in hollow shells ; and there 
 
 shall be 
 Beautiful things made new, for the sur- 
 prise 
 Of the sky-children ; I will give com- 
 mand : 
 Thea ! Thea ! Thea ! where is Saturn ? "' 
 
 This passion lifted him upon his feet. 
 And made his liands to struggle in the air. 
 His Druid locks to sliake and ooze with 
 
 sweat. 
 His eyes to fever out, his voice to cease. 
 He stood, and heard nut Theas sobbing 
 
 deep ; 
 A little time, and then again hesnatch'd 
 Utterance thus. — " But cannot I create? 
 Cannot I form? Cannot I fashion forth 
 Another world, another universe. 
 To overbear and crumble this to nought ? 
 Wliere is another chaos? Where?'" — 
 
 That word [quake 
 
 Found way unto Olympus, and made 
 The rebel three. — Tliea was startled up, 
 And in her bearing was a sort of hope. 
 As thus slie quick-voic'd spake, yet full 
 
 of awe. 
 
 " This cheers our fallen house : come 
 to our friends, 
 
 Saturn ! come away, and give them 
 
 heart : 
 
 1 know the covert, for thence came I 
 
 hither." 
 Thus brief ; then with beseeching eyes 
 
 she went 
 AVith backward footing througli the 
 
 shade a space : 
 He foUow'd, and siie turn'd to lead the 
 
 way 
 Through aged boughs, that yielded like 
 
 the mist 
 Which eagles cleave upmounting from 
 
 their nest. 
 
 Meanwhile^ in otlier realms big tears 
 
 were shed, 
 More sorrow like to this, and such like 
 
 woe, 
 Too huge for mortal tongue or pen of 
 
 scribe : 
 The Titajis fierce, self-hid, or pi-i.son- 
 
 bound. 
 ( Iroan'd for the old allegiance once more. 
 And listen'd in sharp pain for Saturn "s 
 
 voice. 
 But one of the whole mammoth-brood 
 
 .still kept 
 His sovereignty, and rule, and majesty ; — 
 Blazing Hyperion on liis orbed fire 
 Still sat, .still snuflf'd the incense, teeming 
 
 up 
 From man to the sun's God ; yet 
 
 unsecure : 
 For as among us mortals omens drear 
 Frigiit and perplex, so also shuddered 
 
 he— 
 Not at dog's howl, or gloom-bird's hated 
 
 screech. 
 Or the familiar visiting of one 
 Upon tlie first toll of his passing-bell. 
 Or ])ropliesyings of the midnight lamp ; 
 But liorrors. portion'd to a giant nerve. 
 Oft made Hj'perion ache. His palace 
 
 bright 
 Bastion'd with pyramids of glowing gold, 
 And touch'd with shade of bronzed 
 
 obelisks, 
 Glar'd a blood-red through all its thou- 
 sand courts, 
 Arches, and domes, and fiery galleries ; 
 And all its curtains of Aurorian clouds 
 Flush'd angerly : while sometimes eagle's 
 
 wings. 
 Unseen before by Gods or wondering 
 
 men, [were heard. 
 
 Darken'd the place ; and neighing steeds 
 
KEATS 
 
 413 
 
 Not lieard before by Gods or wondering 
 
 men. 
 Also, when he would taste the spicy 
 
 wreaths 
 Of incense, breath'd aloft from sacred 
 
 hills, 
 Instead of sweets, his ample palate took 
 Savor of poisonous brass and metal sick : 
 And so, when harbor'd in the sleep}^ 
 
 west. 
 After the full completion of fair day, — 
 For rest divine upon exalted couch 
 And slumber in the arms of melody, 
 He pac'd away the pleasant hours of ease 
 With stride colossal, on from hall to hall ; 
 While far within each aisle and deep 
 
 recess. 
 His winged minions in close clusters 
 
 stood, 
 Amaz'd and full of fear : like anxious men 
 Who on wide plains gather in panting 
 
 troops, 
 When earthquakes jar their battlements 
 
 and towers. 
 Even now, while Saturn, rous'd from icy 
 
 trance. 
 Went step for step with Tliea through 
 
 the woods, 
 Hyperion, leaving twilight in the rear, 
 Came slope upon the threshold of the 
 
 west ; 
 Then, as was wont, his palace-door flew 
 
 ope 
 In smootiiest silence, save what solemn 
 
 tubes. 
 Blown by the serious Zephyrs, gave of 
 
 sweet 
 And wandering sounds, slow-breathed 
 
 melodies ; 
 And like a rose in vermeil tint and shai^e. 
 In fragrance soft, and coolness to the eye, 
 That inlet to severe magniticrence 
 Stood full blown, for the God to enter in. 
 
 He enter'd, but he enter'd full of wrath ; 
 
 His flaming robes streani'd out beyond 
 his heels. 
 
 And gave a roar, as if of earthly fire. 
 
 That scar'd away the meek ethereal 
 Hoius 
 
 And made their dove-wings tremble. 
 On he flared. 
 
 From stately nave to nave, from vault 
 to vault, 
 
 Through bowers of fragrant and en- 
 wreathed light. 
 
 And diamond-paved lustrous long ar- 
 cades, 
 
 Until he reach'd the great main cupola ; 
 
 There standing fierce beneatli. he 
 
 stamped his foot. 
 And from the basements deep to the high 
 
 towers 
 Jarr'd his own golden region ; and before 
 The quavering thunder thereupon had 
 
 ceas'd, 
 His voice leapt out, despite of godlike 
 
 curb. 
 To this result : " O dreams of day and 
 
 night ! 
 O monstrous f(n-ms ! O effigies of pain ! 
 O spectres busy in a cold, cold gloom ! 
 
 lank-ear'd Phantoms of black-weeded 
 
 pools ! 
 Why do I know ye? why have I seen 
 
 ye ? why 
 Is my eternal essence thus distraugiit 
 To see and to beholtl these horrors new? 
 Saturn is fallen, am I too to fall? 
 Am I to leave this haven of my rest. 
 This cradle of my glory, tliis soft clime. 
 This calm luxuriance of Idissful light. 
 These crystalline pavilions, and jmre 
 
 fanes. 
 Of all 1113- lucent empire ? It is left 
 Deserted, void, nor any iiaunt of mine. 
 The blaze, the splendor, and the sym- 
 
 metr}% 
 
 1 cannot see — but darkness, death and 
 
 dafkness. 
 Even here, into my centre of repose. 
 The shady visions come to domineer. 
 Insult, and blind, and stifle up mj' 
 
 pomj). — 
 Fall ! — No, by Tellus and her briny robes ! 
 Over the fiery frontier of my realms 
 I will advance a terrible right arm 
 Shall scare tiiat infant thunderer, rebel 
 
 Jove, 
 And bid old Saturn take his throne 
 
 again." — 
 He spake, and ceas'd. tlie while a heavier 
 
 threat 
 Held struggle with his throat but came 
 
 not forth : 
 For as in theatres of crowded men 
 Hubbub increases more tiiev call out 
 
 "Hush!" 
 So at Hyperion's words the Phantoms 
 
 pale 
 Bestirr'd themselves, thrice horrible and 
 
 cold ; 
 And from the mirror'd level where he 
 
 stood 
 A mist arose, as from a scummy marsh. 
 At this, through all his bulk an agony 
 Crept gradual, from the feet unto the 
 
 crown, 
 
414 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Like a lithe serpent vast and muscular 
 Making slow way, with head and neck 
 
 couvuls'd 
 From over-strained might. Releas'd,he 
 
 fled 
 To tlie eastern gates, and full six dewy 
 
 liours 
 Before the dawn in season due should 
 
 bhish. 
 He breatli'd fierce breath against the 
 
 sleep}" portals. 
 Clear' d tliem of heavy vapors, burst 
 
 them wide 
 Suddenly on the ocean's chillj^ streams. 
 The planet orb of fire, whereon he rode 
 Each day from east to west the heavens 
 
 til rough. 
 Spun round in sable curtaining of clouds : 
 Not therefore veiled quite, blindfold, 
 
 and hid, 
 But ever and anon the glancing spheres, 
 Circles, and arcs, and broad-belting 
 
 colure, 
 Glow'd through, and wrought upon the 
 
 muffling dark 
 Sweet-shaped lightnings from the nadir 
 
 deep 
 Up to the zenith, — liieroglyphics old. 
 Which sages and keen-ej^ed astrologers 
 Then living on the earth, with laboring 
 
 thought 
 Won from the gaze of many centuries : 
 Now lost, save what we find on remnants 
 
 huge 
 Of stone, or marble swart ; their import 
 
 gone. 
 Their wisdom long since fled. — Two 
 
 wings this orb 
 Possess'd for glory, two fair argent 
 
 wings. 
 Ever exalted at the God's approach : 
 And now. from forth the gloom their 
 
 plumes immense 
 Rose, one by one, till all outspreaded 
 
 were ; 
 Wliile still the dazzling globe maintain'd 
 
 eclipse. 
 Awaiting for Hyperion's command. 
 Fain would he have commanded, fain 
 
 took throne 
 And bid the day begin, if but for change. 
 He miglit not : — No, though a primeval 
 
 God : 
 The sacred seasons might not be 
 
 disturb'd. 
 Therefore the operations of the dawn 
 Stay'd in their birth, even as here 'tis told. 
 Those silver wings expanded sisterly. 
 Eager to sail their orb ; the porches wide 
 
 Open'd upon the dusk demesnes of night ; 
 And the bright Titan, phrenzied with 
 
 new woes, 
 Unus'd to bend, by hard compulsion bent 
 His spirit to the sorrow of the time ; 
 And all along a dismal rack of clouds, 
 Upon the boundaries of day and night. 
 He stretch'd himself in grief and radi- 
 ance faint. 
 There as he lay, the Heaven with its 
 
 stars 
 Look'd down on liim with pity, and the 
 
 voice 
 Of Coelus, from the universal space, 
 Thus whisper'd low and solemn in his 
 
 ear. 
 " O brightest of my children dear, eartli- 
 
 born 
 And sky-engendered. Son of Mysteries 
 All unrevealed even to the powers 
 Which met at thy creating ; at whose joy 
 And palpitations sweet, and pleasures 
 
 soft, 
 I, Ccelus, wonder, how they came and 
 
 whence ; 
 And at the fruits thereof what shapes 
 
 they be. 
 Distinct, and visible ; sj^mbols divine. 
 Manifestations of that beauteous life 
 Diffus'd unseen throughout eternal 
 
 space ; 
 Of these new-form'd art thou, oh 
 
 brightest child ! 
 Of these, thy brethren and the God- 
 desses ! 
 There is sad feud among ye, and rebel- 
 lion 
 Of son against liis sire. I saw him fall, 
 I saw my first-born tumbled from his 
 
 throne ! 
 To me his arms were spread, to me his 
 
 voice 
 Found way from forth the thunders 
 
 round his head ! 
 Pale wox I and in vapors hid my face. 
 Art thou, too, near such doom ? vague 
 
 fear there is : 
 For I have seen my sons most unlike 
 
 Gods. 
 Divine ye were created, and divine 
 In sad demeanor, solemn, undisturb'd. 
 Unruffled, like liigh Gods, ye liv'd and 
 
 ruled : 
 Now I behold in you fear, hope, and 
 
 wrath ; 
 Actions of rage and passion ; even as 
 I see them, on the mortal world beneatli. 
 In men who die. — This is the grief, O 
 
 Son! 
 
KEATS 
 
 415 
 
 Sad sign of ruin, sudden dismay, and 
 
 fall ! 
 Yet do thou strive ; as thou art capable. 
 As thou canst move about, an evident 
 
 God ; 
 And canst oppose to each malignant liour 
 Ethereal presence : — -I am but a voice ; 
 M}' life is but the life of winds and tides. 
 No more than winds and tides can I 
 
 avail : — 
 But thou canst. ^Be thou tlierefore in 
 
 the van 
 or circumstance ; yea, .seize tlie arrow's 
 
 barb 
 Before the tense string iniymur. — To 
 
 tlie earth ! 
 For there thou wilt find Saturn, and 
 
 his woes. 
 Meantime I will keep watch on thy 
 
 bright sun. 
 And of thy seasons be a careful 
 
 nurse." — 
 Ere half tliis region-whisper liad come 
 
 down, 
 Hyperion arose, and on the stars 
 Lifted Ills curved lids, and kept them 
 
 wide 
 Until it ceas'd ; and still he kept them 
 
 wide : 
 And still they were the same bright, 
 
 patient stars. 
 Tlien with a slow incline of his broad 
 
 breast, 
 Like to a diver in the pearly seas, 
 Forward he stoop'd over the airy shore. 
 And plung'd all noiseless into the deep 
 
 night. 
 
 BOOK II 
 
 Just at the self-same beat of Time's wide 
 
 wings 
 Hyperion slid into the rustled air. 
 And Saturn gain'd with Thea that sad 
 
 j)lace 
 Wliere Cybele and the bruised Titans 
 
 mouru'd. 
 It was a den where no insulting liglit 
 Could glimmer on their tears ; where 
 
 tlieir own groans 
 They felt, but heard not, for tlie solid 
 
 roar 
 Of thunderous watei'falls and torrents 
 
 hoarse, 
 Pouring a constant bulk, uncertain 
 
 wliere. 
 Crag jutting forth to crag, and rocks 
 
 that seem'd 
 Ever as if just rising fx"om a sleep. 
 
 Forehead to forehead held their mon- 
 strous horns ; 
 
 And thus in thousand hugest phantasies 
 
 Made a lit roofing to this nest of woe. 
 
 Instead of thrones, hard flint the}' sat 
 upon, 
 
 Couches of rugged stone, and slaty ridge 
 
 Stubborn'd with iron. All were not as- 
 sembled : 
 
 Some chain'd in torture, and some wan- 
 dering. 
 
 Coeus, and Gyges, and Briareiis, 
 
 Typhon, and Dolor, and Porphyrion, 
 
 With many more, the brawniest in as- 
 sault. 
 
 Were pent in regions of laborious breath ; 
 
 Dungeou'd in opaque element, to keep 
 
 Their clenched teeth still clench'd, and 
 all their limbs 
 
 Lock'd up like veins of metal, crampt 
 and screvv'd ; 
 
 Without a motion, save of their big 
 hearts 
 
 Heaving in pain, and horribly convuls'd 
 
 With sanguine feverous boiling gurge 
 of pulse. 
 
 Mnemosyne was straying in the world ; 
 
 Far from her moon had Phoebe wan- 
 dered ; 
 
 And many else were free to roam abroad. 
 
 But for the main, here found they covert 
 drear. 
 
 Scarce images of life, one here, one there, 
 
 Lay vast and edgeways ; like a dismal 
 cirque 
 
 Of Druid stones, upon a forlorn moor. 
 
 When the chill i-ain begins at shut of 
 eve. 
 
 In dull November, and their chancel 
 vault, 
 
 Tlie Heaven itself, is blinded throughout 
 night. 
 
 Each one kept shroud, nor to his neigh- 
 bor gave 
 
 Or word, or look, or action of despair. 
 
 Cretis was one ; his ponderous iron mace 
 
 Lay by him, and a shatter'd rib of rock 
 
 Toid of his rage, ere he thus sank and 
 pined. 
 
 lapetus another ; in his grasp, 
 
 A serpent's plashy neck; its barbed 
 tongue 
 
 Squeez'd from the gorge, and all its 
 uncurl'd length 
 
 Dead ; and because the creature could 
 not spit 
 
 Its poison in the eyes of conquering 
 Jove. [most. 
 
 Next Cottus : prone he lay, chin upper- 
 
4i6 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 As thougli in pain ; for still upon the 
 
 flint 
 He ground severe his skull, with open 
 
 mouth 
 And eyes at horrid working. Nearest 
 
 him 
 Asia, born of most enormous Caf, 
 Who cost her mother Tellus keener 
 
 pangs. 
 Though feminine, than any of her sons : 
 More thought than woe was in her dusky 
 
 face,' 
 For she was prophesying of her glory ; 
 And in her wide imagination stood 
 Palm-shaded temples, and high rival 
 
 fanes. . 
 By Oxus or in Ganges' sacred isles. 
 Even as Hope upon her anchor leans, 
 So leant she, not so fair, upon a tusk 
 Shed from the broadest of lier elephants. 
 Above her, on a crag's uneasy sbelve. 
 Upon his elbow rais'd. all prostrate else. 
 Sliadow'd Enceladus ; once tame and 
 
 mild 
 As grazing ox unworried in the niea:ls ; 
 Now tiger-passion'd, lion-thoughted, 
 
 wroth, 
 He meditated, plotted, and even now 
 Was hurling mountains in that second 
 
 war. 
 Not long delay'd, that .scar'd the younger 
 
 Gods 
 To hidetliemselvesin forms of beast and 
 
 bird. 
 Nor far hence Atlas ; and beside him 
 
 prone 
 •Phorcus, the sire of Gorgons. Neigh- 
 
 bor'd close 
 Oceanus, and Tethys, in whose lap 
 Sobb'd Clymene among her tangled hair. 
 In midst of all lay Tliemis. at the feet 
 Of Ops the qvieen all clouded round 
 
 from sight ; 
 No shape distinguishable, more than 
 
 when 
 Thick night confounds the pine-tops with 
 
 the clouds : 
 And many else whose names mav not be 
 
 told. 
 For when the Muse's wings are air-ward 
 
 spread , 
 Who shall delay her fiiglit ? And she 
 
 must chant 
 Of Saturn, and his guide, who now had 
 
 climb'd [depth 
 
 With damp and slippery footing from a 
 More horrid still. Above a sombre cliff 
 Their heads appear'd, and up their 
 
 statui-e grew 
 
 Till on the level height their steps found 
 
 ease : 
 Then Thea spread abroad her trembling 
 
 arms 
 Upon the precincts of this nest of pain, 
 And sidelong fix'd her eye on Saturn's 
 
 face : 
 Tliere saw she direst strife ; the supreme 
 
 God 
 At war with all the frailty of grief, 
 Of rage, of fear, anxietj'. revenge. 
 Remorse, spleen, hope, but most of all 
 
 despair. 
 Against these plagues he strove in vain ; 
 
 for Fate 
 Had pour'd a mortal oil upon his head, 
 A disanointing poison : so that Thea, 
 Affrighted, kept her still, and let him 
 
 pass 
 First onwards in, among the fallen 
 
 tribe. 
 
 As with us mortal men, the laden 
 
 heart 
 Is persecuted more, and fever 'd more, 
 Wlien it is nighing to the mournful house 
 Where other hearts are sick of the .same 
 
 bruise ; 
 So Saturn, as he walk'd into the midst, 
 Felt faint, and would have sunk among 
 
 tlie rest, 
 But that lie met Enceladus's eye, 
 Whose mightiness, and awe of liim, at 
 
 once 
 Came like an inspiration ; and he 
 
 shouted, 
 "Titans, behold your God !" at which 
 
 some groan'd ; 
 Some started on their feet ; some also 
 
 shouted ; 
 Some wept, some wail'd, all b' 'd with 
 
 reverence ; 
 And Ops, upifting her black folded veil, 
 Show'd her pale cheeks, and all her 
 
 forehead wan. 
 Her eye-brows thin and jet, and hollow 
 
 eyes. 
 There is a roaring in tlie bleak-grown 
 
 pi Ties 
 When Winter lifts his voice ; there is a 
 
 noise 
 Among immortals when a God gives 
 
 sign. 
 With hushing finger, how he means to 
 
 load 
 His tongue with the full weight of uttei'- 
 
 less thought. 
 With thunder, and with music, and with 
 
 pomp : 
 
 I 
 
KEATS 
 
 417 
 
 Such noise is like tlie roar of V)leak- 
 grown pines ; 
 
 Which, when it ceases in this mount- 
 ain'd world, 
 
 No other sound succeeds ; but ceasing 
 here, 
 
 Among these fallen, Saturn's voice there- 
 from 
 
 Grew up like organ, that begins anew 
 
 Its strain, when other harmonies, stopt 
 short. 
 
 Leave the dinn'd air vibrating silverly. 
 
 Thus grew it up — " Not in my own sad 
 breast. 
 
 Which is its own great judge and 
 searcher out, 
 
 Can I find reason why ye should be tlius : 
 
 Not in the legends of the first of days, 
 
 Studied from that old spirit-leaved book 
 
 Wiiich starry Uranus with finger bright 
 
 Sav'd from the shores of darkness, when 
 the waves 
 
 Low-ebb'd still liid it up in shallow 
 gloom ; — 
 
 And the wliich book ye know I ever kept 
 
 For my firm-based footstool: — Ah, in- 
 firm ! 
 
 Not there, nor in sign, symbol, or portent 
 
 Of element, earth, water, air, and fire, — 
 
 At war, at pea(",e, or inter-quarrelling 
 
 One against one, or two. or three, or all 
 
 Each several one against the other tliree. 
 
 As fire with air loud warring when rain- 
 floods 
 
 Drown both, and press them both against 
 earth's face. 
 
 Where, finding sulphur, a quadruple 
 wrath 
 
 Unhinges the poor world ; — not in that 
 strife. 
 
 Wherefrom I take strange lore, and read 
 it deep. 
 
 Can I find reason wh}^ ye should be thus ; 
 
 No, no-where can unriddle, though I 
 search. — 
 
 And pore on Nature's universal scroll 
 
 Even to swooning, why ye. Divinities, 
 
 The first-born of all shap'd and palpable 
 Gods, 
 
 Should cower beneath what, in com- 
 parison. 
 
 Is untremendous might. Yet ye are 
 here, 
 
 O'erwhelm'd, and spurn'd, and batter'd, 
 ye are here ! 
 
 O Titans, shall I say ' Arise ! ' — Ye groan ; 
 
 Shall I say ' Crouch ! ' — Ye groan. 
 What can I then ? 
 
 O Heaven wide ! O unseen parent dear ! 
 27 
 
 What can I ! Tell me, all ye brethren 
 
 Gods, 
 How we can war, how engine our great 
 
 wrath ! 
 
 speak your counsel now, for Saturn's 
 
 ear 
 Is all a-hunger'd. Thou, Oceanus, 
 Ponderest high and deep ; and in thy face 
 
 1 see, astonied, that severe content 
 Which comes of thought and musing ; 
 
 give us help ! " 
 
 So ended Saturn ; and the God of the 
 
 Sea, 
 Sophist and sage, from no Athenian 
 
 grove, 
 But cogitation in his watery shades. 
 Arose, with locks not oozy, and began, 
 In murmurs, which his first-endeavor- 
 ing tongue 
 Caught infant-like from the far foamed 
 
 sands. 
 " O ye, whom wrath consumes ! who, 
 
 passion-stung. 
 Writhe at defeat, and nurse your 
 
 agonies ! 
 Shut up your senses, stifle up your ears, 
 My voice is not a bellows unto ire. 
 Yet listen, ye who will, whilst I bring 
 
 proof 
 How ye, perforce, must be content to 
 
 stoop ; 
 And in tlie proof much comfort will 
 
 I give. 
 If ye will take that comfort in its truth. 
 We fall by course of Nature's law, not 
 
 force 
 Of thunder, or of Jove. Great Saturn, 
 
 thou 
 Hast sifted well the atom-universe ; 
 But for this reason, that thou art the 
 
 King. 
 And only blind from sheer supremacy. 
 One avenue was shaded from thine eyes. 
 Through which I wandered to eternal 
 
 truth. 
 And first, as thou wast not the first of 
 
 powers. 
 So art thou not the last ; it cannot be ; 
 Thou art not the beginning nor the end. 
 From chaos and parental darkness came 
 Light, the first fruits of that intestine 
 
 broil. 
 That sullen ferment, which for wondrous 
 
 ends 
 Was ripening in itself. The ripe hour 
 
 came. 
 And with it light, and light, engender- 
 ing 
 
4i8 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Upon its own producer, forthwith 
 
 touch'd 
 The wlioie enormous matter into life. 
 Upon that very liouv. our parentage. 
 Tlie Heavens and tlie Earth, were mani- 
 fest : 
 Then thou first-born, and we the giant- 
 race. 
 Found ourselves ruling new and beau- 
 teous realms. 
 Now comes the pain of truth, to whom 
 
 'tis pain : 
 O folly ! for to bear nl\ naked truths, 
 And to envisage circumstance, all calm. 
 That is the top of sovereignty. Mark 
 
 well ! 
 As Heaven and Earth are fairer, fairer 
 
 far 
 Than Chaos and blank Darkness, though 
 
 once chiefs ; 
 And as we show beyond that Heaven 
 
 and Earth 
 In form 'and shape compact and beau- 
 tiful. 
 In will, in action free, companionship. 
 And thousand other signs of purer life ; 
 So on ourlieels a fresh perfection treads, 
 A power more strong in beauty, born 
 
 of us 
 And fated to excel us. as we pass 
 In glory that old Darkness : nor are we 
 Tliereby more conquer'd, than by us the 
 
 rule 
 Of shapeless Chaos. Say, doth the dull 
 
 soil 
 Quarrel with the proud forests it hath 
 
 fed. 
 And feedeth still, more comely than 
 
 itself ? 
 Can it denj' the chiefdom of green 
 
 groves ? 
 Or shall the tree be envious of the dove 
 Because itcooeth, and hath snowy wings 
 To wander wlierewitlial and finditsjoj's? 
 We are such forest-trees, and our fair 
 
 bovighs 
 Have bred forth, not pale solitary doves, 
 But eagles golden-feather'd, who do 
 
 tower 
 Above us in their beauty, and inust reign 
 In right thereof ; for 'tis tlie eternal law 
 That first in beauty sliould be first in 
 
 might : 
 Yea, by that law, another race may drive 
 Our conquerors to mourn as we do now. 
 Have ye beheld the young God of the 
 
 Seas. 
 My dispossessor ? Have ye seen his face ? 
 Have 3'e beheld his cliariot, foam'd along 
 
 By noble winged creatures he hath 
 
 made ? 
 I saw him on the calmed waters .scud, 
 With sucli a glow of beauty in his eyes, 
 Tliat it enforc'd me to bid sad farewell 
 To all mj' empire: farewell sad I took. 
 And liither came, to see how dolorous 
 
 fate 
 Had wrought upon ye ; and liovv I might 
 
 best 
 Give consolation in this woe extreme. 
 Receive the trutli, and let it be your 
 
 balm.." 
 
 Whether through poz'd conviction, or 
 
 disdain. 
 They guarded silence, when Oceanus 
 Left murmuring, what deepest thought 
 
 can tell? 
 But so it was, none answer'd for a 
 
 space, 
 Save one whom none regarded. Cly- 
 
 mene ; 
 And yet she answer'd not, onlj' com- 
 
 plain'd, 
 With hectic lips, and eyes up-looking 
 
 mild. 
 Thus wording timidly among the fierce : 
 " O Father, I am here tlie simplest 
 
 voice. 
 And all my knowledge is that joy is gone. 
 And this thing woe ci'ept in among our 
 
 hearts. 
 There to remain for ever, as I fear : 
 I would not bode of evil, if I tlioujiiit 
 So weak a creature could turn off the help 
 Wliicli bj' just right should come of 
 
 mighty Gods ; 
 Yet let me tell my sorrow, let me tell 
 Of what I heard, and how it made me 
 
 weep. 
 And know that we had parted from all 
 
 hope. 
 I stood upon a shore, a pleasant shore. 
 Where a sweet clime was breathed from 
 
 a land 
 Of fragrance, quietness, and trees, and 
 
 flowers. 
 Full of calm joy it was, as I of grief ; 
 Too fvill of joy and soft delicious 
 
 warmth ; 
 So that I felt a movement in my heart 
 To chide, and to reproach tliat solitude 
 Witli songs of misery, music of our woes ; 
 And sat me down, and took a mouthed 
 
 shell 
 And murmur'd into it, and made me- 
 lody— 
 O melody no more ! for while I sang, 
 
KEATS 
 
 419 
 
 And with poor skill let pass into the 
 breeze 
 
 The dull sliell's echo, from a bowery 
 strand 
 
 Just opposite, an island of the sea. 
 
 There came enchantment with the shift- 
 ing wind. 
 
 That did both drown and keep alive my 
 ears. 
 
 I threw my shell away upon the sand. 
 
 And a wave fill'dit, as my sense was fill'd 
 
 With that new blissful golden melody. 
 
 A living death was in each gush of 
 sounds, 
 
 Each faiuilj' of rapturous hurried notes. 
 
 That fell, one after one, yet all at once. 
 
 Like pearl beads dropping sudden from 
 their string : 
 
 And then anotlier, then another strain. 
 
 Each like a dove leaving its olive perch, 
 
 With inusic wing'd instead of silent 
 plumes. 
 
 To hover I'ound my head, and make me 
 sick 
 
 Of joy and grief at once. Grief over- 
 came, 
 
 And I was stopping up my frantic ears. 
 
 When, past all hindrance of my trem- 
 bling hands. 
 
 A voice came sweeter, sweeter than all 
 tune. 
 
 And still it cried, ' Apollo ! young 
 Apollo ! 
 
 The morning-briglit Apollo ! young 
 Apollo ! ' 
 
 I fled, it follow'd me, and cried 
 ' Apollo ! ' 
 
 O Father, and O Brethren, had ye felt 
 
 Those pains of mine ; O Saturn, hadst 
 thou felt. 
 
 Ye would not call this too indulged 
 tongue 
 
 Presumptuous, in thus venturing to be 
 heard." 
 
 So far her voice flow'd on, like timo- 
 rous brook 
 That, lingering along a pebbled coast, 
 Doth fear to meet the sea : but sea it 
 
 met. 
 And shudder'd ; for the overwhelming 
 
 voice 
 Of huge Enceladus swallow'd it in wrath: 
 Tlie ponderous syllables, like sullen 
 
 waves 
 
 In the half glutted hollows of reef-rocks. 
 
 Came booming thus, while still upon 
 
 his arm [contempt. 
 
 He lean'd ; not rising, from supreme 
 
 " Or shall we listen to the over-wise, 
 Or to the over-foolish giant, Gods ? 
 Not thunderbolt on thunderbolt, till all 
 That rebel Jove's whole armoiy were 
 
 spent. 
 Not world on world upon these shoulders 
 
 piled. 
 Could agonize me more than bab3'-words 
 In midst of this dethronement horrible. 
 Speak ! roar ! shout ! yell ! ye sleepy 
 
 Titans all. 
 Do ye forget the blows, the buffets vile ? 
 Are ye not smitten by a youngling arm ? 
 Dost thou forget, sham Monarcli of tlie 
 
 Waves. 
 Thy scalding in the seas? What, have 
 
 I rous'd 
 Your spleens with so few simple words 
 
 as these ? 
 O joy ! for now I see ye are not lost : 
 O joy ! ft)r now I see a thousand eyes 
 Wide glaring for revenge ! ''—As this he 
 
 said, 
 He lifted up his stature vast, and stood. 
 Still without intermission speaking thus : 
 " Now ye are flames, I'll tell you how 
 
 to burn. 
 And purge the etlier of our enemies ; 
 How to feed fierce the crooked stings of 
 
 fire. 
 And singe away the swollen clouds of 
 
 Jove. 
 Stifling tliat puny essence in its tent. 
 O let him feel tlie evil he hath done ; 
 For though I sc(jrn Ocean us's loi-e. 
 IMuch pain have I for more than loss of 
 
 realms : 
 The days of peace and slumberous calm 
 
 are fled ; 
 Those days, all innocent of scathing war. 
 When all the fair Existences of heaven 
 Came open-ej'ed to guess what we would 
 
 speak : — 
 That was before our brows were taught 
 
 to frown. 
 Before our lips knew else but solemn 
 
 sounds ; 
 That was before we knew the winged 
 
 thing, 
 Victor}-, might be lost, or might be won. 
 And be ye mindful that Hyperion, 
 Our brightest brother, still is undis- 
 
 graced — 
 Hj'^perion, lo ! his radiance is here I " 
 
 All ej'es were on Enceladus's face. 
 And tliey beheld, while still Hyperion's 
 
 name 
 Flew from his lips up to the vaulted rocks, 
 
420 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 A pallid gleam across his features stem : 
 Not savage, for he saw full manj^ a God 
 Wroth as himself. He look'd upon 
 
 them all, 
 And in each face he saw a gleam of 
 
 light, 
 But splendider in Saturn s, whose hoar 
 
 locks 
 Shone like the bubbling foam about a 
 
 keel 
 When the jjrow sweeps into a midnight 
 
 cove. 
 In pale and silver silence they remain'd. 
 Till suddenly a splendor, like tlie morn. 
 Pervaded all the beetling gloomy steeps. 
 All the sad spaces of oblivion, 
 And every gulf, and every chasm okl, 
 And every height, and every sullen 
 
 depth. 
 Voiceless, or hoarse with loud tormented 
 
 streams : 
 And all the everlasting cataracts. 
 And all tlie headlong torrents far and 
 
 near, 
 Mantled before in darkness and huge 
 
 shade. 
 Now saw the light and made it terrible. 
 It was Hyperion— a granite peak 
 His bright feet touch'd, and there he 
 
 stay'd to view 
 The misery/ liis brilliance had betray'd 
 To the most Iiateful seeing of itself. 
 Golden his hair of short Numidian curl, 
 Regal his sliape majestic, a vast shade 
 In midst of his own brightness, like tlie 
 
 bulk 
 Of Memnon's image at the set of sun 
 To one wlio travels from the dusking 
 
 East: 
 Sighs, too, as mournful as that Mem- 
 non's harp [tive 
 He utter'd, wliile his liands contempla- 
 He press'd together, and in silence 
 
 stood. 
 Despondence seiz'd again the fallen Gods 
 At sight of the dejected King of Day. 
 And many hid their" faces from the 
 
 liglit : 
 But fierce Enceladus sent forth his eyes 
 Among the brotlierhood ; and, at their 
 
 glare. 
 Uprose lapetus, and Creiis too. 
 And Phorcus, sea-born, and together 
 
 strode 
 To where lie towei'ed on his eminence. 
 There those four shouted forth old 
 
 Saturn's name ; 
 Hyperion from the peak loud answered, 
 *' Saturn ! " 
 
 Saturn sat near the Mother of the Gods. 
 In whose face was no joy. tliough all the 
 
 Gods 
 Gave from their hollow throats the name 
 
 of ' ' Saturn ! " 
 
 BOOK III 
 
 Thus in alternate uproar and sad peace, 
 
 Amazed were those Titans utterly. 
 
 O leave them, Muse! O leave them to 
 
 their woes ; 
 For thou art weak to sing such tumults 
 
 (lire : 
 A solitary sorrow best befits 
 Thy lips, and antheming a lonely grief. 
 Leave them, O Muse ! for thou anon wilt 
 
 find 
 Many a fallen old Divinity 
 Wandering in vain about bewildered 
 
 shores. 
 Meantime touch piously the Delphic 
 
 harp, 
 And not a wind of heaven but will 
 
 breathe 
 In aid soft warble from the Dorian flute ; 
 For lo ! "tis for the Father of all verse. 
 Flush every thing that hath a vermeil 
 
 hue, 
 Let the rose glow intense and warm the 
 
 air. 
 And let the clouds of even and of morn 
 Float in voluptuous fleeces o'er the hills ; 
 Let the red wine within the goblet boil, 
 Cold as a bubbling well ; let faint-lipp'd 
 
 shells. 
 On sands, or in great deeps, vermilion 
 
 turn 
 Through all their labyrinths ; and let the 
 
 maid 
 Blush keenly, as with some warm kiss 
 
 surpris'd. 
 Chief isle of the embowered Cyclades, 
 Rejoice. O Delos, witli thine olives 
 
 green, 
 And poplars, and lawn-shading palms, 
 
 and beech. 
 In wliich the zephyr breathes the loud- 
 est song. 
 And hazels thick, dark-stemm'd beneath 
 
 the shade : 
 Apollo is once more the golden theme ! 
 Where was he, when the Giant of the 
 
 Sun 
 Stood bright, amid the sorrow of his 
 
 peers ? 
 Together had he left his mother fair 
 And his twin-sister sleeping in their 
 bower, 
 
KEATS 
 
 421 
 
 And in tlie morning twilight wandei'ed 
 
 forth 
 Beside the osiers of a rivulet. 
 Full ankle-deep in lilies of the vale. 
 The nightingale had ceas'd, and a few 
 
 stars 
 Were lingering in the heavens, while the 
 
 thrush 
 Began calm-throated. Throughout all 
 
 the isle 
 There was no covert, no retired cave 
 Uniiaunted by tlie murmurous noise of 
 
 waves. 
 Though scarcely heard in many a green 
 
 recess. 
 He listen'd, and he'wept, and liis bright 
 
 tears 
 Went trickling down the golden bow he 
 
 held. 
 Thus with half-shut suffused eyes he 
 
 stood, 
 While fi'om beneath some cumbrous 
 
 boughs hard by 
 With solemn step an awful Goddess 
 
 came. 
 And there was purport in lier looks for 
 
 him, 
 Which lie with eager guess began to read 
 Perislex'd, the while melodiously he 
 
 .said : 
 " How cam'st thou over the unfooted 
 
 sea ? 
 Or hath that antique mien and robeil 
 
 form 
 Mov'd in these vales invisible till now? 
 Sure I have heard those vestments 
 
 sweeping o'er 
 The fallen leaves, when I have sat alone 
 In cool mid-forest. Surely I have traced 
 The rustle of those ample skirts about 
 These grassy solitudes, and seen the 
 
 flowers 
 Lift up their heads, as still the wliisper 
 
 pass'd. [fore. 
 
 Goddess ! I have beheld those ej'es be- 
 And tlieir eternal calm, and all that face. 
 Or I have dream'd." — "Yes,'' said tlie 
 
 supreme shape, 
 " Thou hast dream'd of me ; and awak- 
 ing up 
 Didst find a lyre all golden by thy side. 
 Whose strings touch'd by thy fingers, 
 
 all the vast 
 Unwearied ear of the whole universe 
 ListenM in pain and i>leasure at the birth 
 Of such new tuneful wonder. Is't not 
 
 strange 
 That thou shouldst weep, so gifted ? 
 
 Tell me, youth, 
 
 What sorrow thou canst feel ; for I am 
 sad 
 
 When thou dost shed a tear : explain 
 tby griefs 
 
 To one who in this lonely isle hath been 
 
 The watcher of thy sleep and hours of 
 life. 
 
 From the young day when first thy in- 
 fant liand 
 
 Pluck'd witless the weak flowers, till 
 thine arm 
 
 Could bend that bow heroic to all times. 
 
 Sliow thy lieart's secret to an ancient 
 Power 
 
 Wlio hath forsaken old and sacred 
 thrones 
 
 For prophecies of thee, and for the sake 
 
 Of loveliness new born." — Apollo then. 
 
 With sudden scrutiny and gloomless eyes, 
 
 Thus answer'd. while his white melodi- 
 ous throat 
 
 Throbb'd with the syllables. — " Mne- 
 mosyne ! 
 
 Thy name is on my tongue, I know not 
 how ; 
 
 Why should I tell thee what thou so 
 well seest ? 
 
 Why should I strive to show what from 
 thy lips 
 
 Would come no mystery ? For me, dark, 
 dark. 
 
 And painful vile oblivion seals my eyes : 
 
 I strive to search wherefore I am so sad. 
 
 Until a melancholy numbs my limbs ; 
 
 And then upon tlie grass I sit, and moan. 
 
 Like one vrho once had wings. — O why 
 should I 
 
 Feel curs'd and thwarted, when the 
 liegeless air 
 
 Yields to my step aspirant? why 
 should I 
 
 Spurn the green turf as hateful to mv 
 feet ? 
 
 Goddess benign, point fortli some un- 
 known thing : 
 
 Are there not otlier regions than this 
 isle? 
 
 What are the stars? There is the sun, 
 the sun ! 
 
 And the most patient brilliance of the 
 moon ! 
 
 And st,ars by thousands ! Point me out 
 the way 
 
 To any one ])articul;i.r beauteous star. 
 
 And I will flit into it with my lyre, 
 
 A nd make its silvery splendor pant with 
 bliss. 
 
 I have heard the cloudy thunder : 
 Where is power ? 
 
422 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Whose hand, whose essence, what 
 
 divinity 
 Makes this alarum in the elements. 
 While I here idle listen on the shore 
 In fearless yet in aciiiug ignorance? 
 O tell me, lonely Goddess, by thy harp, 
 That waileth every morn and eventide, 
 Tell me why thus I rave, about these 
 
 groves ! 
 Mute thou remainest — Mute ! yet I can 
 
 read 
 A wondrous lesson in thy silent face : 
 Knowledge enormous makes a God of 
 
 me. 
 Names, deeds, gray legends, dire events, 
 
 rebellions. 
 Majesties, sovran voices, agonies, 
 Creations and destroyings, all at once 
 Pour into the wide hollows of my brain, 
 And deify me. as if some blithe wine 
 Or bright elixir peerless I had drunk. 
 And so become immortal." — Thus the 
 
 God, 
 While his enkindled eyes, with level 
 
 glance 
 Beneath liis white soft temples, steadfast 
 
 kept 
 Trembling with light upon Mnemosyne. 
 Soon wild commotions shook him, and 
 
 made flush 
 All the immortal fairness of his limbs ; 
 Most like the struggle at the gate of 
 
 death ; 
 Or liker still to one who should take 
 
 leave 
 Of pale immortal death, and with a 
 
 pang 
 As hot as death's is chill, with fierce 
 
 convulse 
 Die into life : so young Apollo anguish'd ; 
 His very liair. his golden tresses famed 
 Kept undulation round his eager neck. 
 During the pain Mnemosyne upheld 
 Her arms as one who prophesied. — At 
 
 length 
 Apollo shriek'd ; — and lo ! from all his 
 
 limbs 
 Celestial * ********* 
 
 * * * 
 
 September, IS IS—Sept ember, IS 19. 1820. 
 LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI 
 
 O WHAT can ail thee, knight-at-arms, 
 Alone and palely loitering ! 
 
 Tlie sedge has wither'd from the lake, 
 And no birds sing. 
 
 what can ail thee, knight-at-arms ! 
 So haggard and so woe-begone ? 
 
 The squirrel's granary is full, 
 And the harvest's done. 
 
 1 see a lih^ on thy brow 
 
 With anguish moist and fever dew, 
 And on tliy cheeks a fading rose 
 Fast withereth too. 
 
 I met a lady in the meads. 
 
 Full beautiful — a faery's child. 
 
 Her liair was long, her foot was light, 
 And her eyes were wild. 
 
 I made a garland for'her head. 
 
 And bracelets too, and fragrant zone ; 
 
 Slie look'd at me as she did love, 
 And made sweet moan. 
 
 I set her on my pacing steed, 
 And nothing else saw all day long. 
 
 For sidelong would she bend, and sing 
 A faery's song. 
 
 She found me I'oots of relish sweet. 
 And Jioney wild, and manna dew. 
 
 And sure in language strange she said — 
 " I love thee true." 
 
 She took me to her elfin grot, 
 
 And there she wept, and sigh'd full 
 sore. 
 And there I shut her wild w^ild eyes 
 
 With kisses four. 
 
 And there she lulled me asleep. 
 
 And there I dream'd — Ah ! woe betide ! 
 The latest dream I ever dream'd 
 
 On tlie cold hill's side. 
 
 I saw pale kings and princes too, 
 
 Pale warriors, death-pale were tiiey 
 all ; 
 
 Tliey cried — " La Belle Dame sans Merci 
 Hath thee in thrall ! " 
 
 I saw their starv'd lips in the gloam, 
 With horrid warning gaped wide, 
 
 And I awoke and found me here. 
 On the cold hill's side. 
 
 And this is why I sojourn here. 
 
 Alone and palely loitering, 
 Thougli the sedge is wither'd from the 
 lake 
 And no birds sing. 
 
 ISIO. May 10, 1830. 
 
KEATS 
 
 423 
 
 ON FAME 
 
 Fame, like a wayward girl, will still be 
 
 coy 
 To those who woo her witli too slavish 
 
 knees. 
 But makes surrender to some thouglit- 
 
 less boy, 
 And dotes the more upon a heart at ease ; 
 She is a Gipsy, — will Tiot speak to tliose 
 Who have not learnt to be content with- 
 out her ; 
 A Jilt, whose ear was never M'hisjier'd 
 
 close, 
 Who tliinks they scandal her who talk 
 
 about her ; 
 A very Gipsy is she, Nilus-born, 
 Sister-in-law to .fealous Potiphar ; 
 Ye love-sick Bards ! repay her scorn for 
 
 scorn : 
 Ye Artists lovelorn ! madmen that ye 
 
 are ! 
 Make your best bow to her and bid adieu, 
 Then, if she likes it, she will follow you. 
 
 II 
 
 How fever'd is the man, who cannot 
 
 look 
 Upon his mortal days with temperate 
 
 blood. 
 Who vexes all the leaves of his life's book. 
 And robs his fair name of its maiden- 
 hood ; 
 It is as if tlie rose should pluck herself. 
 Or the ripe phi in finger its misty bloom, 
 As if a Naiad, like a meddling elf. 
 Should darken her pui'e grot with muddy 
 
 gloom : 
 But the rose leaves herself upon the briar, 
 For winds to kiss and grateful bees to 
 
 feed . 
 And the ripe plum still wears its dim 
 
 attire, 
 The undisturbed lake has crystal space ; 
 Why then should man, teasing the world 
 
 for grace. 
 Spoil his salvation for a fierce misci'eed ? 
 1S19. 1848. 
 
 TO SLEEP 
 
 O SOFT embalmer of the still midnight, 
 Shutting with careful fingers and 
 
 benign, 
 Our gloom-pleased eyes, embowered 
 
 from the light, 
 Enshaded in forgetfulness divine : 
 O soothest Sleep ! if so it please thee, 
 
 close, 
 In midst of this thine hymn, my willing 
 
 eyes. 
 Or wait the amen, ere thy poppy throws 
 Around my bed its lulling charities : 
 Then save me, or the passed day will 
 
 shine 
 Upon my pillow, breeding many woes, — 
 Save me from curious conscience, that 
 
 still lords 
 Its strength for darkness, burrowing like 
 
 a mole ; 
 Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards. 
 And seal the hushed casket of my soul. 
 1819. 1848. 
 
 BRIGHT STAR ! WOULD I WERE 
 STEADFAST AS THOU ART 
 
 Bright star ! would I were steadfast as 
 
 thou art — 
 Not in lone splendor hung aloft the 
 
 night. 
 And watching, with eternal lids apart. 
 Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite, 
 The moving waters at their priestlike 
 
 task 
 Of pure abhition round earth's human 
 
 shores. 
 Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask 
 Of snow upon the mountains and the 
 
 moors — 
 No — yet still steadfast, still unchange- 
 able, 
 Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening 
 
 bi'east. 
 To feel for ever its soft fall and swell, 
 Awake for ever in a sweet unrest. 
 Still, still to hear her tender-taken 
 
 breath, 
 And so live ever — or else swoon to death. 
 1S20. 1848. 
 
N I 
 
 LANDOR 
 
 LIST OF REFERENCES 
 
 Editions 
 
 Works, 8 volames, Chapman & Hall, London, 1874-76. Works, 10 vol- 
 umes, edited by C. G. Crump, The Macmillan Co, Poems, Dialogues in 
 Verse, and Epigrams, 2 volumes, edited by C. G. Crump, the Macmillan Co. 
 Letters and other unpublished Writings, edited by S. Wheeler, London, 
 1897. Letters, Private and Public, edited by S. Wheeler, London, 1899. 
 Selections from Landor, edited by Sidney Colvin (Golden Treasury 
 Series). 
 
 Biography 
 
 * FoRSTER (John), W. S. Landor : A Biography, 2 volumes, 1869 ; also 
 (abridged) as Vol. I. of Works, 1874. * Colvin (Sidney), Landor (Eng- 
 lish Men of Letters Series). 
 
 Reminiscences and Early Criticism 
 
 Robinson (IT. C), Diary, Vol. II, Chap. XII, etc. Mitford (M. R.), 
 Recollections of a Literary Life. Browning (Elizabeth Barrett), in Home's 
 New Spirit of the Age. Ejierson, Natural History of Intellect. De 
 QuiNCEY, Masson's edition, Vol. XL Duffy (C. Gavan), Conversations 
 with Carlyle. Hunt (Leigh), Lord Byron and his Contemporaries. Bless- 
 iNGTON (Marguerite), The Idler in Italy. Madden (R. R.), The Literary 
 Life and Correspondence of the Countess of Blessington. See also the 
 Letters of Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 
 
 Later Criticism 
 
 * BoYNTON (H. W.), Poetry of Landor, in the Atlantic Monthly, Vol. 90, 
 page 126, July, 1902. * Colvin (Sidney), Preface to the vohnne of Se- 
 lections in the Golden Treasury Series. * Dowden (Edward), Studies in 
 Literature. Evans (E. W.), A Study of Landor. Henley ( W. II.), Views 
 and Reviews. Lee (Vernon), Studies in Literary Psychology : The Rhe- 
 toric of Landor, in the Contemporary Review, Vol. 84, Page 856, 1903. 
 Lowell (J. R.), Latest Literary Essays and Addresses. Oliphant (Mar- 
 garet), Victorian Age of English Literature. Satntsbury (George), 
 Essays in English Literature, Second Series. Scudder (H. E.), Men and 
 Letters: Landor as a Classic. * Stedman (E. C), Victorian Poets. 
 Stephen (Leslie), Hours in a Library, Vol. II. * Swinburne, Miscella- 
 nies. * Woodberry (G. E.), Studies in Letters and Life. 
 
 Brooks (S. W.), English Poets. De Vere (Aubrey), Essays, chiefly on 
 Poetry, Vol. II. Devey (J.), Comparative Estimate of Modern English 
 Poets. Dixon (W. M.), English Poetry. Dowden (Edward), French 
 
 424 
 
LAN DOR 
 
 425 
 
 Revolution and English Literature, Evaxs (E. Waterman, Jr.), Walter 
 Savage Landor : A Critical Study. IIittton (Lawrence), Landmarks of 
 Florence. Mitchell (D. G.), England's Lands, Letters and Kings. Nen- 
 cioNi (E.), Letteratura inglese : Colvin, Biogratia di Landor. Sarrazix 
 (G.), Poetes modernes de I'Angleterre. Schuyler (E.), Italian Influences. 
 
 Tributes in Verse ; Memorial Verses, etc. 
 
 ** Watson (W.), Landor's Hellenics. Japp (A. H.), Landor, in Stinl- 
 man's Victorian Anthology. * * Swinuurne, Poems and Ballads, First 
 Series: In Memory of Walter Savage Landor. * Swinburne, Studies in 
 Song : Song for the Centenary of Walter Savage Landor. 
 
 Bibliography 
 
 Wheeler (S.), in Letters and Other Unpublished Writmgs of Landor. 
 
 LANDOR ^ 
 
 GEBIR 
 BOOK I 
 
 The Invasion. The Meeting of Gebir 
 AND Charoba. The Loves of Ta- 
 
 MAR AND the SEA-NYMPH. ThE SeA- 
 
 shell. The Wrestling-match. 
 
 I SING the fates of Gebir. He hud 
 
 dwelt 
 Among those mountain-caverns which 
 
 retain 
 His labors yet, vast halls and flowing 
 
 wells, 
 Nor have forgotten their old master's 
 
 name 
 Though sever'd from liis people : here, 
 
 incensed 
 By meditating on pririeval wrongs. 
 He blew his battle-horn, at which uprose 
 Whole nations ; here, ten thousand of 
 
 most might 
 He call'd aloud ; and soon Charoba saw 
 His dark helm hover o'er the land of 
 
 Nile. 
 What should the virgin do ? should 
 
 royal knees 
 Bend suppliant ? or defenceless hands 
 
 engage 
 Men of gigantic force, gigantic arms ? 
 For 'twas reported that nor sword suf- 
 ficed, 
 
 Nor shield immense nor coat of massive 
 mail, 
 
 But that upon tlieir towering heads they 
 bore 
 
 Eacli a huge stone, refulgent as the stars. 
 
 This told she Dalica. then cried aloud, 
 
 " If on yonr bosom laying down my head 
 
 I sobb'd away the sorrows of a child. 
 
 If I have always, and Heav'n knows I 
 have. 
 
 Next to a mother's lield a nurse's name, 
 
 Succor this one distress, recall those 
 days. 
 
 Love me, tho' 'twere because you lov'd 
 me then." 
 But whether confident in magic rites 
 
 Or toviclied with sexual pride to stand 
 implor'd, 
 
 Dalica smiled, then spake: "Away 
 those fears. 
 
 Though stronger than the strongest of 
 his kind. 
 
 He falls ; on me devolve that charge ; 
 lie falls. 
 
 Rather than fly him, stoop thou to al- 
 lure ; 
 
 Nay, journey to his tents. A citj^ stood 
 
 Upon that coast, they say, by Sidad 
 built, [ground 
 
 Whose father Gad built Gadir ; on this 
 
 Perhaps he sees an ample room for war. 
 
 Persuade him to restore the walls him- 
 self 
 
426 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 In lionor of his ancestors. i)ersuade . . . 
 But wherefore this advice? youug, un- 
 
 espoused, 
 Cliaroba want persuasions ! and a 
 
 queen ! "' 
 " O Dalica ! " the shuddering maid 
 
 exclaini'd, 
 "Could I encounter that fierce frightful 
 
 man ? 
 Could I speak? no, nor sigh." "And 
 
 canst thou reign ? " 
 Cried Dalica; "Yield empire or com- 
 ply." 
 Unfixed, though seeming fixed, her 
 
 eyes downcast. 
 The wonted buzz and bustle of the court 
 From far througli sculptured galleries 
 
 met lier ear ; 
 TJien lifting up her head, the evening 
 
 sun 
 Pour'd a fresh splendor on her burnished 
 
 til rone : 
 The fair Charoba, the young queen, com- 
 plied. 
 But Gebir, when he heard of her ap- 
 proach, 
 Laid by liis orbed shield ; his vizor-helm, 
 His buckler and his corset he laid b3^ 
 And bade that none attend him : at liis 
 
 side 
 Two faithful dogs that urge the silent 
 
 course, 
 Shaggy, deep-chested, crouched ; the 
 
 crocodile, 
 Crying, oft made them raise their flaccid 
 
 ears 
 And pusli their heads within their mas- 
 ter's hand. 
 There was a brightening paleness in his 
 
 face. 
 Such as Diana rising o'er tlie rocks 
 Shower'd on the lonely Latmiau ; on his 
 
 brow 
 Sorrow there was, yet nought was there 
 
 severe. 
 But when the royal damsel first he saw. 
 Faint, hanging on her hand-maid, and 
 
 her knees 
 Tottering, as from the motion of the 
 
 car, 
 His eyes looked earnest on her, and 
 
 those eyes 
 Show'd, if they had not, that they might 
 
 have, lov'd. 
 For there was pity in them at that hour. 
 With gentle speech, and more with 
 
 gentle looks. 
 He sooth'd lier ; but lest Pity go beyond 
 And crost Ambition lose her lofty aim 
 
 Bending, he kissed her garment, and 
 
 retired. 
 He went, nor slumber'd in the sultry 
 
 noon, 
 When viands, couches, generous wines, 
 
 persuade, 
 And slumber iuost refreshes; nor at night, 
 When heavy dews are laden with disease; 
 And blindness waits not there for linger- 
 ing age. 
 Ere morning dawn'd behind him, he 
 
 arrived 
 At those rich meadows where young 
 
 Tamar fed 
 The royal flocks eJitrusted to his care. 
 " Now, ".said he to him.self," will I repose 
 At least this burthen on a brother's 
 
 breast." 
 His brother stood befoi'e liim : he, amazed, 
 RearM .suddenly Ins liead, and thus iH'gan. 
 "Is it thou, brother ! Tamar, is it thou ! 
 Why, standing on the valley's utmost 
 
 verge, 
 Lookest thou on that dull and dreary 
 
 shore 
 Where beyond sight Nile blackens all 
 
 the sand? 
 And why that sadness ? Wlien I past our 
 
 sheep 
 The dew-drops were not shaken off the 
 
 bar. 
 Therefore if one be wanting, 'tis untold." 
 " Yes, one is wanting, nor is that 
 
 untold," 
 Said Tamar ; " and this dull and dreary^ 
 
 shore 
 Is neither dull nor dreary at all hours." 
 Whereon the tear stole silent down his 
 
 cheek, 
 Silent, but not by Gebir unobserv'd : 
 Wondering he gazed awhile, and pitying 
 
 spake. 
 " Let me appi'oa(;h thee ; does the morn- 
 ing light 
 Scatter tliis wan .suffusion o'er tliy brow, 
 Tliis faint blue lustre under both thine 
 
 eyes ? " 
 " O brother, is this pity or reproacli ?" 
 Cried Tamar, " cruel if it be reproach, 
 If pity, O how vain ! " " Wliate'er it be 
 That grieves thee, I will pity, thou but 
 
 speak. 
 And I can tell thee, Tamar, pang for 
 
 pang." 
 " Gebir ! tlien more than brothers are 
 
 we now ! 
 Everything(takemy hand) will I confess. 
 I neither feed the flock nor watch the 
 
 fold; 
 
 II 
 
LANDOR 
 
 427 
 
 How can I. lost in love ? But, Gebir, why 
 That anger which has risen to your 
 
 cheek ? 
 Can other men ? could you ? what, no 
 
 reply ! 
 And still more anger, and still worse 
 
 conceal'd ! 
 Are these vour promises ? your pity 
 
 this ? '■' 
 " Tamar, I well may pity what I feel — 
 Mark me aright — I feel for thee — 
 
 proceed — 
 Relate me all." '' Then will I all relate.*' 
 Said the young shepherd, gladden'd 
 
 from his heart. 
 " 'Twas evening, though not sunset, and 
 
 the tide 
 Level with these green meadows, seeni'd 
 
 yet higher : 
 'Twas pleasant ; and I loosen'd from my 
 
 neck 
 The pipe you gave me, and began to play. 
 
 that I ne'er had learnt the tuneful art ! 
 It always brings us enemies or love. 
 Well, I was playing, when above the 
 
 waves 
 
 Some swimmer's head niethought I saw 
 ascend ; 
 
 I. sittingstill, survey'd it, with my pipe 
 
 Awkwardly held before my lips half- 
 closed, 
 
 Gebir ! it was a Nymph ! a Nj^mph 
 divine ! 
 
 1 cannot wait describing liow she came. 
 How I was sitting, how she first assum'd 
 The sailor ; of what happen'd there re- 
 mains 
 
 Enough to say, and too much to forget. 
 The sweet deceiver stepped upon this 
 
 bank 
 Before I was aware ; for with surpi-ise 
 Moments fl}' ra|)id as with love itself. 
 Stooping to tune afresh the lioarsen'd 
 
 reed, 
 I heard a rustling, and where that arose 
 My glance first lighted on her nimble 
 
 feet. 
 Her feet resembled those long shells 
 
 explored 
 By him who to befriend his steed's dim 
 
 siglit 
 Would blow the pungent powder in the 
 
 eye. 
 Her eyes too ! O immortal Gods ! her 
 
 eyes 
 Resembled — what could they resemble ? 
 
 what 
 Ever resemble those? Even lier attire 
 Was not of wonted woof nor vulgar art : 
 
 Her mantle show'd the yellow samphire- 
 pod, 
 Her girdle the dove-color'd wave serene. 
 •"Shepherd," said she, "and will you 
 
 wrestle now. 
 And with the sailor's hardier race en- 
 gage ? " 
 I was rejoiced to hear it, and contrived 
 How to keep up contention : could I fail 
 By pressing not too sti'ongly, yet to 
 
 press ? 
 "Whether a shepherd, as indeed yod 
 
 seem, 
 Or whether of the hardier race you boast, 
 I am not daunted ; no ; I will engage."' 
 " But first." said she, " what wager will 
 
 you lay V " 
 " A sheep," I answered : " add whate'er 
 
 you will." 
 "I can not," she replied, "make that 
 
 return : 
 Our hided vessels in their pitchy round 
 Seldom, unless from rapine, hold a sheep, 
 But I have sinuous shells of pearly hue 
 Within, and they that lustre have im- 
 bibed 
 In the sun's palace-porch, wiiere when 
 
 unyoked 
 His chariot-wheel stands midway in the 
 
 wave : 
 Shake one and it awakens, then ai)[)ly 
 Its polisht lips to your attentive ear, 
 And it remembers its august abodes. 
 And murmurs as the ocean murmurs 
 
 there. 
 And I have others given me by the 
 
 in'mphs. 
 Of sweeter sound than any pipe you 
 
 have ; 
 But we, by Neptune ! for no pipe con- 
 tend. 
 This time a sheep I win. a pipe the next." 
 Now came she forward eager to engage. 
 But first her dress, lier bosom then sui'- 
 
 vey'd. 
 And heav'd it, doubting if she could 
 
 deceive. 
 Her bosom seem'd, inclos'd in haze like 
 
 heav'n, 
 To bafile touch, and rose forth unde- 
 fined : 
 Above her knee she drew the robe suc- 
 cinct. 
 Above her breast, and just below her 
 
 arms. 
 "This will preserve niv breath when 
 
 tightly bound. 
 If struggle and equal strength should so 
 constrain." 
 
428 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Thus, pulling hard to fasten it. she spake, 
 And, rushing at nie, closed : I thrill'd 
 
 throughout 
 And seem'd to lessen and shrink up with 
 
 cold. 
 Again with violent impulse gushed my 
 
 blood. 
 And hearing nought external, thus ab- 
 
 sorb'd, 
 I heard it, rushing through each turbid 
 
 vein, 
 Shake my unsteady swimming sight in 
 
 air. 
 Yet with vmyielding though uncertain 
 
 arras 
 I clung around her neck ; the vest be- 
 neath 
 Rustled against our slippery limbs en- 
 twined : 
 Often mine springing with eluded force 
 Started aside and trembled till replaced : 
 And when I most succeeded, as I thought, 
 My bosom and my throat felt so com- 
 pressed 
 That life was almost quivering on my 
 
 lips, 
 Yet nothing was there painful : these 
 
 are signs 
 Of secret arts and not of human might ; 
 AVhat arts I cannot tell ; I only know 
 My eyes grew dizzy and my strength 
 
 decay'd ; 
 I was indeed o'ercome . . . with what 
 
 regret, 
 And more, with what confusion, wlien 
 
 I reached 
 The fold, and yielding up the sheep, she 
 
 cried, 
 " This pays a shepherd to a conquering 
 
 maid." 
 She smiled, and more of pleasure than 
 
 disdain 
 Was in her dimpled chin and liberal lip, 
 And eyes that languished, lengthening. 
 
 just like love. 
 Slie went away ; I on the wicker gate 
 Leant, and could follow with my eyes 
 
 alone. 
 The sheep she carried easy as a cloak ; 
 But when I lieard its bleating, as I did. 
 And saw, she liastening on, its hinder 
 
 feet [slip, 
 
 Sti'Uggle, and from her snowy shoulder 
 One shoulder its poor efforts had un 
 
 veil'd, [tears ; 
 
 Then all my passions mingling fell in 
 Restless then ran I to the highest ground 
 To watch her ; she was gone ; gone down 
 
 the tide ; 
 
 And the long moonbeam on the hard 
 
 wet sand 
 Lay like a jasper column half up-rear'd." 
 "But, Tamar ! tell me, will she not 
 
 return ? " 
 '* She will return, yet not before the 
 
 moon 
 Again is at the full : she promised this, 
 Tho' when slie promised I could not 
 
 reply." 
 " By all the Gods I pity thee ! go on, 
 Fear not my anger, look not on my 
 
 shame. 
 For when a lover only hears of love 
 He finds his folly out, and is ashamed. 
 Away witli watchful nights and lonely 
 
 days, 
 Contempt of earth and aspect up to 
 
 lieaven. 
 With contemplation, with humility, 
 A tatter'd cloak that pride wears when 
 
 deform'd, 
 Awav with all that hides me from my- 
 
 ■ self, 
 Parts me from others, whispers I am 
 
 wise : 
 From our own wisdom less is to be reapt 
 Than from the barest folly of our friend. 
 Tamar ! thy pastures, large and rich, 
 
 afford 
 Flowers to thy bees and herbage to thy 
 
 sheep. 
 But, battened on too much, the poorest 
 
 croft 
 Of thy poor neighbor yields what thine 
 
 denies." 
 The}^ hasten'd to the camp, and Gebir 
 
 there 
 Resolved his native country to forego, 
 And ordered from those ruins to the right 
 They forthwith raise a city. Tamar 
 
 heard [told, 
 
 AVith wonder, tho' in passing 'twas half- 
 His brother's love, and sigh'd upon liis 
 
 own. 1798.1 
 
 ROSE AYLMER 
 
 Ah what avails the sceptred race, 
 Ah wliat the form divine ! 
 
 What every virtue, every grace 1 
 Rose Aylmer, all were thine. 
 
 ^ The exact dates of luritiiuj, for nearly all of 
 Lander's poems, are unknown ; and the same is 
 true for Browning, and, on the whole, for all of 
 the following poets. From this point on, there- 
 fore, the poems of each author will be arranged 
 chronologically according to the dates of ;??{?);!- 
 caf/on, and the dates of writing (if known) will 
 be given only when especially important. 
 
LANDOR 
 
 429 
 
 Rose Aylinei", whom these wakeful eyes 
 
 May weep, but never see, 
 A night of memories and of sighs 
 
 I consecrate to thee.i 1806. 
 
 REGENERATION 2 
 
 We are what suns and winds and waters 
 
 make us ; [the rills 
 
 Tlie mountains are our sponsors, and 
 Fashion and win their nursling witii 
 
 their smiles. 
 But where the land is dim from t5'ranny, 
 Tliere tiny pleasures occupy the place 
 Of glories and of duties : as tlie feet 
 Of fabled fairies when the sun goes down 
 Trip o'er the grass where wrestlers 
 
 strove by day. [above, 
 
 Then Justice, call'd the Eternal One 
 Is more inconstant than the buoyant form 
 That burst into existence from the froth 
 Of ever-varying ocean : wliat is best 
 Then becomes worst ; what loveliest, 
 
 most deformed. 
 The heai't is hardest in the softest climes. 
 The passions flourish, tlie affections die. 
 O tliou vast tablet of these awful truths, 
 That fillest all the space between tlie seas. 
 Spreading from Venice's deserted courts 
 To the Tarentine anol Hydruntine mole. 
 What lifts thee up ? what shakes thee ? 
 
 'tis the breath [life ! 
 
 .Of God. Awake, ye nations ! spring to 
 Let the last work of his right hand appear 
 Fresh with his image, Man. Thou 
 
 recreant slave 
 Tliat sittest afar off and helpest not, 
 O thou degenerate Albion ! ^ with what 
 
 shame 
 
 1 Rose Ayhner, the daughter of Henry, fourth 
 Barou Aylmer, was Landor's companion in liis 
 walks about Swansea (" Abertawy" ) in Wales. 
 She went to India, and died there in 1800. Lan- 
 dor speaks of her again in two poems written 
 late in life : The Three Roses. 1858, (see page 
 •l.'jT); and Abertnivy. 1859, the concluding lines of 
 which almost equal in beauty this early lyric, 
 usually considered the most beautiful of his 
 poems : 
 
 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 dropped her blossom in the grave ; 
 Her noble name she never changed. 
 Nor was her nobler heart estranged. 
 * Inspired by the struggle of the Greek people 
 for independence. 
 
 3 " What those amongst us who are affected by 
 a sense of national honor most lament, is, that 
 England, whose generosity would cost her noth- 
 ing and whose courage would be unexposed to 
 fatality, stands aloof." (Landor, in the Dedica- 
 tion of Imaginary Conversations, 1829. ) 
 
 Do I survey thee, pushing forth the 
 
 sponge 
 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 vigor, into form again ? 
 Wliat thunder bursts upon mine ear ! 
 
 some isle 
 Hath surely risen from the gulfs pro 
 
 found. 
 Eager to suck the sunshine from the 
 
 breast 
 Of beauteous Nature, and to catch the 
 
 gale 
 From golden Hermus andMelena's brow. 
 A greater thing than isle, than continent. 
 Than earth itself, than ocean circling 
 
 earth. 
 Hath risen there ; regenerate Man hatli 
 
 risen. 
 Generous old bard of Chios ! not that Jove 
 Deprived thee in thy latter daj^s of sight 
 Would I complain, but that no higher 
 
 theme 
 Than a disdainful youth, a lawless king, 
 A pestilence, a pyre, awoke thj^ song. 
 When on the Chian coast, one javelin's 
 
 throw 
 From where thy tombstone, where thy 
 
 cradle, stood. 
 Twice twenty self-devoted Greeks as- 
 
 sail'd 
 The naval host of Asia, at one blow i 
 Scattered it into air . . , and Greece 
 
 was free . . . 
 And ere these glories beam'd, thy daj' 
 
 had closed. 
 Let all that Elis ever saw, give wa.v. 
 All that Olympian Jove e'er smiled 
 
 upon : 
 The Marathonian columns never told 
 A tale more glorious, never Salaniis, 
 No)', faithful in the centre of the false, 
 Platea, nor Anthela, from wlio.se mount 
 Benignant Ceres wards the blessed Laws, 
 And sees the Amphictyon dip his weary 
 
 foot 
 In the warin streamlet of the strait be- 
 low. 
 Goddess ! altho' thy brow was never 
 
 rear'd [sail'd 
 
 Among the powers that guarded or as- 
 
 ' Alluding to the victory of Canaris over the 
 Turkish fleet. Compare the poem of Victor 
 Hugo on the same battle, in Les Orientates. 
 
43° 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Perfidious Ilion, parricidal Thebes, 
 Or other walls whose war-belt e'er in- 
 closed 
 Man's congregated crimes and vengeful 
 
 pain, 
 Yet hast thou touched the extremes of 
 
 grief and 303' ; 
 Grief upon Enna's mead and Hell's as- 
 cent, 
 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 depressed 
 "With sad and certain presage for my 
 
 own. 
 Exult at hope's fresh dayspring, tho' 
 
 afar. 
 There where my youth was not unexer- 
 cised 
 By chiefs in willing war and faithful 
 
 song : 
 Sliades as the\' were, they were not 
 
 empty shades. 
 Whose bodies haunt our world and blear 
 
 our sun. 
 Obstruction worse than swamp and 
 
 shapeless sands. 
 Peace, ]>raise, eternal gladness, to the 
 
 souls 
 That, rising from the seas into tlie 
 
 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 [tone 
 
 That Adulation trills : she mocks tlie 
 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 e3'es on heaven 
 
 alone 
 In jiatience fixed, in fondness unob- 
 
 scured ! 
 What monsters coil beneath the spread- 
 ing 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. 1824. 
 
 CHILD OF A DAY. THOU KNOWEST 
 
 NOT 
 
 Child of a day. thou knowest not 
 
 Tlie tears that overflow thine urn, 
 The gushing eyes that read thy lot. 
 
 Nor, if thou knewest, couldst return ! 
 And wh}' the wish ! thepuieand blessed 
 
 Watch like thy mother o'er tiiy sleep. 
 O peaceful night ! O envied rest ! 
 
 Thou wilt not ever see her weep. 
 
 1831. 
 
 LYRICS, TO lANTHE 
 
 Away my verse ; and never fear, 
 
 As men before sucli beaut)' 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 blemislies might blend. 
 
 For it would please her to forgive. 
 
 When Helen first saw wrinkles in her 
 
 face 
 ('Tvvas when some fiftj' long had settled 
 
 there 
 And intermarried and branched off 
 
 a wide) 
 
LANDOR 
 
 431 
 
 She threw herself upon her coucli and 
 
 wept : 
 On this side liung her head, and over 
 
 that 
 Listlessly she let fall the faitliless brass 
 Tluit made tlie men as faithless. 
 
 But when you 
 Found tliem, or fancied them, and would 
 
 not hear 
 That they were only vestiges of smiles, 
 Or the impression of some amorous hair 
 Astray from cloistered curls and roseate 
 
 band. [perhaps 
 
 Which had been Ij'ing there all night 
 Upon a skin so soft. " No. no,'' you said, 
 •• Sure, thej' are coming, yes, are come, 
 
 are here : 
 Well, and what matters it, while thou 
 
 art too ! " 
 
 lanthe ! 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 watclied him laying 
 down 
 His brow, and dropped our own 
 Against eacli other's, and how faint and 
 short 
 And sliding the support ! 
 Wliat will succeed it now ? Mine is 
 unljlessed. 
 lantlie! nor will rest 
 But on the very thought that swells with 
 pain. 
 O bid me hope again ! 
 O give me back what Earth, what (with- 
 out 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, 
 Fi-agile and incomplete. 
 
 I held her liand. the pledge of bliss, 
 Her hand tliat trembled and with- 
 drew ; 
 
 She bent her head before my kiss . . 
 Mj^ heart was sure that hers was true. 
 
 Now I have told her I must part. 
 She shakes my iiand. she Ijids adieu. 
 
 Nor shuns the kiss. Alas, my heart ! 
 Hers never was the heart for you. 
 
 Pleasui-e ! why thus desert the heart 
 
 In its spring-tide ? 
 I could have seen iier. I could part. 
 
 And but have sigli'd ! 
 
 O'er every youthful charm to stray, 
 
 To gaze, to touch . . 
 Pleasure ! why take so much away, 
 
 Or give so much ! 
 
 Mild is the parting year, and sweet 
 The odor 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 havesot)th'd it all. 
 
 Past ruin'd Ilion Helen lives. 
 .> Alcestis rises from the shades ; 
 Verse calls them forth ; 'tis verse that 
 gives 
 Immortal youth to mortal maids. 
 
 Soon shall Oblivion's deepening veil 
 Hide all the peopled hills you see. 
 
 The gay, the proud, while lovei'S hail 
 Tliese many summers 3'ou and me. 
 
 1831. 
 
 FIESOLAN IDYL 
 
 Here, where precipitate Spring, with 
 one light bound 
 
 Into hot Summer's lusty arms, expires. 
 
 And where go forth at morn, at eve, at 
 nigiit. 
 
 Soft airs that want the lute to play with 
 'em. 
 
 And softer sighs that know not what 
 they want. 
 
 Aside a wall, beneath an oi-ange-tree. 
 
 Whose tallest flowers could tell the low- 
 lier ones 
 
 Of sights in Fiesole right up above. 
 
 While I was gazing a few paces off 
 
 At what they seem'd to show nie with 
 their nods, / 
 
 Their frequent whispers and their point- 
 ing shoots, 
 
 A gentle maid came down the garden- 
 steps [lapJ 
 
 And gathered the pure treasure in hei 
 
432 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 I heard the branches rustle, and stepped 
 
 forth 
 To drive tlie ox away, or mule or goat. 
 Such I believed it must be. How could I 
 Let beast o'erpower tliem ? Wlien liath 
 
 wind or rain 
 Borne hard upon weak plant that wanted 
 
 me. 
 And I (however they might bluster 
 
 round) 
 Walked off ? 'Twere most ungi-atef ul : 
 
 for sweet scents 
 Are the swift vehicles of still sweeter 
 
 thoughts, 
 And nurse and pillow the dull memory 
 That would let drop without them her 
 
 best stores. 
 They bring me tales of j^outh and tones 
 
 of love. 
 And 'tis and ever was my wish and way 
 To let all flowers live freely, and all die 
 (VVliene'er their Genius bids their souls 
 
 depart) 
 Among their kindred in their native 
 
 place. 
 I never pluck tlie rose ; the violet's head 
 Hath shaken with my breath upon its 
 
 bank 
 And not reproached me : the ever-sacred 
 
 cup 
 Of the pure lily hath between my hands 
 Felt safe, unsoil'd, nor lost one grain of 
 
 gold. 
 I saw tlie light that made tlie glossy 
 
 leaves 
 More glossy ; the fair arm, the fairer 
 
 clieek 
 Warmed by the eye intent on its pursuit ; 
 I saw the foot that, altho' lialf-erect 
 From its gray slipper, could not lift lier 
 
 up 
 To what she wanted : I held down a 
 
 brancli 
 And gather'd her some blossoms ; since 
 
 their hour 
 Was come, and bees had wounded tliem, 
 
 and flies 
 Of harder wing were working their way 
 
 thro' 
 And scattering them in fragments under- 
 foot. 
 So crisp were some, they rattled un- 
 
 evolved. 
 Others, ere broken off, fell into shells. 
 For such appear the petals wlien de- 
 tached 
 Unbending, brittle, lucid, white like 
 
 snow, [sun : 
 
 And like snow not seen tln"o', by eye or 
 
 Yet every one her gown received from 
 
 me 
 Was fairer than tlie first. I thought not 
 
 so. 
 But so she praised them to reward my 
 
 care. 
 I said, " You find the largest." 
 
 "This indeed,'' 
 Cried she. " is large and sweet." She 
 
 held one forth, 
 AVhether for me to look at or to take 
 She knew not, nor did I ; but taking it 
 Would best have solved (and this she 
 
 felt) her doubt. 
 I dared not touch it ; for it seemed a 
 
 part 
 Of her own self ; fresh, full, the most 
 
 mature 
 Of blossoms, yet a blossom ; with a touch 
 To fall, and yet unfallen. She drew back 
 The boon she tender'd, and then, finding 
 
 not 
 The ribbon at her waist to fix it in. 
 Dropped it, as loth to drop it, on the rest. 
 
 1831. 
 
 FOR AN EPITAPH AT FIESOLE 
 
 Lo ! where the four mimosas blend their 
 
 shade 
 In calm repose at last is Landor laid, 
 For ei-e he slept he saw tli^m planted 
 
 here 
 By her his .soul liad ever held most dear, 
 And he liad lived enough when he had 
 
 dried her tear. 1881. 
 
 UPON A SWEET-BRIAR 
 
 My briar that smelledst sweet 
 When gentle spring's first heat 
 
 Ran through th)' quiet veins, — 
 Thou that wouldst injure none, 
 But wouldst be left alone. 
 Alone thou leavest me, and nought of 
 thine remains. 
 
 What ! hath no poet's lyre 
 
 O'er thee, sweet-breathing briar, 
 
 Hung fondly, ill or well? 
 And yet methinks with thee 
 A poet's sympatliy. 
 Whether in weal or woe, in life or death, 
 might dwell. 
 
 Hard usage both must bear, 
 Few hands your jouth will rear. 
 
 Few bosoms cherish you ; 
 Your tender prime must bleed 
 
 . 
 
LANDOR 
 
 433 
 
 Ere you are sweet, but freed 
 From life, you then ai"e prized ; thus 
 prized are poets too. 
 
 And art thou yet alive ? 
 And shall the happy hive 
 
 Send out her youth to cull 
 Thy sweets of leaf and flower, 
 And spend the sunny hour 
 With thee, and thy faint heart with 
 murmuring music lull ? 
 
 Tell me wliat tender care. 
 Tell me what pious prayer, 
 Bade thee arise and live. 
 The fondest-favored bee 
 Sliall whisper nought to thee 
 Move loving than the song mj^ grateful 
 muse shall give. 
 
 1834.1 
 
 THE MAID'S LAMENT 
 
 I IjOVED him not ; and yet now he is gone 
 
 I feel I am alone. 
 I check'd him while he spoke ; yet could 
 he speak, 
 Alas ! I would not clieck. 
 For reasons not to love him once I 
 sought, 
 And wearied all my thought 
 To vex myself and him : I now would 
 give 
 My love, could he but live 
 Who lately lived for me, and when he 
 found 
 'Twas vain, in holy ground 
 He hid his face amid tlie shades of 
 death. 
 I waste for him my breath 
 Who wasted his for me : but mine re- 
 turns, 
 And this lorn bosom burns 
 With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep. 
 
 And waking me to weep 
 Tears that had melted his soft heart : 
 for years 
 Wept he as bitter tears. 
 Merciful God! such was his latest 
 prayer. 
 These may she never share. 
 Quieter is his breath, his breast more 
 cold. 
 Than daisies in the mould, 
 Where children spell, atliwart the 
 churchyard gate, 
 
 * This and the following poem are from the 
 Citation of William Shakespeare. 
 
 28' 
 
 His name and life's brief date. 
 Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er you 
 - be. 
 And oh ! pray too for me. 
 
 1834. 
 
 THE SHADES OF AGAMEMNON Ly^ 
 AND IPHIGENEIA i 
 
 Iphigeneia. Father ! I now may lean 
 
 upon your breast, 
 And you with unre verted eyes will grasp 
 Iphigeneia's hand. 
 
 We ai'e not shades 
 Surely ! for yours throb yet . 
 
 And did my blood 
 Win Troy for Greece ? 
 
 Ah ! 'twas ill done, to shrink ; 
 But the sword gleam'd so sharp ; and the 
 
 good priest 
 Trembled, and Pallas frown'd above, 
 
 severe. 
 Agamemnon. Daughter ! 
 Iphigeneia. Beloved father ! is the 
 
 blade 
 Again to pierce my bosom ? 'tis vmftt 
 For sacrifice ; no blood is in its veins. 
 No God requires it here : here are no 
 
 wrongs 
 To vindicate, no realms to overthrow. 
 You standing as at Aulis in the fane. 
 With face averted, holding (as before) 
 My hand ; but yours burns not, as then 
 
 it burn'd. 
 This alone siiovvs me we are with the 
 
 Blessed, 
 Nor subject to the sufferings we have 
 
 borne. 
 I will win back past kindness. 
 
 Tell me then. 
 Tell how my mother fares who loved me 
 
 so. 
 And griev'd, as 'twere for you, to see me 
 
 part. 
 Frown not, but pardon me for tarrying 
 Amid too idle words, nor asking liow 
 She prais'd us both (whicli most?) for 
 
 what we did. 
 Agamemnon. Ye Gods who govern 
 
 here ! do human pangs 
 Reach the pure soul thus far below ? do 
 
 tears 
 Spring in these meadows? 
 
 1 "I imagine AgameiTinon to descend from his 
 horrible death, and to meet instantly his daugh- 
 ter. By the nature of things, by the suddenness 
 of the event, Iphigeneia can have heard nothing 
 of her mother's double crime, adultery and 
 murder." .\spasia to Cleone, introducing the 
 poem as first given in Pericles and Aspasia, 1836. 
 
434 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Tphigeneia. No, sweet father, no . . 
 I could have answered that ; why ask 
 
 tlie Gods ? 
 Agamemnon. Ipliigeneia ! O my 
 
 child ! the Earth 
 Has gendered crimes unheard of hei'eto- 
 
 fore, 
 And Nature may Iiave changed in her 
 
 last depths, 
 Together with the Gods and all their 
 
 laws. 
 Tphigeneia. Father ! we must not let 
 
 you here condemn ; 
 Not, were the day less joyful : recollect 
 We have no wicked here; no king to 
 
 judge. 
 Poseidon, we have heard, with bitter 
 
 rage 
 Lashes his foaming steeds against the 
 
 skies. 
 And, laughing with loud yell at winged 
 
 fire, 
 Innoxious to his fields and palaces 
 Affriglits the eagle from the sceptred 
 
 hand ; 
 While Pluto, gentlest brother of the 
 
 three 
 And happiest in obedience, views sedate 
 His tranquil realm, nor envies theirs 
 
 above. 
 No change have we, not even day for 
 
 night 
 Nor spring for summer. 
 
 All things are serene, 
 Serene too be your spirit ! None on earth 
 Ever was half so kindly in his house, 
 And so compliant, even to a cliild. 
 Never was snatch'd your robe away from 
 
 me, [man 
 
 Though going to the council. The blind 
 Knew his good king was leading him 
 
 indoors. 
 Before he heard the voice that marshal'd 
 
 Greece. 
 Therefore all prais'd you. 
 
 Proudest men themselves 
 In others praise liumility' and most 
 Admire it in the sceptre and the sword. 
 What then can make you speak thus 
 
 rapidly 
 And briefly ? in your step thus hesitate ? 
 Are you afraid to meet among the g(wd 
 Incestuous Helen here? 
 
 Agamemnon. O ! gods of hell ! 
 
 Ipliigeneia. Slie hath not past the 
 
 river. 
 
 We may walk 
 With our hands link'd nor feel our 
 
 house's shame. 
 
 Agamemnon. Never mayst thou, Iplii- 
 geneia, feel it ! 
 Aulis had no sluirp sword, thou wouldst 
 
 exclaim, 
 Greece no avenger — I. lier chief so late, 
 Through Erebos, through Elysium, 
 
 writhe beneath it. 
 Iphigeneia. Come, I have better dia- 
 dems tlian tliose 
 Of Argos and Mycenai : come away. 
 And I will weave them for you on the 
 
 bank. 
 You will not look so pale when j'ou have 
 
 walk'd 
 A little in the grove, and have told all 
 Those sweet fond words the widow sent 
 
 her child. 
 Agamemnon. O Eartli ! I suffered 
 
 less upon thy shores ! 
 [Aside.) The bath that bubbled with 
 
 my blood, the blows 
 That spilt it (O worse torture!) must 
 
 she know ? 
 Ah ! the first woman coming from Mj'- 
 
 cenai 
 Will pine to pour this poison in her ear. 
 Taunting sad Charon for his slow ad- 
 vance. 
 Iphigeneia ! 
 
 Iphigeiieia. Why thus tui-n away? 
 Calling me with such fondness ! I am 
 
 here. 
 Father ! and where j^ou are. will ever be. 
 Agamemnon. Thou art my child ; yes, 
 
 yes, thou art my child. 
 All was nob once what all now is ! Come 
 
 on. 
 Idol of love and truth ! niv cliild ! mj^ 
 
 child ! 
 (Alone.) Fell woman! ever false! 
 
 false was thy last 
 Denunciation, as tliy bridal vow ; 
 And yet even that found faith with me ! 
 
 The dirk 
 Which sever'd flesh from flesh, where 
 
 tliis hand rests. 
 Severs not, as thou boastedst in thy 
 
 scoffs. 
 Iphigeneia's love from Agamemnon : 
 The wife's a spark may light, a straw 
 
 consume. 
 The daughter's not her lieart's whole 
 
 fount liath quench'd, 
 'Tis worth}' of the Gods, and lives for 
 
 ever. 
 Iphigeneia. What sjjake my father 
 
 to the Gods above ? 
 Unwortliy am I then to join in prayer ? 
 If, on the last, or any day before^ 
 
LANDOR 
 
 435 
 
 or luy brief course on earth. I did amiss, 
 Say it at once, and let uie be unblessed ; 
 But. O my faultless father ! why should 
 
 you? 
 And shun so my embraces ? 
 
 Am I wild 
 And wandering in my fondness ? 
 
 We are siiades ! 
 Groan not thus deeply ; blight not thus 
 
 the season 
 Of fuU-orb'd gladness ! Shades we are 
 
 indeed. 
 But mingled, let us feel it, with the 
 
 blessed. 
 I knew it, but forgot it suddenly, 
 Altlio' I felt it all at your approach. 
 Look on me ; smile with me at my 
 
 illusion. 
 You are so like what you have ever been 
 (Except in sorrow !) I might well forget 
 I could not win you as I used to do. 
 It was the first embrace since my de- 
 scent 
 I ever aim'd at : those who love me live. 
 Save one, who loves me most, and now 
 
 would chide me. 
 Agamemnon. We want not, O Iphi- 
 
 geneia, we 
 Want not embrace, nor kiss that cools 
 
 the heart [more 
 
 With purity, nor words that more and 
 Teacli what we know, from those we 
 
 know, and sink 
 Often most deeply where they fall most 
 
 light. 
 Time was when for the faintest breath 
 
 of thine 
 Kingdom and life were little, 
 
 Iphigeneia. Value them 
 
 As little now. 
 Agdmemnon. Were life and kingdom 
 
 all ! 
 Iphigeneia. Ah ! by our death many 
 
 are sad who loved us. 
 The little fond Electra, and Orestes 
 So childish and so bold ! O that mad 
 
 boy! 
 They will be happy too. 
 
 Cheer ! king of men ! 
 Cheer ! there are voices, songs — Ciieer ! 
 
 arms advance. 
 Agamemnon. Come to me, soul of 
 
 peace ! These, these alone, 
 These are not false embraces. 
 Iphigeneia. Both are happy ! 
 
 Agamemnon. Freshness breathes 
 
 round me from some breeze above. 
 What are ye, winged ones ! with golden 
 
 urns ? 
 
 The Hours 
 
 ( Descending. ) To each an urn we bring : 
 Earth's purest gold 
 Alone can hold 
 The lymph of the Lethean spring. 
 We, son of Atreus ! we divide 
 Tlie dulcet from the bitter tide 
 That runs athwart the paths of 
 men. 
 No nioi-e our pinions shalt thou see. 
 Take comfort ! We have done with 
 tiiee. 
 And must away to earth again. 
 {Ascending.) Wiiere tiiou art, thou 
 
 Of braided brow. 
 Thou cuU'd too soon from Argive bowers, 
 Where thy sweet voice is heard among 
 The shades that thrill with choral song, 
 None can regret the parted Houi's. 
 
 (Ax the Hours depart., the shades of the Argive 
 ■irarn'ors loho had fought at Troy approach aiul 
 chiiut in chorus the jyraises of Agamemnon and 
 liis daughter.) 
 
 Chorus of Argives 
 
 Maiden ! be thou the spirit that breathes 
 Triumph and joy into our song ! 
 
 Wear and bestow these amaranth- 
 wreaths, 
 Iphigeneia — they belong 
 
 To none but tiiee and her who reigns 
 
 (Less clianted) on our bosky plains. 
 
 Semi-chorus 
 
 Iphigeneia ! 'tis to thee 
 
 Glory we owe and victory. 
 
 Clash, men of Argos, clash your 
 
 arms. 
 To martial worth and virgin charms. 
 
 Other Semi-chorus 
 
 Ye men of Argos ! it was sweet 
 To roll the fruits of conquest at tlie feet 
 Whose whispering sound made bravest 
 hearts beat fast. 
 This we have known at home ; 
 But hither we are come 
 To crown the king who ruled us first 
 and last. 
 
 Cho7'US 
 
 Father of Argos ! king of men ! 
 We chant tiie hymn of praise to 
 thee. 
 In serried ranks wt> stand again. 
 
 Our glory safe, our country free. 
 
436 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Clash, clash the arms we bravely 
 
 bore 
 Against Scamander's God-defended 
 
 shore. 
 
 Seini-choi'us 
 
 Blessed art thou who hast repell'd 
 Battle's wild fury, Ocean's whelming 
 foam ; 
 Blessed o'er all, to have beheld 
 Wife, children, house avenged, and 
 peaceful home ! 
 
 Other Semi-chorus 
 
 We, too, thou seest, are now 
 Among the happy, though the 
 aged brow 
 From sorrow for us we could not 
 protect. 
 Nor, on the polished granite of tlie 
 
 well 
 Folding our arms, of spoils and 
 perils tell, 
 Nor lift the vase on the lov'd head 
 erect. 
 
 Semi-chorus 
 
 What whirling wheels are those 
 
 behind ? 
 What plunK-s come flaring through 
 the wind, 
 Nearer and nearer? Frona his 
 car 
 He who defied the heaven-born 
 Powers of war 
 Pelides springs ! Dust, dust are we 
 To him, O king, who bends the knee. 
 Proud only to be first in reverent praise 
 of thee. 
 
 Other Semi-Chorus 
 
 Clash , clash the arms ! None other race 
 Shall see such heroes face to face. 
 We too have fought ; and they have seen 
 Nor sea-sand gray nor meadow green 
 Where Dardans stood against their 
 
 men. 
 Clash ! lo Paean ! clash again ! 
 Repinings for lost days rejjress. 
 The flames of Troy liad cheer'd us less. 
 
 Choriis 
 
 Hark ! from afar more war-steeds neigh, 
 Thousands o'er thousands rush this way. 
 Ajax is yonder ! ay, behold 
 The radiant arms of Lycian gold ! 
 Arms from admiring valor won, 
 
 Tydeus ! and worthy of thy son. 
 'Tis Ajax wears tliem now ; for he 
 Rules over Adrias stormy sea. 
 
 He threw them to the friend who lost 
 (By the dim judgment of the host) 
 Those wet with tears which Thetis gave 
 Tlie youth most beauteous of th'e brave. 
 In vain ! the insatiate soul would go 
 For comfort to his peers below. 
 Clnsli ! ere we leave theni all the plain, 
 Clash! lo Paean ! once again. ^ 1836. 
 
 THE DEATH OF ARTEMIDORA2 
 
 " Artemidora ! Gods invisible, 
 
 While thou ai*t lying faint along the 
 
 couch. 
 Have tied tiie sandal to thj' slender feet 
 And stand beside thee, ready to convey 
 Tiiy weary steps where other rivers flow. 
 Refreshing shades will wiift thy weari- 
 ness 
 A way, and voices like thy own come near 
 And nearer, and solicit an embrace.'" 
 Artemidora sigh'd, and would have 
 pressed 
 The hand now pressing hers, but was too 
 
 weak. 
 Iris stood over her dark hair unseen 
 While thus Elpenor spake. He looked into 
 Eyes that had given light and life ere- 
 
 while 
 To those above them, but now dim with 
 
 tears 
 And wakefulness. Again he spake of joy 
 Eternal. At that word, that sad word, 
 
 Joy, 
 
 Faithful and fond her bosom heav'd once 
 
 more : 
 Her liead fell back ; and now a loud deep 
 
 sob 
 SwellM thro' tlie darken'd chamber ; 
 
 'twas not hers. 
 
 CORINNA TO TANAGRA, FROM 
 
 ATHENS 
 
 Tanagra ! think not I forget 
 Thy beautifully storied streets ; 
 
 Be sure my memory bathes j'et 
 
 In clear Tiiermodon, and yet greets 
 
 Tlie blithe and liberal shepherd-boj^ 
 
 > See Lander's own comment on this poem, p. 
 
 440. 
 
 ■ 1830, in Pericles and Aspasia. Sliffhtly altered 
 aivl iiicluiled in the Hellenics, 1840, etc., from 
 wliich the present text is taken. See Colvin's 
 Comment on the poem, in his Life of Landor^ 
 pp. 193-4. 
 
LAN DOR 
 
 437 
 
 Wliose sunny bosotn swells with joy 
 When we accept his matted rushes 
 Upheav'd with sylvan fruit ; away he 
 bounds, and blushes. 
 
 A gift I promise : one I see 
 Wliich thou with transport wilt re- 
 ceive, 
 The only proper gift for thee. 
 
 Of which no mortal shall bereave 
 
 In later times thy mouldering walls, 
 
 Until tlie last old turret falls ; 
 
 A crown, a crown from Athens won, 
 
 A crown no God can wear, beside La- 
 
 tona's son. 
 
 There may be cities who refuse 
 
 To tlieir own cliild the honors due, 
 And look ungently on the Muse ; 
 But ever shall those cities rue 
 f The dry, vxnj^ielding, niggard breast, 
 * Offering no nourishment, no rest, 
 ■ To that yoiuig head which soon shall 
 
 rise 
 Disdainfully, in might and glory, to the 
 skies. 
 
 Sweetl)' where cavern'd Dirce flows 
 Do white-aruVd maidens cliant ni}' 
 lay. 
 Flajiping tlie while with laurel-rose 
 The lioney -gathering tribes away ; 
 And sweetly, sweetl}' Attic tongues 
 Lisp your Corinna's early songs ; 
 To her with feet more graceful come 
 The verses that have dwelt in kindred 
 breasts at home. 
 
 O let thy children lean aslant 
 
 Against the tender mother's knee. 
 And gaze into her face, and want 
 
 To know what magic'tliere can be 
 In words that urge some eyes to dance, 
 Wliile others as in holy trance 
 Look u[) t(5 heaven : be such my praise ! 
 Why linger? I must haste, or lose the 
 Delphic bays. 18;i6. 
 
 SAPPHO TO HESPERUS 
 
 I HAVE belield thee in the morning hour 
 x\. solitary star, with tliankless eyes, 
 Ungi-ateful as I am ! who bade thee rise 
 Whensleepall night had wandered from 
 my bovver. 
 
 Can it be true that thovi art he 
 Who shines now above the sea 
 Amid a thousand, but more bright ? 
 
 Alt yes ! the very same art thou 
 That heard me then and hearestnow . . . 
 Thou seemest, star of love ! to throb with 
 light. 1836. 
 
 LITTLE AGLAE 
 
 TO HKR FATHER, ON HER STATUE BEING 
 CALLED LIKE HER 
 
 Father ! the little girl we see 
 
 Is not, I fancy, so like me ; 
 
 You never hold her on your knee. 
 
 When she came home, the other day, 
 You kiss'd her ; but I cannot say 
 81ie kiss'd you first and ran away. 
 
 1836. 
 
 DIRCE 
 
 Stand close around, ye Stj'gian set, 
 With Dirce in one boat convej'ed. 
 
 Or Charon, seeing, may forget 
 
 That he is old, and she a shade. 
 
 1836. 
 
 CLEONE TO ASP ASIA 
 
 We mind not how the sun in the mid- 
 sky 
 Is hastening on ; bvit when the golden 
 
 orb 
 Strikf-s the extreme of earth, and when 
 
 the gulfs 
 Of air and ocean open to receive him, 
 Damimess 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 ej'es bestar 
 
 his c<nich ; 
 The cheerful horn awakens him ; the 
 
 feast, 
 Tlie revel, tlie entangling dance, allure. 
 And voices mellower than the Muse's 
 
 own 
 Heave up his buoj'ant bosom on their 
 
 wave. 
 A little while, and then — Ah Youth ! 
 
 Youth! Youth! 
 Listen not to my words — but stay with 
 
 me ! 
 When thou art gone. Life may go too ; 
 
 the sigh 
 That rises is for thee, and not for Life. 
 
 1836. 
 
438 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 ON LUCRETIA BORGIA'S HAIR 
 
 Borgia, thou once wert almost too 
 
 august 
 And high for adoration ; now thou'rt 
 
 dust ; 
 All that remains of thee tliese plaits 
 
 unfold, 
 Calm hair meandering in i^ellucid gold. 
 
 1837. 
 
 TO WORDSWORTH 
 
 Those who have laid the harp aside 
 
 And turn'd to idler things. 
 From very restlessness have tried 
 
 The loose and dusty strings, 
 And, catching back some favorite strain. 
 Run with it o'er the chords again. 
 
 But Memory is not a Muse, 
 
 O Wordswortli ! though 'tis said 
 
 Tliey all descend from lier, and use 
 To haunt her fountain-head : 
 
 That other men should work for me 
 
 In the rich mines of Poesie, 
 
 Pleases me better than the toil 
 
 Of smoothing under hardened hand. 
 
 With attic emery and o\\. 
 The shining point for Wisdom's wand. 
 
 Like tliose thou teniperest 'mid the rills 
 
 Descending from thy native hills. 
 
 Without his governance, in vain. 
 Manhood is strong, and Youth is bold. 
 
 If oftentimes the o'er-piled strain, 
 
 Clogs in the furnace and grows cold 
 Beneath his pinions deep and frore. 
 And swells and melts and flows no 
 
 more. 
 That is because the heat beneath 
 Pants in its cavern poorlj' fed. 
 Life springs not from the couch of 
 Death, 
 Nor Muse nor Grace can raise the 
 dead ; 
 Unturn'd then let the mass remain. 
 Intractable to sun or rain. 
 
 A marsh, where only flat leaves lie, 
 And showing but the broken sky, 
 Too surely is the sweetest lay 
 That wins the ear and wastes the day. 
 Where youthful Fancy pouts alone 
 And lets not Wisdom toucli iier zone. 
 
 He who would build his fame up higii, 
 The rule and jilummet must apply. 
 Nor say, "I'll do what I have plaun'd,'' 
 
 Before he try if loam or sand 
 Be still remaining in the place 
 Delved for each polisiied pillar's base. 
 With skilful eye and fit device 
 Thou raisest every edifice, 
 Wliether in sheltered vale it stand, 
 Or overlook the Dai-dan strand, 
 Amid the cypresses that mourn 
 Laodameia's love forlorn. 
 
 We both have run o'er half the space 
 
 Listed for mortal's earthly race ; 
 
 We botli have crossed life's fervid line. 
 
 And other stars before us shine : 
 
 May they be briglit and prosperous 
 
 As those that have been stars for us ! 
 
 Our course by Milton's light was sju'd. 
 
 And Sliakespeare shining overhead : 
 
 Chatting on deck was Dryden too, 
 
 The Bacon of the rhj^ming crew ; 
 
 None ever cross'd our mystic sea | 
 
 More richly stored with tliouglit tlian he/ 
 
 Tho' never tender nor sublime. 
 
 He wrestles with and conquers Time. 
 
 To learn my lore on Chaucer's knee, 
 
 I left nnich prouder company ; 
 
 Thee gentle Spenser fondly led. 
 
 Bvit me he mostly sent to bed. 
 
 I wish tliem every ]ny above 
 That iiighly blessecl spirits prove. 
 Save one : and that too shall be tlieirs. 
 But after many rolling years. 
 When 'mid their light th}- liglit appears. 
 ISJJ. 1837. 
 
 TO JOSEPH ABLETT 
 
 Lord of tiie Celtic dells. 
 Where Clwyd listens as his minstrel 
 
 tells 
 Of Arthur, or Pendragon, or perchance 
 
 The plumes of flashy France, 
 Or, in dark region far across the main. 
 Far as Grenada in the world of Spain, 
 
 Warriors untold to Saxon ear. 
 Until their steel-clad spirits reappear ; 
 Hovv happy were the hours that held 
 Tliy friend (long absent from his native 
 
 home) 
 Amid tliy scenes with thee! how wide 
 afield 
 From all past cares and all to come ! 
 
 Wliat liath Ambition's feverish grasp, 
 wliat liath 
 Inconstant Fortune, panting Hope ; 
 What Genius, that should coiie 
 
LANDOR 
 
 439 
 
 Witli the lieart-vvliisijers ill that path 
 Winding so idly, \\ here tlie idler stream 
 Flings at the white-haired poi)lars 
 gleam for gleam ? 
 
 Ablett ! of all the days 
 My sixty summers ever knew, 
 Pleasant as there have been no few, 
 
 Memory not one surveys 
 Like those we spent together. Wisely 
 
 spent 
 Are they alone that leave the soul con- 
 tent. 
 
 Together we have visited the men 
 
 Whom Pictish pirates vainly would 
 have drowned ; 
 Ah. shall we ever clasp the hand again 
 That gave the British harp its truest 
 sound ? 
 Live, Derwent's guest ! and thou by 
 
 Grasinere's sin-iiigs ! 
 Serene creators of immortal things. ^ 
 
 And live too thou for happier days 
 Whom Dryden's force and Spenser's fays 
 
 Have heart and soul possess'd : ^ 
 Growl in Grim London he who will. 
 Revisit thou Maiano's hill. 
 
 And swell with pride his sunburnt 
 breast. 
 
 Old Redi in his easy-chair 
 
 With varied cliant awaits thee there. 
 
 And here are voices in the grove 
 Aside my house, that make me tlxink 
 Bacchus is coming down to drink 
 
 To Ariadne's love. 
 
 But wliither am I borne away 
 From thee, to -whom began my lay ? 
 
 Courage ! I am not yet quite lost ; 
 I stepped aside to greet my friends ; 
 Believe me, soon the greeting ends, 
 
 I know but three or four at most. 
 
 Deem not that Time hath borne too hard 
 Upon the fortunes of thy bard, 
 
 Leaving me only three or four : 
 'Tis my old number ; dost thou start 
 At such a tale ? in what man's heart 
 Is there fireside for more ? 
 
 I never courted friends or Fame ; 
 She pouted at me long, at last she came. 
 And threw her arms around my neck 
 and said, 
 
 ' Southey anil Wordsworth. " Leigh Hunt. 
 
 •• Take what hath been for years delay'd, 
 And fear not that the leaves will fall 
 One hour the earlier from thy coronal." 
 
 Ablett ! thou knowest with what even 
 hand 
 I waved away the offer'd seat 
 Among the clambering, clattering, stilt- 
 ed great, 
 The rulers of our land ; 
 Nor crowds nor kings can lift me up, 
 Nor sweeten Pleasure's purer cup. 
 
 Thou knowest how, and why, are dear 
 
 to me 
 My citron groves of Fiesole, 
 My chirping Affrico, my beechwood 
 
 nook, 
 My Naiads, with feet only in the brook. 
 Which runs away and giggles in their 
 
 faces, 
 Yet there they sit, nor sigh for other 
 
 places. 
 
 'Tis not Pelasgian wnll. 
 By him made sacred whom alone 
 'Twere not profane to call 
 The bard divine, nor (thrown 
 Far under me) Valdarno, nor the crest 
 Of Vallombrosa in the crimson east. 
 
 Here can I sit or roam at will : 
 
 Few trouble me, few wish me ill. 
 Few come across me, few too near ; 
 
 Here all my wishes make their stand ; 
 
 Here ask I no one's voice or hand ; 
 Scornful of favor, ignorant of fear. 
 
 Yon vine upon the maple bough 
 Flouts at the hearty wheat below ; 
 Away her venal wines the wise man 
 sends, 
 While those of lower stem he brings 
 From inmost treasure vaiilt, and sings 
 Their worth and age among his cho.sen 
 friends. 
 
 Beliold our Earth, most nigh the sun 
 Her zone least opens to the genial heat, 
 But farther off her veins more freely 
 run : 
 'Tis thus with those who whirl about 
 the great ; [mote 
 
 The nearest shrink and shiver, we re- 
 May open-breasted blow the pastoral oat. 
 i6'J4. 1837.1 
 
 ' This poem had been printed in an earlier 
 form, containing: lines to Coleridge, in Leigh 
 Hunt's Lnnrlnii journal. December .S, 1834. See 
 Colvin's Life of Landor, note to p. 143. 
 
440 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 TO MARY LAMB 
 
 Comfort thee, O thou mourner, yet 
 
 awhile ! 
 
 Again sliall Elia"s smile 
 
 Refresh thy heart, where heart can ache 
 
 no more. 
 
 What is it we deplore ? 
 
 He leaves behind him, freed from griefs 
 and years, 
 
 Far worthier things than tears. 
 The love of friends without a single foe : 
 
 Unequalled lot below ! 
 
 His gentle soul, his genius, these are 
 thine ; 
 For these dost thou repine ? 
 He may have left the lowly walks of 
 men ; 
 Left them he has ; what then ? 
 
 Are not his footsteps followed by the 
 eyes 
 Of all the good and wise ? 
 Tho' the warm da)' is over, yet they 
 seek 
 Upon the lofty peak 
 
 Of his pure mind the roseate light that 
 glows 
 O'er death's perennial snows. 
 Behold him! from the region of tlie 
 blessed 
 
 He speaks : he bids thee rest. 
 1834. 1B37. 
 
 ON HIS OWN IPHIGENEIA AND 
 AGAMEMNON 
 
 From eve to morn, from morn to part- 
 ing night 
 
 Father and daughter stood within my 
 sight. [they said, 
 
 I felt the looks they gave, the words 
 
 And reconducted each serener sliade. 
 
 Ever shall these to me be well-spent 
 days, 
 
 Sweet fell the tears upon them, sweet 
 the praise. [throne. 
 
 Far from the footstool of the tragic 
 
 I am tragedian in that scene alone. 
 
 1837. 
 
 FAREWELL TO ITALY 
 
 I LEAVE thee, beauteous Italy ! no more 
 From the high terraces, at eventide. 
 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 tlie poet's song. 
 I did believe (what have I not believed?) 
 Weary with age, but unoppressed by 
 
 pain, 
 To close in thy soft clime my quiet day 
 And rest my bones in the Mimosa's 
 
 shade. 
 Hope ! Hope ! few ever cherished thee 
 
 so little ; 
 Few are the heads thou hast so rarely 
 
 raised ; [well. 
 
 But thou didst jiromise this, and all was 
 For we are fond of thinking where to lie 
 When every pulse hath ceased, when the 
 
 lone heai-t 
 Can lift no aspiration — reasoning 
 As if the sight were unimpaired by death. 
 Were unobstructed bj' the cofRn-lid, 
 And tlie sun cheered corruption ! Over 
 
 all 
 The smiles of nature shed a potent 
 
 charm. 
 And light us to our chamber at the 
 
 grave. 1SS5. 1846. 
 
 WHY, WHY REPINE 
 
 Why, why repine, my pensive friend. 
 
 At i)leasures slipped away? 
 Some the stern Fates will never lend, 
 
 And all refuse to stay. 
 
 I see the rainbow in the sky, 
 
 The dew upon the grass. 
 I .see them, and I ask not why 
 
 They glimmer or they pass. 
 
 With folded arms I linger not 
 
 To call them back ; 'twere vain ; 
 In this, or in some other spot, 
 T know they'll shine again. 
 
 1846. 
 
 MOTHER, I CANNOT MIND MY 
 WHEEL 
 
 Mother, I cannot mind my wheel ; 
 
 My fingers ache, my lips are dry : 
 Oh ! if you felt the pain I feel ! 
 
 But oh, who ever felt as I ? 
 No longer could I doubt him true — 
 
 All other men may use deceit ; 
 He always said my eyes were blue. 
 
 And often swore my lips were sweet. 
 
 1846. 
 
LANDOR 
 
 441 
 
 TO A BRIDE 
 February 17, 1846 1 
 
 A STILL, serene, soft day ; enough of sun 
 To wreathe the cottage smoke like piue- 
 
 tiee snow, 
 Whiter than those white flowers the 
 
 bride-maids wore ; 
 Upon the sitent boughs the lissom air 
 Rested ; and, only when it went, they 
 
 moved. 
 Nor more than under linnet springing off. 
 Such was the wedding morn : the joy- 
 ous Year 
 Leapt over March and April up to May. 
 Regent of rising and of ebbing liearts, 
 Thyself borne on in cool serenity. 
 All heaven around and bending over 
 
 thee, 
 All eartli below and watchful of tliy 
 
 course ! 
 Well hast thou chosen, after long demur 
 To aspirations from more realms tlian 
 
 one. 
 Peace be with those thou leavest ! [)eace 
 
 with thee ! 
 Is that enougli to wish thee? not enough, 
 But very much : for Love liimself feels 
 
 pain, 
 While brighter plumage shoots, to slied 
 
 last year's ; 
 And one at home (how dear that one !) 
 
 recalls 
 Thy name, and thou recallest one at 
 
 home. 
 Yet turn not back thine eyes ; the hour 
 
 of tears 
 Is over ; nor believe tliou that Romance 
 Closes against pure Faith her rich do- 
 main. 
 Shall only blossoms flourish there ? 
 
 Arise, 
 Far siglited bride ! look forward ! 
 
 clearer views 
 And liigher hopes lie under calmer skies. 
 Fortune in vain call'd out to thee ; in 
 
 vain 
 Rays from high regions darted ; Wit 
 
 pour'd out 
 His sparkling treasures ; Wisdom laid 
 
 his crown 
 Of richer jewels at thy reckless feet. 
 Well hast thou chosen. I repeat the 
 
 words, 
 
 ' For the marriage of the daughter of Rose 
 Aylmer's half-sister. Called by Landor " my 
 tenderest lay." See The Three Roses, p. 457, and 
 note there. 
 
 Adding as true ones, not untold before. 
 That incense must have fire for its as- 
 cent. 
 Else 'tis inert and can not reacli the idol. 
 Youth is the sole equivalent of youtii. 
 Enjoy it while it lasts ; and last it will ; 
 Love can prolong it in despite of Years. 
 
 1846. 
 
 / LYRICS 
 
 " Do you remember me ? or are you 
 
 proud ? " 
 Lightly advancing thro' her star-trimm'd 
 
 crowd, 
 lantlie said, and looked 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." 
 
 No, my own love of other j^ears ! 
 
 No, it must never be. 
 IMuch 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, 
 Tlie pearl of life we would dissolve 
 
 And each tlie cup might sliare. 
 You show tliat truth can ne'er decay. 
 
 Whatever fate befalls ; 
 I, that the myrtle and tlie bay 
 
 Shoot fresh on ruin'd walls. 
 
 One year ago niy path was green. 
 My footstep light, mj^ brow serene ; 
 Alas ! and could it have been so 
 One year ago? 
 
 There is a love that is to last 
 When the hot days of youth are past : 
 Such love did a sweet maid bestow 
 One year ago. 
 
 I took a leaflet from her braid 
 And gave it to another maid. 
 Love ! broken should have been thy bow 
 One year ago. 
 
 Yes ; I write verses now and then, 
 But blunt and flaccid is my pen. 
 No longer talked of by young men 
 As rather clever : 
 
442 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 In tlie last quarter are my eyes, 
 You see it by their form and size ; 
 Is it not time then to be wise 'i 
 Or now or never. 
 
 Fairest that ever sprang from Eve ! 
 While Time allows the short reprieve, 
 Just look at me ! would you believe 
 
 "Twas once a lover ? 
 I cannot clear the five-bar gate, 
 But, trying first its timbers' state. 
 Climb stiflily up, take breath, and wait 
 
 To trundle over. 
 
 Thro' gallopade I cannot swing 
 
 The entangling blooms of Beauty's 
 
 spring : 
 I cannot say the tender thing, 
 
 Be't true or false, 
 And am beginning to opine 
 Those girls are only half -divine 
 Whose waists yon wicked boys entwine 
 
 In giddy waltz. 
 
 I fear that arm above that shoulder, 
 I wish them wiser, graver, older, 
 Sedater, and no harm if colder 
 
 And panting less. 
 Ah ! people were not half so wild 
 In former days, when, starchly mild, 
 Upon her high-heel'd Essex smiled 
 
 The brave Queen Bess. 
 
 With rosy hand a little girl pressed down 
 A boss of fresh-cuU'd cowslips in a rill : 
 Often as they sprang up again, a frown 
 Show'd she disliked resistance to her 
 
 will: 
 But when they droop'd their heads and 
 
 shone much less, 
 She shook them to and fro, and threw 
 
 them by. 
 And tripped away. " Ye loathe the 
 
 heaviness 
 Ye love to cause, my little girls ! " 
 
 thought I, 
 " And what had shone for you, by you 
 
 must die." 
 
 You smiled, you spoke, and I believed. 
 By every word and smile deceived. 
 Another man would hope no more ; 
 Nor hope I what I lioped before : 
 But let not this last wish be vain ; 
 Deceive, deceive me once again ! 
 
 Remain, ali 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 he always by your side ?" 
 
 No ; but the liours you can, you must. 
 Nor rise at Death's approaching stride, 
 
 Nor go when dust is gone to dust. 
 
 Soon, O Ian the ! life is o'er. 
 
 And sooner l)eautj''s heavenly smile 
 Grant onlj-^ (and I ask no more), 
 
 Let love remain that little while. 
 
 TO A CYCLAMEN 
 
 I come to visit thee again. 
 
 My little flowerless cyclamen ; 
 
 To touch the liand, almost to press, 
 
 That cheered thee in tliy 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 l)e so caressed, 
 
 We are but withering leaves at best. 
 
 Give me tlie eyestliat look on mine. 
 And, when they see them dimly shine. 
 
 Are moister than they were. 
 Give me the eyes that fain would find 
 Some relics 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. 
 
 Twenty years hence my eyes may grow 
 If not quite dim, yet rather so. 
 Still yours from others they shall know 
 Twenty years hence. 
 
 Twenty years hence tho' it may hap 
 
 That I be call'd to take a nap 
 
 In a cool cell where tlmnder-clap 
 
 Was never heard, 
 
LANDOR 
 
 443 
 
 There breathe but o'er my arch of grass 
 
 A not too sadly sigli'd Alas, 
 
 And I shall catch, ere you can pass, 
 
 That winged word. 
 
 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. 
 
 Alas, how soon the hours are over 
 Counted us out to play tlie lover ! 
 And how much narrower is the stage 
 Allotted us to play tlie sage ! 
 But when we pla>- tlie fool, how wide. 
 The theatre expands ! beside. 
 How long the audience sits before us ! 
 How many prompters ! wiiat a cliorus ! 
 
 184G. 
 
 QUATRAINS 
 
 On the smooth brow and clustering hair 
 Myrtle and rose ! your wreath com- 
 bine, 
 
 The duller olive I would wear. 
 Its constancy, its peace, be mine. 
 
 Mj- hopes retire ; my wishes as before 
 Struggle to find tlieir resting-place in 
 
 vain ; 
 The ebbing sea thus beats against the 
 
 shore ; 
 The shore repels it ; it returns again. 
 
 Various the roads of life ; in one 
 
 All terminate, one lonely vvay. 
 
 We go ; and '• Is he gone ? "' 
 
 Is all our best friends say. 
 
 weary 
 
 Is it not better at an early hour 
 In its calm cell to rest the 
 head, 
 
 While birds are singing and wliile 
 blooins the bower, 
 Than sit the fire out and go starv'd to 
 bed? 1S46. 
 
 I KNOW NOT WHETHER I 
 PROUD 
 
 AM 
 
 I KNOW not whether I am proud. 
 But this I know, I hate the crowd : 
 Therefore pray let me tlisengage 
 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, 
 Tliere is an ear that may incline 
 Even to words so dull as mine. 
 
 1846. 
 
 THE DAY RETURNS, MY NATAL 
 DAY 
 
 The day returns, my natal day. 
 
 Borne on the storm and pale with 
 snow, 
 
 And seems to ask me why I stay. 
 Stricken b}^ Time and bowed by Woe. 
 
 Many were once the friends who came 
 To wish me joy ; and tliei'e are some 
 
 Who wish it now : but not the same •. 
 They are whence friend can never 
 come. 
 
 Nor are they you my love watched o'er 
 Cradled in innocence and sleep ; 
 
 You smile into my eyes no more. 
 Nor see the bitter "tears they weep. 
 
 1846. 
 
 HOW JIANY VOICES GAILY SING 
 
 How many voices gaily sing, 
 
 " O happy morn, O liappj' spring 
 
 Of life ! " Jleanwhile there comes o'er 
 
 me 
 A softer voice from ]\Iemory, 
 And saj^s. "If loves and hopes have 
 
 flown 
 With years, think too what griefs are 
 
 gone ! " 1846. 
 
 TO ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 There is delight in singing, tho' none 
 
 hear 
 Beside the singer ; and there is delight 
 In praising, tho' the iiraiser sit iilone 
 And see the prais'd far off him, far 
 
 above. 
 Shakespeare is not our jioet, but the 
 
 world's, 
 
444 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Tlierefore on him no speech ! and brief 
 
 for thee, 
 Browning ! Since Chaucer was alive 
 
 and hale, 
 No man hath walked 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 lieights thou playest with, 
 
 borne on 
 Beyond Sorrento and Anialfi, where 
 The Siren waits thee, singing song for 
 
 song. 1846. 
 
 ON THE HELLENICS 1 
 
 Come back, ye wandering Muses, come 
 
 back home, 
 Ye seem to have forgotten wliere it lies: 
 Come, let us walk upon the silent s;uids 
 Of Simois, where deep footmarks show 
 
 long strides ; 
 Thence we may mount, perliaps, to 
 
 higher ground, 
 Where Aphrodite from Atliene won 
 The golden apple, and from Here too. 
 And liappy Ares sliouted far below. 
 Or would ye rather choose the grassy 
 
 vale 
 Where flows Anapos thro' anemones, 
 Hyacinths, and narcissuses, tliat bend 
 To show their rival beauty in tlje 
 
 stream ? 
 Bring with you each her lyre, and each 
 
 in turn 
 Temper a graver with a lighter song. 
 
 1S47. 
 
 THRASYMEDES AND EUNOE 
 
 Who will away to Athens with me ? 
 
 wlio 
 Loves clioral songs and maidens crown'd 
 
 with flowers, 
 Unenvious ? mount the pinnace ; hoist 
 
 the sail. 
 I pi-omise ye, as many as are here, 
 
 ' Prefixed to the second edition of Landor's 
 Hellenics, 1847. It is here given slightly out of 
 the exact chronological order, that it may stand 
 as an introduction to the chief poems from the 
 Hellenics, those of 184(5 as well as those of 1847. 
 
 Other poems of I.,andor's. such as The Death of 
 Ariemidora, Cleone to AspasUi, The Shades of 
 Agamemnon and Iphlgenein, etc., though orig- 
 inally published in other collections, and there- 
 fore not given here with the Hellenics, were ul- 
 timately included by Lander among them. 
 
 Ye shall not, wliile ye tarry with me, 
 
 taste 
 From unrinsed barrel the diluted wine 
 Of a low vineyard or a plant ill-pruned, 
 But such as anciently the ^gean isles 
 Pour'd in libation at their solemn feasts : 
 And the same goblets sliall ye grasp. 
 
 embossed 
 With no vile figures of loose languid 
 
 boors, 
 But such as gods have lived with and 
 
 liave led. 
 The sea smiles bright before us. What 
 
 wliite sail 
 Plays yonder ? What pursues it ? Like 
 
 two liawks 
 Away they fly. Let us away in time 
 To overtake them. Are they menace,'.; 
 AVe hear ? And shall the strong repulse 
 
 tiie weak, 
 Enraged at her defender ? Hippias ! 
 Art thou the man ? 'Twas Hippias. He 
 
 had found 
 His sister borne from the Cecropian port 
 By Thrasymedes. And reluctantly ? 
 Ask, ask tlie maiden ; I liave no reph'. 
 "Brother! O brother Hippias! O, if 
 
 love, 
 If pity, ever touoh'd tliy breast, forbear ! 
 Strike not tlie brave, the gentle, the be- 
 loved , 
 My Tlirasymedes, with his cloak alone 
 Protecting his own head and mine from 
 
 harm." 
 " Didst thou not once before," cried 
 
 Hippias, 
 Regardless of his sister, hoarse with 
 
 wrath 
 At Thrasymedes, " didst not tliou, dog- 
 
 eyed. 
 Dare, as she walk'dup to the Parthenon, 
 On the most holy of all holy days. 
 In siglit of all the city, dare to kiss 
 Her maiden cheek ? " 
 
 " Ay, before all the gods. 
 Ay, before Pallas, before Artemis. 
 Ay, before Aphrodite, before Here, 
 I dared ; and dare again. Arise, my 
 
 spouse 
 
 Arise ! and let my lips quaff purity 
 From thy fair open brow." 
 
 The sword was up. 
 And yet he kiss'd her twice. Some God 
 
 withlield 
 The arm of Hippias ; his proud blood 
 
 seeth'd slower 
 And smote his breast less angrily ; he 
 
 laid [spaive thus : 
 
 His hand on the wliite shoulder, and 
 
LANDOR 
 
 445 
 
 "Ye must return with me. A second 
 
 time 
 Offended, will our sire Peisistratos 
 Pardon the affront? Thou sliouldst 
 
 have ask'd thyself 
 This question ere the sail first flapp'd the 
 
 mast." 
 " Already thou hast taken life from me ; 
 Put up thy sword," said the sad youtli, 
 
 his eyes 
 Sparkling ; but whether love or rage or 
 
 grief 
 They sparkled with, the Gods alone covikl 
 
 see. 
 Piraeeus they re-entered, and their ship 
 Drove up the little waves against the 
 
 quay, 
 Whence was thrown out a rope from one 
 
 above. 
 And Hippias caught it. From the virgin's 
 
 waist 
 Her lover dropped his arm, and blushed 
 
 to think 
 He had retain'd it there in sight of rude 
 Irreverent men : he led her forth, noi- 
 
 spake. 
 Hijipias walked silent too, until they 
 
 reached 
 The mansion of Peisistratos lier sire. 
 Serenely in liis sternness did the prince 
 Look on tliem both awhile : they saw not 
 
 him. 
 For both had cast their eyes upon the 
 
 ground. 
 " Are tliese the pirates thou liast taken, 
 
 son ? " 
 Said he. "Worse, father ! \vorse than 
 
 pirates they, 
 Who thus abuse thy patience, thus abuse 
 Thy pardon, thus abuse the holy rites 
 Twice over." 
 
 " Well hast thou performed thy duty," 
 Firmly and gravely said Peisistratos. 
 " Nothing then, rash young man ! could 
 
 turn thy heart 
 From Eunoe, my daughter?" 
 
 " Nothing, sir. 
 Shall ever turn it. I can die but once 
 And love but once. O Eunoe ! farewell ! " 
 " Nay, she shall see what thou canst bear 
 
 for lier." 
 " O father ! shut me in my chamber, 
 
 shut me 
 In my poor mother's tomb, dead or alive, 
 But never let me see what he can bear ; 
 I know how much that is, when borne 
 
 for me." 
 " Not yet : come on. And lag not thou 
 
 behind. 
 
 Pirate of virgin and of princely hearts ! 
 Before the people and before the Goddess 
 Thou hadst evinced tiie madness of tliy 
 
 passion , 
 And now wouldst bear from home and 
 
 plenteousness 
 To poverty and exile this mj' child." 
 Then shuddered Tlirasymedes, and ex- 
 
 claim'd, 
 ■' I see my crime : I saw it not before. 
 The daughter of Peisistratos was born 
 Neither for exile nor for povei'ty, 
 All ! nor for me ! '" He would have wept, 
 
 but one 
 Might see him, and weep worse. The 
 
 prince unmoved 
 Strode on, and said. "To-morrow shall 
 
 the people. 
 All who beheld thy trespasses, behold 
 The justice of Peisistratos, the love 
 He bears his daughter, a,nd the reverence 
 In which he holds tlie highest law of 
 
 God." 
 He spake ; and on the morrow they 
 
 were one. 1846. 
 
 IPHIGENEIA AND AGAMEMNON 
 
 Iphigeneia, when she heard lier doom 
 At Aulis, and when ;dl beside the King 
 Had gone away, took his right hand, and 
 
 said, 
 " O father ! I am young and very happy. 
 I do not think the pious Calchas heard 
 Distinctly what the Goddess spake. 
 
 Old-age 
 Obscures the senses. If my nurse, who 
 
 knew 
 jM}' voice so well, sometimes misunder- 
 stood 
 While I was resting on her knee both 
 
 amis 
 And hitting it to make her mind my 
 
 words. 
 And looking in her face, and she in mine, 
 ]\Iight he not also hear one word amiss. 
 Spoken from so far off, even from Olym- 
 pus ? " 
 The father placed his cheek upon her 
 
 head. 
 And tears dropped down it, Initthe king 
 
 of men 
 Replied not. Tlien the maiden spaUe 
 once more. [thou not 
 
 " O father ! sayst thou nothing? Hear"st 
 Me, wliom thou ever hast, until this hour. 
 Listened to fondly, and awakened me 
 To hear my voice amid the voice of 
 birds, 
 
446 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 When it was inarticulate as tlieirs. 
 And the down deadened it within the 
 
 nest ? " 
 He moved lier gently from him, silent 
 
 still, 
 And this, and this alone, brought tears 
 
 from her. 
 Although she saw fate nearer : then with 
 
 sighs, 
 ''I thought to have laid down my hair 
 
 before 
 Benignant Artemis, and not have 
 
 dimmed 
 Her polislied altar witli my virgin blood ; 
 I thought to have selected the white 
 
 flowers 
 To please the Nymphs, and to have 
 
 asked of each 
 By name, and with no sori'owful regret. 
 Whether, since both my parents willed 
 
 tlie change, 
 I might at Hymen's feet bend my clipped 
 
 brow ; 
 And (after those who mind us girls tlie 
 
 most,) 
 Adore our own Atliena. that she would 
 Regard me mildly witli her azure eyes. 
 But father ! to see _you no more, and see 
 Your love, O fatlier ! go ere I am 
 
 gone . ." 
 Gently he moved lier off, and drew lier 
 
 back. 
 Bending his lofty liead far over hers. 
 And the dark depths of nature heaved 
 
 and burst. 
 He turn'd away ; not far, but silent 
 
 still. 
 She now first shuddered ; for in him, so 
 
 nigh. 
 So long a silence seemed the approach of 
 
 death, 
 And like it. Once again she raised her 
 
 voice. 
 " O fatlier ! if the ships are now de- 
 tained. 
 And all your vows move not the Gods 
 
 above. 
 When the knife strikes me there will be 
 
 one prayer 
 The less to them : and purer can there 
 
 be 
 A7iy, or more fervent than the daugh- 
 ter's prayer 
 For her dear fatlier's safety and suc- 
 cess^'" [resolve. 
 A groan that .shook iiim sliook not liis 
 An aged man now entered, and without 
 One word, stepped .slowly on, and took 
 
 the wrist 
 
 Of the pale maiden. She looked up and 
 
 saw 
 Tlie fillet of tlie priest and calm €old 
 
 eyes. 
 Then turned she wiiere her parent 
 
 stood, and cried 
 "O father! grieve no more: the sliips 
 
 can sail." 1846. 
 
 THE HAMADRYAD 1 
 
 Rhaicos was born amid tlie hills where- 
 from 
 
 Guides the light of Caria is discern'd. 
 
 And small are the white-crested that 
 play near. 
 
 And smaller onward are the purple 
 waves. 
 
 Thence festal choirs were visible, all 
 crovvn'd 
 
 With rose and myrtle if they were in- 
 born ; 
 
 If from Pandion sprang the}', on the 
 coast 
 
 Where stern Athene raised her citadel. 
 
 Then olive was intwiiied with violets 
 
 Cluster'd in bosses, regular and large. 
 
 For various men wore various coronals ; 
 
 But one was their devotion ; 'twas to 
 her 
 
 Whose laws all follow, her whose smile 
 withdraws 
 
 The sword from Ares, thunderbolt from 
 Zeus. 
 
 And whom in his chill caves the mu- 
 table 
 
 Of mind, Poseidon, the sea-king, re- 
 veres, 
 
 And whom his brother, stubborn Dis, 
 hath pray'd 
 
 To turn in pity the averted cheek 
 
 Of her he bore away, with promises. 
 
 Nay, with loud oath before dread Styx 
 itself. 
 
 To give her daily more and sweeter 
 flowers 
 
 Than he made drop from her on Enna"s 
 dell. 
 Rhaicos was looking from his father's 
 dodV 
 
 At the long trains that liastened to the 
 town 
 
 From all the valley's, like bright rivu- 
 lets 
 
 Gurgling with gladness, wave outrun- 
 ning wave, 
 
 ' Compare Lowell's poem, Rhceciis, which gives 
 a somewhat different version of the same story. 
 
LANDOR 
 
 447 
 
 And tliought it hard he might not also 
 
 go 
 And offer up one prayer, and press one 
 
 hand , 
 He knew not whose. The father call'd 
 
 liiin in, 
 And said. " Son Rhaicos ! tiiose are idle 
 
 games ; 
 Long enough I have lived to find them 
 
 so." 
 •And ere he ended siglied ; as old men do 
 Alwa}^s, to tliiuk liow idle sucli games 
 
 are. 
 "I have not .yet," thought Rhaicos in 
 
 his heart. 
 And wanted proof. 
 
 " Suppose thou go and help 
 Echeion at tlie hill, to bark yon oak 
 And lop its branches off, before we 
 
 delve 
 About the trunk and ply the root with 
 
 axe : 
 This we may do in winter." 
 
 Rhaicos went ; 
 For thence he could see farther, and see 
 
 more 
 Of those wlio liurried to the city-gate. 
 Eclieion he found tliere with naked arm 
 Swai't-hair'd. strong-sinew'd, and liis 
 
 eyes intent 
 Upon the place where first the axe 
 
 should fall : 
 He held it upright. "There are bees 
 
 about. 
 Or wasps, or hornets," said the cautious 
 
 eld, 
 " Look sharp, O son of Thallinos ! " The 
 
 youth 
 Inclined his ear, afar, and warily. 
 And cavern'd in his hand. He heard a 
 
 buzz 
 At first, and then the sound grew soft 
 
 and clear. 
 And then divided into what seem'd tune. 
 And there were words upon it, plaintive 
 
 words. 
 He turn'd, and said, " Echeion ! do not 
 
 strike 
 Tliat tree: it must be hollow ; for some 
 
 god 
 Speaks from within. Come thyself 
 
 near." Again 
 Both turn'd toward it : and behold ! 
 
 there sat 
 Upon the moss below, with her two 
 
 palms 
 Pressing it, on each side, a maid in 
 
 form. [pale 
 
 Downcast were her long eyelashes, and 
 
 Her cheek, but never mountain-ash dis- 
 
 play'd 
 Berries of color like her lip so pure, 
 Nor were the anemones about her hair 
 Soft, smooth and wavering like the face 
 
 beneath. 
 " What dost thou here ? " Echeion, half- 
 afraid, 
 Half-angry cried. She lifted up her eyes, 
 But nothing spake she. Rhaicos drew 
 
 one step 
 Backward, for fear came likewise ov^r 
 
 him. 
 But not such fear: he panted, gasp'd, 
 
 drevv in 
 His breath, and would have turn'd it 
 
 into words. 
 But could not into one. 
 
 " O send away 
 That sad old man ! " said she. The old 
 
 man went 
 Without a warning from his mastei''s 
 
 son. 
 Glad to escape, for sorely he now fear'd, 
 And the axe shone behind him in their 
 
 eyes. 
 Hamdd. 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, touch'd by zephyrs, fall and rise the 
 
 boughs 
 Of graceful platan by the river-side ? 
 Hamad. Lovest thou well thy father's 
 
 house? 
 Rhaicos. Indeed 
 
 I love it, Avell 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 birthday since the 
 
 third. 
 And all the charms, overpowering evil 
 
 eyes. 
 My mother nail'd for me against my bed, 
 
448 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 And the Cydouian bow (vMiich thou 
 
 shalt see) 
 Won ill my race last spring from Euty- 
 
 chos. 
 Hamad. Bethink thee wliat it is to 
 
 leave a liome 
 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 lioiiie, 
 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 saj^ it, surely is enough . . 
 It shows sucli kindness . . if 'twere 
 
 possible 
 We at the moment think she would in- 
 deed. 
 Hamad. Who taught thee all this 
 
 folly at thy age ? 
 Rhaicos. I have seen lovers and have 
 
 learned to love. 
 Hamad. But wilt thou spare the 
 
 tree ? 
 Rhaicos. My father wants 
 Tlie bark : the tree may hold its place 
 
 awliile. 
 Hamad. Awhile ! thy father num- 
 bers 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 thv 
 
 flock 
 Anywhere near? 
 
 Hamad. 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. [plore 
 
 Stay, stay an instant : let me first ex- 
 
 If anj' acorn of last year be left 
 Within it ; tlij- thin robe too ill protects 
 Thy dainty limbs against the liarm one 
 
 small 
 Acorn may do. Here's none. Another 
 
 day 
 Trust me ; till then let me sit opposite. 
 Hamad. I seat me; be thou seated, 
 
 and content. 
 Rhaicos. O sight for gods ! ye men 
 
 below ! adore 
 The Aphrodite. Is she there below ? 
 Or sits she here before me ? as slie sate 
 Before the shepherd on those heights 
 
 that shade 
 The Hellesi^ont, and brought his kindred 
 
 woe. 
 Hamad. 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 Aphrodite ! 
 
 Here ! Let my vow be ratified ! 
 
 But wilt thou come into my father's 
 house ? 
 Hamad. Nay : and of mine I cannot 
 
 give thee part. 
 Rhaicos. Where is it? 
 Hamad. In this oak. 
 
 Rhaicos. Ay ; now begins 
 
 Tlie tale of Hamadryad ; tell it through. 
 Hamad. Pray of thy father never to 
 to cut down 
 My tree ; and promise him, as well thou 
 
 inayst, 
 That every year lie shall receive from me 
 More honey than will bu)^ him nine fat 
 
 sheep, 
 More wax than he will burn to all the 
 
 gods. 
 Wliy fallest thou upon tliy face ? Some 
 
 thorn 
 May scratch it, rash young man ! Rise 
 up ; for shame ! 
 Rhaicos. For shame I can not rise. O 
 pity me ! 
 
 1 dare not sue for love. . but do not hate 1 
 Let me once more behold thee, .not once 
 
 more. [loved ! 
 
 But many days : let me love on . . un- 
 
LANDOR 
 
 449 
 
 I aimed too high : on my head the holt 
 Falls back, and pierces to the very 
 
 brain. 
 Hamad. Go., rather go, than make 
 
 me say I lo%'e. 
 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 
 
 nie now, 
 I claim my kiss. 
 Hamad. Do men take first, then 
 
 claim ? 
 Do tlius the seasons run their course with 
 
 them ? 
 
 Her lips were seal'd, her head sank on 
 
 his breast. 
 'Tis said that laughs were heard within 
 
 the wood : 
 But who should hear them ?. . and whose 
 
 laughs ? and why ? 
 Savory was the smell, and long past 
 
 noon, 
 Thallinos ! in thy house : for mai'joram, 
 Basil and mint, and thyme and rose- 
 mary, 
 Were sprinkled on the kid's well roasted 
 
 length. 
 Awaiting Rhaicos. Home he came at 
 
 last. 
 Not hungry, but pretending hunger keen, 
 With head and eyes just o'er the maple 
 
 plate. 
 " Tliou seest but badly, coming from the 
 
 sun. 
 Boy Rhaicos! "_^said the father. " That 
 
 oak's bark 
 Must have been tovigh, with little sap 
 
 between ; 
 It ought to run ; but it and I are old." 
 Rliaicos, although each morsel of the 
 
 bread 
 Increased by chewing, and the meat grew 
 
 cold 
 And tasteless to his palate, took a draught 
 Of gold-bright wine, which, thirsty as he 
 
 was, 
 He thought not of until his father fill'd 
 The cup, averring water was amiss. 
 But wine had been at all times pour'd on 
 
 kid. 
 It was religion. 
 
 He thus fortified 
 Said, not quite boldly, and not quite 
 
 abashed, 
 " Father, that oak is Zeus's own ; that 
 
 oak 
 29 
 
 Year after year will bring thee wealth 
 
 from wax 
 And honey. There is one who fears the 
 
 gods 
 And the gods love — that one " 
 
 (He blush'd, nor said 
 What one) 
 
 " Has promised this, and may do more. 
 Thou hast not many moons to wait until 
 The bees have done tlieir best ; if then 
 
 there come 
 Nor wax nor honey, let the tree be 
 
 hewn." 
 " Zeus hath bestow'd on thee a 
 ' prudent mind," 
 Said the glad sire : ' ' but look thou often 
 
 there. 
 And gather all the honey thou canst find 
 In every crevice, over and above 
 What has been promised ; would tliey 
 
 reckon that ? " 
 Rhaicos went daily ; but thenvmph as 
 
 oft. 
 Invisible. To play at love, she knew, 
 Stopping its breathings when it breathes 
 
 most soft. 
 Is sweeter tlian to play on any pipe. 
 She play'd on his : Sjhe fed upon his sighs ; 
 They pleased her wlien tliey gently 
 
 waved lier liair. 
 Cooling the pulses of her purple veins, 
 And when her absence brougiit them 
 
 out, tliey pleased. 
 Even among the fondest of them all. 
 What mortal or immortal maid is more 
 Content with giving happiness than 
 
 pain ? 
 One day he was returning from tiie wood 
 Despondently. She pitied him, and said 
 •• Come back ! " and twined her fingers in 
 
 the iiem 
 Above his shoulder. Then she led his 
 
 steps 
 To a cool rill that ran o'er level sand 
 Through lentisk and through oleander, 
 • there 
 Bathed she his feet, lifting them on iier 
 
 lap 
 When bathed, and drying them in both 
 
 her hands. 
 He dared complain ; for those who most 
 
 are loved 
 Most dare it ; but not harsh was his 
 
 complaint. 
 " O tliou inconstant ! " said he, " if stern 
 
 law 
 Bind thee, or will, stronger than sternest 
 
 law [hope 
 
 O, let me know henceforward when to 
 
45° 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 The fruit of love that grows for me but 
 
 here." 
 He spake ; and pluck'd it from its pliant 
 
 stem. 
 "Impatient Rhaicos ! Why thus inter- 
 cept 
 Tlie answer I would give ? There is a bee 
 Whom I have fed, a bee who knows my 
 
 thoughts 
 And executes iny wishes : I will send 
 That messenger. If ever thou art false, 
 Drawn by another, own it not, but drive 
 My bee away ; then shall I know my fate, 
 And — for thou must be wretched — weep 
 
 at thine. 
 But often as my heart persuades to lay 
 Its cares on thine and throb itself to rest, 
 Expect her with thee, whether it be 
 
 morn 
 Or eve, at any time when woods are 
 
 safe." 
 Day after day the Hours beheld them 
 
 blessed, 
 And season after season : years had past, 
 Blessed were they still. He who asserts 
 
 that Love 
 Ever is sated of sweet things, the same 
 Sweet things he fretied for in earlier 
 
 days. 
 Never, by Zeus ! loved he a Hamadryad. 
 The nights had now grown longer, 
 
 and perhaps 
 The Hamadryads find tliem lone and 
 
 dull 
 Among tlieir woods ; one did, alas ! She 
 
 called 
 Her faithful bee : 't was when all bees 
 
 should sleep. 
 And all did sleep but hers. She was 
 
 sent forth 
 To bring that light which never wintry 
 
 blast 
 Blows out, nor rain nor snow extin- 
 guishes, 
 The light that shines from loving eyes 
 
 upon • 
 
 Eyes that love back, till they can see no 
 
 more. 
 
 Rhaicos was sitting at his father's 
 hearth : 
 
 Between them stood the table, not o'er- 
 spread 
 
 With fruits whicli autumn now pro- 
 fusely bore. 
 
 Nor anise cakes, nor odorous wine ; but 
 there 
 
 The draft-board was expanded ; at 
 which game 
 
 Triumphant sat old Thallinos ; the son 
 Was puzzled, vexed, discomfited, dis- 
 traught. 
 A buzz was at his ear : up went his 
 
 hand, 
 And it was heard no longer. The poor 
 
 bee 
 Return'd, (but not until the morn shone 
 
 bright) 
 And found the Hamadiyad with her 
 
 head 
 Upon her aching wrist, and showed one 
 
 wing 
 Half-broken off, the other's meshes 
 
 marr'd. 
 And there were bruises which no eye 
 
 could see 
 Saving a Hamadryad's. 
 
 At this sight 
 Down fell the languid brow, both hands 
 
 fell down, 
 A shriek was carried to the ancient hall 
 Of Tliallinos : he heard it not : his son 
 Heard it, and ran forthwith into the 
 
 wood. 
 No bark was on the tree, no leaf was 
 
 green. 
 The trunk was riven through. From 
 
 that day forth 
 Nor word nor whisper sooth'd his ear, 
 
 nor sound 
 Even of insect wing ; but loud laments 
 The woodmen and the shepherds one 
 
 long year 
 Heard day and night ; for Rhaicos would 
 
 not quit 
 The solitary place, but moan'd and died. 
 
 Hence milk and honey wonder not, O 
 
 guest, 
 To find set duly on the hollow stone. 
 
 1846. 
 
 AGON AND RHODOPE ; OR. INCON- 
 STANCY 
 
 (A Sequel) 
 
 The Year's twelve daughters had in 
 
 turn gone by. 
 Of measured pace though varying mien 
 
 all twelve, 
 Some froward, some sedater, some 
 
 adorn'd 
 For festival, some reckless of attire. 
 The snow had left the mountain-top ; 
 
 fresh flowers 
 Had withered in the meadow ; fig and 
 
 jjrune 
 
 I 
 
LANDOR 
 
 45 1 
 
 Hung wrinkling ; the last apple glovv'd 
 
 amid 
 Its freckled leaves ; and weary oxen 
 
 blink'd 
 Between the trodden corn and twisted 
 
 vine, 
 Under whose bunches stood the empty 
 
 crate, 
 To creak ere long beneath tliem carried 
 
 home. 
 Tliis was the season wlien twelve months 
 
 before, 
 O gentle Hamadryad, true to love ! 
 Thy mansion, thy dim mansion in the 
 
 wood 
 Was blasted and laid desolate ; but none 
 Dared violate its precincts, none dared 
 
 pluck 
 The moss beneath it, which alone re- 
 
 main'd 
 Of what was thine. 
 
 Old Thallinos sat mute 
 In solitary sadness. The strange tale 
 (Not until Rhaicos died, but then the 
 
 whole) 
 Echelon had related, whom no force 
 Could ever make look back upon the 
 
 oaks. 
 Tlie father said, " Eclieion ! tliou must 
 
 weigh, 
 Carefully, and with steady hand, enough 
 ('Although no longer comes the store as 
 
 once !) 
 Of wax to burn all day and night upon 
 That hollow stone where milk and honej' 
 
 lie : 
 So may the gods, so may the dead, be 
 
 pleas'd ! " 
 Thallinos bore it thither in the morn. 
 And lighted it and left it. 
 
 P'irst of those 
 Who visited upon this solemn day 
 The Hamadryad's oak, were Rliodope 
 And Aeon ; of one age, one hope, one 
 
 trust. 
 Graceful was she as was the nymph 
 
 whose fate 
 She sorrowed for : he slender, pale, and 
 
 first 
 Lapp'd by the llame of love : his fatlier's 
 
 lands [afar. 
 
 Were fertile, herds lowed over tliem 
 Now stood the two aside the hollow stone 
 And look'd with steadfast eyes toward 
 
 the oak 
 Sliivered and black and bare. 
 
 " May never we 
 Love as they loved ! " said Acon, She 
 
 at this 
 
 Smiled, for he said not what he meant to 
 
 say. 
 And thought not of its bliss, but of its 
 
 end. 
 He caught the flying smile, and blush'd, 
 
 and vow'd 
 Nor time nor other power, whereto the 
 
 migiit 
 Of love hath yielded and may yield 
 
 again. 
 Should alter his. 
 
 The father of the youth 
 Wanted not beauty for him, wanted not 
 Song, that could lift earth's weight 
 
 from off his heart. 
 Discretion, that could guide him thro' 
 
 the world. 
 Innocence, that could clear his way to 
 
 heaven : 
 Silver and gold and land, not green be- 
 fore 
 The ancestral gate, but purple under 
 
 skies 
 Bending far off, he wanted for his heir. 
 Fathers have given life, but virgin 
 
 heart 
 They never gave ; and dare thej^ then 
 
 control 
 Or check it harshly ? dai"e they break a 
 
 bond 
 Girt rovmd it by the holiest Power on 
 
 higii ? 
 Acon was grieved, he said, grieved 
 
 bitterly. 
 But Acon had complied . . 'twas duti- 
 ful : 
 Crush th)' own heart, Man ! Man ! but 
 
 fear to wound 
 The gentler, that relies on thee alone. 
 By thee created, weak or strong by thee; 
 Touch it not but for worship ; watch be- 
 fore 
 Its sanctuary ; nor leave it till are closed 
 The temple-doors and the last lamp is 
 
 spent. 
 Rhodope, in her soul's waste solitude, 
 Sate mournful by the dull-resounding 
 
 sea. 
 Often not hearing it, and many teai's 
 Had the cold breezes hardened on her 
 
 cheek. 
 Meanwhile he sauntered in the wood of 
 
 oaks. 
 Nor shun'd to look upon the hollow 
 
 stone 
 Tiiat held the milk and honey, nor to 
 
 lay 
 His plighted hand where recently 'twas 
 
 laid 
 
452 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Opposite hers, when finger playfully 
 Advanced and pushed back finger, on 
 
 each side. 
 He did not think of this, as she would 
 
 do 
 If she were there alone. 
 
 The day was hot ; 
 Tlie moss invited him ; it cool'd his 
 
 cheek. 
 It cool'd Ids hands ; he thrust them into 
 
 it 
 And sank to slumber. Never was there 
 
 dream 
 Divine as his. He saw tlie Hamadryad. 
 She took him by the arm and led him on 
 Along a valley, wliere profusely grew 
 The smaller lilies with their pendent 
 
 bells, 
 And, hiding under mint, cliill drosera. 
 The violet sh}' of butting cyclamen. 
 The feathery fern, and, browser of moist 
 
 banks. 
 Her offspring round her, tlie soft straw- 
 berry ; 
 The quivering spray of ruddy tamarisk. 
 The oleander's liglit-liaired progeny 
 Breatliing bright freshness in each 
 
 other's face. 
 And graceful ro.se, bending her brow, 
 
 witli cup 
 Of fragrance and of beauty, boon for 
 
 Gods. 
 Tlie fragrance fiU'd his breast witli such 
 
 delight 
 His senses were bewildered, and he 
 
 thought 
 He saw again tlie face he most had 
 
 loved. 
 He stopped : the Hamadryad at his side 
 Now stood between : then drew him far- 
 ther off : 
 He went, compliant as before : but soon 
 Verdure had ceased : altlio' the ground 
 
 was smooth. 
 Nothing was there delightful. At this 
 
 cliange 
 He would have spoken, but his guide 
 
 repressed 
 All questioning, and said, 
 
 " Weak youth ! what brought 
 Thy footstep to this wood, my native 
 
 haunt, 
 Mj^ life-long residence? this bank, 
 
 where first 
 I sate with him . . . the faithful (now I 
 
 know. 
 Too late ! ) the faithful Rhaicos. Haste 
 
 thee home : [more 
 
 Be happy, if thou canst ; but come no 
 
 Where those whom death alone could 
 sever, died." 
 He started up : the moss whereon he 
 slept 
 
 Was dried and withered : deadlier pale- 
 ness spread 
 
 Over his cheek ; he sickened : and the 
 sire 
 
 Had land enough ; it held his only son. 
 
 1847. 
 
 MENELAUS AND HELEN AT TROY 
 
 After the fall of Troy, Helen is pursued 
 by Menelaus tqy the steps of the 2^cil- 
 ace ; an old attendant depi'ecates 
 and intercepts his vengeance. 
 
 Menelaus. Out of my way ! Off ! or 
 my sword may smite thee 
 
 Heedless of venerable age. And thou 
 
 Fugitive ! stop. Stand, traitress, on that 
 stall' — 
 
 Thou mountest not another, bj"^ the 
 gods ! 
 
 Now take the death thou meritest, the 
 death 
 
 Zeus who presides oer hospitality. 
 
 And every other god wliom thou has 
 left. 
 
 And every other who abandons thee 
 
 In tliis accursed city, sends at last. « 
 
 Turn, vilest of vile slaves! turn, para- 
 mour 
 
 Of what all other women hate, of cow- 
 ards. 
 
 Turn, lest this hand wrench back thy 
 head, and toss 
 
 It and its odors to the dust and flames. 
 Helen. Welcome, the death thou 
 promisest ! Not fear 
 
 But shame, obedience, duty, make nie 
 turn. 
 Menelaus. Duty ! false harlot ! 
 Helen. Name too true ! severe 
 
 Precursor to the blow that is to fall. 
 
 It should alone suffice for killing me. 
 Menelaus. Ay, weep : be not the only 
 one in Troy 
 
 Who wails not on this day — its last — 
 the day 
 
 Thou and thy crimes darken with dead 
 on dead. 
 Helen. Spare ! spare ! O let the last 
 tliat falls be me, 
 
 There are but young and old. 
 
 Menelaus. There are but guilty 
 
 Where thou art, and the sword strikes 
 none amiss. 
 
LANDOR 
 
 453 
 
 Hearest thou uot tlie creeping blood 
 
 buzz near 
 Like flies ? or vvouldst thou rather hear 
 
 it iiiss 
 Louder, against the flaming roofs tlirown 
 
 down 
 Wherewith tlie streets are pathless? Ay. 
 
 but vengeance 
 Springs over all : and Nemesis and Ate 
 Drove back the flying ashes with both 
 
 hands. 
 I never saw thee weep till now : and 
 
 now 
 Tliere is no pity in thy tears. The tiger 
 Leavps not her young athirst for the 
 
 first milk, 
 As thou didst. Thine could scarce have 
 
 clasped thy knee 
 If she had felt thee leave her. 
 
 Helen. O my child ! 
 
 My only one ! thou livest : 'tis enough ; 
 Hate me, abhor me, curse me — these are 
 
 duties — 
 Call me but Mother in the shades of 
 
 deatli ! 
 She now is twelve years old, when the 
 
 bud swells 
 And the first colors of uncertain life 
 Begin to tinge it. 
 Menelans {aside.) Can she think 
 
 of home ? 
 Hers once, mine yet, and sweet Her- 
 
 mione's ! 
 Is there one spark that cheer'd my hearth. 
 
 one left. 
 For thee, my last of love ! 
 
 Scorn, righteous scorn 
 Blows it from me — but thou mayst^ 
 
 never, never — 
 Thou shalt not see her even there. The 
 
 slave 
 On earth shall scorn thee, and the damn'd 
 
 below. 
 Helen. Delay not either fate. If death 
 
 is mercy. 
 Send me among the captives ; so that 
 
 Zeus 
 May see his offspring led in chains away, 
 And thy hard brother, pointing with his 
 
 sword [shore. 
 
 At the last wretch that crouches on tlie 
 Cry, " She alone shall never sail for 
 
 Greece ! " 
 Menelaus. Hast thou more w^ords ? 
 
 Her voice is musical 
 As the young maids wlio sing to Artemis : 
 How glossy is that yellow braid my grasp 
 Seiz'd and let loose ! Ah ! can then years 
 
 have past 
 
 Since — bnt the children of the gods, like 
 
 them, 
 Suffer not age. 
 
 Helen ! speak honestly, 
 And thus escape my vengeance — was it 
 
 force 
 That bore thee off ? 
 Helen. It was some evil god. 
 
 Menelans. Helping that hated man ? 
 Helen. How justly hated ! 
 
 Menelaus. By thee too? 
 Helen. Hath he not made thee un- 
 happy ? 
 
 do not strike. 
 Menelaus. Wretch ! 
 
 Helen. Strike, but do not speak, 
 
 Menelans. Lest thou remember me 
 
 against thy will. 
 Helen. Lest I look up and see you 
 
 wroth and sad, 
 Against my will ; O ! how against my will 
 Tliey know above, they who perhaiJS 
 
 can pity. 
 Menelaus. They shall not save thee. 
 Helen. Then indeed they pity. 
 
 Menelans. Prepare for death, 
 Helen. Not from that hand : ' twould 
 
 pain you. 
 Menelaus. Touch not my hand. — Easily 
 
 dost thou drop it ! 
 Helen. Easy are all things, do but thou 
 
 command. 
 Menelaus. Look up then. 
 Helen. To the hardest pi'oof of all 
 
 1 am now bidden ; bid me not look up. 
 Menelaus. She looks as when I led her 
 
 on behind 
 
 The torch and fife, and when the blush 
 o'erspread 
 
 Her girlish face at tripping in the myrtle 
 
 On the first step before the wreathed 
 gate. 
 
 Approach nie. Fall not on thy knees. 
 Helen. The hand 
 
 Tliat is to slay me, best may slay me thus. 
 
 I dare no longer see tlie light of heaven, 
 
 Not thine — alas ! the light of heaven to 
 me. 
 Menelaus. Follow me. 
 
 She holds out both arms — and now 
 
 Drops them again. — Slie comes. — Why 
 stoppest thou ? 
 Helen. O Menelaus I could thy heart 
 know mine, 
 
 As once it did — for then they did con- 
 verse, 
 
 Generous the one, tlie other not un- 
 worthy — [thin guilt. 
 
 Thou wouldst find sorrow deeper even 
 
454 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Menelaus. And I must lead her by the 
 liand again ? 
 Nought shall persuade me. Never. She 
 
 draws back — 
 The true alone and loving sob like her. 
 Come Helen ! [He takes her hand. 
 
 Helen. O let never Greek see this I 
 
 Hide me from Argos, from Amyclai 
 
 hid me, 
 Hide me from all. 
 
 Menekms. Thy a^nguish is too strong 
 For me to strive with. 
 
 Helen. Leave it all to me. 
 
 Menelaus. Peace ! Peace ! The wind. I 
 hope, is fair for Sparta. 1847. 
 
 ^SCHYLOS AND SOPHOCLES 
 
 Sophocles. Thou goest then, and leav- 
 
 est none behind 
 Worthy to rival thee ! 
 
 ^^schylos. Nay, say not so. 
 
 Whose is the hand that now is pressing 
 
 mine ? 
 A hand I may not ever press again ! 
 What glorious forms hath it brought 
 
 boldly forth 
 From Pluto's realm ! The blind old 
 
 OEdipos 
 Was led on one side by Antigone, 
 Sophocles propped the other. 
 
 Sophocles. Sophocles 
 
 Sooth'd not Prometheus chain'd upon 
 
 his rock, 
 Keeping the vultures and the Gods 
 
 away ; 
 Sophocles is not greater than the cliief 
 Who conquered Ilion, nor could he re- 
 venge 
 His murder, or stamp everlasting brand 
 Upon the brow of that adultei-ous wife. 
 ^schylos. Live, and do more. 
 
 Thine is the Lemnian isle. 
 And thou has placed the arrows in the 
 
 hand 
 Of Philoctetes, hast assuaged his wounds 
 And given his aid without which Greece 
 
 had fail'd. 
 Sophocles. I did indeed drive off the 
 
 pest of flies ; 
 We also have our pest of them which 
 
 buzz 
 About our honey, darken it, and sting ; 
 We laugh at them, for under hands like 
 
 OUl'S, 
 
 Without the wing that Philoctetes 
 
 shook. 
 One single feather crushes the whole 
 
 swarm. 
 
 I must be grave. 
 
 Hath Sicil}' such charms 
 Above our Athens ? Many charms hath 
 
 she, 
 Bvit she hath kings. Accursed be the 
 race ! 
 JEschijlos. But where kings honor 
 better men than they 
 Let kings be honored too. 
 
 The laurel crown 
 Surmounts the golden ; wear it : and 
 farewell. 1847. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE AND MILTON 
 
 The tongue of England, that which 
 myriads 
 
 Have spoken and will speak, were para- 
 lyzed 
 
 Hereafter, but two mighty men stand 
 forth 
 
 Above the flight of ages, two alone ; 
 
 One crying out, 
 
 All nations spoke thro'' r/ie. 
 
 The other : 
 
 True ; and thro' this ti'umpet burst 
 
 God's 7ford ; the fall of Angels, and the 
 doom 
 
 First of immortal, then, of mortal, Man. 
 
 Glory ! he glory ! not to me, to God. 
 
 1853. 
 
 TO YOUTH 
 
 Where art thou gone, light-ankled 
 Youth ? 
 
 With wing at either shoulder. 
 And smile that never left thy mouth 
 
 Until the Hours grew colder : 
 
 Then somewhat seem'd to whisper near 
 
 Tliat thou and I must part ; 
 I doubted it : I felt no fear. 
 
 No weight upon tlie heart : 
 
 If auglit befell it. Love was by 
 
 x\nd roll'd it off again ; 
 So. if there ever was a sigh, 
 
 'Twas not a sigh of pain. 
 
 I may not call tiiee back ; but thou 
 
 Returnest when the hand 
 Of gentle Sleep waves o'er my brow 
 
 His poppy-crested wand ; 
 
 Tlien smiling eyes bend over mine, 
 Tlien lips once pressed invite ; 
 
 But sleep hath given a silent sign, 
 And both, alas ! take flight. 
 
 1853. 
 
 I 
 
LANDOR 
 
 455 
 
 TO AGE 
 
 Welcome, old friend ! These many 
 years 
 
 Have we lived door by door : 
 The Fates have laid aside their shears 
 
 Perhaps for some few more. 
 
 I was indocile at an age 
 
 When better boys were taught. 
 
 But thou at length liast made me sage, 
 If I am sage in aught. 
 
 Little I know from other men, 
 
 Too little they from me. 
 But thou hast pointed well the pen 
 
 That writes these lines to thee. 
 
 Thanks for expelling Fear and Hope, 
 
 One vile, the otlier vain ; 
 One's scourge, the other's telescope, 
 
 I shall not see again : 
 
 Rather what lies before my feet 
 
 My notice shall engage — 
 He who hath braved Youth's dizzy heat 
 
 Dreads not the frost of Age. 
 
 1853. 
 
 THE CHRYSOLITES AND RUBIES 
 BACCHUS BRINGS 
 
 The chr^ysolites and rubies Bacchus 
 brings 
 To crown the feast where swells the 
 broad-vein'd brow, 
 Where maidens blush at what the min- 
 strel sings. 
 They who have coveted maj' covet 
 now. 
 
 Bring me, in cool alcove, the grape un- 
 crushed. 
 The peach of pulpy cheek and down 
 mature. 
 Where every voice (but bird's or child's) 
 is hushed. 
 And every thought, like the brook 
 nigh, runs pure. 1853. 
 
 SO THEN, I FEEL NOT DEEPLY ! 
 
 So then, I feel not deeply ! if I did, 
 
 I should have seized the pen and pierced 
 
 therewith 
 The passive world ! 
 
 And thus thou reasonest ? 
 Well hast thou known the lover's, not so 
 
 well 
 
 The poet's heart : while that heart 
 
 bleeds, the hand 
 Presses it close. Grief must run on and 
 
 pass 
 Into near Memory's more quiet shade 
 Before it can compose itself in song. 
 He who is agonized and turns to show 
 His agony to those who sit around. 
 Seizes the pen in vain : thought, fancy, 
 
 power, 
 Rush back into his bosom ; all the 
 
 strength 
 Of genius can not draw tliem into light 
 From under mastering Grief ; but 
 
 Memory, 
 The Mvise's mother, nurses, rears them 
 
 up. 
 Informs, and keeps them with her all her 
 
 days. 1853. 
 
 YEARS, MANY PARTI-COLORED 
 YEARS 
 
 Years, many parti-colored years, 
 
 Some have crept on, and some have 
 flown 
 Since first before me fell those tears 
 
 I never could see fall alone. 
 Years, not so many, are to come. 
 Years not so varied, when from you 
 One more will fall : when, carried home, 
 I see it not, nor hear adieu. 1853. 
 
 I WONDER NOT THAT YOUTH 
 REMAINS 
 
 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 ? 
 
 1853. 
 
 ON MUSIC 
 
 Many love music but for music's sake, 
 Many because her touches can awake 
 Thoughts that repose within the breast 
 
 half-dead. 
 And rise to follow where she loves to 
 
 lead. 
 What various feelings come from days 
 
 gone by ! 
 What tears from far-off sources dim the 
 
 eye ! 
 Few, when light fingers with sweet 
 
 voices play 
 And melodies swell, pause, and melt 
 
 away, 
 
4S6 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Mind how at every touch, at every tone, 
 A spark of life hath glisten'd and hath 
 gone. 1853. 
 
 ROSE AYLMER'S HAIR, GIVEN BY 
 HER SISTER 
 
 Beautiful spoils ! borne off from van- 
 quished death ! 
 Upon my heart's high altar shall ye 
 lie. 
 Moved but by only one adorer's breath, 
 Retaining youth, re wai'dingconstjmcy. 
 
 1858. 
 
 DEATH STANDS ABOVE ME 
 
 Death stands above me, whisisering low 
 I know not what into my ear : 
 
 Of liis strange language all I know 
 Is, there is not a word of fear. 1853. 
 
 ON HIS SEVENTY-FIFTH BIRTH- 
 DAY 
 
 I STROVE with none ; for none was wortli 
 my strife, 
 Nature I loved, and next to Nature, 
 Art; 
 I warmed both hands before the fire of 
 hfe. 
 It sinks, and I am ready to depart. 
 
 1853. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF SOUTHEY 
 
 It was a dream (ah ! what is not a 
 
 dream ?) 
 In which I wander'd thro' a boundless 
 
 space 
 Peopled by those that peopled earth ere- 
 
 while. 
 But who conducted me ? That gentle 
 
 Power, 
 Gentle as Death, Death's brother. On 
 
 his brow 
 Some have seen poppies ; and perliaps 
 
 among 
 The many flowers about his wavy curls 
 Poppies there might be : roses I am sure 
 I saw. and dimmer amanuitlis between. 
 Lightly I thought I leaped across a 
 
 grave 
 Smelling of cool f resli turf, and sweet it 
 
 smelt. 
 I would, but must not linger ; I must on. 
 To tell my dream before forgetfulness 
 Sweeps it awaj^ or breaks or changes it. 
 
 I was among the shades (if shades they 
 
 were) 
 And look'd around me for some friendly 
 
 liand 
 To guide me on my way, and tell me all 
 That compass'd me around. I wish'd to 
 
 find 
 One no less firm or ready than the guide 
 Of Alighieri, trustier far tlian he, 
 Higher in intellect, more conversant 
 With earth and heaven and whatso lies 
 
 between. 
 He stood before me — Southej-. 
 
 " Tliou art lie," 
 Said I, "whom I was wishing." 
 
 •' That I know," 
 Replied the genial voice and radiant eye. 
 •• We may be question'd, question we 
 
 may not ; 
 For tliat might cause to bubble fortli 
 
 again 
 Some bitter spring whicli crossed the 
 
 pleasantest 
 And shadiest of our paths." 
 
 " I do not ask," 
 Said I, '' about your happiness ; I see 
 The sanre serenitj' as when we walked 
 Along the downs of Clifton. Fift}^ j'ears 
 Have roU'd behind us since that summer- 
 tide, 
 Nor thirt}' fewer since along the lake 
 Of Lario, to Bellaggio villa-crown'd. 
 Thro' tlie crisp waves I urged my side- 
 ling bark. 
 Amid sweet salutations off the shore 
 From lordly Milan's proudly courteous 
 
 dames." 
 " Landor ! I well remember it,'" said he, 
 '• I had just lost niy first-born only bo\% 
 And tlien the heart is tender ; lightest 
 
 things 
 Sink into it, and dwell there evermore." 
 The words were not yet spoken wlien 
 
 the air 
 Blew balmier ; and around the parent's 
 
 neck 
 An Angel threw his arms : it was that 
 
 son. 
 " Father! I felt you wished me," said 
 
 the boy, 
 " Behold me here ! " 
 
 Gentle the sire's embrace, 
 Gentle his tone. " See here your father's 
 
 friend ! " 
 He gazed into my face, then meekly 
 
 said [ward 
 
 " He whom my father loves hath his re- 
 On earth ; a richer one awaits him 
 
 here," 1853, 
 
LANDOR 
 
 457 
 
 ON SOUTHEY'S DEATH 
 
 Friends ! hear the words my wander- 
 ing 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. 
 
 1858. 
 
 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. 
 
 1858. 
 
 THE THREE ROSES i 
 
 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 tliere stood 
 
 Britonferry's oaken wood. 
 
 Whispering, " Htrppy as thou art, 
 
 Happiness and thou must part." 
 
 Many summers have gone by 
 
 Since a Second Rt)se and I 
 
 (Rose from tiiat same stem) have told 
 
 This and other tales of old. 
 
 She upon her wedding-day 
 
 Carried home my tenderest lay : 
 
 Fi'om her lap I now have heard 
 
 Gleeful, cliirping, 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. 
 
 1858. 
 
 LATELY OUR SONGSTERS LOI- 
 TERED 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 flowei's thro' which Ilissus 
 
 flows. 
 
 ' See pages 438 and 441. " Rose the Tliird " was 
 tlie daughter of " the Second Rose," and thus the 
 grand-niece of Rose Ayhner. 
 
 In those pale olive grounds all voices 
 
 cease, 
 And from afar dust fills the imths of 
 
 Gi'eece. 
 ]\Iy slumber broken and my doublet 
 
 torn, 
 I find the laurel also bears a thoi'n. 
 
 186.3. 
 
 THESEUS AND HIPPOLYTA i 
 
 Hippolyta. Eternal hatred I have 
 sworn against 
 The persecutor of my sisterhood ; 
 In vain, proud son of ^geus, hast thou 
 
 snapped 
 Their arrows and derided them ; in vain 
 Leadest tliou me a captive ; I can die, 
 And die I will. 
 
 Theseus. Nay ; many are the years 
 Of youth and beauty for Hippolyta. 
 Hippolyta. I scorn my youth, I hate 
 my beauty. Go ! 
 Monster ! of all the monsters in these 
 
 wilds 
 Most frightful and most odious to my 
 sight. 
 Theseus. I boast not that I saved tliee 
 from the bow 
 Of Scythian. 
 
 Hippolyta. And for what ? To die 
 disgraced. 
 Strong as thou art, yet thou art not so 
 
 strong 
 As Death is, wlien we call him for sup- 
 port. 
 Theseus. Him too will I ward off ; he 
 strikes me first, 
 Hippolyta, long after, when these eyes 
 Are closed, and when the knee that 
 
 su])plicates 
 Can bend no more. 
 Hippolyta. Is the man mad? 
 TJieseus. He is. 
 
 Hippolyta. So, tliou canst tell one 
 truth, however false 
 In other things. 
 
 Theseus. What other? Thou dost 
 pause, 
 And thine ej^es wander over the smooth 
 
 turf 
 As if some gem (but gem thou wearest 
 
 not) 
 Had fallen from the remnant of thy 
 hair. 
 
 • Written by Landor immediately before its 
 jmblication, at tlie age of eighty-eight. Perhaps 
 tlie only other example in literature of such 
 vigor and creative power, at such an age, is that 
 of Sophocles. 
 
458 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Hippolyta ! speak plainly, answer me, 
 What have I done to raise thy fear or 
 hate ? 
 Hippolyta. Fear I desjiise, perfidy I 
 abhor. 
 Unworthy man ! did Heracles delude 
 The maids,who trusted him ? 
 
 Theseus. Did ever I ? 
 
 Whether he did or not, they never told 
 
 me : 
 I would have chided him. 
 
 Hippolyta. Tliou chide him ! thou ! 
 The Spartan mothers well remember 
 thee. 
 Tlieseus. Scorn adds no beauty to the 
 beautiful. 
 Heracles was beloved by Omphale, 
 He never parted from her, but obey'd 
 Her slightest wish, as Tlieseus will Hip- 
 polyta's. 
 Hippolyta. Then leave me, leave me 
 instantly ; I know 
 The way to my own country. 
 
 Tlieseus. This command. 
 
 And only this, my heart must disobey. 
 My country shall be thine, and' there 
 
 thy state 
 Regal. 
 Hippolyta. Am I a child? Give me 
 my own, 
 And keep for weaker heads thy dia- 
 dems. 
 Thermodon I shall never see again, 
 Brightest of rivers, into whose clear 
 
 depth 
 My mother plunged me from her 
 
 warmer breast. 
 And taught me early to divide the waves 
 With arms each day more strong, and 
 
 soon to chase 
 And overtake the father swan, nor heed 
 His hoarser voice or his uplifted wing. 
 Where are my sisters ? are there any left ? 
 Tlieseus. I liope it. 
 
 Hippolyta. And I fear it : theirs may 
 be 
 A fate like mine ; vrhich, O ye Gods, for- 
 bid ! 
 Tlieseus. I pity thee, and would as- 
 suage thy grief. 
 Hippolyta. Pity me not : thy anger I 
 
 could bear. 
 Tlieseus. There is no place for anger 
 where thou art. 
 Coinmiseration even men may feel 
 For those who want it : even the fiercer 
 
 beasts / 
 Lick the sore-wounded of a kindred 
 race. 
 
 Hearing their cry, albeit they may not 
 help. 
 Hippolyta. This i^ no falsehood : and 
 can lie be false 
 Who speaks it ? 
 
 I remember not tlie time 
 Wlien I have wept, it was so long ago. 
 Thou forcest tears from me, because . . 
 
 because . . 
 I cannot hate thee as I ought to do. 
 
 1863. 
 
 AN AGED MAN WHO LOVED TO 
 DOZE AWAY 
 
 An aged man who loved to doze away 
 An liour by daylight, for his eyes were 
 
 dim. 
 And lie had seen too many suns go down 
 And rise again, dreamed that he saw two 
 
 forms 
 Of radiant beauty ; he would clasp them 
 
 both, 
 But botli flew stealthily away. He cried 
 In his wild dream, 
 
 " I never thought, O j'outh, 
 That thou, altho' .so cherished, would'st 
 
 return, 
 But I did think that he who came with 
 
 thee. 
 Love, who could swear more sweetly 
 
 than birds sing. 
 Would never leave me comfortless and 
 
 lone." 
 A sigh broke through his slumber, not 
 
 the last. 1863. 
 
 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 tvrifing ujwn stone ! " 
 I have since written what no tide 
 
 Shall ever wash away, what men 
 Unborn shall read o'er ocean wide 
 
 And find lanthe's name again. 
 
 1863. 
 
 TO MY NINTH DECADE 
 
 To my ninth decade 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. 1863. 
 
 I 
 
( 'No 
 
 ) ■ \ -v;^ --5J .cT -/- 1 ^-^ ^- / 
 
 TENNYSON .- 
 
 LIST OF REFERENCES 
 
 Editiojn^s 
 
 Complete Works, with Life, 10 volumes, The Macmillan Co. Poetical 
 Works, Fliverside Edition, 6 volumes, Houghton & Mifflin. Complete 
 Works, 6 volumes. The Macmillan Co. (in preparation). Complete Works, 
 Globe Edition, 1 volume. * Complete Works, Cambridge Edition, 1 vol- 
 ume, edited by W. J. Rolfe. Lyrical Poems, Selected by F. T. Palgrave, 
 (Golden Treasury Series). Poems ; Chosen and edited by Henry Van 
 Dyke ; Ginn & Co. 
 
 Biography 
 
 *Tennysoiv (Hallam), Alfred, Lord Tennyson, A Memoir, 2 volumes. 
 (The Standard Biograpliy.) Benson (A. C), Tennyson (Little Biogra- 
 pliies). Chesterton (G. K.), Tennyson (Bookman Series). Caky (E. L.), 
 Tennyson. Horton (R. F.), Life of Tennyson. Lang (A.), Alfred Ten- 
 nyson (Modern English Writers). Lyall (A. C), Tennyson (English 
 Men of Letters Series). Waugh (A.), Life of Tennyson. 
 
 Reminiscences and Early Criticism 
 
 * Napier, The Homes and Haunts of Tennyson. Fields (A.), Authors 
 and Friends. Fields ( J. T.), Yesterdays with Authors. * Ritchie 
 (Anne Thackeray), Records of Tennyson, Ruskiii, and the Brownings. 
 Rawnsley (IT. D.), Memoi'ies of the Tennysons. Nicoll (W. R.), Liter- 
 ary Anecdotes. Weld, Glimpses of Tennyson. * Hallam (A. H), Lit- 
 erary Remains : On some of the Characteristics of Modern Poetry, and on 
 the Lyrical Poems of Alfred Tennyson (originally published in the Eng- 
 lish Magazine, Aug., 1831). Wilson (John), Essays : Tennyson's Poems, 
 (1882). Sterling (John), Essays and Tales: Tennyson's Poems, (1842). 
 Spedding (James), Reviews : Tennyson's Poems, (1843). Horne (R. IL), 
 A new Spirit of the Age, (1844). Lowell (J. R.), Conversations with the 
 Poets: Keats and Tennyson, (1846). Kingsley (C), Miscellanies, (1850). 
 Brimley (George), Tennyson's Poems, in Cambridge Essays, (1855). Mas- 
 se y (Gerald), Tennyson and his Poetry, (1855). * Roscoe (W. C), Poems 
 and Essays, Vol. II, (1860). * Bagehot (W.), Literary Studies, Vol. II : 
 Wordsworth, Tennyson and Browning, (1864). * Taine, History of Eng- 
 lish Literature, Vol. IV. Mill (J. S.), Early Essays. Taylor (Bayard), 
 Critical Essays. Tuckerman (II. T.), Thoughts on the Poets. 
 
 459 
 
46o TENNYSON 
 
 Later Criticism 
 
 Adams (F.), Essays in Modernity. Brooke (S. A.), Tennyson, his Art 
 and Relation to Modern Life. Bradley, Commentary on In Memoriam. 
 Chesterton (G. K.), Twelve Types. * Dowden (Edward), Studies in 
 Literature : Tennyson and Browning. Everett (C. C), Essays : Tenny- 
 son and Browning as Spiritual Forces. * Gates (L. E.), Studies and Ap- 
 preciations. Gladstone (W. E.), Gleanings of Past Years. Gosse (E.), 
 Questions at Issue : Tennyson — and after. Harrison (Frederic), Tenny- 
 son, Raskin, IMill, and other literary Estimates. * Hutton (R. H.), Lit- 
 erary Essays. Layard (G. S.), Tennyson and his Pre-Raphaelite Illus- 
 trators. MiLSAND (J.), Litterature anglaise. Maoallum (M. W.), Tenny- 
 son's Idylls of the King, and the Arthurian Story from the Sixteenth 
 Century. Myers (F. W. H.), Science and a Future Life : Tennyson as a 
 Prophet. Nencioni (E.), Letteratura inglese. Noel (R. B. W.), Essays 
 on Poetry and Poets. Oliphant (Margaret), Victorian Age of English 
 Literature, Vol. I. Rearden (T. H.), Petrarch and Other Essays. Ro- 
 bertson (J. M.), Essays toward a Critical Method : The Art of Tennyson. 
 * Royce (J.), Studies of Good and Evil : Tennyson and Pessimism. 
 Saintsbury (George), Corrected Impressions. Scherer (E.), Etudes de 
 Littorature contemporaine, Vol. X. Sha.irp (J. C), Aspects of Poetry. 
 Sneath, The Mind of Tennyson. *Stedman (E. C), Victorian Poets. 
 Stephen (Leslie), Studies of a Biographer, Vol. II. * Swinburne, Mis- 
 cellanies : Tennyson and Musset. * Van Dyke (Henry), Poetry of Ten- 
 nyson. Whitman (Walt), Democratic Vistas. 
 
 Bayne (P.), Lessons from my Masters. Buchanan (R.), Master Spirits. 
 Cooke (G. W.), Poets and Problems. Dixon (W. M.), A Tennyson 
 Primer. Farrar (F. W.), Men I have Known. Forman (H. B.), Our 
 Living Poets. Heywood (J. C), How they Strike Me, these Authors : 
 An over-rated Poet. Howells (W. D.), My literary Passions. Paul 
 (II. W.), Men and Letters: Classical Poems of Tennyson. Rawnsley 
 (II. D.), Memories of the Tennysons. Stanley (H. M.), Essays on Liter- 
 ary Art. Walker (II.), The Greater Victorian Poets. 
 
 Tributes in Verse 
 
 * Watson (W.), * Lacrymse Musarum ; To Lord Tennyson ; The For- 
 esters. * Huxley (T. II.), in Stedman's Victorian Anthology. Gilder 
 (R. W.), B^ive Books of Verse. Bourdillon (F. W.), Sursum Corda. Etc. 
 
 Bibliography, etc. 
 
 Shepherd (R. II.), Bibliography of Tennyson. Grolier Club, Chrono- 
 logical List of Tennyson's Works, etc. Collins, The Early Poems of 
 Tennyson, with Bibliography and Various Readings. Dixon (W. M.), A 
 Primer of Tennyson, with Bibliography, pp. 145-189. Luce (Morton), 
 Handbook to the Works of Tennyson. Providence Public Library, Ten- 
 nyson Reference List (Monthly Bulletin, Oct., 1897). Livingston (L. S.), 
 Bibliography of the First Editions. 
 
TENNYSON 
 
 I 
 
 CLARIBEL 
 
 A MELODY 
 
 Where Claribel low-lieth 
 The breezes pause and die, 
 Letting the rose-leaves fall ; 
 But the solemn oak-tree sigheth, 
 Thick-leaved, ambrosial, 
 Witli an ancient melody 
 Of an inward agony, 
 Where Claribel low-lieth. 
 
 At eve the beetle boometh 
 
 Athwart the thicket lone ; 
 At noon the wild bee hummeth 
 
 About the moss'd headstone : 
 At midnight the moon cometh, 
 
 And looketh down alone. 
 Her song the lintwliite swelleth, 
 The clear-voiced mavis dwelleth, 
 
 The callow throstle lispeth. 
 The slumbrous wave outwelleth. 
 
 The babbling runnel crispetli. 
 The lioUow grot replieth 
 
 Where Claribel low-lieth. 1830. 
 
 THE POET 
 
 The poet in a golden clime was born, 
 
 With golden stars above ; 
 Dovver'dwith the hate of liate, the scorn 
 of scorn, 
 
 The love of love. 
 
 He saw thro' life and death, thro' good 
 and ill. 
 
 He saw thro' his own soul. 
 The marvel of the everlasting will, 
 
 An open scroll, 
 
 Before liim lay ; with echoing feet he 
 threaded 
 The secretest walks of fame : 
 The viewless arrows of his thoughts 
 were headed 
 And wing'd with flame, 
 
 Like Indian reeds blown from his silver 
 tongue, 
 
 And of so fierce a fliglit. 
 From Calpe unto Caucasus tliey sung. 
 
 Filling with light 
 
 And vagrant melodies the winds which 
 bore 
 Them earthward till they lit ; 
 Then, like the arrow-seeds of the field 
 flower. 
 The fruitful wit 
 
 Cleaving took root, and springing forth 
 anew 
 Wliere'er tliey fell, behold. 
 Like to the mother plant in semblance, 
 grew 
 A flower all gold, 
 
 And bravely furnish'd nil abroad to fling 
 Tlie winged shafts of truth. 
 
 To throng with stately blooms the 
 breathing s])ring 
 Of Hope and Yontli. 
 
 So many minds did gird their orbs with 
 beams. 
 Tho' one did fling tlie fire ; 
 Heaven flow'd upon the sonl in man}"- 
 dreams 
 Of high desire. 
 
 Thus truth was multii^lied on truth, the 
 world 
 Like one great garden show'd. 
 And thro' the wreatlis of floating dark 
 upcurl'd, 
 Rare sunrise flow'd. 
 
 And Freedom rear'd in that august sun- 
 rise 
 Her beautiful bold brow. 
 When rites and forms before his burn- 
 
 mg eyes 
 Melted like snow. 
 
 461 
 
462 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Tliere was no blood upon her maiden 
 robes 
 
 Sunn'd by those orient skies ; 
 But round about the circles of the globes 
 
 Of her keen eyes 
 
 And in lier raiment's hem was traced in 
 flame 
 Wisdom, a name to shake 
 All evil dreams of power — a sacred 
 name. 
 And wlien she spake, 
 
 Her w^ords did gather thunder as they 
 ran, 
 And as the lightning to the thunder 
 Which follows it, riving the spirit of 
 man, 
 Making earth wonder, 
 
 So was their meaning to her words. No 
 sword 
 Of wratli lier right arm whirl'd, 
 But one poor poefs scroll, and witli his 
 word 
 She shook tlie world. 1830. 
 
 THE LADY OF SHALOTT 1 
 
 PART I 
 
 On either side the river lie 
 Lung fields of barley and of rj-e, 
 Tliat clothe tlie wold and meet the .sky ; 
 And tliro" tlie field tlie road runs by 
 
 To many-tower'd Camelot ; 
 And up and down the people go, 
 (lazing where tlie lilies blow 
 Round an island there below. 
 
 The island of Shalott. 
 
 Willows whiten, aspens quiver, 
 Little breezes dusk and shiver 
 Thro' the wave that runs for ever 
 By the island in the river 
 
 Flowing down to Camelot. 
 Four gray walls, and four gray towers, 
 Overlook a space of flowers. 
 And the silent isle imbowers 
 
 The Lady of Shalott. 
 
 By the margin, willow-veil'd. 
 Slide the heavy barges trail'd 
 By slow horses ; and unhail'd 
 Tiie shallop flitteth silken-sail'd 
 
 Skimming down to Camelot ; 
 But who hath seen lier wave her hand ? 
 
 IIT 
 
 ' See the Life of Tennyson, by his Son, I, 116- 
 
 Or at the casement seen her stand? 
 Or is she known in all the land. 
 The Lady of Shalott? 
 
 Only reapers, reaping early 
 In among the bearded barley. 
 Hear a song that echoes cheerly 
 From the river winding clejuly, 
 
 Down to tower'd Camelot ; 
 And b}^ the moon the reaper weary, 
 Piling sheaves in uplands aiiy, 
 Listening, whispers " 'T is the fairy 
 
 Lady of Shalott." 
 
 PART II 
 
 There she weaA'es by night and day 
 A magic web with colors gay. 
 She has heard a whisper say, 
 A curse is on her if she stay 
 
 To look down to Camelot. 
 She knows not what tlie curse may be, 
 And so she weavetli steadilj-. 
 And little other care liatli she. 
 
 The Lady of Shalott. 
 
 And moving thro' a minor clear 
 That hangs before her all the j'ear. 
 Shadows of the world appear. 
 There she sees the liighwa,y near 
 
 Winding down to Camelot ; 
 There the river eddy whirls. 
 And there the surl^y village-churls, 
 And the red cloaks of market girls, 
 
 Pass onward from Shalott. 
 
 Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, 
 An abbot on an ambling pad. 
 Sometimes a curly shejiherd-lad. 
 Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad. 
 
 Goes by to tower'd Camelot ; 
 And sometimes thro' tiie mirror blue 
 The knights come riding two and two : 
 She hath no loyal knight and true. 
 
 The Lady of Shalott. 
 
 But in her web she still delights 
 To weave the mirror's magic sights, 
 For often thro' the silent nights 
 A funeral, with plumes and lights 
 
 And music, went to Camelot ; 
 Or when the moon was overhead. 
 Came two young lovers lately wed : 
 " I am half sick of shadows," said 
 
 The Lady of Shalott. 
 
 PART III 
 
 A bow-shot from her bower-eaves, 
 He rode between the barley-sheaves. 
 
TENNYSON 
 
 463 
 
 The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves, 
 And flamed upon the brazen greaves 
 
 Of bold Sir Lancelot. 
 A red-cross kniglit for ever kneelVl 
 To a lady in his shield, 
 That sparkled on the yellow field, 
 
 Beside remote Shalott. 
 
 The gemmy bridle glitter'd free. 
 Like to some branch of stars we see 
 Hung in the golden (lalaxy. 
 The bridle bells rang merrily 
 
 As he rode down to Camelot ; 
 And from his blazon'd baldric slung 
 A mighty silver bugle hung. 
 And as lie rode his armor rung. 
 
 Beside remote Shalott. 
 
 All in the blue unclouded weather 
 Thick- je weird shone the saddle-leather, 
 The helmet ami the lielmet-feather 
 Burn'd like one burning flame together, 
 
 As he rode down to Camelot ; 
 As often thro' the purple night, 
 Below the starry clusters bright. 
 Some bearded meteor, trailing light. 
 
 Moves over still Shalott. 
 
 His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd; 
 Onburnish'd hooves his war-horse trode; 
 From underneath his helmet flovv'd 
 His coal-black curls as on he rode, 
 
 As he rode down to Camelot. 
 From the bank and from tlie river 
 He flash'd into the crystal mirror, 
 " Tirra lirra," by the river 
 
 Sang Sir Lancelot. 
 
 She left the web, she left tlie loom. 
 She made three paces thro' tlie room, 
 She saw tlie water-lily bloom. 
 She saw the helmet and the plume, 
 
 She look'd down to Camelot. 
 Out flew the web and floated wide ; 
 The mirror crack'd from side to side ; 
 " The curse is come upon me," cried 
 
 The Lady of Shalott. 
 
 In the stormy east- wind sti'aining. 
 The pale yellow woods were waning. 
 The broad stream in his banks complain- 
 ing, 
 Heavily the low sky raining 
 
 Over tower'd Camelot : 
 Down she came and found a boat 
 Beneath a willow left iafloat, 
 And round about the prow she wi'ote 
 
 TIte Lady of Shalott. 
 
 And down the river's dim expanse 
 Like some bold seer in a trance. 
 Seeing all his own mischance — 
 With a glassy countenance 
 
 Did she look to Camelot. 
 And at the closing of the day 
 She loosed the chain, and down she lay: 
 The broad stream bore her far away. 
 
 The Lady of Shalott. 
 
 Lying, robed in snowy white 
 Tliat loosely flew to left and riglit — 
 Tiie leaves upon her falling light — 
 Thro' the noises of the night 
 
 She floated down to Camelot ; 
 And as the boat-head wound along 
 The willowy hills and fields among. 
 They lieard her singing her last song. 
 
 The Lady of Shalott. 
 
 Heard a carol, mournful, holy, 
 Chanted loudly, chanted lowly, 
 Till her blood was frozen slowly 
 And her eyes were darken'd wholly 
 
 Turn'd to towerd Camelot. 
 For ere she reach'd upon the tide 
 The first house by the water-side, 
 Singing in iier song she died. 
 
 The Lady of Shalott. 
 
 Under tow^er and balcony, 
 
 By garden-wall and gallery, 
 
 A gleaming shape she floated by, 
 
 Dead-pale between the houses liigh. 
 
 Silent into Camelot. 
 Out upon the wharfs they came. 
 Knight and burgher, lord and dame, 
 And round the prow they read her name. 
 
 The Lady of Shalott. 
 
 Who is this ? and what is here? 
 And ill the lighted palace near 
 Died the sound of royal cheer. 
 And they cross'd themselves for fear. 
 
 All the knights at Camelot : 
 But Lancelot mused a little space ; 
 He said, " She has a lovely face ; 
 God in his mercy lend her grace, 
 
 The Lady of Shalott." 1833. 
 
 SONG: THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER 
 
 It is the miller's daughter. 
 
 And she is grown so dear, so dear, 
 
 That I would be the jewel 
 That trembles in her ear ; 
 
 For hid in ringlets dav and night, 
 
 I 'd touch her neck so warm and white. 
 
464 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 And I would be the girdle 
 
 About her dainty dainty waist. 
 
 And her heart would beat against me, 
 In sorrow and in rest ; 
 
 And I should know if it beat right, 
 
 I 'd clasp it round so close and tiglit. 
 
 Ami I would be the necklace, 
 And all day long to fall and rise 
 
 Upon lier balmy bosom, 
 
 With her laughter or her siglis ; 
 
 And I would lie so light, so light, 
 
 I scarce should be unclasp'd at night. 
 
 1833. 
 
 CENONE 
 
 There lies a vale in Ida, lovelier 
 Tlian all the valleys of Ionian hills. 
 The swimming vapor slopes athwart the 
 
 glen, 
 Puts forth an arm, and creeps from pine 
 
 to pine, 
 And loiters, slowly drawn. On either 
 
 hand 
 Tlie lawns and meadow-ledges midway 
 
 down 
 Hang rich in flowers, and far below 
 
 them roars 
 The long brook falling thro' the cloven 
 
 ravine 
 In cataract after cataract to the sea. 
 Beliind the valley topmost Gargarus 
 Stands iip and takes the morning ; but 
 
 in front 
 The gorges, opening wide apart, reveal 
 Troas and Ilion's column'd citadel, 
 The crown of Troas. 
 
 Hither came at noon 
 Mournful CEnone, wandering forlorn 
 Of Paris, once her playmate on the hills. 
 Her cheek had lost the rose, and round 
 
 her neck 
 Floated her hair or seem'd to float in 
 
 rest. 
 Slie, leaning on a fragment twined with 
 
 vine, 
 Sang to the stillness till the mountain- 
 shade' 
 Sloped downward to her seat from the 
 
 upper cliff. 
 
 " O mother Ida, many fountain'd Ida, 
 Dear mother Ida, barken ere I die. 
 For now the noonday quiet holds the 
 
 hill ; 
 The grasshopper is silent in the grass ; 
 Tlie lizard, with his shadow on the 
 
 stone, [dead. 
 
 Rests like a shadow, and the winds are 
 
 The purple flower droops, the golden 
 
 bee 
 Is lily-cradled : I alone awake. 
 My eyes are full of tears, my heart of 
 
 love. 
 My heart is breaking and mj^ e\es are 
 
 dim. 
 And I am all aweary of my life. 
 
 " O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, 
 Dear mother Ida, barken ere I die. 
 Hear me, O earth, hear me, O hills, O 
 
 caves 
 That house the cold-crown'd snake ! O 
 
 mountain brooks, 
 I am the daughter of a River God. 
 Hear me, for I will speak, and build up 
 
 all 
 My sorrow with my .song, as yonder 
 
 walls 
 Rose slowly to a music slowly breathed, 
 A cloud that gather 'd shape ; for it 
 
 maj'^ be 
 That, while I si^eak of it, a little while 
 My heart may wander from its deeper 
 
 woe. 
 
 "O mother Ida, manj-fountain'd Ida, 
 
 Dear mother Ida, barken ere I die. 
 
 I waited underneath the dawning hills ; 
 
 Aloft the mountain-lawn was dewy- 
 dark. 
 
 And dewy-dark aloft the mountain-pine. 
 
 Beautiful Paris, evil-hearted Paris, 
 
 Leading a jet-black goat white-horn'd, 
 white-hooved. 
 
 Came up from reedy Simois all alone. 
 
 " O motiier Ida, barken ere I die. 
 Far off the torrent call'd me from the 
 
 cleft ; 
 Far up the solitary morning smote 
 The streaks of virgin snow. With down- 
 
 dropt eyes 
 I sat alone ; white-breasted like a star 
 Fronting the dawn he moved ; a leopard 
 
 skin 
 Dropp'd from his shoulder, but his sunny 
 
 hair 
 Cluster "d about his temj^les like a God's; 
 And his clieek brighten'd as the foam- 
 bow brightens 
 When the wind blows the foam, and all 
 
 my heart 
 Went forth to embrace him coming ere 
 
 he came. 
 
 " Dear mother Ida, barken -ere I die. 
 He smiled, and opening out his milk- 
 white palm 
 
TENNYSON 
 
 465 
 
 Disclosed II fruit of pure Hesperian gold, 
 Tiiat smelt ambrosially, and while I 
 
 look'd 
 And listen'd, the full-flowing river of 
 
 speech 
 Came down upon my heart : 
 
 ' My own QEnone, 
 Beautiful-brow'd CEnone, my own soul, 
 Behold this fruit, whose gleaming rind 
 
 ingraven 
 "For the most fair," would seem to 
 
 award it thine, 
 As lovelier tlian whatever Oread haunt 
 Tlie knolls of Ida, loveliest in all grace. 
 Of movement, and the charm of married 
 
 brows.' 
 
 " Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
 He pressed the blossom of his lips to 
 
 mine. 
 And added, ' This was cast upon tlie 
 
 board, 
 When all the full-faced presence of the 
 
 Gods 
 R;inged in the halls of Peleus ; where- 
 upon 
 Rose feud, with question unto whom 
 
 'twere due ; 
 But light-foot Iris brought it yester-eve, 
 Delivering, that to me, by common 
 
 voice 
 Elected umpire. Here comes to-day, 
 Pallas and Aphrodite, claiming eacli 
 This meed of fairest. Thou, within the 
 
 cave 
 Behind yon whispering tuft of oldest 
 
 pine. 
 Mayst well behold them unbeheld, vm- 
 
 heard 
 Hear all, and see thy Paris, judge of 
 
 Gods." 
 
 '• Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
 It was the deep midnoon ; one silvery 
 
 cloud 
 Had lost his way between the piny sides. 
 Of this long glen. Then to the bower 
 
 they came, 
 Naked they came to that smooth- 
 swarded bower, [fire, 
 And at tlieir feet the crocus brake like 
 Violet, amaracus, and aspliodel. 
 Tjotos and lilies ; and a wind arose. 
 And overhead the wandering ivy and 
 vine, [toon 
 This way and that, in many a wild fes- 
 Ran riot, garlanding the gnarled boughs 
 With bunch and berry and flower thro' 
 and thro'. 
 
 30 
 
 " O mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
 On the tree-tops a crested peacock lit. 
 And o'er him flow'd a golden cloud, and 
 
 lean'd 
 Upon him, slowly dropping fragrant 
 
 dew. 
 Then first I heard the voice of her to 
 
 whom 
 Coming thro' heaven, like a light that 
 
 grows 
 Larger and clearer, witli one mind the 
 
 Gods 
 Rise up for reverence. She to Paris 
 
 made 
 Proffer of royal power, ample rule 
 Unquestion'd, overflowing revenue 
 Wherewith to embellish state, ' from 
 
 many a vale 
 And river-sunder'd champaign clothed 
 
 with corn. 
 Or labor'd mine vmdrainable of ore. 
 Honor,' she said, 'and homage, tax and 
 
 toll, 
 From many an inland town and haven 
 
 large, 
 Mast-throng'd beneath her shadowing 
 
 citadel 
 In glassy bays among her tallest towers.' 
 
 " O mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
 Still she spake on and still she spake of 
 
 power, 
 ' Whicii in all action is the end of all ; 
 Power fitted to the season ; wisdom-bred 
 And throned of wisdom — from all neigh- 
 bor crowns 
 Alliance and allegiance, till thy hand 
 Fail from the sceptre-stafif. Such boon 
 
 from me, 
 From me, heayen's (i[ueen, Paris, to thee 
 
 king-born, 
 A shepherd all thy life but yet king- 
 born. 
 Should come most welcome, seeing men, 
 
 in power 
 Only, are likest Gods, who have attain'd 
 Rest in a happy place and quiet seats 
 Above the thunder, with undying bliss 
 In knowledge of their own supremacy.' 
 
 " Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
 She ceased, and Paris held the costly 
 
 fruit 
 Out at arm's-length, so much the thought 
 
 of power 
 Flatter'd his spirit ; but Pallas where 
 
 she stood 
 Somewhat apart, her clear and bared 
 
 limbs 
 
466 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 O'erthwarted with the brazen-headed 
 spear 
 
 Upon her pearly shoulder leaning cold, 
 
 The while, above, her full and earnest 
 eye 
 
 Over her snow-cold breast and angry 
 cheek 
 
 Kept watch, waiting decision, made re- 
 ply : 
 
 ' Self -reverence, self-knowledge, self- 
 control. 
 
 These three alone lead life to sovereign 
 power. 
 
 Yet not for power (power of herself 
 
 Would come uncall'd for) but to live by 
 law, 
 
 Acting the law we live by without fear ; 
 
 And, because riglit is right, to follow 
 right 
 
 Were wisdom in the scorn of conse- 
 quence. ' 
 
 " Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
 Again she said : ' I woo thee not with 
 
 gifts. 
 Sequel of guerdon could not alter me 
 To fairer. Judge thou me by what I am, 
 So shalt thou find me fairest. 
 
 Yet, indeed. 
 If gazing on divinity disrobed 
 Thy mortal eyes are frail to judge of 
 
 fair, 
 Unbias'd by self-profit, O, rest tliee sure 
 That I shall love thee well and cleave to 
 
 thee, 
 So that my vigor, wedded to thy blood, 
 Shall strike within thy pulses, like a 
 
 God's, 
 To push thee forward thro' a life of 
 
 shocks. 
 Dangers, and deeds, uniil endurance 
 
 grow 
 Sinew'd with action, and the full-grown 
 
 will, 
 Circled thro' all experiences, pure law, 
 Commeasure perfect freedom.' 
 
 " Here she ceas'd, 
 And Paris ponder'd, and I cried, ' O 
 
 Paris, 
 Give it to Pallas ! ' but he heard me not, 
 Or hearing would not hear me, woe is 
 
 me ! 
 
 " O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, 
 Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
 Idalian Aphrodite beautiful, 
 Fresh as tlie foam, nevv-batlied in 
 
 Paphian wells, 
 With rosy slender fingers backward drew 
 
 From her warm brows and bosom her 
 
 deep hair 
 Ambrosial, golden round her lucid throat 
 And shoulder ; from the violets her light 
 
 foot 
 Shone rosy-white, and o'er her rounded 
 
 form 
 Between the shadows of the vine-bunches 
 Floated the glowing sunlights, as she 
 
 moved. 
 
 " Dear motlier Ida, harken ere I die. 
 She with a subtle smile in lier mild eyes. 
 The herald of lier triumpli, drawing nigh 
 Half-whisper'd in his ear, • I promise 
 
 thee 
 Tlie fairest and most loviiig wife in 
 
 Greece.' 
 She spoke and laugh'd ; I shut my sight 
 
 for fear ; 
 But when I look'd, Paris had raised his 
 
 arm. 
 And I beheld great Here's angry eyes, 
 As she witlidrew into the golden cloud. 
 And I was left alone within the bower ; 
 And from that time to this I am alone, 
 And I shall be alone until I die. 
 
 " Yet, mother Ida, harken ere I die. 
 Fairest — whv faii'est wife? am I not 
 
 fair? ' 
 My love liatli told me so a thousand 
 
 times. 
 Metliinks I must be fair, for yesterday. 
 When I ])ast by, a wild and wanton pard. 
 Eyed like the evening star, with playful 
 
 tail 
 Crouch'd fawning in the weed. Most 
 
 loving is she ? 
 Ah me, my mountain shepherd, that my 
 
 arms 
 Were wound about thee, and my hot lips 
 
 pressed 
 Close, close to thine in that quick-falling 
 
 dew 
 Of fruitful kisses, thick as autumn rains 
 Flash in the pools of whirling Simois ! 
 
 " O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
 They came, they cut away my tallest 
 
 pines, 
 My tall dark pines, that plumed tiie 
 
 craggy ledge 
 High over the blue gorge, and all be- 
 tween 
 The snowy peak and snow-white cataract 
 Foster'd the callow eaglet — from beneath 
 Whose tliick mysterious boughs in the 
 dark morn 
 
TENNYSON 
 
 467 
 
 Tlie panther's roar came muffled, while 
 
 I sat 
 Low in the valley. Never, never more 
 Sliall lone Qlliione see the morning mist 
 Sweep thro' them ; never see them over- 
 laid 
 With narrow moonlit slips of silver 
 
 cloud. 
 Between the loud stream and the trem- 
 bling stars. 
 
 " O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
 I wish that somewhere in tlie ruin'd 
 
 folds. 
 Among the fragments tumbled from the 
 
 glens. 
 Or tlie dry thickets, I could meet with 
 
 her 
 The Abominable, tliat uninvited came 
 Into the fair Pelei'an banquet-hall. 
 And cast the golden fruit upon the board. 
 And bred this change ; that I might 
 
 speak my mind. 
 And tell her to her face how much I 
 
 hate 
 Her presence, hated both of Gods and 
 
 men. 
 
 " O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
 Hatii he not sworn his love a thousand 
 
 times. 
 In this green valley, under this green 
 
 hill. 
 Even on this hand, and sitting on this 
 
 stone ? 
 Seal'd it with kisses? water'd it with 
 
 tears "? 
 O happy tears, and how unlike to these ! 
 O happy heaven, how canst thou see my 
 
 face? 
 O happy earth, how canst thou bear my 
 
 weight ? [cloud, 
 
 death, death, death, thou ever-floating 
 There are enough unhappy on this earth. 
 Pass by the happy souls, that love to 
 
 live ; . 
 
 1 pray thee, pass before my light of life. 
 And shadow all mj' soul, that I may die. 
 Thou weighest heavy on the heart with- 
 in. 
 
 Weigh heavy on my eyelids ; let ine die. 
 
 " O mother, hear me yet before I die. 
 I will not die alone, for fiery thoughts 
 Do sliape themselves within me, more 
 
 and more, 
 Whereof I catch the issue, as I hear 
 Deail sounds at night come from the 
 
 inmost hills, 
 
 Like footsteps upon wool. I dimly see 
 My far-off doubtful purpose, as a mother 
 Conjectures of the features of lier child 
 Ere it is born. Her child ! — a shudder 
 
 comes 
 Across me : never child be born of me, 
 Unblest, to vex me with his father's eyes ! 
 
 " O, mother, hear me yet before I die. 
 Hear me. O earth. I will not die alone. 
 Lest their shrill happy laughter come to 
 
 me 
 Walking the cold and starless road of 
 
 death 
 Uncomforted, leaving my ancient love 
 With the Greek woman. I will rise and 
 
 go 
 Down into Troy, and ere the stars come 
 
 forth 
 Talk with the wild Cassandra, for she 
 
 says 
 A fire dances before her, and a sound 
 Rings ever in her ears of armed men. 
 What this may be I know not, but I 
 
 know 
 That wheresoe'er lam bj' night and day, 
 All earth and air seem only burning fire." 
 
 18:^3. 
 
 THE SISTERS 
 
 We were two daugliters of one race ; 
 Slie was tlie fairest in the face. 
 
 Tlie wind is blowing in turret and 
 tree. 
 They were together, and she fell ; 
 Therefore revenge became me well. 
 
 O, the earl was fair to see ! 
 
 She died ; she went to burning flame ; 
 She mix'd her ancient blood witii shame. 
 
 The wind is howling in turret and tree. 
 Whole weeks and months, and early and 
 
 late. 
 To win Jiis love I lay in wait ! 
 
 O, the earl was fair to see ! 
 
 I made a feast ; I bade him come ; 
 I won his love, I brought him home. 
 
 The wind is roaring in turret and tree. 
 And after supper, on a bed, 
 Upon my lap he laid his head. 
 
 O, the earl was fair to see ! 
 
 I kiss'd his eyelids into rest. 
 
 His ruddy cheek upon my breast. 
 
 The wind is raging in turret and tree. 
 I hated him with the hate of hell. 
 Hut I loved his beauty passing well. 
 
 O, the earl was fair to see ! 
 
468 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 I rose up in the silent night ; 
 
 I nxade my dagger sharp and bright. 
 
 The wind is raving in turret and tree. 
 As half-asleep his breath he drew, 
 Three times I stabb'd him thro' and thro'. 
 
 O, the earl was fair to see ! 
 
 I curl'd and comb'd his comely head, 
 He look'd so grand when he was dead. 
 
 The wind is blowing in turret and tree. 
 I wrapped his body in tlie sheet. 
 And laid him at his mother's feet. 
 
 O, the earl was fair to see ! 1833. 
 
 THE PALACE OF ART i 
 
 I BUILT my soul a lordly pleasure-house, 
 
 Wherein at ease for aye to dwell. 
 I said, " O Soul, make merry and ca- 
 rouse, 
 Dear soul, for all is well. " 
 
 A huge crag-platform, smooth as burn- 
 ish' d brass, 
 I chose. Tlie ranged ramparts bright 
 From level meadow-bases of deep grass 
 Suddenly scaled the light. 
 
 Thereon I built it firm. Of ledge or shelf 
 The rock rose clear, or winding stair. 
 My soul would live alone unto herself 
 In her high palace there. 
 
 And "while the world runs round and 
 round," I said, 
 " Reign thou apart, a quiet king, 
 Still as, while Saturn whirls, his stead- 
 fast sliade 
 Sleeps on his luminous ring." 
 
 To which my soul made answer readily: 
 
 " Trust me, in bliss 1 shall abide 
 In this great mansion, that is built for 
 me. 
 So royal-rich and wide." 
 
 Four courts I made, East, West and South 
 and North, 
 Ineacli a squared lawn, where from 
 The golden gorge of dragons spouted 
 forth 
 A flood of fountain -foam. 
 
 And round the cool green courts there 
 ran a row 
 Of cloisters, branclTd like mighty 
 woods, 
 
 > See the Life of Tennyson, I, 118-121. 
 
 Echoing all niglit to that sonorous flow 
 Of spouted fountain-floods ; 
 
 And round the roofs a gilded gallery 
 
 Tliat lent broad verge to distant lands. 
 Far as the wild swan wings, to where 
 the sky 
 Dipped down to sea and sands. 
 
 From those four jets four currents in one 
 swell 
 Across the mountain stream'd below 
 In misty folds, that floating as they fell 
 Lit up a torrent-bow. 
 
 And high on every peak a statue seem'd 
 
 To hang on tiptoe, tossing up 
 A cloud of incense of all odor steam'd 
 From out a golden cup. 
 
 So that she thought," And who shall gaze 
 upon 
 My palace with unblinded eyes, 
 AVhile this great bow will waver in the 
 sun, 
 And that sweet incense rise ? " 
 
 For that sweet incense rose and never 
 fail'd, 
 And, while day sank or mounted 
 higher. 
 The light aerial gallery, golden-rail'd, 
 Burnt like a fringe of fire. 
 
 Likewise the deep-set windows, stain'd 
 and traced, 
 Would seeni slow-flaming crimson fires 
 From shadow'd grots of arches inter- 
 laced. 
 And tipped with frost-like spires. 
 
 Full of long-sounding corridors it was, 
 
 That over-vaulted grateful gloom, 
 Thro' which the livelong day my soul did 
 pass. 
 Well-pleased, from room \o room. 
 
 Full of great rooms and small the palace 
 stood. 
 All various, eacli a perfect whole 
 From living Nature, fit for every mood 
 And change of my still soul. 
 
 For some were hung with arras green 
 and blue, 
 Sliowing a gaudy summer-morn. 
 Where with pufi'd cheek tlie belted 
 liunter blew 
 His wreathed bugle-horn. 
 
 J 
 
TENNYSON 
 
 469 
 
 One seem'd all dark and red — a tract of 
 sand, 
 And some one pacing there alone, 
 Who paced for ever in a glimmering 
 land. 
 Lit with a low large moon. 
 
 One show'd an iron coast and angry 
 waves, 
 You seem'd to hear them climb and 
 fall 
 And roar rock-thwarted under bellowing 
 caves. 
 Beneath the windy wall. 
 
 And one, a full-fed river winding slow 
 
 By herds upon an endless plain. 
 The ragged rims of tluxnder brooding 
 low , 
 With shadow-streaks of rain. 
 
 And one, the reapers at their sultry toil. 
 In front they bound the sheaves. Be- 
 hind 
 Were realms of upland, prodigal in oil, 
 And hoary to the wind. 
 
 And one a foreground black witli stones 
 and slags ; 
 Beyond, a line of lieigiits ; and higlier 
 All barrVl with long white cloud the 
 scornful crags ; 
 And highest, snow and fire. 
 
 And one. an English home — gray twi- 
 liglit pour'd 
 On dewy pastures, dewy trees. 
 Softer than sleep — all things in order 
 stoi'ed, 
 A haunt of ancient Peace. 
 
 Nor these alone, but every landscape 
 fair. 
 As fit for every mood of mind. 
 Or gay, or grave, or sweet, or stern, was 
 there. 
 Not less than truth design'd. 
 
 Or the maid-mother by a crucifix. 
 
 In tracts of pasture sunny-warm. 
 Beneatli branch-work of costly sardonyx 
 Sat smiling, babe in arm. 
 
 Or in a clear -wall'd city on the sea. 
 Near gilded organ-pijies, her Iiair 
 Wound with white roses, slept Saint 
 Cecily ; 
 An angel look'd at her. 
 
 Or thronging all one porch of Paradise 
 
 A group of Houris bow'd to see 
 The dying Islamite, with hands and 
 eyes 
 That said, We wait for thee. 
 
 Or mythic Uther's deeply-wounded son 
 In some fair space of sloping greens 
 Lay, dozing in the vale of Avalon, 
 And watch'd by weeping queens. 
 
 Or hollowing one hand against his ear, 
 
 To list a foot-fall, ere he saw 
 The wood-nymph, stay'd the Ausonian 
 king to hear 
 Of wisdom and of law. 
 
 Or over hills with peaky tops engrail'd, 
 
 And many a tract of palm and rice, 
 Tlie tluone of Indian Cama slowly sail'd 
 A summer fann'd witii spice. 
 
 Or sweet Europa"s mantle blew un- 
 clasp'd , 
 From off her shoulder backward borne; 
 From one hand droop"d a crocus ; one 
 iiand grasp'd 
 Tiie mild bull's golden horn. 
 
 Or else flush 'd Ganymede, liis rosy thigh 
 
 Half-buried in the eagle's down. 
 Sole as a flying star shot thro" the skj'^ 
 Above the pillar 'd town. 
 
 Nor tliese alone : but every legend fair 
 Which the supreme Caucasian mind 
 Carved out of Nature for itself was there. 
 Not less than life design'd. 
 
 Then in the towers I placed great bells 
 that swung. 
 Moved of themselves, with silver 
 sounds ; 
 And with clioice paintings of wise men 
 I hung 
 The royal dais round. 
 
 For thei'e was Milton like a seraph 
 strong. 
 Beside him Shakespeare bland and 
 mild : 
 And there the world-worn Dante grasp'd 
 his song. 
 And somewhat grimly smiled. 
 
 And there the Ionian father of the rest ; 
 
 A million wrinkles carved his skin ; 
 A hundred winters snow'd upon liis 
 breast. 
 From cheek and throat and cliin. 
 
470 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Above, the fair hall-ceiling stately-set 
 
 Many an arch high up did lift, 
 And angels rising and descending met 
 With interchange of gift. 
 
 Below was all mosaic choicely plann'd 
 
 With cycles of the human tale 
 Of this wide world, the times of every 
 land 
 So wrought they will not fail. 
 
 The people here, a beast of burden slow, 
 Toil'd onward, prick'd with goads and 
 stings ; 
 Here play'd. a tiger, rolling to and fro 
 The heads and crowns of kings ; 
 
 Here rose, an atlilete, strong to break or 
 bind 
 All force in bonds that might endure. 
 And here once more like some sick man 
 declined, 
 And trusted any cure. 
 
 But over these she trod ; and those great 
 bells 
 Began to chime. She took her throne ; 
 She sat betwixt the shining oriels, 
 To sing her songs alone. 
 
 And thro' the topmost oriels' colored 
 flame 
 Two godlike faces gazed below ; 
 Plato the wise, and large-brow'd Ver- 
 ulam. 
 The first of those who know. 
 
 And all those names that in their motion 
 were 
 Full-welling fountain-heads of change. 
 Betwixt the slender sliafts were blazon'd 
 fair 
 In diverse raiment strange ; 
 
 Thro' whicli the lights, rose, amber, em- 
 erald, blue, 
 Flush'd in her temples and her eyes, 
 And from her lips, as morn from Mem- 
 non, drew 
 Rivers of melodies. 
 
 No nightingale delighteth to prolong 
 
 Her low preamble all alone. 
 More than mj-^ soul to hear her echo'd 
 song 
 Throb thro' the ribbed stone ; 
 
 Singing and murmuring in her feastful 
 mirth. 
 Joying to feel lierself alive, 
 
 Lord over Nature, lord of the visible 
 eartli. 
 Lord of the senses five ; 
 
 Communing with lierself : " All these are 
 mine, 
 ,\ntt let tlie world have peace or wars, 
 "Tis one to me." She — when young 
 niglit divine 
 CrownM dying day witli stars. 
 
 Making sweet close of his delicioiis toils — 
 
 Lit liglit in wreaths and anadems. 
 And pure quintessences of precious oils 
 In hollo w'd moons of gems, 
 
 To mimic lieaven ; and clapped her hands 
 and cried, 
 " I marvel if my still delight 
 In this great house so royal-rich and wide 
 Be flatter'd to the lieight. 
 
 '• O all things fair to sate mv varic^us 
 
 eyes 
 
 shapes and hues that please me well ! 
 
 silent faces of the Great and W^ise, 
 
 My Gods, with wliom I dwell ! 
 
 " O Godlike isolation wliich art mine, 
 
 1 can but count thee perfect gain, 
 AVhat time I watch the darkening droves 
 
 of swine 
 That range on yonder plain. 
 
 " In filthy slouglis they roll a prurient 
 
 skin, 
 Tliey graze and wallow, breed and 
 
 sleep ; 
 And oft some brainless devil enters in, 
 
 And drives them to the deep." 
 
 Tlien of the moral instinct would she 
 prate 
 And of the rising from the dead. 
 As hers by right of fuU-accomplish"d 
 Fate ; 
 And at the last she said : 
 
 ■'I take possession of man's mind and 
 deed. 
 I care not what the sects may bi-awl. 
 
 1 sit as God holding no form of creed, 
 
 But contemplating all." 
 
 Full oft the riddle of the painful earth 
 
 Flasli'd thro' Jier as she sat alone. 
 Yet not the less held she her solemn 
 mirth, 
 And intellectual throne. 
 
TENNYSON 
 
 471 
 
 And soshe tliroveaiicl prosper'd ; so three 
 years 
 She prosper'd ; on the fourth she fell, 
 Like Herod, when the shout was in his 
 ears. 
 Struck thro' witii pangs of hell. 
 
 Lest she should fail and perish utterly. 
 
 God, before whom ever lie bare 
 The abysmal deeps of personality, 
 Plagued her with sore despair. 
 
 AVhen she would think, where' er she 
 turuM her sight 
 The airy liand confusion wrouglit, 
 Wrote, '■ Mene, mene."'a.nd divided quite 
 The kingdom of her thought. 
 
 Deep dread and loathing of her solitude 
 Fell on her, from which mood was 
 born 
 Scorn of herself; again, froin out that 
 mood 
 Laughter at her self-scorn. 
 
 " What ! is not this ni}'^ place of 
 strength." she said, 
 '' My spacious mansion built forme, 
 AVhereof the strong foundation-stones 
 were laid 
 Since my first memory ? " 
 
 But in dark corners of her palace stood 
 
 Uncertain shapes ; and unawares 
 On white-eyed phantasms weeping tears 
 of blood. 
 And horrible nightmares. 
 
 And hollow shades enclosing hearts of 
 flame. 
 And, with dim fretted foreheads all, 
 On corpses three-months-old at noon she 
 came. 
 That stood against the wall. 
 
 A spot of dull stagnation, without light 
 Or power of movement, seem'd my 
 soul. 
 Mid onward-sloping motions infinite 
 Making for one sure goal ; 
 
 A still salt pool, lock'd in with bars of 
 sand. 
 Left on the shore, that hears all night 
 The plunging seas draw backward from 
 the land 
 Their moon led waters white ; 
 
 A star that with the choi'al starry dance 
 Join'd not, but stood, and standing 
 saw 
 
 The hollow orb of moving Circumstance 
 Roll'd round by one nx'd law. 
 
 Back on herself her serpent pride had 
 ourl'd. 
 " No voice," 8he shriek'd in that lone 
 hall, 
 "No voice breaks thro' the stillness of 
 this world ; 
 One deep, deep silence all ! '' 
 
 She, mouldering with the dull earth's 
 mouldering sod, 
 Inwrapt tenfold in slothful shame, 
 Lay there exiled from eternal God, 
 Lost to her place and name ; 
 
 And death and life she hated equally. 
 
 And nothing saw, for her despair. 
 But dreadful time, dreadful eternity, 
 No comfort any where ; 
 
 Remaining utterly confused with fears, 
 
 And ever worse with growing time, 
 And ever unrelieved by dismal tears, 
 And all alone in crime. 
 
 Shut up as in a crumbling tomb, girt 
 round 
 With blackness as a solid wall , 
 Far off she seem'd to hear the dully 
 sound 
 Of human footsteps fall ; 
 
 As in strange lands a traveller walking 
 slow. 
 In doubt and great perplexity, 
 A little before moonrise hears the low 
 Moan of an unknown sea ; 
 
 And knows not if it be thunder, or a 
 sound 
 Of rocks thrown down, or one deep 
 cry 
 Of great wild beasts ; then thinketh, " I 
 have found 
 A new land, but I die." 
 
 She liowl'd aloud, " I am on fire within. 
 
 There comes no murmur of reply. 
 What is it that will take away my sin, 
 And save me lest I die ? " 
 
 So when four years where wholly 
 finished, 
 Siie threw her royal robes away. 
 " Make me a cottage in the vale," she 
 said, 
 " Where I may mourn and pi'ay. 
 
472 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 " Yet pull not down my palace towers, 
 that are 
 So liglitly, beautifully built ; 
 Perchanoe I may return with others 
 there 
 When I have purged my guilt." 
 
 1833. 
 
 THE LOTOS -EATERS 
 
 '•Courage!" lie said, and pointed to- 
 ward the land, 
 
 " This mounting wave will roll us shore- 
 ward soon." 
 
 In the afternoon they came unto a land 
 
 In which it seemed always afternoon. 
 
 All round the coast the languid air did 
 swoon , 
 
 Breatliing like one that hath a weary 
 dream. 
 
 Full-faoeil above the valley stood the 
 moon ; 
 
 And, like a downward smoke, the slender 
 stream 
 
 Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall 
 did seem. 
 
 A land of streams ! .some, like a down- 
 ward smoke. 
 Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, 
 
 did go ; 
 And some thro' wavering lights and 
 
 shadows broke. 
 Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below. 
 They saw the gleaming river seaward 
 
 flow 
 From the inner land ; far off, three 
 
 mountain-tops, 
 Three silent pinnacles of aged snow. 
 Stood sunset-flush'd ; and, dew'd witli 
 
 sliowery drops, 
 Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the 
 
 woven copse. 
 
 The charmed sunset linger'd low adown 
 In the red West ; thro' mountain clefts 
 
 the dale 
 Was seen far inland, and the j-ellow down 
 Border'd with palm, and many a winding 
 
 vale 
 And meadow, set with slender galin- 
 
 gale : 
 A land where all things always seem'd 
 
 the same ! 
 And round about the keel with faces 
 
 pale. 
 Dark faces pale against that rosy flame, 
 Tlie mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters 
 
 came. 
 
 Branches they bore of that enchanted 
 
 stem, 
 Laden with flower and fruit, whereof 
 
 they gave 
 To each, but whoso did receive of tiiem 
 And taste, to him the gushing of the 
 
 wave 
 Far far away did seem to mourn and 
 
 rave 
 On alien shores : and if his fellow spake, 
 His voice was thin, as voices from the 
 
 grave ; 
 And deep-asleep he .seem'd, yet all awake. 
 And nuisic in his ears his beating heart 
 
 did make. 
 
 They sat them down upon the yellow 
 sand. 
 
 Between the sun and moon ujmn the 
 shore ; 
 
 And sweet it was to dream of Father- 
 land, 
 
 Of child, and w^ife and slave ; but ever- 
 more 
 
 Most weary seem'd tlie sea, weary the 
 oar, 
 
 Weary the wandering fields of barren 
 foam. 
 
 Then some one said. " We will return no 
 more ; " 
 
 And all at once tliey sang, " Our island 
 home 
 
 Is far bej'ond the wave; we will no longer 
 roam." 
 
 CHORIC SONG 
 
 There is sweet music here that softer 
 
 falls 
 Tlian petals from blown roses on tlie 
 
 grass. 
 Or night-dews on still waters between 
 
 walls 
 Of shadow}^ granite, in a gleaming pass ; 
 Music that gentlier on the spirit lies. 
 Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes ; 
 Music that brings sweet sleep down from 
 
 the blissful skies. 
 Here are cool mosses deep. 
 And thro' the moss the ivies creep. 
 And in the stream the long-leaved 
 
 flowers weep. 
 And from the craggy ledge the poppy 
 
 hangs in sleep. 
 
 Why are we weigh'd upon with heavi- 
 ness, 
 
TENNYSON 
 
 473 
 
 And utterly consumed with sharp dis- 
 tress, 
 
 While all things else have rest from 
 weariness ? 
 
 All things have rest : why should we 
 toil alone, 
 
 We only toil, who are the first of things. 
 
 And make perpetual moan. 
 
 Still from one sorrow to another thrown: 
 
 Nor ever fold our wings. 
 
 And cease from wanderings. 
 
 Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy 
 balm ; 
 
 Nor liarken what the inner spirit sings, 
 
 '• Tliere is no joy but calm ! '" — 
 
 Why should we only toil, the roof and 
 crown of things ? 
 
 Lo ! in the middle of the wood. 
 
 The folded leaf is woo'd from out the 
 
 bud 
 With winds upon the branch, and there 
 Grows green and broad, and takes no 
 
 care, 
 Sun-steep'd at noon, and in tlie moon 
 Nightly dew-fed ; and turning yellow 
 Falls, and floats adown the air. 
 Lo ! sweeten'd with the summer liglit, 
 Tlie full-juiced apple, waxing over- 
 mellow, 
 Drops in a silent autumn night. 
 All its allotted lengtii of days 
 Tlie flower ripens in its place. 
 Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no 
 
 toil. 
 Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil. 
 
 Hateful is the dark-blue sky, 
 
 Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea. 
 
 Deatli is the end of life ; ah, why 
 
 Shovild life all labor be? 
 
 Let us alone. Time driveth onward 
 fast. 
 
 And in a little while our lips are dumb. 
 
 Let us alone. What is it that will 
 last? 
 
 All things are taken from us, and be- 
 come 
 
 Portions and parcels of the dreadful 
 past. 
 
 Let us alone. What pleasure can we 
 have 
 
 To war with evil ? Is there any peace 
 
 In ever climbing up the climbing wave? 
 
 All things have rest, and ripen toward 
 the grave 
 
 In silence — ripen, fall, and cease : 
 Give us long rest or death, dark death, 
 or dreamful ease. 
 
 How sweet it were, hearing the doAvn- 
 
 ward stream, 
 With half-shut eyes ever to seem 
 Falling asleep in a half-dream ! 
 To dream and dream, like yonder amber 
 
 light. 
 Which will not leave the nij-rrh-bush on 
 
 the height ; 
 To hear each other's whisper'd speecli ; 
 Eating the Lotos day by day. 
 To watch the crisping ripples on the 
 
 beach. 
 And tender curving lines of creamy 
 
 spray : 
 To lend our hearts and spirits wholly 
 To the influence of mild-minded melan- 
 choly ; 
 To muse and brood and live again in 
 
 memory. 
 With tliose old faces of our infancy 
 Heap'd over with a mound of grass. 
 Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an 
 
 urn of brass ! 
 
 Dear is the memory of our wedded lives. 
 And dear the last embraces of our wives 
 And their warm tears ; but all hath 
 
 sutfer'd change ; 
 For surely now our household hearths 
 
 are cold. 
 Our sons inherit us, our looks are 
 
 strange. 
 And we should come like ghosts to 
 
 trouble joy. 
 Or else the island princes over-bold 
 Have eat our substance, and the minstrel 
 
 sings 
 Before them of the ten years' war in 
 
 Troy. 
 And our great deeds, as half-forgotten 
 
 things. 
 Is there confusion in the little isle ? 
 Let what is broken so remain. 
 The Gods are hard to reconcile ; 
 'T is hard to settle order once again. 
 There is confusion worse than death, 
 Trouble on trouble, pain on pain, 
 Long labor unto aged breath. 
 Sore task to hearts worn out by many 
 
 wars 
 And eyes grown dim with gazing on the 
 
 pilot-stars. 
 
 . # 
 
474 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 But, propped on beds of amaranth and 
 
 moly, 
 How sweet — while warm airs lull us, 
 
 blowing lowly — 
 With half-drop|ied eyelid still. 
 Beneath a heaven dark and holy. 
 To watch tlie long bright river drawing 
 
 slowly 
 His waters from tlie purple Iiill — 
 To hear the dewy eclioes calling 
 From cave to cave thro' the tiiick-twined 
 
 A'ine — 
 To watch the cmerald-color'd water fall- 
 ing 
 Thro' many a woven acanthus-wreath 
 
 divine ! 
 Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling 
 
 brine. 
 Only to hear were sweet, stretch'd out 
 
 beneath the pine. 
 
 The Lotos blooms below the barren peak. 
 
 The Lotos blows by every winding- 
 creek ; 
 
 All day the wind breatlies low with mel- 
 lower tone ; 
 
 Thro' every hollow cave and alley lone 
 
 Round and round tlie s[)icy downs the 
 yellow Lotos-dust is blown. 
 
 We have had enougli of action, and of 
 motion we, 
 
 RoU'd to starboard, roll'd to larboard, 
 when the surge was seething fi-ee. 
 
 Where the wallowing monster .spouted 
 his foam-fountains in the sea. 
 
 Let us swear an oath, and keej} it witli 
 an equal mind, 
 
 In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie 
 reclined 
 
 On the hills like Gods together, careless 
 of mankind. 
 
 For they lie beside their nectar, and tiie 
 bolts are hurlM 
 
 Far below them in the valleys, and the 
 clouds are lightly curl'd 
 
 Round their golden houses, girdled with 
 the gleaming world ; 
 
 Where they smile in secret, looking over 
 wasted lands. 
 
 Blight and famine, plague and earth- 
 quake, roaring deeps and fieiy 
 sands. 
 
 Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and 
 sinking ships, and praying hands. 
 
 But they smile, they find a music cen- 
 tred in a doleful song 
 
 Steaming up, a lamentation and an an- 
 cient tale of wrong. 
 Like a tale of little meaning tho' the 
 
 words are strong ; 
 Chanted from an ill-used race of men 
 
 that cleave the sf)il. 
 Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with 
 
 enduring toil, 
 Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and 
 
 wine and oil ; 
 Till they perish and they suffer — some, 
 
 "t is whisper'd — down in hell 
 Suffer endless anguish, otliers in El^-sian 
 
 valleys dwell. 
 Resting weary limbs at last on beds of 
 
 asphodel. 
 Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet 
 
 than toil, the shore 
 Than labor in the dee^i mid-ocean, wind 
 
 and wave and oar ; 
 O, rest ye, brother mariners, we will not 
 
 wander more. 1883. 
 
 A DREAM OF FAIR WOMEN 
 
 I READ, before my eyelids dropped their 
 shade, 
 '■ The Legend of Good Women,'' long 
 ago 
 Sung by the morning star of song, who 
 made 
 His music heard below ; 
 
 Dan Chaucer, the first warbler, whose 
 sweet breath 
 Preluded those melodious bursts tliat 
 fill 
 The spacious times of great Elizabeth 
 With sounds that echo still. 
 
 And, for a while, the knowledge of his 
 art 
 Held me above the subject, as strong 
 gales 
 Hold swollen clouds from raining, tho' 
 my heart. 
 Brimful of those wild tales. 
 
 Charged both mine eyes with tears. In 
 every land 
 I saw, wherever light illumineth. 
 Beauty and anguish walking hand in 
 iiand 
 Tiie downward slope to death. 
 
 Those far-renowned brides of ancient 
 song 
 Peopled the hollow dark, like burning 
 
 stars. 
 
TENNYSON 
 
 475 
 
 And I heard sounds of insult, shame, 
 and wrong, 
 And trumpets blown for wars ; 
 
 And clattering flints batter'd with clang- 
 ing hoofs ; 
 And I saw crowds in column'd sanctu- 
 aries, 
 And forms that pass'd at windows and 
 on roofs 
 Of marble palaces ; 
 
 Corpses across the threshold, heroes tall 
 
 Dislodging pinnacle and parapet 
 Upon the tortoise creeping to the wall, 
 Lances in ambush set ; 
 
 And high shrine-doors burst tliro' with 
 heated blasts 
 Tliat run before the fluttering tongues 
 of fire ; 
 White surf wind-scatter'd over sails and 
 masts. 
 And ever climbing higher ; 
 
 Squadrons and squares of men in brazen 
 plates, 
 Scaffolds, still sheets of water, divers 
 woes. 
 Ranges of glimmering vaults with iron 
 grates. 
 And liush'd seraglios. 
 
 So sliape chased shape as swift as, when 
 to land 
 Bluster the winds and tides the self- 
 same vvay, 
 Crisp foam-flakes scud along the level 
 sand. 
 Torn from the fringe of si^ray. 
 
 I started once, or seem'd to start in pain. 
 Resolved on noble things, and strove 
 to speak. 
 As when a great thought strikes along 
 the brain 
 And flushes all the cheek. 
 
 And once my arm was lifted to hew down 
 
 A cavalier from off his saddle-bow, 
 That bore a lady from a leaguer'd town ; 
 And then, I know not how. 
 
 All those sharp fancies, bj' down-lapsing 
 tliought 
 StreamM onward, lost their edges, and 
 did creep 
 Roird on each other, rounded, smooth'd, 
 and brought 
 Into the gulfs of sleep. 
 
 At last methought that I had wander'd 
 far 
 In an old wood ; fresh- wash 'd in coolest 
 dew 
 The maiden splendors of the morning 
 star 
 Sliook in the steadfast blue. 
 
 Enormous elm-tree boles did stoop and 
 lean 
 Upon the dusky brushwot)d vmder- 
 neatli 
 Their broad curved branches, fledged 
 witli clearest green. 
 New from its silken sheath. 
 
 TJie dim red Morn had died, her journey 
 done, 
 And with dead lips .smiled at the 
 twilight plain. 
 Half-fallen across the threshold of the 
 sun. 
 Never to rise again. 
 
 There was no motion in the dumb dead 
 air. 
 Not any song of bird or sound of rill ; 
 Gross darkness of the inner sepulchre 
 Is not so deadly still 
 
 As that wide forest. Growths of jas- 
 mine turn'd 
 Their humid arms festooning tree to 
 tree. 
 And at the root thro' lush green grasses 
 burn'd 
 Tlie red anemone. 
 
 I knew the flowers, I knew the leaves, I 
 knew 
 The tearful glimmer of the languid 
 dawn 
 On those long. rank, dark wood-walks 
 drench'd in dew. 
 Leading from lawn to lawn. 
 
 Tlie smell of violets, hidden in the green, 
 Pour'd back into my empty soul and 
 frame 
 The times when I remember to have been 
 Joyful and free from blame. 
 
 And from within me a clear undertone 
 Thrill'd thro" mine ears in that un bliss- 
 ful clime, [own 
 " Pass freely thro' ; the wood is all thine 
 Until the end of time." 
 
 At length I saw a lady within call. 
 Stiller than cliisell'd marble, standing 
 there : 
 
476 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 A daughter of the gods, divinely tall, 
 And most divinely fair. 
 
 Her loveliness with shame and with 
 surprise 
 Froze my swift speech ; she turning 
 on my face 
 The star-like sorrows of immoi'tal eyes, 
 Spoke slowly in lier place : 
 
 " I had great beauty ; ask tliou not my 
 
 name : [tiny. 
 
 No one can be more wise than des- 
 
 Many drew swords and died. Where'er 
 
 I came 
 
 I brought calamity." 
 
 "No marvel, sovereign lady: in fair 
 field 
 Myself for such a face had boldly 
 died." 
 I answer'd free ; and turning I appeal'd 
 To one that stood beside. 
 
 But she, with sick and scornful looks 
 averse. 
 To her full height her stately stature 
 draws : 
 " My youth," she said, " was blasted 
 with a curse : 
 This woman was the cause. 
 
 *' I was cut off from liope in tliat sad 
 place 
 Which men call'd Aulis in those iron 
 years : 
 My fatlier held his hand upon his face ; 
 I, blinded wdth my tears, 
 
 "Still strove to speak: my voice was 
 thick with sighs 
 A.S in a dream. Dimly I could descry 
 The stern black-bearded kings with 
 wolfish eyes, 
 Waiting to see me die. 
 
 " The high masts flicker'd as they lay 
 afloat ; 
 The crowds, the temijles, waver 'd, and 
 the shore ; 
 The bright death quiver'd at the victim's 
 throat — 
 Touch'd — and I knew no more." 
 
 Whereto the other with a downward 
 brow : 
 "I would the white cold heavy- 
 plunging foam, 
 Whirled by the wind, had rollM me 
 deep below. 
 Then when I left my home." 
 
 Her slow full words sank thro' the si- 
 lence drear. 
 As thunder-drops fall on a sleeping 
 sea : 
 Sudden I heard a voice that cried 
 " Come here, 
 That I may look on thee." 
 
 I turning saw, tlironed on a flowery rise, 
 One sitting on a crimson scarf un- 
 roll'd ; 
 A queen, with swarthy cheeks and bold 
 black eyes, 
 Brow-bound with burning gold. 
 
 She, flashing forth a haughty smile, be- 
 gan : 
 " I govern'd men by change, and so I 
 sway'd 
 All moods. 'Tis long since I have seen 
 a man. 
 Once, like the moon, I made 
 
 •• The ever-shifting currents of the blood 
 According to my liumor ebb and flow. 
 I have no men to govern in this wood : 
 That makes my only woe. 
 
 "Nay — yet it chafes me that I could 
 not bend 
 One will ; nor tame and tutor with 
 mine eve 
 Tliat dull cold-blooded Cfesar. Pry thee, 
 friend. 
 Where is Mark Antony ? 
 
 " Tlie man, my lover, Avith whom I rode 
 sublime 
 On Fortune's neck ; we sat as God by 
 God: 
 Tlie Nilus would have risen before his 
 time 
 And flooded at our nod. 
 
 "We drank the Libyan Sun to sleep, and 
 lit 
 Lamps which out-burn'd Canopus. O. 
 my life 
 In Egypt ! O, the dalliance and the wit. 
 The flattery and the strife, 
 
 " And the wild kiss, when fresh from 
 war's alarms. 
 My Hercules, my Roman Antony, 
 My mailed Bacchus leaped into my arms, 
 Contented there to die ! 
 
 " And there he died : and when I heard 
 my name 
 Sigh'd forth witli life, I would not 
 brook my fear 
 
 I 
 
TENNYSON 
 
 477 
 
 Of the other ; with a worm I balk'd his 
 fame. 
 What else was left? look here ! " — 
 
 With that she tore her robe apart, and 
 half 
 The polish'd argent of her breast to 
 sight 
 Laid bare. Thereto she pointed with a 
 laugh, 
 Showing the aspic's bite. — 
 
 " I died a Queen. The Roman soldier 
 found 
 Me lying dead, mj' crown about my 
 brows, 
 A name for ever ! — lying robed and 
 crown'd 
 Worthy a Roman spouse." 
 
 Her warbling voice, a lyre of widest 
 range 
 Struck by all passion, did fall down 
 and glance 
 From tone to tone, and glided thro' all 
 ctiange 
 Of liveliest utterance. 
 
 When she made pause I knew not for 
 delight ; 
 Because with sudden motion from tlie 
 ground 
 She raised her piercing orbs, and fiU'd 
 witli light 
 Tlie interval of sound. 
 
 Still with their fires Love ti^^t his keenest 
 darts ; 
 As once they drew into two burning 
 rings 
 All beams of Love, melting the mighty 
 hearts 
 Of captains and of kings. 
 
 Slowly my sense undazzled. Then I heard 
 A noise of some one coming thro' the 
 lawn, 
 And singing clearer than the crested bird 
 That claps his wings at dawn : 
 
 " The torrent brooks of hallow'd Israel 
 From craggy hollows pouring, late and 
 soon, 
 Sound all night long, in falling thro' the 
 dell. 
 Far-heard beneath the moon. 
 
 " The balmy moon of blessed Israel 
 Floods all the deep-blue gloom with 
 beams divine ; 
 
 All night the splinter'd crags that wall 
 the dell 
 With spires of silver shine." 
 
 As one that museth where broad sun- 
 shine laves 
 The lawn by some cathedral, thro' the 
 door 
 
 Hearing the holy organ rolling waves 
 Of sound on roof and floor 
 
 Within, and anthem sung, is charm'd 
 
 and tied 
 To where he stands, — so stood I, when 
 
 tliat flow 
 Of music left the lips of her that died 
 
 To save her father's vow ; 
 
 The daughter of the warrior Gileadite, 
 
 A maiden pure ; as when she went along 
 From l\lizpali's tower'd gate with wel- 
 come light. 
 With timbrel and with song. 
 
 My words leaped forth : " Heaven heads 
 the count of crimes 
 With that wild oath." She render'd 
 answer higli : 
 "Not so, nor once alone; a thovisand 
 times 
 I wcfuld be born and die. 
 
 " Single I grew, like some green plant, 
 whose root 
 Creeps to the garden water-pipes be- 
 neath. 
 Feeding the flower ; but ere my flower to 
 fruit 
 Changed, I was ripe for death. 
 
 '•My God, my land, my father — these 
 did move 
 Me from my bliss of life that Nature 
 gave, 
 Lower'd softly with a threefold cord of 
 love 
 Down to a silent grave. 
 
 " And I went mourning, 'No fair 
 Hebrew boy 
 Shall smile away my maiden blame 
 among 
 The Hebrew mothers' — emptied of all 
 joy. 
 Leaving the dance and song, 
 
 " Leaving the olive-gardens far below, 
 Leaving the promise of my bridal 
 bower, [glow 
 
 The valleys of grape-loaded vines that 
 Beneath the battled tower. 
 
478 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 "The light wliite cloud swam over us. 
 Anon 
 We heard the lion roaring from his 
 den ; 
 We saw the large white stars rise one 
 bj- one, 
 Or, from the darken'd glen, 
 
 " Saw God divide the night with flying 
 flame, 
 And thunder on tlie everlasting hills. 
 I heard Him, for He spake, and grief be- 
 came 
 A solemn scorn of ills. 
 
 "When the next nioon was roll'd into 
 the sky, 
 Strength came to me that equall'd my 
 desire. 
 How^ beautiful a thing it was to die 
 For God and for my sire ! 
 
 " It comforts me in this one tliought to 
 dwell. 
 That I subdued me to my father's will ; 
 Because the kiss he gave me, ere I fell. 
 Sweetens the spirit still. 
 
 " Moreover it is written that my race 
 Hew'd Amnion, hip and thigh, from 
 Aroer 
 On Arnon unto Minneth." Here her face 
 Glow'd, as I look'd at her. 
 
 She lock'd her lips ; she left me where 
 I stood : 
 "Glory to God," she sang, and past 
 afar, 
 Thridding the sombre boskage of the 
 wood. 
 Toward the morning-star. 
 
 Losing her carol I stood pensively, 
 As one that from a casement leans his 
 head. 
 When midnight bells cease ringing sud- 
 denly. 
 And the old year is dead. 
 
 " Alas ! alas ! " a low voice, full of care, 
 Murmur'd beside me : " Turn and look 
 on me ; 
 I am that Rosamond, whom men call 
 fair, 
 If what I was I be. 
 
 " Would I had been some maiden coarse 
 and poor ! 
 O me, that I sliould ever see the light ! 
 Those dragon eyes of anger'd Eleanor 
 Do hunt me, day and night." 
 
 She ceased in tears, fallen from hope and 
 trust ; 
 To whom the Egyptian : " O, you 
 tameh- died ! 
 You should have clung to Fulvia's waist, 
 and thrust 
 Tlie dagger tlu'o' her side." 
 
 With that sharp sound the white dawn's 
 creeping beams, 
 Stolen to my brain, dissolved the mys- 
 tery 
 Of folded sleep. Tlie captain of my 
 dreams 
 Ruled in the eastern sky. 
 
 Morn broaden'd on the borders of the 
 dai'k 
 Ere I saw her who clasp'd in her last 
 trance 
 Her murder'd father's head, or Joan of 
 Arc, 
 A light of ancient France ; 
 
 Or her who knew that Love can vanquish 
 Death, 
 Who kneeling, with one arm about her 
 king. 
 Drew forth the poison with her balmy 
 breath. 
 Sweet as new buds in spring. 
 
 No memory labors longer from the deep 
 Gold-mines of thought to lift the 
 hidden ore 
 That glimpses, moving up, than I from 
 sleep 
 To gather and tell o'er 
 
 Each little sound and sight. With what 
 dull pain 
 Compass'd, how eagerly I sought to 
 strike 
 Into that wondrous track of dreams 
 again ! 
 But no two dreams are like. 
 
 As when a soul laments, which hath 
 been blest. 
 Desiring wliat is mingled with j^ast 
 years. 
 In yearnings that can never be expressed 
 By signs or groans or tears ; 
 
 Because all words, tho' cuU'd with 
 choicest art. 
 Failing to give tiie bitter of the sweet, 
 Wither beneath the palate, and the heart 
 Faints, faded by its heat. 1833. 
 
TENNYSON 
 
 479 
 
 SAINT AGNES' EVE 
 
 Deep on the convent-roof the snows 
 
 Are sparkUng to the moon ; 
 My breath to heaven like vapor goes ; 
 
 May my soul follow soon I 
 The shadows of the convent-towers 
 
 Slant down the snowy sward, 
 Still creeping witli the creeping hours 
 
 That lead me to my Lord. 
 Make Thou my spirit pure and clear 
 
 As are the frosty skies, 
 Or this first siaowdrop of the year 
 
 That in my bosom lies. 
 
 As these white robes are soil'd and dark, 
 
 To yonder shining ground ; 
 As this pale taper's earthly spark, 
 
 To yonder argent round ; 
 So shows my soul before the Lamb, 
 
 My spirit before Thee ; 
 So in mine earthly house I am. 
 
 To tliat I hope to be. 
 Break up the heavens. O Lord ! and far, 
 
 Thro' all yon starlight keen. 
 Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star. 
 
 In raiment white and clean. 
 
 He lifts me to the golden doors ; 
 
 The flashes come and go ; 
 All heaven bursts her starry floors. 
 And strovvs her lights below. 
 And deepens on and up ! the gates 
 
 Roll back, and far within 
 For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits. 
 
 To make me pure of sin. 
 The Sabbaths of Eternity, 
 
 One Sabbath deep and wide — 
 A light upon the shining sea — 
 
 Tlie Bridegroom with his bride ! 
 
 1837. 
 
 YOU ASK ME, WHY, THO' ILL AT 
 EASE 
 
 You ask me, why, tho' ill at ease. 
 
 Within tliis region I subsist. 
 
 Wliose spirits falter in the mist. 
 And languish for the purple seas. 
 
 It is the land that freemen till, 
 That sober-suited Freedom chose. 
 The land, where girt with friends or 
 foes 
 
 A man may speak the thing he will ; 
 
 A land of settled government, 
 A land of just and old renown. 
 Where Freedom slowly broadens down 
 
 From precedent to precedent ; 
 
 Wliere faction seldom gathers head. 
 But, by degrees to fullness wrought, 
 The strength of some dift'usive thought 
 
 Hath time and space to work and sjjread. 
 
 Should banded unions persecute 
 Opinions, and induce a time 
 When single thought is civil crime, 
 
 And individual freedom mute. 
 
 Tho' power should make from land to 
 land 
 The name of Britain trebly great — 
 Tho' every channel of the State 
 
 Should flU and choke with golden sand — 
 
 Yet waft me from the harbor-mouth. 
 Wild wind ! I seek a warmer sky. 
 And I will see before I die 
 
 The palms and temples of the South. 
 183S. 1842. 
 
 OF OLD SAT FREEDOM ON THE 
 HEIGHTS 
 
 Of old sat Freedom on the heights, 
 The thunders breaking at her feet ; 
 
 Above her shook the starry lights ; 
 She heard the torrents meet. 
 
 There in her place she did rejoice, 
 Self-gatlier"d in her prophet-mind. 
 
 But fragments of her mighty voice 
 Came rolling on the wind. 
 
 Then stepped she down thro' town and 
 field 
 
 To mingle with the human race, 
 And part b}' part to men reveal'd 
 
 The fulness of her face — 
 
 Grave mother of majestic works. 
 From her isle-altar gazing down. 
 
 Who, Godlike, grasps the triple forks. 
 And, king-like, wears the crown. 
 
 Her oi^en eyes desire the truth. 
 
 The wisdom of a thousand j-ears 
 Is in them. May perpetual youth 
 
 Keep dry their light from tears ; 
 
 That her fair form may stand and 
 shine. 
 Make bright our days and light our 
 dreams, 
 Turning to scorn with lips divine 
 The falsehood of extremes ! 
 
 1833. 1843. 
 
4^0 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 LOVE THOU THY LAND 
 
 Love thou thy land, with love far- 
 brought 
 From out the storied past, and used 
 Within the present, but transfused 
 
 Thro' future time b}^ power of thought ; 
 
 True love turn'd round on fixed poles. 
 Love, tliat endures not sordid ends, 
 For English natures, freemen, friends, 
 
 Thy brothers, and immortal souls. 
 
 But pamper not a hasty time, 
 Nor feed with crude imaginings 
 The herd, wild hearts and feeble 
 wings 
 
 That every sophister can lime. 
 
 Deliver not the tasks of might 
 To weakness, neither hide tiie ray 
 From those, not blind, who wait for 
 day, 
 
 Tho' sitting girt with doubtful light. 
 
 Make knowledge circle with the winds ; 
 
 But let her herald. Reverence, fly 
 
 Before her to whatever sky 
 Bear seed of men and growth of minds. 
 
 Watch what main-currents draw the 
 years : 
 
 Cut Prejudice against the grain. 
 
 But gentle words aie always gain ; 
 Eegard the weakness of thy peers. 
 
 Nor toil for title, place, or touch 
 
 Of pension, neither count on praise — 
 It grows to guerdon after-days. 
 
 Nor deal in watch-words overmuch ; 
 
 Not clinging to some ancient saw, 
 Not master'd by some modern term. 
 Not swift nor slow to change, but 
 firm ; 
 
 And in its season bring the law, 
 
 That from Discussion's lip maj' fall 
 With Life tliat, working strongly, 
 
 binds — 
 Set in all lights by many minds. 
 
 To close the interests of all. 
 
 For Nature also, cold and warm. 
 And moist and dry. devising long, 
 Thro' many agents making strong, 
 
 Matures the individual form. 
 
 Meet is it changes should control 
 Our being, lest we rust in ease. 
 
 We all ai"e changed by still degrees, 
 All but the basis of the soul. 
 
 So let the change which comes be free 
 To ingroove itself with that which 
 
 flies, 
 And work, a joint of state, that plies 
 
 Its office, moved with sympathy. 
 
 A saying hard to shape in act ; 
 For all the past of Time reveals 
 A bridal dawn of thunder-peals. 
 
 Wherever Thought hath wedded Fact. 
 
 Even now we hear with inward strife 
 A motion toiling in the gloom — 
 Tiie Spirit of the years to come 
 
 Yearning to mix himself with Life. 
 
 A slow-develop'd strength awaits 
 Completion in a painful school ; 
 Phantoms of other forms of rule. 
 
 New Majesties of mighty States — 
 
 The warders of the growing hour. 
 
 But vague in vapor, hard to mark ; 
 
 And round them sea and air are dark 
 With great contrivances of Power. 
 
 Of many changes, aptly join'd. 
 Is bodied forth the second whole. 
 Regard gradation, lest the soul 
 
 Of Discord race the rising wind ; 
 
 A wind to puff your idol-fires. 
 
 And heap their ashes on the head ; 
 To shame the boast so often made. 
 
 That we are wiser than our sires. 
 
 O, yet, if Nature's evil star 
 
 Drive men in manhood, as in youth, 
 To follow flying steps of Trutli 
 
 Across the brazen bi'idge of war — 
 
 If New and Old, disastrous feud. 
 Must ever shock, like armed foes. 
 And this be true, till Time shall close. 
 
 That Principles are rain'd in blood ; 
 
 Not yet the wise of heart would cease 
 To hold his hope thro' .shame and guilt. 
 But with his hand against the liilt. 
 
 Would pace the troubled land, like 
 Peace ; 
 
 Not less, tho' dogs of Faction bay, 
 Would serve his kind in deed and 
 
 woi'd. 
 Certain, if knowledge bring the sword. 
 
 That knowledge takes the sword awaj' — 
 
TENNYSON 
 
 481 
 
 Would love the gleams of good that 
 broke 
 
 From either side, nor veil his e^'es ; 
 
 And if some dreadful need should rise 
 Would strike, and tirmlj^ and one stroke. 
 
 To-morrow yet would reap to-day. 
 As we bear blossom of the dead ; 
 Earn well the thrifty months, nor wed 
 
 Raw Haste, half-sister to Delay. 
 
 1S33. 1843. 
 
 MORTE D' ARTHUR 
 
 So all day long the noise of battle rollM 
 Among the mountains by tlie winter sea, 
 Until King Arthur's table, man by man, 
 Had fallen in Lyonnesse about tUeir lord. 
 King Arthur ; then, because his wound 
 
 was deep. 
 The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him, 
 Sir Bedivere, tlie last of all his knights. 
 And bore him to a chapel nigh the field, 
 A broken chancel with a broken cross, 
 Tliat stood on a dark strait of bari'en land. 
 On one side lay the ocean, and on one 
 Lay a great water, and the moon was 
 
 full. * 
 Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedi- 
 vere : 
 " The sequel of to-day unsolders all 
 The goodliest fellowship of famous 
 
 kniglits 
 Whereof this world holds record. Such 
 
 a sleep 
 Tliey sleep — the men I loved. I think 
 
 tliat we 
 Sliall never more, at any future time. 
 Delight our souls with talk of knightly 
 
 deeds, 
 Walking about the gardens and the halls 
 Of Camelot, as in the days that were. 
 I perish by this people which I made,— 
 Tlio' Merlin sware that I should come 
 
 again 
 To rule once more — but let what will be 
 
 be, 
 I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm 
 That without help I cannot last till 
 
 morn. 
 Thou tlierefore take my brand Excali- 
 
 bur. 
 Which was my pride ; for thou remem- 
 
 berest how 
 In those old days, one summer noon, an 
 
 arm 
 Rose up from out the bosom of the lake. 
 Clothed in white samite, mystic, won- 
 derful, 
 
 31 
 
 Holding the sword — and how I row'd 
 
 across 
 And took it, and have worn it, like a 
 
 king; 
 And. wheresoever I am sung or told 
 In aftertime, this also shall be known. 
 But now delay not ; take Excalibur, 
 And fling him far into the middle mere; 
 Watch what thou seest, and lightly 
 
 bring me word." 
 To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere : 
 " It is not meet. Sir King, to leave thee 
 
 thus, 
 Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the 
 
 helm. 
 A little thing may harm a wounded 
 
 man. 
 Yet I thy best will all perform at full. 
 Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee 
 
 word." 
 So saying, from the ruin'd shrine he 
 
 stept 
 And in the moon athwart the place of 
 
 tombs. 
 Where lay the mighty bones of ancient 
 
 men. 
 Old knights, and over them the sea-wind 
 
 sang 
 Sin-ill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, 
 
 stepping down 
 By zigzag paths and juts of pointed rock. 
 Came on the shining levels of tlie lake. 
 There drew he forth the brand Exca- 
 libur, 
 And o'er him, drawing it, the winter 
 
 moon, 
 Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, 
 
 ran forth 
 And sparkled keen with frost against 
 
 the hilt ; 
 For all the haft twinkled with diamond 
 
 sparks. 
 Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth 
 
 work 
 Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long 
 That both his eyes were dazzled, as he 
 
 stood. 
 This way and that dividing the swift 
 
 mind, 
 In act to throw ; but at the last it seem'd 
 Better to leave Excalibur conceal'd 
 There in the many-knotted water-flags. 
 That whistled stiff and dry about tJie 
 
 marge. 
 So strode he back slow to the wounded 
 
 king. 
 Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedi- 
 vere : [I gave ? 
 " Hast thou perform'd my mission which 
 
482 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 What is it thou hast seen, or what hast 
 
 heard ? " 
 And answer made the bold Sir Bedi- 
 
 vere : 
 " I lieard the ripple washing in the reeds, 
 And the wild water lapping on the 
 
 crag." 
 To whom replied King Arthur, faint 
 
 and pale : 
 " Thou hast betray'd thy nature and tliy 
 
 name, 
 Not rendering true answer, as beseem'd 
 Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight ; 
 For surer sign had foUow'd, either hand, 
 Or voice, or else a motion of the mere. 
 This is a shameful thing for men to lie. 
 Yet now, I charge tliee, quickly go 
 
 again 
 As thou art lief and dear, and do the 
 
 thing 
 I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring 
 
 me word." 
 Then went Sir Bedivere the second 
 
 time 
 Across the ridge, and paced beside tlie 
 
 mere, 
 Counting the dewy pebbles, fix'd in 
 
 thought : 
 But when he saw the wonder of the hilt, 
 How curiously and strangely chased, he 
 
 smote 
 
 His palms together, and he cried aloud : 
 
 " And if indeed I cast the brand away. 
 
 Surely a precious thing, one worthy note, 
 
 Should thus be lost forever from the 
 
 earth. 
 Which might have pleased the eyes of 
 
 many men. 
 What good shovild follow this, if this 
 
 were done ? 
 What harm, undone? deep harm to dis- 
 obey, 
 Seeing obedience is the bond of rule. 
 Were it well to obey then, if a king de- 
 mand 
 An act unprofitable, against himself ? 
 The king is sick, and knows not what he 
 
 does. 
 What record, or what relic of my lord 
 Should be to af tertime, but empty breatli 
 And rumors of a doubt? but were this 
 
 kept. 
 Stored in some treasure-house of mighty 
 
 kings. 
 Some one might show it at a joust of 
 
 arms. 
 Saying, ' King Arthui-'s sword, Excali- 
 
 bur, [lake ; 
 
 Wrouglit by the lonely maiden of the 
 
 Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the 
 
 deeps 
 Upon the hidden bases of the liills.' 
 So might some old man speak in the 
 
 aftertime 
 To all the people, winning reverence ; 
 But now much honor and much fame 
 
 were lost." 
 So spake he, clouded with liis own con- 
 ceit, 
 And hid Excalil)ur the second time. 
 And so strode back slow to the wounded 
 
 king. 
 Then spoke King Arthur, breathing 
 
 heavily : 
 " What is it thou hast .seen, or what liast 
 
 heard ? " 
 And answer made the bold Sir Bedi- 
 vere : 
 " I heard the water lapping on tlie crag. 
 And the long ripple washing in the 
 
 reeds." 
 To whom replied King Arthur, much 
 
 in wrath : 
 " Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, 
 Un knightly, traitor-hearted ! Woe is me ! 
 Authority forgets a dying king. 
 Laid widow'd of tlie power in liis eye 
 That bow'd the will. I see thee what 
 
 thou art. 
 For thou, the latest-left of all my 
 
 knights, 
 In whom should meet the offices of all. 
 Thou wouldst betray me for the precious 
 
 liilt ; 
 Either from lust of gold, or like a girl 
 Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes. 
 Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice. 
 And the third time may piosper, get 
 
 thee hence ; 
 But, if thou spare to fling Excalibiu-, 
 I will arise and slay thee with my hands." 
 Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and 
 
 ran, 
 And, leaping down the ridges lightly, 
 
 plunged 
 Among the bulrush-beds, and clutch'd 
 
 the sword, 
 And strongly wiieeFd and tfirew it. The 
 
 great brand 
 Made lightnings in the splendor of the 
 
 moon, 
 And flashing round and round, and 
 
 whirl'd in an arch. 
 Shot like a streamer of the northern 
 
 morn. 
 Seen where the moving isles of winter 
 
 shock 
 By niglit, with noises of the northern sea. 
 
TENNYSON 
 
 483 
 
 So flash'd iiud fell the brand Excalibiii- ; 
 But ere he dipped the surface, rose an arm 
 Cloth'd in white samite, mystic, wonder- 
 ful. 
 And caught him by the hilt, and brand- 
 
 ish'd him 
 Three times, and drew liim vxnder in the 
 
 mere. 
 And lightly went the other to the king. 
 Then spoke King Arthur, drawing 
 
 thicker breath : 
 " Now see I by thine eyes that this is 
 
 done. 
 Speak out ; what is it thou hast heard, 
 
 or seen ? " 
 And answer made the bold Sir Bedi- 
 
 vere : 
 "Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest 
 
 the gems 
 Should blind my purpose, for I never 
 
 saw, 
 Nor shall see, here or elsewliere, till I 
 
 die. 
 Not tho' I live three lives of mortal men. 
 So great a miracle as j^ouder iiilt. 
 Then with both hands I llnng liim, 
 
 wheeling him ; 
 But when I look'd again, beliold an arm. 
 Clotlied in white samite, mystic, won- 
 derful. 
 That caught him by the hilt, and bran- 
 
 dish'd him 
 Tiiree times, and drew him under in 
 
 the mere." 
 And answer made King Arthur, 
 
 breathing liard : 
 " My end draws nigh ; 't is time that I 
 
 M'ere gone. 
 Make broad thy shoulders to receive my 
 
 weight, 
 And bear me to the margin : yet I fear 
 My wound hath taken cold, and I siiall 
 
 die." 
 So saying, from the pavement he half 
 
 rose. 
 Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm. 
 And looking wistfully with wide blue 
 
 eyes • 
 As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere 
 Remorsefully regarded thro' his tears. 
 And would liave spoken, but he found 
 
 not words. 
 Then took with care, and kneeling on 
 
 one knee. 
 O'er both his shoulders drew the languid 
 
 hands. 
 And rising bore him thro' the place of 
 
 tombs. [hard, 
 
 But, as he walk'd, King Arthur panted 
 
 Like one that feels a nightmare on his 
 
 bed 
 When all the house is mute. So sigh'd 
 
 the king. 
 Muttering and murmuring at his ear, 
 
 " Quick, quick I 
 I fear it is too late, and I shall die." 
 But the other swiftly strode from ridge 
 
 to ridge. 
 Clothed with his breath, and looking, as 
 
 he walk'd. 
 Larger than human on the frozen hills. 
 He heard the deep behind him, and a 
 
 cry 
 Before. His own thought drove liim 
 
 like a goad. 
 Dry clash'd his harness in the icy caves 
 And barren chasms, and all to left and 
 
 right 
 The bare black cliff clang'd round him, 
 
 as he based 
 His feet on juts of slippery crag that 
 
 rang 
 Sliarp-smitten with tlie dint of armed 
 
 heels — 
 And on a sudden, lo ! tlie level lake. 
 And tlie long glories of the winter moon. 
 Then saw they how there hove a dusky 
 
 barge. 
 Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to 
 
 stern, 
 Beneath thena ; and descending thej- 
 
 were ware 
 That all the decks were dense with stately 
 
 forms 
 Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream 
 
 —by these 
 Three queens with crowns of gold — and 
 
 from them rose 
 A cry that shiver'd to the tingling stars. 
 And, as it were one voic-e, an agony 
 Of lamentation, like a wind that shrills 
 All night in a waste land, where no one 
 
 comes, 
 Or hath come, since the making of the 
 
 world. 
 Then mvirmur'd Arthur, " Place me 
 
 in the barge," 
 And to the barge they came. There 
 
 those three queens 
 Put forth their hands, and took the king, 
 
 and wept. 
 But she that rose the tallest of tliem 
 
 all 
 And fairest, laid his head upon her lap. 
 And loosed tlie shatter'd casque, and 
 
 chafed his hands. 
 And call'd him by his name, complaining 
 
 loud, 
 
484 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 And dropping bitter tears against his 
 
 brow 
 Striped with dark blood ; for all his face 
 
 was white 
 And colorless, and like the wither'd moon 
 Smote by the fresh beam of the springing 
 
 east ; 
 And all his greaves and cuisses dash'd 
 
 with drops 
 Of onset ; and the light and lustrous 
 
 curls — 
 That made his forehead like a rising sun 
 High from the dais-throne — were pai'ch'd 
 
 with dust ; 
 Or, clotted into points and hanging loose, 
 Mix'd with the knightly growth that 
 
 fringed his lips. 
 So like a shatter'd column lay the king ; 
 Not like that Arthur who, with lance in 
 
 rest. 
 From spur to plume a star of tournament, 
 Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and 
 
 charged 
 Before the eyes of ladies and of kings. 
 
 Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere : 
 " Ah ! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I 
 
 go? 
 Where shall I hide mj^ forehead and my 
 
 eyes ? 
 For now I see the true old times are 
 
 dead. 
 When every morning brovight a noble 
 
 chance. 
 And ever}' chance brought out a noble 
 
 knight. 
 ■ Such times have been not since the light 
 
 that led 
 The holy Elders with the gift of mjurh. 
 But now the whole round table is dis- 
 solved 
 Which was an image of the mighty 
 
 world ; 
 And I, the last, go forth companionless. 
 And the days darken round me, and the 
 
 years, 
 Among new men, strange faces, other 
 
 minds." 
 And slowly answer'd Arthur from the 
 
 barge : 
 " The old order changeth, yielding place 
 
 to new. 
 And God fulfils himself in many ways. 
 Lest one good custom should corrupt the 
 
 world. 
 Comfort thyself : what comfort is in 
 
 me ? 
 I have lived my life, and that which I 
 
 have done . [thou. 
 
 May He within himself make pure ! but 
 
 If thoushouldst never see my face again. 
 Pray for my soul. More things are 
 
 wrought by prayer 
 Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, 
 
 let thy voice 
 Rise like a fountain for me night and 
 
 day. 
 For what are men better than sheep or 
 
 goats 
 That nourish a blind life within the 
 
 brain. 
 If, knowing God, they lift not hands of 
 
 prayer 
 Both for themselves and those who call 
 
 them friend ? 
 For so the whole round earth is every 
 
 way 
 Bound by gold chains about the feet of 
 
 God. 
 But now farewell. I am going a long way 
 AVith these thou seest — if indeed I go — 
 For all my mind is clouded with a 
 
 doubt — 
 To the island-valley of Avilion ; 
 Where falls not luiil, or rain, or any snow. 
 Nor ever wind blows loudly, but it lies 
 Deep-meadow'd. happy, fair with 
 
 orchard lawns 
 And bowery hollows crown'd with 
 
 summer sea. 
 Where I will heal me of my grievous 
 
 wound."' 
 So said he, and the barge with oar and 
 
 sail 
 Moved from tlie brink, like some full- 
 breasted swan 
 That, fluting a wild carol ere her death. 
 Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes 
 
 the flood 
 With swartiiy webs. Long stood Sir 
 
 Bedivere 
 Revolving many memories, till the hull 
 Look'd one black dot against the A-erge 
 
 of dawn. 
 And on the mere the wailing died away. 
 1S35. 1843. 1869.1 
 
 DORA 2 
 
 With farmer Allan at the farm abode 
 William and Dora. William was his son, 
 And she his niece. He often look'd at 
 
 them 
 And often thought, "I'll make them 
 
 man and wife." 
 
 'In 1809 t\\e Morie (V Arthur Vfa.% incorporated 
 in tlie Passing of Arttiur, tlie last of tlie Idylls i>f 
 the King. 
 
 2 See the Life of Tenuyson. I, liir.-G, ami 365. 
 
TENNYSON 
 
 485 
 
 Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all. 
 And yearn'd toward William ; but the 
 
 youth, because 
 He had always been with her in the 
 
 house. 
 Thought not of Dora. 
 
 Then there came a day 
 When Allan call'd his son, and said : 
 
 " My son, 
 I maiTied late, but I would wish to see 
 My grandchild on my knees before I die ; 
 And I have set my heart upon a match. 
 Now therefore look to Dora ; she is well 
 To look to ; tiirifty too bej^ond her age. 
 She is my brother's daughter ; he and I 
 Had once hard words, and parted, and 
 
 he died 
 In foreign lands ; but for his sake I bred 
 His daughter Dora. Take her for your 
 
 wife ; 
 For I have wish'd this marriage night 
 
 and day, 
 For many years." But William an- 
 swered short : 
 " I cannot marr}' Dora ; by my life. 
 I will not marry Dora ! " Tlien the old 
 
 man 
 Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, 
 
 and said : 
 " You will not, boy ! you dare to answer 
 
 thus ! 
 But in my time a father's word was law. 
 And so it shall be now for me. Look to 
 
 it;. 
 Consider, William, take a month to 
 
 think. 
 And let me have an answer to my wish. 
 Or, by the Lord tliat made me, you shall 
 
 pack. 
 And never more darken my doors again." 
 But William answer'd madh% bit his lips. 
 And broke awa}% The more he look'd at 
 
 her 
 Tiie less he liked her ; and his ways 
 
 were harsh ; 
 But Dora bore them meekly. Then be- 
 fore 
 The month was out he left his father's 
 
 house. 
 And hired himself to work within the 
 
 fields ; 
 And half in love, half spite, he woo'd 
 
 and wed 
 A laborer's daughter, Mary Morrison. 
 Then, wlien the bells were ringing, 
 
 Allan caird 
 His niece and said : " M}^ girl, I love you 
 
 well ; [son , 
 
 But if you speak with him that was my 
 
 Or change a word with her he calls his 
 
 wife, 
 My home is none of yours. My will is 
 
 law." 
 And Dora promised, being meek. She 
 
 thought, 
 " It cannot be ; my uncle's mind will 
 
 change ! " 
 And days went on, and there was born 
 
 a boy 
 To William ; then distresses came on 
 
 him, 
 And day by day he passed his father's 
 
 gate. 
 Heart-broken, and his father helped 
 
 him not. 
 But Dora stored what little she could 
 
 save. 
 And sent it them by stealth, nor did 
 
 they know 
 Who sent it ; till at last a fever seized 
 On William, and in harvest time he 
 
 died. 
 Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat 
 And look'd with tears upon her boy, and 
 
 thought 
 Hard things of Dora. Dora came and 
 
 said : 
 " I have obey'd my uncle until now, 
 And I have sinn'd, for it was all thro' 
 
 me 
 This evil came on William at the first. 
 But, Mary, for the sake of him that's 
 
 gone. 
 And for your sake, the woman that he 
 
 chose, 
 And for this orphan, I am come to you. 
 Y'ou know there has not been for these 
 
 five years 
 So full a harvest. Let me take the boy, 
 And I will set him in my uncle's eye 
 Among the wheat ; that when his heart 
 
 is glad 
 Of the full harvest, he may see the boy, 
 And bless him for the sake of him 
 
 that's gone." 
 And Dora took the child, and went 
 
 her way 
 Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound 
 That was unsown, where many poppies 
 
 grew. 
 Far off the farmer came into the field 
 And spied her not, for none of all his 
 
 men 
 Dare tell him Dora waited with the 
 
 child ; 
 And Dora would have risen and gone to 
 
 him, [reap'd, 
 
 But her heart fail'd her ; and the reapers 
 
486 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 And the sun fell, and all the land was 
 
 dark. 
 But when the morrow came, she rose 
 
 and took 
 The child once more, and sat upon the 
 
 mound ; 
 And made a little wreath of all the 
 
 flowers 
 That grew about, and tied it round his 
 
 hat 
 To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye. 
 Then when the farmer pass'd into the 
 
 field 
 He spied her, and he left his men at 
 
 work. 
 And came and said : "Where were you 
 
 yesterday ? 
 Whose child is that ? AVhat are you 
 
 doing liere ? "' 
 So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground. 
 And answer'd softly, " This is William's 
 
 child ! " 
 " And did I not," said Allan, " did I not 
 Forbid you, Dora ? " Dora said again : 
 " Do with me as you will, but take the 
 
 child, 
 And bless him for the sake of him 
 
 tliat 's gone ! " 
 And Allan said : " I see it is a trick 
 Got up betwixt you and the woman 
 
 there. 
 I must be taught my dut}% and by you ! 
 You knew my word was law, and yet 
 
 you dared 
 To slight it. Well— for I will take the 
 
 boy; 
 But go you hence, and never see me 
 
 more." 
 So saying, he took the boy that cried 
 
 aloud 
 Ajid struggled hard. The wreath of 
 
 flowers fell 
 At Dora's feet. She bow'd upon her 
 
 hands, 
 And the bo3''s ciy catne to her from the 
 
 field 
 JMore and more distant. She bow'd down 
 
 her head, 
 Remembering the day when first she 
 
 came. 
 And all the things that had been. She 
 
 bow'd down 
 And wept in secret : and the reapers 
 
 reap'd. 
 And the sun fell, and all the land was 
 
 dark. 
 Then Dora went to Mary's house, and 
 
 stood 
 Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy 
 
 Was not with Dora. She broke out in 
 
 praise 
 To God, that help'd lier in her widow- 
 hood. 
 And Dora said : ' ' M}^ uncle took the 
 
 boy ; 
 But, Mary, let me live and work with 
 
 you : 
 He says that he will never see me more." 
 Then answer'd Mary : '* Tliis shall never 
 
 be, 
 That thou shouldst take mv trouble on 
 
 thy.self : 
 And, now I think, he siiall not have the 
 
 boy. 
 For he will teach him hardness, and to 
 
 slight 
 His motlier. Therefore thou and I will 
 
 go. 
 And I will have mj^ boy, and bring him 
 
 home ; 
 And I will beg of him to take thee back. 
 But if lie will not take thee back again. 
 Then thou and I will live within one 
 
 house, 
 And work for William's child, until he 
 
 grows 
 Of age to help us." 
 
 So the women kiss'd 
 Each other, and set out, and reach'd the 
 
 farm. 
 The door was off the latch ; they peep'd, 
 
 and saw 
 The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's 
 
 knees, 
 Who thrust him in the hollows of his 
 
 arm, 
 And clapped him on the hands and on the 
 
 cheeks. 
 Like one that loved him ; and the lad 
 
 stretch'd out 
 And babbled for the golden seal, that 
 
 hung 
 From Allan's watch and sparkled by the 
 
 fire. 
 Then thev came in ; but when the bov 
 
 iierield 
 His mother, he cried out to come to her ; 
 And Allan set him down, and Mar}^ 
 
 said : 
 '•O father! — if you let me call you 
 
 so — 
 I never came a-begging for myself. 
 Or William, or this child ; but now I 
 
 come 
 For Dora ; take her back, she loves you 
 
 well. 
 O Sir. when William died, he died at 
 
 peace 
 
 I 
 
TENNYSON 
 
 487 
 
 With all men ; for I ask'd him, and he 
 
 said, 
 He could not ever rue his marrj'ing me — 
 1 had been a patient wife ; but, Sir, he 
 
 said 
 Tiiat he was wrong to cross liis father 
 
 thus. 
 ' God bless him ! ' he said, ' and may lie 
 
 never know 
 The troubles I have gone thro' ! ' Then 
 
 lie turn'd 
 His face and pass'd — unhappy that I 
 
 am ! 
 But now. Sir, let me have my boy, for 
 
 you 
 Will make liim iiard, and he will learn 
 
 to slight 
 His father's memory ; and take Dora 
 
 back. 
 And let all this be as it was before." 
 
 So Mary said, and Dora hid lier face 
 By Mary. There was silence in tlie 
 
 room ; 
 And all at once the old man burst in 
 
 sol)s : 
 " I liave been to blame — to blame. I 
 
 have kiir<l my son. 
 I have kill'd him — but I loved him — my 
 
 dear son. 
 May God forgive me ! — I have been to 
 
 blame. 
 Kiss me, my children." 
 
 Then they clung about 
 The old man's neck, and kiss'd him many 
 
 times. 
 And all the man was broken with re- 
 morse ; 
 And all his love came back a hundred- 
 fold ; 
 And for three hours he sobb'd o'er 
 
 AVilliam's cliild 
 Thinking of William. 
 
 So those four abode 
 Within one house together, and as years 
 Went forward Mary took another mate ; 
 But Dora lived unmarried till her death, 
 
 1843. 
 
 ULYSSES 1 
 
 It little ])rofits that an idle king. 
 
 By this still hearth, among these barren 
 
 crags. 
 Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and 
 
 dole 
 Unequal laws unto a savage race. 
 That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and 
 
 know not me. 
 
 ' See the Life of Tennyson, I, 196. 
 
 I cannot rest from travel ; I will drink 
 Life to the lees. All times I have en- 
 joy "d 
 Greatly, liave sufifer'd greatly, both witii 
 
 those 
 That loved me, and alone ; on shore, and 
 
 when 
 Thro' .scudding drifts the rainy Hyades 
 Vext the dim sea. I am become a name ; 
 For alwajs roaming with a hungry heart 
 Much have I seen and known, — cities of 
 
 men 
 And manners, climates, councils, 
 
 governments. 
 Myself not least, but honor'd of them 
 
 all,— 
 And drunk delight of battle with my 
 
 peers. 
 Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. 
 I am a part of all that I have met ; 
 Yet all experience is an arch wherethro' 
 Gleams that untravell'd world whose 
 
 margin fades 
 For ever and for ever when I move. 
 How dull it is to pause, to make an end. 
 To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use ! 
 As tlio' to breathe were life ! Life jiiled 
 
 on life 
 Were all too little, and of one to me 
 Little remains ; but every hour is saved 
 From that eternal silence, something 
 
 more, 
 A bringer of new things : and vile it were 
 For some three suns to store and hoard 
 
 myself. 
 And this gray spirit yearning in desire 
 To follow knowledge like a sinking star, 
 Beyond the utmost bound of human 
 
 thought. 
 This is my son, mine own Telemachus, 
 To whom I leave the sceptre and the 
 
 isle, — 
 Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil 
 This labor, by slow prudence to make 
 
 mild 
 A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees 
 Subdue them to the useful and the good. 
 Most blameless is he, centred in the 
 
 sphere 
 Of common duties decent, not to fail 
 In offices of tenderness, and pay 
 Meet adoration to my household gods, 
 When I am gone. He works his work, I 
 
 mine. 
 
 There lies the port ; the vessel puffs her 
 sail ; 
 There gloom the dark, broad seas. My 
 mariners. 
 
BRITISH POETS 
 
 Souls that have toil'd and wrought, and 
 
 thouglit with me, — 
 That ever witli a frolic welcome took 
 The thunder and the sunshine, and op- 
 posed 
 Free hearts, free foreheads, — you and I 
 
 are old ; 
 Old age hath yet his honor and his toil. 
 Death closes all ; but something ere the 
 
 end, 
 Some work of noble note, may yet be 
 
 done, 
 Not unbecoming men that strove with 
 
 Gods. 
 The lights begin to twinkle from the 
 
 rocks ; 
 The long day wanes ; the slow moon 
 
 climbs ; the deep 
 Moans round with many voices. Come, 
 
 my friends 
 'T is not too late to seek a newer world. 
 Push otf , and sitting well in order smite 
 The sounding furrows ; for my purpose 
 
 holds 
 To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths 
 Of all the western stars, until I die. 
 It may be that the gulfs will wash us 
 
 down ; 
 It may be w^e shall touch the Happy 
 
 Isles, [knew. 
 
 And see the great Achilles whom we 
 Tho' much is taken, much abides ; and 
 
 tlio' [old days 
 
 AVe are not now that strength wliich in 
 Moved earth and heaven, that which we 
 
 are. we are, — 
 One equal temper of heroic hearts, 
 Made weak by time and fate, but strong 
 
 in will 
 To strive, to seek, to find, and not to 
 
 yield. 1843. 
 
 LOCKSLEY HALL i 
 
 Comrades, leave me here a little, while 
 
 as yet 't is early morn : 
 Leave me here, and when you want me, 
 
 sound upon the bugle-horn. 
 
 'T is the place, and all around it, as of 
 old, the curlews call, 
 
 Dreary gleams about the moorland fly- 
 ing over Locksley Hall ; 
 
 Locksley Hall, that in the distance 
 overlooks the sandy tracts, 
 
 And the lioUow ocean-ridges roaring 
 into cataracts. 
 
 * See the Life of Tennyson, I, 176 and 195. 
 
 Many a night from yonder ivied case- 
 ment, ere I went to rest. 
 
 Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly 
 to the west. 
 
 Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising 
 
 thro' the mellow shade. 
 Glitter like a swarm of fireflies tangled 
 
 in a silver braid. 
 
 Here about the beach I wander'd, nour- 
 ishing a youth sublime 
 
 With the fairy tales of science, and the 
 long result of time ; 
 
 When the centuries behind me like a 
 
 fruitful land reposed ; 
 When I clung to all the present for the 
 
 promise that it closed ; 
 
 When I dipped into the future far as hu- 
 man eye covild see. 
 
 Saw the vision of the world and all the 
 wonder that would be. — 
 
 In the spring a fuller crimson conies 
 
 upon the robin's breast ; 
 In the spring the wanton lapwing gets 
 
 himself another crest ; 
 
 In the spring a livelier iris changes on 
 the burnish'd dove ; 
 
 In the spring a young man's fancy light- 
 ly turns to thoughts of love. 
 
 Then her cheek was pale and thinner 
 than should be for one so young. 
 
 And her eyes on all my motions with a 
 mute observance hung. 
 
 And I said, " My cousin Amy, speak, 
 and speak the truth to me. 
 
 Trust me, cousin, all the current of my 
 being sets to thee."' 
 
 On her pallid cheek and forehead came a 
 
 color and a light. 
 As I have seen the rosy red flushing in 
 
 the northern night. 
 
 And she turn'd — her bosom shaken with 
 a sudden storm of sighs — 
 
 All the spirit deejaly dawning in the 
 dark of hazel ej'es — 
 
 Saying, " I have hid ray feelings, fear- 
 ing they should do me wrong ; " 
 
 Saying, " Dost tlmu love me. cousin ?" 
 weeping, "I have loved thee 
 long." 
 
TENNYSON 
 
 489 
 
 Love took up the glass of time, and 
 turn'd it in his glowing hands ; 
 
 Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself 
 in golden sands. 
 
 Love took up the harp of Life, and smote 
 on all the chords with miglit : 
 
 Smote tlie chord of Self, that, trembling, 
 past in music out of sight. 
 
 Many a morning on the moorland did we 
 
 hear the copses ring. 
 And her wliisper tluong'd my pulses 
 
 with tlie fulness of the spring. 
 
 Many an evening by the waters did we 
 
 watch the stately ships. 
 And our spirits rush'd together at the 
 
 touching of the lips. 
 
 O my cousin, shallow-hearted ! O my 
 
 Amy. mine no more ! 
 O the dreary, dreary, moorland ! O the 
 
 barren, barren shore ! 
 
 Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser 
 than all songs have sung. 
 
 Puppet to a father's threat, and servile 
 to a shrewish tongue ! 
 
 Is it well to wish thee happy ? having 
 
 known me — to decline 
 On a range of lower feelings and a nar- 
 rower heart than mine ! 
 
 Yet it sliall be ; thou shalt lower to his 
 
 level day by day. 
 What is fine within thee growing coarse 
 
 to sympathize with claj'. 
 
 As the luisband is, the wife is ; thou art 
 
 mated with a clown, 
 And tlie grossness of his nature will 
 
 have weight to drag thee down. 
 
 He will hold thee, when his passion shall 
 have spent its novel force. 
 
 Something better than his dog, a little 
 dearer than his horse. 
 
 What is this ? liis eyes are heavy ; think 
 not they are glazed with wine. 
 
 Go to him, it is tliy duty ; kiss him, 
 take his hand in thine. 
 
 It may be my lord is weary, that his brain 
 
 is overwrought ; 
 Soothe him with thy finer fmunes. tniicli 
 
 him with tliy lighter thought. 
 
 He will answer to the purpose, easy 
 
 things to understand — 
 Better tiiou wert dead before me, tho' I 
 
 slew thee witii my hand ! 
 
 Better thou and I were lying, hidden 
 from the lieart's disgrace, 
 
 Roird in one another's arms, and silent 
 in a last embrace. 
 
 Cursed be the social wants that sin 
 against the strength of jouth ! 
 
 Cursed be the social lies that warj) us 
 from the living truth ! 
 
 Cursed be the sickly forms that err from 
 
 honest Nature's rule ! 
 Cursed be tlie gold that gilds the 
 
 straiten 'd forehead of the fool ! 
 
 Well — 't is well that I should bluster ! — 
 Hadst thou less unworthy |)roved — 
 
 Would to God — for I had loved thee 
 more than ever wife was loved. 
 
 Am I mad, that I should cherish that 
 which bears but bitter fruit? 
 
 I will pluck it from my bosom, tlio' my 
 heart be at the root. 
 
 Never, tho' my mortal summers to such 
 length of years should come 
 
 As the many-winter'd crow that leads 
 the clanging rookery home. 
 
 Where is comfort? in division of the 
 
 records of tiie mind ? 
 Can I part her from lierself , and love her, 
 
 as I knew her, kind ? 
 
 I remember one tliat perish 'd ; sweetly 
 did she speak and move ; 
 
 Such a one do I remember, whom to look 
 at was to love. 
 
 Can I think of her as dead, and love her 
 
 for the love slie bore ? 
 No — she never loved me truly ; love is 
 
 love for evermore. 
 
 Comfort ? comfort scorn'd of devils ! this 
 
 is truth the poet sings, 
 That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is re- 
 
 membei'ing happier things. 
 
 Drug thy memories, lest thou learn it, 
 lest tliy heart be put to proof. 
 
 In tlie dead unhappy niglit, and when 
 the rain is on the roof. 
 
49° 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Like a dog, he liunts in dreams, and 
 thou art staring at the wall. 
 
 Where the dying night-lamp flickers, 
 and the shadows rise and fall. 
 
 Then a hand shall pass before thee, 
 pointing to his diainken sleep, 
 
 To thy widow'd marriage-pillows, to the 
 tears that thou wilt weep. 
 
 Thou shalt hear the " Never, never,'* 
 whisper'd by the phantom years. 
 
 And a song from out the distance in the 
 ringing of thine ears ; 
 
 And an eye shall vex thee, looking an- 
 cient kindness on thy pain. 
 
 Turn thee, turn thee on thy pillow ; get 
 thee to thy rest again. 
 
 Nay, but Nature brings thee solace ; for 
 
 a tender voice will crj'^. 
 'T is a purer life than thine, a lip to drain 
 
 thy trouble dry. 
 
 Baby lips will laugh me down ; my latest 
 
 rival brings thee rest. 
 Baby fingers, waxen touches, press me 
 
 from the mother's breast. 
 
 O, the child too clothes the father with 
 
 a dearness not his due. 
 Half is thine and half is his ; it will be 
 
 worthy of the two. 
 
 O, I .see thee old and formal, fitted to thy 
 
 petty part, 
 With a little hoard of maxims preaching 
 
 down a daughter's heart. 
 
 "They were dangerous guides the feel- 
 ings — she herself was not exempt — 
 
 Truly, she herself had suffer'd " — Perish 
 in thy self-contempt ! 
 
 Overlive it — lower yet — be happy! where- 
 fore should I care ? 
 
 I myself must mix with action, lest I 
 wither by despair. 
 
 What is that which I should turn to, 
 lighting upon days like these ? 
 
 Every door is barr'd with gold, and opens 
 but to golden keys. 
 
 Every gate is throng'd with suitors, all 
 
 the markets overflow. 
 I have but an angry fancy ; what is that 
 
 which I should do ? 
 
 I had been content to perish, falling on 
 
 the foeman's ground. 
 When the ranks are roU'd in vapor, and 
 
 the winds are laid with sound. 
 
 But tlie jingling of the guinea heli^s the 
 
 hurt that Honor feels, 
 And the nations do but murmur, snarl- 
 ing at each other's heels. 
 
 Can I but relive in sadness? I will turn 
 
 that earlier page. 
 Hide me from my deep emotion, O thou 
 
 wondrous Mother- Age ! 
 
 Make me feel the wild ijulsation that I 
 
 felt before the strife. 
 When I heard mj' days before me, and 
 
 tlie tumult of my life ; 
 
 Yearning for the large excitement that 
 tlie coming years would jneld. 
 
 Eager-hearted as a boy when first he 
 leaves his father's field, 
 
 And at night along the dusky higiiwMy 
 
 near and nearer drawn, 
 Sees in iieaven the light of London flaring 
 
 like a dreary dawn ; 
 
 And his spirit leaps within him to be 
 
 gone before him then. 
 Underneath tlie light he looks at, in 
 
 among the throngs of men ; 
 
 Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever 
 reaping something new ; 
 
 That which tliey have done but earnest 
 of the things that they shall do. 
 
 Fori dipped into the future, far as human 
 
 eye covild see. 
 Saw tlie Vision of the world, and all the 
 
 wonder that would be ; 
 
 Saw the heavens fill witli commerce, ar- 
 gosies of magic sails. 
 
 Pilot of the purple twilight, dropping 
 down witli costly bales ; 
 
 Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and 
 there rain'd a ghastly dew 
 
 From the nations' airy navies grappling 
 in the central blue ; 
 
 Far along the world wide whisper of the 
 south-wind rushing warm, 
 
 With the standards of the peoples plung- 
 ing thro' the thunder-storm ; 
 
TENNYSON 
 
 491 
 
 Till the war-drum throbb"d no longer, 
 and the battle-flags were furl'd 
 
 In the Parliament of man, the Federa- 
 tion of the world. 
 
 Tliere the common sense of most shall 
 hold a fretful realm in awe. 
 
 And the kindl.y earth shall slumber, 
 lappedin universal law. 
 
 So I triumph'd ere my passion sweeping 
 
 thro' me left me dry. 
 Left me witli the palsied heart, and left 
 
 me with the jaundiced eye ; 
 
 Eye, to which all order festers, all things 
 here are out of joint. 
 
 Science moves, but slowly, slowly, creep- 
 ing on from point to point ; 
 
 Slowly conies a hungry people, as a lion, 
 creeping nigher. 
 
 Glares at one that nods and winks be- 
 hind a slowly-dying fire. 
 
 Yet I doubt not thro' the ages one in- 
 creasing i^urpose runs, 
 
 And the thoughts of men are widen'd 
 with the process of the suns. 
 
 What is that to him that reaps not har- 
 vest of his youthful joys. 
 
 Tho' the deep heart of existence beat for 
 ever like a boy's ? 
 
 Knowledge c;omes, but wisdom lingers, 
 and I linger on the shore. 
 
 And the individual withers, and the 
 world is more and more. 
 
 Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, 
 and he beai"s a laden breast. 
 
 Full of sad experience, moving toward 
 the stillness of his rest. 
 
 Hark, my merry comrades call me, 
 sounding on the bugle-horn. 
 
 They to whom my foolish passion were 
 a target for their scorn. 
 
 Shall it not be scorn to me to liarp on 
 such a moulder'd string ; 
 
 I am shamed thro' all my nature to have 
 loved so slight a thing. 
 
 Weakness to be wroth with weakness ! 
 
 woman's pleasure, woman's pain — 
 Nature made them blinder motions 
 
 bounded in a shallower brain. 
 
 Woman is the lesser man. and all thy 
 passions, matcli'd with mine, 
 
 Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as 
 water unto wine — 
 
 Here at least, whei'e nature sickens, 
 nothing. Ah, for some retreat 
 
 Deep in yonder shining Orient, where 
 my life began to beat, 
 
 Where in wild Mahratta- battle fell my 
 
 fatlier evil-starr'd ; — 
 I was left a trampled orphan, and a 
 
 selfish uncle's ward. 
 
 Or to burst all links of habit — there to 
 wander far away. 
 
 On from island unto island at the gate- 
 ways of the day. 
 
 Larger constellations burning, mellow 
 
 moons and happj' skies. 
 Breadths of tropic shade and palms in 
 
 cluster, knots of Paradise. 
 
 Never comes the trader, never floats an 
 
 European flag. 
 Slides tiie bird o'er lustrous woodland, 
 
 swings the trailer from the crag ; 
 
 Droops the heavy-blossom'd bower, 
 hangs the heavy-frviited tree — ■ 
 
 Summer isles of Eden lying in dark- 
 purple spheres of sea. 
 
 Tliere methinks would be enjoyment 
 more than in this march of mind. 
 
 In the steamship, in the railway, in the 
 thoughts that shake mankind. 
 
 There the passions cramp'd no longer 
 shall have scope and breathing 
 space ; 
 
 I will take some savage woman, she 
 shall rear my dusky race. 
 
 Iron-jointed, supple-sine w'd, they shall 
 dive, and they sliall run. 
 
 Catch the wild goat by the hair, and 
 hurl their lances in the sun ; 
 
 Whistle back the parrot's call, and leap 
 the rainbows of the brooks. 
 
 Not with blinded eyesight poring over 
 miserable books — 
 
 Fool, again the dream, the fancy ! but I 
 knoio my words are wild. 
 
 But I count tlie giiiy barbarian lower 
 than the Christian child. 
 
492 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 I, to herd witli narrow foreheads, vacant 
 
 of our glorious gains. 
 Like a beast with lower pleasures, like a 
 
 beast with lower pains ! 
 
 Mated with a squalid savage — what to 
 me were sun or clime ! 
 
 I the heir of all the ages, in the fore- 
 most files of time — 
 
 I that rather held it better men should 
 
 perisli one by one. 
 Than that earth should stand at gaze like 
 
 Joshua's moon in Ajalon ! 
 
 Not in vain the distance beacons. For- 
 ward, forward let us range. 
 
 Let the great world spin for ever down 
 the ringing grooves of change. 
 
 Thro' the shadow of the globe we sweep 
 
 into the j-ounger day ; 
 Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle 
 
 of Cathay. 
 
 Mother-Age, — for mine I knew not, — 
 help me as when life begun ; 
 
 Rift the hills, and roll the waters, flash 
 the lightnings, weigh the sun. 
 
 O, I see the crescent promise of my spirit 
 
 hath not set. 
 Ancient founts of inspiration well thro' 
 
 all my fancy yet. 
 
 Howsoever these things be. a long fare- 
 well to Locksley Hall ! 
 
 Now for me the woods may wither, now 
 for me the roof-tree fall. 
 
 Comes a vapor from the margin, black- 
 ening over heatli and holt. 
 
 Cramming all the blast before it, in its 
 breast a thunderbolt. 
 
 Let it fall on Lockslej' Hall, with rain or 
 hail, or fire or snow ; 
 
 For the mightj^ wind arises, roaring sea- 
 ward, and I go. 1842. 
 
 GODIVA 
 
 I u'ciited for the train at Coventry ; 
 
 I hung with grooins and porters on the 
 
 bridge, 
 To watch the three tall spires ; and there 
 
 I shaped 
 Tlie city's ancient legend, into this : — 
 
 Not only we, the latest seed of Tijue, 
 New men, that in the flying of a wheel 
 
 Cry down the past, not only we, that 
 
 prate 
 Of rights and wrongs, have loved the 
 
 people well, 
 And loathed to see them overtax' d ; but 
 
 she 
 Did more, and underwent, and over- 
 came. 
 The woman of a thousand summers back, 
 Godiva, wife to that grim Earl, who 
 
 ruled 
 In Coventry : for wlien he laid a tax 
 Upon his town, and all the motliers 
 
 brought 
 Their children, clamoring, " If we pay, 
 
 we starve ! " 
 She sought her lord, and found him, 
 
 where he strode 
 About the hall, among his dogs, alone. 
 His beard a foot before him. and his hair 
 A yard behind. She told him of tlieir 
 
 tears. 
 And pray'd him, " If they pa^' this tax 
 
 they starve." 
 Whereat he stared, replying, half- 
 amazed, 
 "You would not let your little finger 
 
 ache 
 For .such as these ?" — " But I would die," 
 
 said she. 
 He laugh'd, and swore by Peter and by 
 
 Paul, 
 Then fiUip'd at the diamond in her ear : 
 " O, ay, a}^ ay, you talk!" — "Alas!" 
 
 slie said, 
 "But prove me what it is I would not 
 
 do." 
 And from a heart as rough as Esau's 
 
 hand. 
 He a,nswer'd, " Ride 3'ou naked tliro' the 
 
 town. 
 And I repeal it ; " and nodding, as in 
 
 scorn. 
 He parted, with great strides among his 
 
 dogs. 
 So left alone, the passions of her mind. 
 As winds from all the compass shift and 
 
 blow. 
 Made war upon each other for an hour. 
 Till pity won. She sent a herald forth. 
 And bade him crj', with sound of trum- 
 pet, all 
 The hard condition, but that she would 
 
 loose 
 The people ; therefore, as they loved her 
 
 well. 
 From then till noon no foot should pace 
 
 the street, [all 
 
 No eye look down, she passing, but that 
 
 i 
 
TENNYSON 
 
 493 
 
 Should keep within, door shut, and win- 
 dow barr'd. 
 Then lied she to her inmost bower, and 
 
 there 
 Unclasp'd the wedded eagles of lier belt, 
 The grim Earl's gift ; but ever at a 
 
 breath 
 She linger'd, looking like a summer 
 
 moon 
 Half-dipped in cloud. Anon she shook 
 
 her head, 
 And shower'd the rippled ringlets to her 
 
 knee ; 
 Unclad herself in haste ; adown the 
 
 stair 
 Stole on ; and like a creeping sunbeam 
 
 slid 
 From pillar unto pillar, until she reach'd 
 The gatewa}' ; there she found her pal- 
 frey trapt 
 In purple blazon'd with armorial gold. 
 Tiien she rode forth, clothed on with 
 
 chastit}'. 
 The deep air listeu'd round her as she 
 
 rode. 
 And all the low wind hardly breathed 
 
 for fear. 
 The little wide-mouth'd lieads upon the 
 
 spout 
 Had cunning eyes to see ; the barking 
 
 cur 
 Made her cheek flame ; lier palfrey's 
 
 footfall shot 
 Light horrors thro' her pulses ; the blind 
 
 walls 
 Were fullof chinks and holes ; and over- 
 head 
 Fantastic gables, crowding, stared ; 
 
 but she 
 Not less tiiro' all bore up, till, last, she 
 
 saw 
 The white-flower'd elder-thicket fi-om 
 
 the field 
 Gleam thro' the Gothic archway in the 
 
 wall. 
 Then she rode back, clothed on with 
 
 chastity. 
 And one low churl, comjiactof thankless 
 
 earth , 
 The fatal byword of all years to come, 
 Boring a little auger-hole in fear, 
 Peep'd — -but his ej'^es, before they had 
 
 their will. 
 Were shrivell'd into darkness in his 
 
 head, [wlio wait 
 
 And dropped before him. So the Powers, 
 On noble deeds, cancell'd a sense mis- 
 used ; [at once. 
 And she, that knew not, pass'd ; and all 
 
 With twelve great shocks of sound, the 
 shameless noon [dred towers. 
 
 Was clash'd and hammer'd from a hun- 
 One after one ; but even then she gain'd 
 Her bower, whence reissuing, robed and 
 
 crown'd, 
 To meet her lord, she took the tax away 
 And built herself an everlasting name. 
 
 1842. 
 
 SIR GALAHAD 
 
 My good blade carves the casques of men. 
 
 My tough lance thrusteth sure, 
 My strength is as the strength of ten, 
 
 Because my heart is pure. 
 The shattering trumi)et shrilleth high. 
 
 The hard brands shiver on the steel. 
 The splinter'd spear-shafts crack and fly. 
 
 The horse and rider reel ; 
 They reel, they roll in clanging lists. 
 
 And when the tide of combat stands, 
 Perfume and flowers fall in showers. 
 
 That lightly rain from ladies' hands. 
 
 How sweet are looks that ladies bend 
 
 On whom their favors fall ! 
 For them I battle till tlie end. 
 
 To save from shame and thrall ; 
 But all my heart is drawn above, 
 
 My knees are bow'd in crypt and 
 shrine ; 
 I never felt the kiss of love, 
 
 N<jr maiden's hand in mine. 
 More bounteous aspects on me beam. 
 
 Me mightier transports move and 
 thrill : 
 So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer 
 
 A virgin heart in wuik and will. 
 
 When down the stormy crescent goes, 
 
 A light before me swims. 
 Between dark stems the forest glows, 
 
 I hear a noise of h^'unis. 
 Then by some secret shrine I ride : 
 
 I hear a voice, but none are there ; 
 The stalls are void, the doors are wide. 
 
 The tapers burning fair. 
 Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth. 
 
 The silver vessels sparkle clean. 
 The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, 
 
 And solemn chants. resound between. 
 
 Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres 
 
 I find a magic bark. 
 I leap on board ; no helmsman steers ; 
 
 I float till all is dark. 
 A gentle sound, an awful light ! 
 
 Three angels bear the Holj- Grail ; 
 
494 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 With folded feet, in stoles of white, 
 
 On sleeping wings tliey sail. 
 Ah, blessed vision ! blood of God ! 
 
 My spirit beats her mortal bars, 
 As down dark tides tiie gloiy slides. 
 
 And starlike mingles with tiie stars. 
 
 When on my goodly charger borne 
 
 Thro' dreaming towns I go. 
 The cock crows ere the Christmas morn, 
 
 The slreets are dumb with snow. 
 Tlie tempest crackles on the leads, 
 
 And. ringing, springs from brand and 
 mail ; 
 But o'er the dark a glory spreads, 
 
 And gilds the driving hail. 
 I leave the plain, I climb the heiglit ; 
 
 No branch^' tliicket shelter yields : 
 But blessed forms in whistling storms 
 
 Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields. 
 
 A maiden knight — to me is given 
 
 Such hope, I know not fear ; 
 I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven 
 
 Tliat t)ften meet me here. 
 I muse on joy that will not cease. 
 
 Pure spaces clothed in living beams. 
 Pure lilies of eternal peace. 
 
 Whose odors haunt my dreams ; 
 And, stricken bj^ an angel's hand. 
 
 Tills mortal armor that I wear. 
 This weight and size, this heart and 
 eyes, 
 
 Are touch'd, are turn'd to finest air. 
 
 Tlie clouds are broken in the sky, 
 
 And thro' the mountain-walls 
 A rolling organ-harmony 
 
 Swells up and shakes and falls. 
 Then move the trees, the copses nod. 
 
 Wings flutter, voices hover clear : 
 " O just and faithful knight of God ! 
 
 Ride on ! tiie prize is near." 
 So pass I hostel, hall, and grange ; 
 
 By bridge and ford, by park and pale, 
 All-arm"d I ride, whate'er betide, 
 
 Untill find the Holy Grail. 1842. 
 
 A FAREWELL 
 
 Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea, 
 
 Thy tribute wave deliver : 
 No more by tliee my steps shall be, 
 
 For ever and for ever. 
 
 Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea, 
 
 A rivulet, then a river ; 
 Nowhere by thee my steps shall be, 
 
 For ever and for ever. 
 
 But here will sigh thine alder-tree. 
 And here thine aspen shiver ; 
 
 And here by thee will hum the bee. 
 For ever and for ever. 
 
 A thousand suns will .stream on thee, 
 A thousand moons will quiver ; 
 
 But not by thee my steps shall be. 
 For ever and for ever. 1842. 
 
 THE VISION OF SIN 
 
 I 
 
 I HAD a vision when the night was late ; 
 
 A youth came riding toward a palace- 
 gate. 
 
 He rode a horse with wings, that would 
 have flown. 
 
 But that his heavy rider kept him down. 
 
 And from the palace came a child of sin. 
 
 And took him by the curls, and led liiin 
 in. 
 
 Where sat a company with heated eyes. 
 
 Expecting when a fountain should arise. 
 
 A sleepy light upon their brows and 
 lips — 
 
 As when the sun. a crescent of eclipse. 
 
 Dreams over lake and lawn, and isles 
 and capes — 
 
 Suffused them, sitting, lying, languid 
 shapes. 
 
 By heaps of gourds, and skins of wine, 
 and piles of grapes. 
 
 II 
 
 Then methought I heard a mellow 
 sound, 
 
 Gatliering u])from all the lower ground; 
 
 Narrowing in to where they sat assem- 
 bled. 
 
 Low voluptuous music winding trem- 
 bled. 
 
 Woven in circles. They that heard it 
 sigh'd. 
 
 Panted liaiid-in-liand with faces pale, 
 
 Swung themselves, and in low tones re- 
 plied ; 
 
 Till the fountain spouted, showering 
 wide 
 
 Sleet of diamond-drift and pearlj^ hail. 
 
 Then the music touch'd the gates and 
 died, 
 
 Rose again from where it seem'd to fail, 
 
 Storm'd in orbs of song, a growing gale ; 
 
 Till thronging in and in, to where tliey 
 waited. 
 
 As 't were a hundred-throated nightin- 
 gale. 
 
TENNYSON 
 
 495 
 
 The strong tempestuous treble throbb'd 
 
 and palpitated ; 
 Ran into its giddiest whirl of sound. 
 Caught tlie sparkles, and in circles. 
 Purple gauzes, golden liazes, liquid 
 
 mazes, 
 Flung the torrent rainbow round. 
 Then they started from tlieir places. 
 Moved with violence, changed in line, 
 Caught each other with wild grimaces, 
 Half-invisible to the view. 
 Wheeling with precipitate paces 
 To tlie melody, till tliey flew, 
 Hair and eyes and limbs and faces, 
 Twisted hard in fierce embraces. 
 Like to Furies, like to Graces, 
 Dash'd together in blinding dew ; 
 Till, kill'd with some luxurious agony, 
 The nerve-dissolving melody 
 Fluttered headlong from the sky. 
 
 And then I look'd up toward a mountain- 
 tract. 
 
 That girt the region with high cliff and 
 lawn. 
 
 I saw that every morning, far with- 
 drawn 
 
 Beyond the darkness and the cataract. 
 
 God made Himself an awful rose of 
 dawn, 
 
 Unheeded ; and detaching, fold by foUl, 
 
 From those still heights, and, slowlj' 
 drawing near, 
 
 A vapor heavy, hueless, formless, cold, 
 
 Came floating on for many a month and 
 year, 
 
 Unheeded ; and I thought I would have 
 spoken, 
 
 And warn'd that madman ere it grew 
 too late, 
 
 But, as in dreams, I could not. Mine 
 was broken, 
 
 When that cold vapor touch'dthe palace- 
 gate. 
 
 And link"d again. I saw wathin my 
 head 
 
 A graj^ and gap-tooth'd man as lean as 
 death, 
 
 Who slowly rode across a wither'd 
 lieath, 
 
 And lighted at a ruin'd inn, and said : 
 
 " Wrinkled ostler, grim and thin ! • 
 Here is custom come your way ; 
 
 Take my brute, and lead him in. 
 Stuff his ribs with mouldy hay. 
 
 " Bitter barmaid, waning fast ! 
 
 See that sheets are on my bed. 
 What ! the flower of life is past ; 
 
 It is long before you wed. 
 
 " Slip-shod waiter, lank and sour. 
 At the Dragon on the heath ! 
 
 Let us have a quiet hour, 
 Let us hob-and-nob with Death, 
 
 "I am old, but let me drink ; 
 
 Bring me spices, bring me wine ; 
 I remember, when I think. 
 
 That my youth was half divine. 
 
 " Wine is good for shrivell'd lips. 
 When a blanket wraps the daj". 
 
 When the rotten woodland drips. 
 And the leaf is stamp'd in clay. 
 
 " Sit thee down, and have no shame. 
 Cheek by jowl, and knee by knee ; 
 
 What care I for any name ? 
 What for order or degree ? 
 
 ' ' Let me screw thee up a peg ; 
 
 Let me loose thy tongue with wine ; 
 Callest thou that thing a leg ? 
 
 Which is thinnest ? thine or mine? 
 
 " Thou shalt not be saved by works. 
 Thou hast been a sinner too ; 
 
 Ruin'd trunks on wither'd forks. 
 Empty scarecrows, I and you ! 
 
 " Fill the cup and fill the can. 
 Have a rouse before the morn ; 
 
 Every moment dies a man. 
 Every moment one is born. 
 
 " We are men of ruin'd blood ; 
 
 Therefore conies it we are wise. 
 Fish are we that love the mud, 
 
 Rising to no fancy-flies. 
 
 " Name and fame ! to fly sublime 
 Thro' the courts, the cam})S, the 
 schools. 
 
 Is to be the ball of Time, 
 
 Bandied by the hands of fools. 
 
 " Friendship ! — to be two in one — 
 
 Let the canting liar pack ! 
 Well I know, when I am gone, 
 
 How she mouths behind my back. 
 
 " Virtue ! — to be good and just — 
 Every heart, when sifted well. 
 
 Is a clot of warmer dust, 
 
 Mix'd with cunning sparks of hell. 
 
496 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 " O, we two as well can look 
 Whited tlioughtaiid cleanly life 
 
 As the priest, above his book 
 Leering at liis neighbor's wife. 
 
 " Fill the cup and fill the can. 
 Have a rouse before the morn : 
 
 Every moment dies a man. 
 Every moment one is born. ^ 
 
 " Drink, and let the parties rave ; 
 
 Tliey are fiU'd with idle spleen, 
 Rising, falling, like a wave, 
 
 For they know not what they mean. 
 
 " He that roars for liberty 
 Faster binds a tyrant's power, 
 
 And the tyrant's cruel glee 
 Forces on the freer hour. 
 
 " Fill the can and fill the cup ; 
 
 All the windy ways of men 
 Ai-e but dust that rises up. 
 
 And is lightlj' laid again. 
 
 " Greet her with applausive breath, 
 Freedom, gaily doth she tread ; 
 
 In her right a civic wreath. 
 In her left a human head. 
 
 " No, I love not what is new ; 
 
 She is of an ancient house. 
 And I tliink we know tlie hue 
 
 Of that cap upon her brows. 
 
 " Let her go ! her tliirst she slakes 
 Where the bloody conduit runs. 
 
 Then her sweetest meal she makes 
 On the first-born of her sons. 
 
 " Drink to lofty hopes that cool. — 
 Visions of a perfect State ; 
 
 Drink we, last, the public fool, 
 Frantic love and frantic hate. 
 
 " Cliant me now some wicked stave. 
 Till thy drooping courage rise, 
 
 And tlie glow-worm of the grave 
 Glimmer in thy rheumy eyes. 
 
 " Fear not thou to loose thy tongue. 
 Set thy lioary fancies free ; 
 
 What is loathsome to the young 
 Savors well to thee and me. 
 
 " Change, reverting to the years. 
 When thy nerves could understand 
 
 What there is in loving tears. 
 
 And the warmtli of hand in hand. 
 
 " Tell me tales of thy first love — 
 April hopes, the fools of chance — 
 
 Till the graves begin to move. 
 And the dead begin to dance. 
 
 " Fill the can and fill the cup ; 
 
 All the windy ways of men 
 Are but dust that rises up. 
 
 And is lightly laid again. 
 
 " Trooping from their mouldy dens 
 The chap-fallen circle spreads — 
 
 Welcome, fellow-citizens. 
 Hollow hearts and empty heads ! 
 
 '• You are bones, and what of that? 
 
 Every face, however full. 
 Padded round with flesh and fat. 
 
 Is but modell'd on a skull. 
 
 " Death is king, and Vivat Rex ! 
 
 Tread a measure on tlie stones, 
 Madam — if I know your sex 
 
 From the fashion of your bones. 
 
 " No, I cannot praise the fire 
 In your e^^e — nor yet j'our lip ; 
 
 All the more do I admire 
 Joints of cunning workmanship. 
 
 " Lo ! God's likeness — the ground- 
 plan — 
 
 Neither modell'd, glazed, nor framed; 
 Buss me, thou rough sketch of man. 
 
 Far too naked to be shamed ! 
 
 " Drink to Fortune, drink to Chance, 
 While we keep a little breath ! 
 
 Drink to heavy Ignorance ! 
 
 Hob-and-nob with brother Death ! 
 
 " Tiiou art mazed, the night is long. 
 And the longer night is near — 
 
 What ! I am not all as wrong 
 As a bitter jest is dear. 
 
 " Youthful hopes, by scores, to all. 
 
 When the locks are crisp and curl'd ; 
 Unto me my maudlin gall 
 
 And my mockeries of the world. 
 
 " Fill the cup and fill the can ; 
 
 Mingle madness, mingle scorn ! 
 Dregs of life, and lees of man ; 
 
 Yet we will not die forlorn." 
 
 The voice grew faint ; there came a 
 further change ; 
 
TENNYSON 
 
 497 
 
 Once more uprose the mystic moun- 
 tain range. 
 Below were men and horses pierced 
 witli worms, 
 
 And slowly quickening into lower forms ; 
 
 By shards and scurf of salt, and scum of 
 dross, 
 
 Old plash of rains, and refuse patch'd 
 with moss. 
 
 Then some one spake : t' Behold ! it was 
 a crime 
 
 Of sense avenged by sense that wore 
 with time." 
 
 Another said: "The crime of sense be- 
 came 
 
 Tlie crime of malice, and is equal blame." 
 
 And one : " He had not wholly quencli'd 
 his power ; 
 
 A little grain of conscience made him 
 .sour." 
 
 At last I heard a voice upoji tlie slope 
 
 Cry to the summit, " Is there any liope ? " 
 
 To which an answer peal'd from tliat 
 high land. 
 
 But in a tongue no man could under- 
 •stand ; 
 
 And on the glimmering limit far with- 
 drawn 
 
 God made Himself an awful rose of 
 dawn. 1843. 
 
 BREAK, BREAK, BREAK 
 
 Break, break, break. 
 
 On thy cold gray stones, O Sea ! 
 And I would that my tongue could utter 
 
 The thoughts that arise in me. 
 
 O, well for the fisherman's boy. 
 That he shouts with his sister at play ! 
 
 O, well for the sailor lad. 
 
 That he sings in his boat on the bay ! 
 
 And the stately ships go on 
 To their haven under the hill : 
 
 But O for the touch of a vaiiish'd hand. 
 And the sound of a voice that is still ! 
 
 Break, break, break, 
 
 At the foot of thy crags, O Sea ! 
 But the tender grace of a day that is 
 dead 
 
 Will never come back to me. 1843. 
 
 THE POET'S SONG 
 
 The rain had fallen, the Poet ai'ose. 
 He pass'd by the town and out of the 
 street ; 
 32 
 
 A light wind blew from the gates of 
 tlie sun. 
 And waves of shadow went over the 
 wlieat : 
 And he sat him down in a lonely place, 
 And chanted a melody loud and sweet, 
 That made tlie wild-swan pause in her 
 cloud. 
 And the lark drop down at his feet. 
 
 The swallow stopped as he hunted tlie fiy, 
 
 The snake slipped under a spraj', 
 The wild hawk stood with the down on 
 his beak, 
 
 And stared, with his foot on the prey ; 
 And the niglitingale thought, " I have 
 sung many songs. 
 
 But never a one so gay, 
 For he sings of wliat tiie world will be 
 
 When the years liave died away." 1842. 
 
 LYRICS FROM THE PRINCESS 
 
 Teaks, idle teai-s, I know not what 
 
 they mean. 
 Tears from tlie depth of some divine de- 
 
 sjiair 
 Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes. 
 In looking on tlie happy autvmin-iields, 
 And thinking of the days that ai'e no 
 
 more. 
 
 Fresh as the first beam glittering on 
 
 a sail, 
 Tliat brings our friends up from the 
 
 underworld. 
 Sad as the last which reddens over one 
 That sinks with all we love below the 
 
 verge ; 
 So sad, so fresh, the days that are no 
 
 more. 
 
 Ah, sad and strange as in dark sum- 
 mer dawns 
 The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds 
 To dying ears, wlien unto dying eyes 
 Tlie casement slowly grows a glimmer- 
 ing square ; 
 So sad, so strange, the days that ai*e no 
 more. 
 
 Dear as remember'd kisses after death. 
 And sweet as those by hopeless fancy 
 
 feign'd 
 On lips that are for others ; deep as love, 
 Deep as first love, and wild with all re- 
 gret ; 
 O Death in Life, the days that are no 
 more ! 
 
498 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 O Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying 
 south, 
 Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves. 
 And tell her, tell her, what I tell to thee. 
 
 O, tell her, Swallow, thou that know- 
 
 est each. 
 That bright and fierce and fickle is the 
 
 South, 
 And dark and true and tender is the 
 
 North. 
 
 O Swallow, Swallow, if I could fol- 
 low, and light 
 Upon her lattice, I would pipe and trill, 
 And cheep and twitter twenty million 
 loves. 
 
 O, were I thou that she might take 
 me in, 
 And lay me on her bosom, and her heart 
 Would rock the snowy cradle till I died ! 
 
 Why lingereth she to clothe her heart 
 
 with love, 
 Delaying as the tender ash delaj^s 
 To clothe herself, when all the woods are 
 
 green ? 
 
 O, tell her. Swallow, that thy brood 
 
 is flown ; 
 Say to her, I do but wanton in the South, 
 But in the North long since my nest is 
 
 made. 
 
 O, tell her, brief is life but love is long, 
 And brief the sun of summer in the 
 
 North, 
 And brief the moon of beauty in the 
 
 South. 
 
 O Sts^allow, flying from the golden 
 
 woods. 
 Fly to her, and pipe and woo her, and 
 
 make her mine. 
 And tell her, tell lier, that I follow thee. 
 
 As thro' the land at eve we went. 
 
 And pluck'd the ripen'd ears. 
 We fell out, my wife and I, 
 O, we fell out, I know not why. 
 
 And kiss'd again with tears. 
 And blessings on the falling out 
 
 That all the more endears, 
 When we fall out with those we love 
 
 And kiss again with tears ! 
 For when we came where lies the child 
 
 We lost in other years. 
 
 There above tlie little grave, 
 O, there above the little grave, 
 We kiss'd again with tears. 
 
 Sweet and low, sweet and low, 
 
 Wind of the western sea. 
 Low, low, breathe and blow, 
 
 Wind of the western sea ! 
 Over the rolling waters go, 
 Come from the dying moon, and blow, 
 
 Blow him again to me : 
 While my little one, while my pretty one, 
 sleeps. 
 
 Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, 
 Father will come to thee soon ; 
 
 Rest, rest, on mother's breast. 
 Father will come to thee soon ; 
 
 Father will come to his babe in the nest, 
 
 Silver sails all out of the west 
 Under the silver moon ; 
 
 Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty 
 one, sleep. 
 
 The splendor falls on castle walls 
 
 And snowy summits old in story ; 
 The long light shakes across the lakes. 
 And tlie wild cataract leaps in glory. 
 Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes 
 
 flying, 
 Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, 
 dying, dying. 
 
 O, hark, O, hear ! how thin and clear, 
 And thinner, clearer, farther going ! 
 O, sweet and far from cliff and scar 
 
 The liorns of Elfland faintly blowing ! 
 Blow, let us hear the purple glens reply- 
 ing, 
 Blow, bugle : answer, echoes, dying, 
 dying, dying. 
 
 O love, they die in yon rich sky. 
 
 They faint on hill or field or river ; 
 Our echoes roll from soul to soul. 
 
 And grow for ever and for ever. 
 Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes 
 
 flying. 
 And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dy- 
 ing, dying. 
 
 Tliy voice is heard thro' rolling drums 
 That beat to battle where he stands ; 
 
 Thy face across his fancy comes. 
 And gives the battle to his hands. 
 
TENNYSON 
 
 499 
 
 A moment, while the trumpets blow, 
 He sees his brood about tliy knee ; 
 
 The next, like fire he meets the foe, 
 And strikes him dead for thine and 
 thee. 
 
 Home they brouglit her warrior dead ; 
 
 She nor swoon'd nor utter'd cry. 
 All her maidenif, watching, said, 
 
 •' She must weep or she will die." 
 
 Then they praised him, soft and low, 
 Call'd him worthy to be loved, 
 
 Truest friend and noblest foe ; 
 Yet she neither spoke nor moved. 
 
 Stole a maiden from her place. 
 Lightly to the warrior stepped, 
 
 Took the face-cloth from the face ; 
 Yet she neither moved nor wept. 
 
 Rose a nurse of ninety years. 
 Set his child upon her knee — 
 
 Like summer tempest came lier teai'S- 
 " Sweet my child, I live for'tliee." 
 
 Ask me no more : tlie moon may draw 
 the sea ; 
 
 The cloud may stoop from heaven and 
 
 take the shape, 
 With fold to fold, of mountain or of 
 cape ; 
 But O too fond, when have I answer'd 
 thee ? 
 
 Ask me no moi'e. 
 
 Ask me no more : what answer should I 
 give ? 
 I love not hollow cheek or faded eye : 
 Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee 
 die! 
 Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee 
 live ; 
 
 Ask me no more. 
 
 Ask me no more : thy fate and mine are 
 seal'd ; 
 I strove against the stream and all in 
 
 vain ; 
 Let the great river take me to the 
 main. 
 No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield ; 
 Ask me no more. 
 
 1847-1850.1 
 
 1 The first two of these lyrics, included in the 
 body of the work, were published in the original 
 edition, 1847 ; the others, inserted between the 
 sections of the poem, were first given in the 
 edition of 1850. 
 
 IN MEMORIAM A. H. H. 
 
 OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII 
 
 Strong Son of God, immortal Love, 
 Whom we, that have not seen thy face. 
 By faith, and faith alone, embrace, 
 
 Believing where we cannot prove ; 
 
 Thine are these orbs of light and shade ; 
 
 Thou madest Life in man and brute ; 
 
 Thou madest Death ; and lo, thy foot 
 Is on the skull which thou hast made. 
 
 Thou wilt not leave us in the dust : 
 Thou madest man, he knows not why. 
 He thinks he was not made to die ; 
 
 And thou hast made him : thou art just. 
 
 Thou seemest human and divine. 
 The highest, holiest manhood, thou. 
 Our wills are ours, we know not how ; 
 
 Our wills are ours, to make them thine. 
 
 Our little systems have their day : 
 Tliey have their day and cease to be ; 
 They are but broken lights of thep. 
 
 And thou, O Lord, art more than they. 
 
 We have but faith : we cannot know, 
 For knowledge is of things we see ; 
 And yet we trust it comes from thee, 
 
 A beam in darkness : let it grow. 
 
 Let knowledge grow from more to more, 
 But more of reverence in us dwell ; 
 That mind and soul, according well, 
 
 May make one music as before. 
 
 But vaster. We are fools and slight ; 
 We mock thee when we do not fear : 
 But help thy foolish ones to bear ; 
 
 Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light. 
 
 Forgive what seem'd my sin in me. 
 What seem'd my worth since I began ; 
 For merit lives from man to man, 
 
 And not from man, O Lord, to thee. 
 
 1 Arthur Henry Hallam, Tennyson's closest 
 friend, and betrothed to Tennyson's sister Emily, 
 died at Vienna, September 1.5, 1833. See the Life 
 of Tennyson, I., 49-55, 75-83, 104-108; and 395-327. 
 
SCO 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Forgive my grief for one removed, 
 Thy creature, whom I found so fair. 
 I trust he lives in thee, and there 
 
 I find liim worthier to be loved. 
 
 Foi-give these wild and wandering cries, 
 Confusions of a wasted youth ; 
 Forgive tlieni where they fail in truth, 
 
 And in thy wisdom make nie wise. 
 
 1849.'^ 
 
 m 
 
 O Sorrow, cruel fellowship, 
 
 O Priestess in the vaults of Death, 
 O sweet and bitter in a breath. 
 
 What wiiispers from thy lying lip ? 
 
 " The stars," she whispers, "blindly run ; 
 
 A web is woven across the sky ; 
 
 From out waste places comes a cry. 
 And murmurs from the dying sun ; 
 
 " And all the phantom. Nature, stands — 
 With all the music in her tone, 
 A hollow echo of my own, — 
 
 A hollow form with empty hands." 
 
 And shall I take a thing so blind. 
 Embrace her as my natural good ; 
 Or crush her. like a vice of blood. 
 
 Upon the threshold of the mind ? 
 
 I sometimes hold it half a sin 
 To put in words the grief I feel ; 
 For words, like Nature, half reveal 
 
 And half conceal the Soul within. 
 
 But, for the unquiet heart and brain, 
 A use in measured language lies ; 
 The sad mechanic exercise. 
 
 Like dull narcotics, numbing pain. 
 
 In woi'ds, like weeds. I '11 wrap me o'er 
 Like coarsest clothes against the cold ; 
 But that large grief which tliese en- 
 fold 
 
 Is given in outline and no more. 
 
 lit must be particularly noticed that this in- 
 troductory poem was among the last written of 
 those which make up 7/i Memoriam. The early 
 parts begin with No. II. or No. III. 
 
 On the development of thought and feeling in 
 the poem as a whole, which is fully shown in the 
 parts here given, see Thomas Davidson's Prole- 
 gomena to In Memoriam, Alfred Gatty's Key to 
 la Memoriam, and .1. G Genung'sin Memoriam : 
 Its Purpose anil its Structure. 
 
 One writes, that " other friends remain," 
 That ' ' loss is common to the race " — 
 And common is the commonplace, 
 
 And vacant chaff well meant for grain. 
 
 That loss is common would not make 
 My own less bitter, rather more. 
 Too common ! Never morning wore 
 
 To evening, but some heart did break. 
 
 O father, where.soe"er thou be. 
 
 Who pledgest now tiiy gallant son, 
 A shot, ere half thy draught be done, 
 
 Hath still'd the life that beat from thee. 
 
 O mother, praying God will save 
 Thy sailor, — while thy head is bow'd. 
 His heavj'-shotted hammock-shroud 
 
 Drops in his vast and wandering grave. 
 
 Ye know no more than I who wrought 
 At tliat last hour to please him well ; 
 Who mused on all I had to tell. 
 
 And something written, something 
 thought ; 
 
 Expecting still his advent home ; 
 And ever met him on his way 
 With wishes, thinking, " hereto-day," 
 
 Or " here to-morrow will he come." 
 
 O. somewhere, meek, tinconscious dove. 
 That sittest ranging golden liaic ; 
 And glad to find th}\self so fair. 
 
 Poor child, that waitest for thy love ! 
 
 For now her father's chimney glows 
 
 In expectation of a gue.st ; 
 
 And thinking "this will please him 
 best," 
 Slie takes a riband or a rose ; 
 
 For he will see them on to-night ; 
 
 And with the thought her color burns ; 
 
 And, having left the gla.ss, she turns 
 Once more to set a ringlet right ; 
 
 And, even when she turn'd. the curse 
 Had fallen, and her future lortl 
 Was drown'd in passing thro' the ford, 
 
 Or kiird in falling from his horse. 
 
 O, what to her shall be the end ? 
 
 And what to me remains of good ? 
 
 To her perpetual maidenhood. 
 And unto me no second friend. 
 
 I 
 
TENNYSON 
 
 501 
 
 Dark house, by which once more I stand 
 Here in tlie long unlovely street, 
 Doors, where my heart was used to 
 beat 
 
 So quickly, waiting for a hand, 
 
 A hand that can be clasp'd no more — 
 Beliold me, for I cannot sleep, 
 And like a guilty thing I creep 
 
 At earliest morning to the door. 
 
 He is not here ; but far away 
 Tlie noise of life begins again, 
 Aii'l ghastly thro' the drizzling rain 
 
 On the bald street breaks tlie blank day. 
 
 IX 
 
 Fair ship, that from the Italian shore 
 Sailest the placid ocean-plains 
 With my l(3st Arthur's loved remains, 
 
 Spread thy full wings, and waft him o'er. 
 
 So draw him home to those that mourn 
 In vain ; a favorable speed 
 Ruffle thy miri'or'd mast, and lead 
 
 Thro' prosperous floods his holy urn. 
 
 All night no ruder air perplex 
 
 Tiiy sliding keel, till Phosphor, bright 
 As our pure love, thro' early light 
 
 Shall glimmer on the dewy decks. 
 
 Sphere all your lights around, above ; 
 
 Sleep, gentle heavens, before tiie 
 prow ; 
 
 Sleep, gentle winds, as he slee])s now, 
 My friend, the brother of my love ; 
 
 My Arthur, whom I shall not see 
 Till all my widow'd race be run ; 
 Dear as the mother to the son. 
 
 More than my brothers are to me. 
 
 I hear the noise about thy keel ; 
 
 I hear the bell struck in the night ; 
 
 I see the cabin-window bright ; 
 I see the sailor at tlie wheel. 
 
 Thou bring'st tiie sailor to his wife. 
 And travell'd men from foreign lands 
 And letters unto trembling liands ; 
 
 And thy dark freiglit, a vanisli'd life. 
 
 So bring him : we have idle dreams ; 
 This look of quiet flatters thus 
 Our liome-bred fancies. O, to us. 
 
 The fools of habit, sweeter seems 
 
 To rest beneath the clover sod, 
 That takes the sunshine and the rains, 
 Or where the kneeling hamlet drains 
 
 The chalice of the grapes of God ; 
 
 Than if with thee tlie roaring wells 
 Should gulf him fatliom-deep in brine. 
 And hands so often clasp'd in mine, 
 
 Sliould toss with tangle and with shells. 
 
 Calm is the morn without a sound. 
 Calm as to suit a calmer grief. 
 And only thro' tlie faded leaf 
 
 Tlie chestnut pattering to the ground; 
 
 Calm and deep peace on this high wold. 
 And on these dews that drench the 
 
 furze. 
 And all the silvery gossamers 
 
 That twinkle into green and gold ; 
 
 Calm and still light on yon great plain 
 That sweeps with all its autumn 
 
 bowers, 
 And crowded farms and lessening 
 towers. 
 To mingle with tlie bounding main ; 
 
 Calm and deep peace in this wide air, 
 Tliese leaves that redden to the fall. 
 And in my heart, if calm at all. 
 
 If any calm, a calm despair ; 
 
 Calm on the seas, and silver sleep. 
 
 And waves that sway them.selves in 
 
 rest, 
 .\nd dead calm in that noble breast 
 Which iieaves but with the heaving 
 deep. 
 
 XIII 
 
 Tears of the widower, when he sees 
 A late-lost form that sleep reveals. 
 And moves his doubtful arms, and 
 feels 
 
 Her place is empty, fall like these ; 
 
 Which weep a loss for ever new, 
 
 A void where heart on heart reposed ; 
 And, where warm hands have prest 
 and closed, 
 
 Silence, till I be silent too ; 
 
 Wliich weep the comrade of my choice, 
 An awful thought, a life removed, 
 The human-hearted man I loved, 
 
 A Spirit, not a breathing voice. 
 
S02 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Come, Time, and teach me. many years, 
 
 I do not suffer in a dream ; 
 
 For now so strange do these things 
 seem. 
 Mine eyes have leisure for their tears, 
 
 My fancies time to rise on wing. 
 And glance about the approaching 
 
 sails, 
 As tho' they brought but merchants' 
 bales. 
 And not the burthen that they bring. 
 
 XIV 
 
 If one should bring me this report, 
 That thou hadst touch'd tlie land to- 
 day, 
 And I went down unto tlie quay, 
 
 And found thee lying in the port ; 
 
 And standing, muffled round with woe. 
 Should see thy passengers in rank 
 Come stepping lightly down tlie 
 plank. 
 
 And beckoning unto those they know ; 
 
 And if along with these sliould come 
 The man I held as lialf-divine. 
 Should strike a sudden hand in mine. 
 
 And ask a thousand things of home ; 
 
 And I should tell him all my pain. 
 
 And how my life had droop'd of late. 
 
 And he should sorrow o'er my state 
 And marvel what possess'd my brain ; 
 
 And I perceived no touch of change, 
 No hint of death in all liis frame, 
 But found him all in all the same, 
 
 I should not feel it to be strange. 
 
 XVIII 
 
 'T is well ; 't is something ; we may 
 stand 
 Where he in English earth is laid. 
 And from his ashes may be made 
 
 The violet of his native land. 
 
 'T is little ; but it looks in truth 
 As if tlie quiet bones were blest 
 Among familiar names to rest 
 
 And in the places of his youth. 
 
 Come then, pure liands, and bear the 
 head 
 That sleeps or wears the mask of sleep. 
 And come, whatever loves to weep. 
 
 And hear the ritual of the dead. 
 
 Ah yet, even yet, if this might be, 
 I, falling on his faithful heart. 
 Would breathing thro' his lips impart 
 
 The life that almost dies in me ; 
 
 That dies not, but endures with pain, 
 And slowly forms the firmer mind, 
 Treasuring the look it cannot find, 
 
 The words that are not heard again. 
 
 XIX 
 
 The Danube to the Severn gave 
 
 The darken'd heart that beat no more ; 
 They laid him by the pleasant shore. 
 
 And in the hearing of the wave. 
 
 Tliere twice a day the Severn fills ; 
 The salt sea-water passes bj', 
 And hushes half the babbling Wye, 
 
 And makes a silence in tlie hills. 
 
 The Wye is hush'd nor moved along. 
 
 And hush'd my deepest grief of all. 
 
 When fill'd with tears that cannot 
 fall, 
 I brim with sorrow drowning song. 
 
 Tlie tide flows down, the wave again 
 Is vocal in its wooded walls ; 
 My deeper anguisli also falls, 
 
 And I can speak a little then. 
 
 XXI 
 
 I sing to him that rests below. 
 
 And, since the grasses round nie wave, 
 I take the grasses of the grave. 
 
 And make them pipes whereon to blow. 
 
 Tlie traveller hears me now and then. 
 And sometimes harshly will bespeak: 
 "This fellow would make weakness 
 weak. 
 
 And melt the waxen hearts of men." 
 
 Another answers : " Let him be. 
 He loves to make parade of pain. 
 That with his piping he may gain 
 
 The praise that comes to constancy." 
 
 A third is wroth : " Is this an hour 
 For private sorrow's barren song. 
 When more and more the people throng 
 
 The chairs and thrones of civil power ? 
 
 " A time to sicken and to swoon, 
 Wlien Science reaches forth her arms 
 To feel from world to world, and 
 charms 
 
 Her secret from the latest moon ? " 
 
TENNYSON 
 
 503 
 
 Behold, ye speak an idle thing ; 
 
 Ye never knew the sacred dvist. 
 
 I do but sing because I must. 
 And pipe but as the linnets sing ; 
 
 And one is glad ; her note is gay, 
 
 For now her little ones have ranged ; 
 And one is sad : her note is changed, 
 
 Because her brood is stolen away. 
 
 Now, sometimes in my sorrow shut, 
 Or breaking into song by fits. 
 Alone, alone, to where he sits, 
 
 The Shadow cloak'd from head to foot, 
 
 Who keeps the keys of all the creeds, 
 I wander, often falling lame. 
 And lookijig back to whence I came. 
 
 Or on to where the pathway leads ; 
 
 And crying. How changed from where 
 it ran 
 Thro' lands where not a leaf was 
 
 dumb, 
 But all the lavish hills wovild hum 
 The murmur of a happy Pan ; 
 
 When each by turns was guide to each. 
 
 And Fancy light from Fancy cauglit. 
 
 And Tliought leaped out to wed with 
 
 Thouglit 
 
 Ere Thought could wed itself with 
 
 Speech ; 
 
 And all we met was fair and good. 
 And all was good that Time could 
 
 bring. 
 And all the secret of the Spring 
 
 Moved in the chambers of the blood ; 
 
 And many an old philosophy 
 
 On Argive heights divinely sang. 
 And round us all the thicket rang 
 
 To many a flute of Arcady. 
 
 XXVII 
 
 I envy not in any moods 
 The captive void of noble rage, 
 The linnet born witliin the cage. 
 
 That never knew the summer woods ; 
 
 I envy not the beast that takes 
 His license in the field of time, 
 Unfetter'd by the sense of crime, 
 
 To whom a conscience never wakes ; 
 
 Nor, wliat may count itself as blest. 
 The heart that never plighted troth 
 
 But stagnates in the weeds of sloth ; 
 Nor any want-begotten rest. 
 
 I hold it true, whate'er befall ; 
 
 I feel it. when I sorrow most ; 
 
 'T is better to have loved and lost 
 Than never to have loved at all. 
 
 XXVIII 
 
 The time draws near the birth of Christ. 
 
 The moon is hid, the night is still ; 
 
 The Christmas bells from Jiill to hill 
 Answer each other in the mist. 
 
 Four voices of four liamlets round, 
 From far and near, on mead and moor. 
 Swell out and fail, as if a door 
 
 Were shut between me and the sound : 
 
 Each voice four changes on the wind. 
 That now dilate, and now decrease, 
 Peace and goodwill, goodwill and 
 peace, 
 
 Peace and goodwill, to all mankind. 
 
 This year I slept, and woke with pain, 
 I almost wish'd no more to wake. 
 And that my liold on life would break 
 
 Before I heard those bells again ; 
 
 But they my troubled spirit rule. 
 For they control I'd me when a boy ; 
 They bring me sorrow touch'd with 
 
 joy. 
 
 The merry, merry bells of Yule. 
 
 With trembling fingers did we weave 
 The holly round the Christmas hearth; 
 A rainy cloud possess'd the earth, 
 
 And sadly fell our Christmas-eve. 
 
 At our old pastimes in the hall 
 
 We gamboll'd, making vain pretence 
 Of gladness, witli an awful sense 
 
 Of one mute Shadow watching all. 
 
 We paused : the winds were in the 
 beech ; 
 We heard them sweep the winter 
 
 land ; 
 And in a circle hand-in-hand 
 Sat silent, looking each at each. 
 
 Then echo-like our voices rang ; 
 We sung, tho' every eye was dim, 
 A merry song we sang witli him 
 
 Last year ; impetuously we sang. 
 
50+ 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 I 
 
 We ceased ; a gentler feeling crept 
 Upon us : surely rest is meet. 
 " They rest," we said, " their sleep is 
 sweet," 
 
 And silence foUovv'd, and we wept. 
 
 Our voices took a higher range ; 
 
 Once more we sang : " Tliey do not die 
 Nor lose their mortal sympathy. 
 
 Nor change to us, although they change ; 
 
 "Rapt from tlie fickle and the frail 
 With gather"d power, yet the same, 
 Pierces the keen seraphic flame 
 
 From orb to orb, from veil to veil." 
 
 Rise, happy morn, rise, holy morn. 
 Draw forth the clieerful day from 
 
 night : 
 O Father, touch the east, and light 
 The light that shone when Hope was 
 born. 
 
 XXXI 
 
 When Lazarus left his charn el-cave, 
 And home to Mary's house return'd. 
 Was this demanded — if he yearn 'd 
 
 To hear her weeping by his grave? 
 
 " Where wert thou, brother, those four 
 days ? " 
 There lives no record of reply. 
 Which telling what it is to die 
 
 Had surely added praise to praise. 
 
 From every house the neighbors met. 
 The streets were fill'd with joyful 
 
 sound , 
 A solemn gladness even ci'own'd 
 
 The purple brows of Olivet. 
 
 Behold a man raised up by Christ ! 
 
 The rest remaineth unreveal'd ; 
 
 He told it not, or something seal'd 
 The lips of that Evangelist. 
 
 XXXII 
 
 Her eyes are homes of silent prayer. 
 Nor other tliouglit her mind admits 
 But, he was dead, and there he sits, 
 
 And he tliat brought him back is there. 
 
 Then one deep love doth supersede 
 All other, when lier ardent gaze 
 Roves from the living brother's face, 
 
 And rests upon the Life indeed. 
 
 All subtle thought, all curious fears. 
 Borne down by gladness so complete, 
 She bows, she bathes tlie Saviour's feet 
 
 With costly spikenard and with tears. 
 
 Tlirice blest whose lives are faitliful 
 prayers. 
 
 Whose loves in higher love endure ; 
 
 What souls possess themselves so pure, 
 Or is there blessedness like theirs ? 
 
 O thou that after toil and storm 
 Mayst seem to have reacli'd a purer 
 
 air, 
 Wliose faith has centre everywhere, 
 
 Nor cares to fix itself to form, 
 
 Leave thou thy sister, when she prays. 
 Her early heaven, her happy views ; 
 Nor thou with shadow'd hint confuse 
 
 A life that leads melodious days. 
 
 Her faith thro' form is pure as thine, 
 Her hands are quicker unto good. 
 O, sacred be the flesh and blood 
 
 To which she links a truth divine ! 
 
 See thou, that countest reason ripe 
 In holding by the law witliin, 
 Thou fail not in a world of .sin, 
 
 And even for want of such a type. 
 
 XL 
 
 Could we forget the widow'd hour 
 And look on Spirits breathed away, 
 As on a maiden in the day 
 
 When first she wears her orange-flower ! 
 
 When crovvn'd with blessing .she doth 
 rise 
 To take her latest leave of home, 
 And hopes and light regrets that come 
 
 Make April of her tender e3'es ; 
 
 And doubtful joys the father move. 
 And tears are on tlie mother's face. 
 As parting with a long embrace 
 
 She enters other realms of love : 
 
 Her office there to rear, to teach, 
 Becoming as is meet and fit 
 A link among the days, to knit 
 
 Tlie generations each with each ; 
 
 And, doubtless, unto thee is given 
 A life that bears immortal fruit 
 In those great offices that suit 
 
 The full-grown energies of heaven. 
 
 Ay me, the difference I discern ! 
 How often shall her old fireside 
 Be cheer'd with tidings of the bride, 
 
 How often she herself return, 
 
TENNYSON 
 
 50s 
 
 And tell them all they would have told. 
 
 And bring her babe, and make her 
 boast, 
 
 Till even those that miss'd her most 
 Shall count uew things as dear as old ; 
 
 But thou and I have shaken hands. 
 Till growing winters lay me low ; 
 My paths are in the fields I know, 
 
 And thine in undiscover'd lands. 
 
 If these brief lays, of Sorrow born, 
 Were taken to be such as closed 
 Grave doubts and answers here pro- 
 posed, 
 Then these were such as men might 
 scorn. 
 
 Her care is not to part and prove ; 
 
 She takes, when harsher moods re- 
 mit. 
 
 What slender shade of doubt may flit, 
 And makes it vassal unto love ; 
 
 And hence, indeed, she sports with words, 
 But better serves a wholesome law, 
 And holds it sin and shame to draw 
 
 The deepest measure from the chords ; 
 
 Nor dare she trust a larger lay. 
 But I'ather loosens from the lip 
 Short swallow-flights of song, that dip 
 
 Their wings in tears, and skim away. 
 
 O, yet we trust that somehow good 
 Will be the final goal of ill, 
 To pangs of nature, sins of will. 
 
 Defects of doubt, and taints of blood ; 
 
 Tliat nothing walks with aimless feet ; 
 Tiiat not one life shall be destroy'd, 
 Or cast as rubbish to the void, 
 
 When God hath made the pile complete 
 
 That not a worm is cloven in vain ; 
 That not a moth with vain desire 
 Is shrivell'd in a fruitless fire. 
 
 Or but subserves another's gain. 
 
 Behold, we know not anything ; 
 I can but trust that good shall fall 
 At last — far off — at last, to all, 
 
 And every winter change to spring. 
 
 So runs my dream ; but what am I ? 
 
 An infant crying in the night ; 
 
 An infant crying for the light, 
 And with no language but a cry. 
 
 The wish, that of the living whole 
 No Ijife may fail beyond the grave. 
 Derives it not from what we have 
 
 The likest God within the soul ? 
 
 Are God and Nature tlien at strife, 
 That Nature lends such evil dreams ? 
 So careful of the type she seems. 
 
 So careless of the single life. 
 
 That I, considering everywhere 
 Hei- secret meaning in her deeds, 
 And finding that of fifty seeds 
 
 Slie often brings but one to bear, 
 
 I falter where I firmly trod, 
 
 And falling with my weight of cares 
 Upon the great world's altar-stairs 
 
 That slope thro' darkness up to God, 
 
 I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope, 
 And gather dust and chaff', and call 
 To what I feel is Lord of all. 
 
 And faintly trust the larger hope. 
 
 "So careful of the type ? " but no. 
 From scarped cliff and quarried stone 
 She cries, "■ A tliousand types are gone ; 
 
 I care for nothing, all shall go. 
 
 " Thou makest thine appeal to me : 
 I bring to life. I bring to death ; 
 Tlie spirit does l)iit mean the breath : 
 
 I know no more." And he, shall he. 
 
 Mm, her last work, who seem'd so fair, 
 Sucli splendid [)urpose in his eyes, 
 Wiio roll'd the psalm to wintry skies, 
 
 Wlio built him fanes of fruitless prayer, 
 
 Wlio trusted God was love indeed 
 And love Creation's final law — 
 Tlio' Nature, red in tooth and claw 
 With ravine, shriek'd against his creed — 
 
 Who loved, who suffer'd countless ills. 
 Who battled for the True, the Just, 
 Be l)lowu about the desert dust. 
 
 Or seal'd within the iron liills ? 
 
 No more ? A monster then, a dream, 
 A discord. Dragons of tiie prime, 
 That tear each other in their slime. 
 
 Were mellow music match'd with him. 
 
 O life as futile, then, as frail ! 
 
 O for thy voine to sootlie and bless ! 
 
 Wliat hope of answer, or redress 'i 
 Behind the veil, behind tlie veil. 
 
BRITISH POETS 
 
 Peace ; come away : the song of woe 
 
 Is after all an earthlj^ song. 
 
 Peace ; come away : we do him \vrong 
 To sing so wildly : let us go. 
 
 Come ; let us go : your cheeks are pale ; 
 
 But half my life I leave behind. 
 
 Methinks my friend is richly shrined ; 
 But I shall pass, my work will fail. 
 
 Yet in these ears, till liearing dies. 
 One set slow bell will seem to toll 
 Tlie passing of the sweetest soul 
 
 That ever look'd with human eyes. 
 
 I hear it now, and o'er and o'er, 
 Eternal greetings to the dead ; 
 And " Ave, Ave, Ave," said, 
 
 " Adieu, adieu," for evermore. 
 
 In those sad words I took farewell. 
 Like echoes in sepulchral halls, 
 As drop by drop the water falls 
 
 In vaults and catacombs, they fell ; 
 
 And, falling, idly broke the peace 
 Of hearts that beat from day to day. 
 Half-conscious of their dying clay. 
 
 And those cold crypts where they shall 
 cease. 
 
 The high Muse answer'd :" Wherefore 
 grieve 
 
 Thy brethren with a fruitless tear ? 
 
 Abide a little longer here. 
 And thou shalt take a nobler leave." 
 
 Dost thou look back on what hath been. 
 As some divinely gifted man. 
 Whose life in low estate began 
 
 And on a simple village green ; 
 
 Who breaks his birth's invidious bar, 
 And grasps the skirts of happy chance. 
 And breasts the blows of circumstance. 
 
 And grapples with his evil star ; 
 
 AVho makes by force his merit known 
 And lives to clutch the golden keys. 
 To mould a mighty state's decrees. 
 
 And shape the whisper of the throne ; 
 
 And moving up from high to higher. 
 Becomes on Fortune's crowning slope 
 The pillar of a people's hope, 
 
 The center of a world's desire ; 
 
 Yet feels, as in a pensive dream. 
 
 When all his active powers are still, 
 A distant dearness in the hill, 
 
 A secret sweetness in the stream, 
 
 The limit of his narrower fate. 
 While yet beside its vocal springs 
 He playVl at counsellors and kings 
 
 With one tliat was his earliest mate ; 
 
 Who ploughs with pain his native lea 
 And reaps the labor of his hands. 
 Or in the furrow musing stands : 
 
 " Does my old friend remember me? " 
 
 LXVII 
 
 Wiien on my bed the naoonlight falls, 
 I know that in thy place of rest 
 By that broad water of the west 
 
 There comes a glory on the walls : 
 
 Thy marble bright in dark appears, 
 As slowly steals a silver flame 
 Along the letters of thy name, 
 
 And o'er the number of thy years. 
 
 The mj'stic glory swims away. 
 
 From off my bed the moonlight dies ; 
 And closing eaves of wearied eyes 
 
 I sleep till dusk is dipt in gray ; 
 
 And then I know the mist is drawn 
 A lucid veil from coast to coast. 
 And in the dark church like a ghost 
 
 Thy tablet glimmers in the dawn. 
 
 As sometimes in a dead man's face. 
 To those that watch it mcne and more, 
 A likeness, hardly seen before, 
 
 Conies out — to some one of his race ; 
 
 So, dearest, now thy brows are cold, 
 I see thee what thou art, and know 
 Thy likeness to the wise below. 
 
 Thy kindred with the great of old. 
 
 But there is more than I can .see. 
 And what I see I leave unsaid. 
 Nor speak it, knowing Death has made 
 
 His darkness beautiful with thee. 
 
 LXXVIII 
 
 Again at Christmas did we weave 
 
 Tiie holly round the Christmas hearth; 
 The silent snow possess'd the earth, 
 
 And calmly fell our Christmas-eve. 
 
 I 
 
TENNYSON 
 
 507 
 
 The yule-clog sparkled keen with frost, 
 No wing of wind the region swept, 
 But over all things brooding slept 
 
 The quiet sense of something lost. 
 
 As in the winters left behind, 
 Again our ancient games had place, 
 The mimic picture's breathing grace, 
 
 And dance and song and hoodman-blind. 
 
 Who show'd a token of distress? 
 No single tear," no mark of pain — 
 O sorrow, then can sorrow wane? 
 
 O grief , can grief be changed to less? 
 
 O last regret, regret can die I 
 No — mixed with all this mystic frame, 
 Her deep relations are the same, 
 
 But with long use her tears are dry. 
 
 Dip down upon tlie northern shore, 
 
 sweet new-A^ear delaying long ; 
 Thou doest expectant Nature wrong ; 
 
 Delaying long, delay no more. 
 
 What fitaj^s thee fi'om tlie clouded noons. 
 Thy sweetness from its proper place ; 
 Can trouble live witli April days, 
 
 Or sadness in the summer moons? 
 
 Bring orchis, bring the foxglove spire. 
 The little speedwell's darling blue. 
 Deep tulips dash'd with fiery dew, 
 
 Laburnums, dropping-wells of fire. 
 
 O thou, new-year, delaying long, 
 Delayest the sorrow in my blood, 
 
 KThat longs to burst a frozen bud 
 And flood a freslier throat with song. 
 
 LXXXV 
 
 This truth came borne with bier and pall, 
 
 1 felt it, when I sorrow'd most, 
 
 'T is better to have loved and lost, 
 Than never to have loved at all — 
 
 O true in word, and tried in deed, 
 Demanding, so to bring relief 
 To this which is our common grief, 
 
 What kind of life is that I lead ; 
 
 And whether trust in things above 
 Be dimm'd of sorrow, or sustained ; 
 And whether love for him have drain'd 
 
 My capabilities of love ; 
 
 Your words have virtue such as draws 
 A faithful answer from the breast. 
 
 Thro' light reproaches, half expressed, 
 And loyal unto kindly laws. 
 
 My blQod an even tenor kept, 
 
 Till on mine ear this message falls, 
 That in Vienna's fatal walls 
 
 God's finger touch'd him, and he slept. 
 
 The great Intelligences fair 
 
 That range above our mortal state. 
 In circle round the blessed gate, 
 
 Received and gave him welcome there ; 
 
 And led him thro' the blissful climes. 
 And show'd Jiim in the fountain fresh 
 All knowledge that the sons of flesh 
 
 Shall gather in the cycled times. 
 
 But I remain'd, whose hopes were dim. 
 Whose life, whose thoughts were little 
 
 worth. 
 To wander on a darken'd earth. 
 Where all things round me breathed of 
 him. 
 
 O friendship, equal-poised control. 
 O heart, with kindliest motion warm, 
 
 sacred essence, other form, 
 O solemn ghost, O crowned soul ! 
 
 Yet none could better know than I, 
 How much of act at human hands 
 The sense of hunian will demands 
 
 By which we dare to live or die. 
 
 Whatever way my days decline, 
 
 1 felt and feel, tho' left alone, 
 His being working in mine own, 
 
 The footsteps of his life in mine ; 
 
 A life that all the Muses deck'd 
 
 With gifts of grace, that might express 
 AlI-conrprel»ensive tenderness. 
 
 All-subtilizing intellect : 
 
 And so my passion hath not swerved 
 To works of weakness, but I find 
 An image comforting the mind. 
 
 And in my grief a strength reserved. 
 
 Likewise the imaginative woe. 
 That loved to handle spiritual strife, 
 Diffused tlie shock thro' all my life, 
 
 But in the present broke the blow. 
 
 My pulses therefore beat again 
 
 For other friends that once I met ; 
 Nor can it suit me to forget 
 
 The mighty hopes that make us men. 
 
So8 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 
 I woo your love : I count it crime 
 To mourn for any overmuch ; 
 I, the divided half of such 
 
 A friendship as had master'd Time ; 
 
 Which masters Time indeed, and is 
 Eternal, separate from fears. 
 The all-assuming months and years 
 
 Can take no part away from this ; 
 
 But Summer on the steaming floods. 
 And Spring that sw-ells the narrow- 
 brooks, 
 And Autumn, with a noise of rooks, 
 
 That gather in the waning woods, 
 
 And every pulse of wind and wave 
 Recalls, in change of liglit or gloom, 
 My old affection of the tomb. 
 
 And m\^ prime passion in the grave. 
 
 My old affection of the tomb, 
 
 A part of stillness, yearns to speak : 
 " Arise, and get thee forth and seek 
 
 A friendship for the years to come. 
 
 " I watch thee from the quiet siiore ; 
 
 Thy spirit up to mine can reach ; 
 
 But in dear words of human speech 
 We two communicate no more." 
 
 And I, " Can clouds of nature stain 
 The starry clearness of the free ? 
 How is it ? Canst thou feel for me 
 
 Some painless sympathy with pain ? " 
 
 And lightly does tlie whisper fall : 
 " 'T is hard for thee to fathom this ; 
 I triumph in conclusive bliss. 
 
 And that serene result of all." 
 
 So hold I commerce with the dead ; 
 
 Or so methinks the dead would say ; 
 
 Or so shall grief with sj inbols play 
 And pining life be fancy-fed. 
 
 Novv looking to some settled end. 
 
 That those things pass, and I sliall prove 
 A meeting somewhere, love with love, 
 
 I crave your pardon, O my friend ; 
 
 If not so fresli, with love as true, 
 I, clasping brother-hands, aver 
 I could not, if I would, transfer 
 
 The whole I felt for liim to you. 
 
 For which be they that hold apart 
 The promise of the golden hours ? 
 First love, first friendship, equal 
 powers. 
 
 That marry with the virgin heart. 
 
 Still mine, that cannot but deplore, 
 That beats witliin a lonely place. 
 That yet remembers his embrace, 
 
 But at his footstep leaps no more. 
 
 My heart, tho' widow'd, may not rest 
 Quiet in the love of what is gone, 
 But seeks to beat in time with one 
 
 That warms another living breast. 
 
 Ah, take the imperfect gift I bring, 
 Knowing the primrose yet is dear, 
 The primrose of the later year, 
 
 As not unlike to that of Spring. 
 
 Sweet after showers, ambrosial air, 
 That rollest from the gorgeous gloom 
 Of evening over brake and bloom 
 
 And meadow, slowly breathing bare 
 
 Tlie round of space, and rapt below 
 Thro' all the dewj^ tassell'd wood, 
 And shadowing down the horned flood 
 
 In ripples, fan my brows and blow 
 
 The fever from my cheek, and sigh 
 The full new life that feeds thy breath 
 Throughout my frame, till Doubt and 
 Death. 
 
 Ill brethren, let the fancy fly. 
 
 From belt to belt of crimson seas 
 On leagues of odor streaming far. 
 To where m yonder orient star 
 
 A hundred spirits whisper " Peace." 
 
 LXXXVIl 
 
 I past beside the reverend walls 
 In wliich of old I wore the gown ; 
 I roved at random thro' the town. 
 
 And saw the tumult of the halls ; 
 
 And heard once more in college fanes 
 The storm their high-built organs 
 
 make. 
 And thunder-music, rolling, shake 
 
 Tlie prophet blazon'd on the panes ; 
 
 And caught once more the distant .shout. 
 The measured pulse of i-acing oars 
 Among the willows ; paced the shores 
 
 And many a bridge, and all about. 
 
 The same gray flats again, and felt 
 The same, but not the same ; and last 
 Up that long walk of limes I past 
 
 To see the rooms in which he dwelt. 
 
TENNYSON 
 
 509 
 
 Atiotlier name was ou tlie door. 
 I liiiger'd ; all within svas noise 
 Of songs, and clapping hands, and 
 boys 
 
 Tliat crash'd the glass and beat the floor ; 
 
 Where once we held debate, a band 
 Of youthful friends, on mind and art, 
 And labor, and the clianging mart. 
 
 And all the framework of the land ; 
 
 Wlien one would aim an arrow fair. 
 
 But send it slackly from the string ; 
 
 And one woukl pierce an outer ring, 
 And one an inner, here and there ; 
 
 And last the master-bowman, he, 
 
 Would cleave tlie mark. A willing 
 
 ear 
 We lent him. Who but hung to hear 
 
 Tlie rapt oration flowing free 
 
 From point to point, with power and 
 grace 
 And music in the bounds of law, 
 To those conclusions wlien we saw 
 
 The God within him light his face, 
 
 And seem to lift the form, and glow 
 In azure orbits heavenly- wise ; 
 And over those ethereal eyes 
 
 The bar of Michael Angelo ? 
 
 Wild bird, whose warble, liquid sweet. 
 Rings Eden thro' the budded quicks, 
 O, tell me where the senses mix, 
 
 O, tell me whei'e the passions meet. 
 
 Whence radiate : fierce extremes em- 
 ploy 
 Thy spirits in the darkening leaf. 
 And in the midmost lieart of grief 
 
 "Tljy passion clasps a secret joy ; 
 
 And I — my harp would prelude woe — 
 I cannot all command tlie strings ; 
 The glory of the sum of things 
 
 Will flash along the chords and go. 
 
 xcvi 
 
 You say, but with no touch of scorn, 
 Sweet-liearted, you, wliose light-blue 
 
 eyes 
 Are tender over drowning flies. 
 
 You tell me, doubt is Devil-born. 
 
 I know not : one indeed I knew 
 In many a subtle question versed. 
 
 Who touch'd a jarring lyre at first. 
 But ever strove to make it true ; 
 
 Perplexed in faith, but pure in deeds, 
 At last he beat his music out. 
 Tliere lives more faith in honest doubt, 
 
 Believe me, than in half the creeds. 
 
 He fought his doubts and gather'd 
 strength, 
 He would not make his judgment 
 
 blind. 
 He faced the spectres of the mind 
 And laid tliein ; thus he came at length 
 
 To find a stronger faith his own. 
 
 And Power was with liim in the night. 
 Which makes tlie darkness and the 
 light. 
 
 And dwells not in the light alone. 
 
 But in tlie darkness and the cloud, 
 As over Sinai's peaks of old. 
 While Israel made their gods of gold, 
 
 Altlio' the trnmpet blew so loud. 
 
 My love has talk'd with rocks and trees ; 
 He finds on misty mountain-ground 
 His own vast shadow glory-crown'd ; 
 
 He sees himself in all he sees. 
 
 Two partners of a married life — 
 
 I look'd on these and thought of thee 
 In vastness and in niysterj'. 
 
 And of my spirit as of a wife. 
 
 These two — they dwelt with eye on eye. 
 Their hearts of old have beat in tune, 
 Tiieir meetings made December June, 
 
 Their every parting was to die. 
 
 Their love has never past away ; 
 The days she never can forget 
 Are earnest that he loves her yet, 
 
 Whate'er the faithless people say. 
 
 Her life is lone, he sits apart ; 
 
 He loves her yet, slie will not weep, 
 Tiio' rapt in matters dark and deep 
 
 He seems to slight her simple iieart. 
 
 He thrids the labyrinth of the mind. 
 He reads the secret of the star. 
 He seems so near and yet so far, 
 
 He looks so cold : she thinks him kind. 
 
 She keeps the gift of years before, 
 A wither 'd violet is her bliss ; 
 She knows not what his greatness is. 
 
 For that, for all, she loves him more. 
 
BRITISH POETS 
 
 For him she plays, to him slie sings 
 Of early faith and pUghted vows ; 
 She knows but matters of the house, 
 
 And he, he knows a thousand things. 
 
 Her faith is fixed and cannot move. 
 She darkly feels him great and wise. 
 She dwells on him with faithful eyes, 
 
 " I cannot understand ; I love." 
 
 Cil 
 
 We leave the well-beloved place 
 
 Where first we gazed upon the sky ; 
 The roofs that heard our earliest cry 
 
 Will shelter one of stranger race. 
 
 We go, but ere we go from home, 
 As down the garden-walks I move, 
 Two spirits of a diverse love 
 
 Contend for loving masterdom. 
 
 One whispers, " Here thy boyhood sung 
 Long since its matin song, and heard 
 The low love-language of the bird 
 
 In native hazels tassel-hung." 
 
 The other answers, " Yea, but here 
 Thy feet have stray'd in after hours 
 Witli thj^ lost friend among the 
 bowers. 
 
 And this hath made them trebly dear." 
 
 Tliese two have striven half the day, 
 And each prefers his separate claim. 
 Poor rivals in a losing game, 
 
 That will not yield each other way. 
 
 I turn to go ; my feet are set 
 
 To leave the pleasant fields and 
 farms ; 
 
 Thej'^ mix in one another's arms 
 To one pure image of regret. 
 
 CIV 
 
 The time draws near the birth of Christ ; 
 
 The moon is hid, the night is still ; 
 
 A single church below the hill 
 Is pealing, folded in the mist. 
 
 A single peal of bells below. 
 That wakens at this hour of rest 
 A single murmur in the breast, 
 
 That these are not the bells I know. 
 
 Like strangers' voices here they sound. 
 In lands where not a memory strays, 
 Nor landmark breathes of other days. 
 
 But all is new unhallow'd ground. 
 
 cvi 
 
 Ring out. wild bells, to the wild sky, 
 The flying cloud, the frosty light : 
 The year is dying in the night ; 
 
 Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. 
 
 Ring out the old, i-ing in the new, 
 Ring, happy bells, across the snow : 
 The year is going, let liim go ; 
 
 Ring out the false, ring in the true. 
 
 Ring out the grief that saps the mind, 
 For those that liere we see no more ; 
 Ring out the feud of rich and poor ; 
 
 Ring in redress to all mankind. 
 
 Ring out a slowly dying cause, 
 And ancient foi-ms of party strife ; 
 Ring in the nobler modes of life, 
 
 With sweeter manners, purer laws. 
 
 Ring out the want, the care, the sin, 
 The faitliless coldness of the times ; 
 Ring out, ring out my mournful 
 rhymes. 
 
 But ring the fuller minstrel in. 
 
 Ring out false pride in place and blood, 
 Tlie civic slander and the spite ; 
 Ring in the love of truth and right, 
 
 Ring in the common love of good. 
 
 Ring out old shapes ©f foul disease ; 
 
 Ring out the narrowing lust of gold ; 
 
 Ring out the thousand wars of old. 
 Ring in the thousand years of peace. 
 
 Ring in the valiant man and free, 
 The larger heart, the kindlier hand ; 
 Ring out tlie darkness of the land, 
 
 Ring in the Christ that is to be. 
 
 CVIII 
 
 I will not shut me from my kind, 
 And, lest I stiffen into stone, 
 I will not eat my heart alone. 
 
 Nor feed with sighs a passing wind : 
 
 What profit lies in barren faith, 
 And vacant yearning, tho' with might 
 To scale tlie heaven's lughest height, 
 
 Or dive below the wells of death ? 
 
 What find I in the highest place. 
 
 But mine own phantom chanting 
 
 hymns ? 
 And on the deptlis of death there 
 swims 
 The reflex of a human face. 
 
TENNYSON 
 
 511 
 
 111 rather take what fruit may be 
 Of sorrovv^ uiuler human skies : 
 'T ia lield that sorrow makes us wise, 
 
 Whatever wisdom sleep witli thee. 
 
 The churl in spirit, up or down 
 Along the scale of ranks, tliro' all. 
 To liim who grasps a golden ball, 
 
 By blood a king, at heart a clown, — 
 
 Tlie churl in spirit, howe'er he veil 
 His want in forms for fashion's sake, 
 Will let his coltish nature break 
 
 At seasons thro' the gilded pale ; 
 
 For who can always act ? but he, 
 To whom a thousand memories call, 
 Not being less but more than all 
 
 The gentleness he seem'd to be, 
 
 Best seem'd the thing he was, and join'd 
 Each office of the social hour 
 To noble manners, as the flower 
 
 And native growth of noble mind ; 
 
 Nor ever nari'owness or spite, 
 Or villain fancy fleeting bj^, 
 Drew in the expression of an eye 
 
 Where God and Nature met in light ; 
 
 And thus he bore without abuse 
 The grand old name of gentleman, 
 Defamed by every charlatan. 
 
 And soil'd with all ignoble use. 
 
 CXIII 
 
 'Tis held that sorrow makes us wise ; 
 
 Yet how much wisdom sleeps with 
 thee 
 
 Which not alone had guided me, 
 But served the seasons that may rise ; 
 
 For can I doubt, who knew thee keen 
 In intellect, with force and skill 
 To strive, to fashion, to fulfil — 
 
 I doubt not what thou wouldst have 
 been : 
 
 A life in civic action warm, 
 A soul on highest mission sent, 
 A potent voice of Parliament, 
 
 A pillar steadfast in the storm. 
 
 Should licensed boldness gather force. 
 Becoming, when the time has birth, 
 A lever to uplift the earth 
 
 And roll it in another course, 
 
 With thousand shocks that come and 
 . SO, 
 With agonies, with energies, 
 With overthrowings, and with cries. 
 
 And undulations to and fro. 
 
 cxiv 
 
 Who loves not Knowledge ? Who shall 
 rail 
 Against her beauty ? May she mix 
 With men and prosper ! Who shall 
 fix 
 Her pillars ? Let her work i^revail. 
 
 But on her foreliead sits a fire ; 
 She sets lier forward countenance 
 And leaps into tlie future chance, 
 
 Submitting all things to desire. 
 
 Half-grown as yet, a child, and vain — 
 She cannot figlit the fear of death. 
 What is she, cut from love and faith, 
 
 But some wild Pallas from the brain 
 
 Of demons? fiery-hot to burst 
 All barriers in lier onward race 
 For power. Let her know her place ; 
 
 She is the second, not tlie first. 
 
 A higher hand must make her mild. 
 If all be not in vain, and guide 
 Her footsteps, moving side by side 
 
 With Wisdom, like the younger child ; 
 
 For she is earthly of the mind. 
 But Wisdom heavenly of the soul. 
 O friend, who earnest to thy goal 
 
 So early, leaving me behind, 
 
 I would the great world grew like thee, 
 Who grewest not alone in power 
 And knowledge, but by year and hour 
 
 In reverence and in charity. 
 
 cxv 
 
 Now fades the last long streak of snow, 
 Now burgeons every maze of quick 
 About the flowering squares, and 
 thick 
 
 By ashen roots the violets blow. 
 
 Now rings the woodland loud and long, 
 The distance takes a lovelier hue, 
 And drown'd in yonder living blue 
 
 The lark becomes a sightless song. 
 
 Now dance the lights on lawn and lea, 
 The flocks are whiter down the vale, 
 And milkier every milky sail 
 
 On winding stream or distant sea. 
 
512 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Where now the seaniew pipes, or dives 
 In yonder greening gleam, and fly 
 Tlie happy birds, that change their 
 sky 
 
 To build and brood, that live their lives 
 
 From land to land ; and in my breast 
 Spring wakens too, and my regret 
 Becomes an April violet, 
 
 And buds and blossoms like the rest. 
 
 CXVIII 
 
 Contemplate all this work of Time, 
 The giant laboring in his youth ; 
 Nor dream of human love and truth, 
 
 As dying Nature's earth and lime ; 
 
 But trust that those we call the dead 
 Are breathers of an am]>ler day 
 For ever nobler ends. Tliey say. 
 
 The solid earth whereon we tread 
 
 In tracts of fluent heat began, 
 
 And grew to seeming-random forms. 
 The seeming prey of cyclic storms, 
 
 Till at the last arose tiie man ; 
 
 Who throve and branch'd from clime to 
 clime, 
 The herald of a higher race. 
 And of himself in higher place, 
 
 If so he type this work of time 
 
 Within himself, from more to more ; 
 Or, crown'd with attributes of woe 
 Like glories, move his course, and 
 show 
 
 That life is not as idle ore. 
 
 But iron dug from central gloom. 
 And heated hot with burning fears, 
 And dipped in baths of hissing tears. 
 
 And batter'd with the shocks of doom 
 
 To shape and use. Arise and fly 
 The reeling Faun, the sensual feast : 
 Move upward, working out the beast. 
 
 And let the ape and tiger die. 
 
 CXXIII 
 
 Tliere rolls the deep where grew the 
 tree. 
 O earth, what changes hast thou seen ! 
 There where the long street roars hath 
 been 
 The stillness of the central sea. 
 
 The hills are shadows, and thej' flow 
 From form to form, and nothing 
 stands ; 
 
 They melt like mist, the solid lands. 
 Like clouds they shape themselves and 
 
 go- 
 But in my spirit will I dwell, 
 
 And dream my dream, and hold it true ; 
 
 For tho' my lips may breathe adieu, 
 I cannot think the thing farewell. 
 
 CXXIV 
 
 That which we dare invoke to bless ; 
 
 Our deai'est faith ; our ghastliest 
 doubt ; 
 
 He, They, One, All ; within, without ; 
 The Power in darkness whom we guess, — 
 
 I found Him not in world or sun, 
 Or eagle's wing, or insect's eye. 
 Nor thro' the questions men may try, 
 
 The petty cobwebs we have spun. 
 
 If e'er when faith had fallen asleep, 
 I heard a voice. '• believe no more," 
 And heard an ever-breaking shore 
 
 That tumbled in the Godless deep, 
 
 A warmth within the breast would melt 
 The freezing reason's colder part. 
 And like a man in wrath tlie heart 
 
 Stood up and answer'd, " I have felt." 
 
 No, like a child in doubt and fear : 
 But that blind clamor made jne wise ; 
 Then was I as a child that cries. 
 
 But, crying, knows his father near ; 
 
 And what I am beheld again 
 
 What is, and no man understands ; 
 And out of darkness came the hands 
 
 That reach thro' nature, moulding men. 
 
 What ever I have said or sung, 
 
 Some bitter notes mj' harp would give. 
 Yea, tho' there often seem'd to live 
 
 A contradiction on the tongue. 
 
 Yet hope had never lost her youth. 
 
 She did but look through dimmer eyes ; 
 
 Or Love but play'd with gracious lies. 
 Because he felt so fix'd in truth ; 
 
 And if the song were full of care. 
 He bi'eathed the spirit of the song : 
 And if the words were sweet and 
 strong 
 
 He set his royal signet there ; 
 
TENNYSON 
 
 5^3 
 
 Abiding witli ine till I sail 
 To seek thee on the mystic deeps, 
 And this electric; force, that keeps 
 
 A thousand pulses dancing, fail. 
 
 CXXVI 
 
 Love is and was nij' lord and king. 
 And in his presence I attend 
 To hear the tidings of mj' friend, 
 
 Which every hour his couriers bring. 
 
 Love is and was my king and lord. 
 And will be, tho' as yet I keep 
 Within the court on earth, and sleep 
 
 Encompass'd by his faithful guard. 
 
 And hear at times a sentinel 
 Who moves about from place to place, 
 And whispers to the worlds of space, 
 
 In the deep night, that all is well. 
 
 CXXVII 
 
 And all is well, tho' faith and form 
 Be sunder'd in the night of fear ; 
 Well roars the storm to those that hear 
 
 A deeper voice across the storm, 
 
 Proclaiming social truth shall spread, 
 And justice, even tho' thrice again 
 The red fool-fury of the Seine 
 
 Should pile her barricades with dead. 
 
 But ill for him that wears a crown, 
 And him, the lazar, in his rags ! 
 They tremble, the sustaining crags ; 
 
 The spires of ice are toppled down, 
 
 And molten up, and roar in flood ; 
 The fortress crashes from on high. 
 The brute earth lightens to the sky. 
 
 And the great ^on sinks in blood, 
 
 And conipass'd by the fires of hell ; 
 While thou, dear spirit, happy star, 
 O'erlook'st the tumult from afar, 
 
 And smilest, knowing all is well. 
 
 Dear friend, far off, my lost desire, 
 So far, so near in woe and weal, 
 O loved the most, when most I feel 
 
 There is a lower and a higher ; 
 
 Known and unknown, human, divine ; 
 
 Sweet human hand and lij)s and eye ; 
 
 Dear heavenly friend tiiat canst not 
 die. 
 Mine, mine, for ever, ever mine ; 
 
 33 
 
 Strange friend, past, present, and to be ; 
 
 Loved deeplier, darklier understood ; 
 
 Behold, I dream a dream of good. 
 And mingle all the world with thee. 
 
 cxxx 
 
 Thy voice i»on the rolling air ; 
 
 I hear thee where the waters run ; 
 
 Thou standest in the rising sun. 
 And in the setting thou art fair. 
 
 What art thou then ? I cannot guess ; 
 But tho' I seem in star and flower 
 To feel thee some diffusive power, 
 
 I do not therefore love thee less. 
 
 My love involves the love before ; 
 
 My love is vaster passion now ; 
 
 Tho' mix'd with God and Nature thou, 
 I seem to love thee more and more. 
 
 Far off thou art, but ever nigh ; 
 
 I have thee still, and I rejoice ; 
 
 I prosper, circled with thy voice ; 
 I shall not lose thee tho' I die. 
 
 cxxx I 
 
 O living will that shalt endui'e 
 
 When all that seems shall suffer shock, 
 Rise in the spiritual rock, 
 
 Flow thro' our deeds and make them 
 pure, 
 
 That we may lift from out of dust 
 A voice as unto him that hears, 
 A cry above the conquer'd years 
 
 To one that with us works, and trust. 
 
 With faith that comes of self-control, 
 The truths that never can be proved 
 Until we close with all we loved, 
 
 And all we flow from, soul in soul. 
 
 1S33-49. 1850. 
 
 TO THE QUEEN 1 
 
 Revered, beloved — O j'ou that hold 
 
 A nobler office upon earth 
 
 Than arms, or power of brain, or birth 
 Could give the warrior kings of old, 
 
 Victoria, — since your Royal grace 
 To one of less desert allows 
 This laurel greener from the brows 
 
 Of him that utter'd nothing base ; 
 
 1 Prefixed to the first edition of Tennyson's 
 Poems published after he became Poet Laureate. 
 
514 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 And should your greatness, and the care 
 That yokes with empire, yield you time 
 To make demand of modern rhyme 
 
 If aught of ancient worth be there ; 
 
 Then — while a sweeter music wakes, 
 And thro' wild March the throstle calls. 
 Where all about your palace-walls 
 
 The sun-lit almond-blossom shakes — 
 
 Take, Madam, this poor book of song ; 
 For tho' the faults were thick as dust 
 In vacant chainbers, I could trust 
 
 Your kindness. May you rule us long, 
 
 And leave us rulers of your blood 
 As noble till the latest day ! 
 May children of our children say, 
 
 " She wrought her people lasting good ; 
 
 " Her court was pure ; her life serene ; 
 
 God gave her jieace ; lier land reposed ; 
 
 A tliousand claims to reverence closed 
 In her as Mother, Wife, and Queen ; 
 
 " And statesmen at her council met 
 Wiio knew the seasons wlien to take 
 Occasion by the hand, and make 
 
 The bounds of freedom wider yet 
 
 " By sliaping some august deci'ee 
 Whicli kept her throne unshaken still, 
 Broad-based upon her people's will. 
 
 And compass'd by the inviolate sea." 
 
 1851. 
 
 THE EAGLE 
 
 FRAGMENT 
 
 He clasps the crag with crooked hands. 
 Close to the sun in lonely lands. 
 Ring'd with the azure world, he stands. 
 
 Tlie wrinkled sea beneath him crawls ; 
 He watches from his mountain walls, 
 And like a thunderbolt he falls. 
 
 1851. 
 
 COME NOT WHEN I AM DEAD 
 
 / Come not, when I am dead, 
 * To drop thy foolish tears upon my 
 ) grave, 
 
 •^ To trample round my fallen head. 
 
 And vex the vmhappy dust thou 
 wouldst not save. 
 There let tlie wind sweep and the plover 
 cry ; 
 ^ But thou, go by. 
 
 Child, if it were thine error or tliy crime 
 
 I care no longer, being all unblest : 
 Wed whom tliou wilt, but I am sick of 
 time, 
 And I desire to rest. 
 Pass on, weak heart, and leave me wliere 
 Hie; 
 Go by, go by. 1851. 
 
 ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE 
 OF WELLINGTON 
 
 Bury the Great Duke 
 
 With an empire's lamentation ; 
 Let us bury the Great Duke 
 
 To tlie noise of the mourning of a 
 mighty nation ; 
 Mourning when tlieir leaders fall. 
 Warriors carry tlie warrior's jiall. 
 And sorrow darkens hamlet and hall. 
 
 Where shall we lay the man whom we 
 
 deplore ? 
 Here, in streaming London's central 
 
 roar. 
 Let the sound of those lie wrought for, 
 And the feet of those he fought for, 
 Eclio round his bones for evermore. 
 
 Lead out the pageant : sad and slow, 
 
 As fits an universal woe. 
 
 Let the long, long procession go. 
 
 And let the sorrowing crowd about it 
 
 grow. 
 And let the mournful martial music 
 
 blow ; 
 The last great Englishman is low. 
 
 IV 
 
 Mourn, for to us he seems the last, 
 Remembering all his greatness in the 
 
 past. 
 No more in soldier fashion will he greet 
 Witli lifted hand the gazer in the street. 
 O friends, our chief state-oracle is mute! 
 Mourn for the man of long-enduring 
 
 blood, 
 Tlie statesman -warrior, moderate, reso- 
 lute, 
 Whole in himself, a common good. 
 Mourn for the man of amplest influence, 
 Yet clearest of ambitiovis crime. 
 Our greatest yet with least pretence. 
 Great in council and great in war, 
 
TENNYSON 
 
 515 
 
 Foremost captain of his time, 
 
 Ricli in saving common-sense, 
 
 And, as the greatest only are, 
 
 In his simplicity sublime. 
 
 O good gray head whicli all men knew, 
 
 O voice from which their omens all men 
 
 drew, 
 O iron nerve to true occasion true, 
 O fallen at length tliat tower of strengtli 
 Which stood four-square to all the winds 
 
 that blew ! 
 Such was he whom we deplore. 
 Tlie long self-sacrifice of life is o'er. 
 The great World-victor's victor will be 
 
 seen no more. 
 
 All is over and done, 
 
 Render tlianks to the Giver, 
 
 England, for thy son. 
 
 Let the bell be toll'd. 
 
 Render thanks to the Giver, 
 
 And render him to the mould. 
 
 Under the cross of gold 
 
 That shines over city and river, 
 
 There he shall rest for ever 
 
 Among the wise and the bold. 
 
 Let the bell be toll'd, 
 
 And a reverent peo])le behold 
 
 The towering car, the j^able steeds. 
 
 Bright let it l)e witli its blazon'd deeds. 
 
 Dark in its funerid fold. 
 
 Let the bell be toll'd. 
 
 And a deeper knell in the heart be 
 knoll'd ; 
 
 And tlie sound of the sorrowing anthem 
 roU'd 
 
 Thro' tlie dome of the golden cross; 
 
 And the volleying cannon thunder his 
 loss ; 
 
 He knew their voices of old. 
 
 For many a time in many a clime 
 
 Hiscaptain's-ear has heaid them boom 
 
 Bellowing victory, bellowing doom. 
 
 When he with those deep voices 
 wrought, 
 
 Guarding realms and kings from shame, 
 
 With those deep voices our dead cap- 
 tain taught 
 
 The tyrant, and asserts his claim 
 
 In that dread sound to the great name 
 
 Whicli he has worn so pure of blame, 
 
 In praise and in dispraise the same, 
 
 A man of well-attemi^er'd frame. 
 
 O civic muse, to such a name, 
 
 To such a name for ages long. 
 
 To such a name. 
 
 Preserve a broa.d approach of fame, 
 
 And ever-echoing avenues of song ! 
 
 " Who is he that cometh, like an hon- 
 
 or'd guest. 
 With banner and with music, witii sol- 
 dier and with i)riest, 
 With a nation weeping, and l)reaking 
 
 on my rest ? " — 
 Mighty Seaman, tliis is he 
 Was great by land as thou by sea. 
 Thine island loves thee well, thou 
 
 famous man , 
 The greatest sailor since our world be- 
 gan. 
 Now, to the roll of muffled drums. 
 To thee the greatest soldier comes ; 
 For this is he 
 
 Was great by land as thou by sea. 
 His foes were thine ; he kept us free ; 
 O, give him welcome, this is he 
 Worthy of our gorgeous rites, 
 And worthy to be laid by thee ; 
 For this is England's greatest son, 
 lie that gain'd a hundred fights, 
 Nor ever lost an English gvin ; 
 This is he tiiat far away 
 Against the myriads of Assaye 
 Clash'd with his fiery few and won ; 
 And underneath another sun, 
 Warring on a later day, 
 Round affrighted Lisbon drew 
 The treble works, the vast designs 
 Of his labor'd rampart-lines. 
 Where he greatly stood at ba.y, 
 Whence he issuetl forth anew. 
 And ever great and greater grew. 
 Beating from the wasted vines 
 Back to France her banded swarms. 
 Back to France with countless blows, " 
 Till o'er the hills her eagles flew 
 Beyond the Pyrenean pines, 
 Foilow'd up in valley and glen 
 With blare of bugle, clamor of men, 
 Roll of cannon and clash of arms, 
 And England pouring on her foes, 
 Such a war had such a close. 
 Again their ravening eagle rose 
 In anger, wheel'd on Europe-shadowing 
 
 wings. 
 And barking for the thrones of kings ; 
 Till one that sought but Duty's iron 
 
 ci'own 
 On that loud Sabbath shook the spoiler 
 
 down ; 
 A day of onsets of despair ! 
 Dash'd on every rocky sqvuue. 
 Their surging charges foam'd them- 
 selves away ; 
 Last, the Prussian trumpet blew ; 
 
Si6 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Thro' the long-tormented air 
 Heaven flasli'd a sudden jubilant ray, 
 And down we swept and charged and 
 
 overthrew. 
 So great a soldier taught us there 
 What long-enduring hearts could do 
 In that world-earthquake, Waterloo ! 
 Mighty Seaman, tender and true, 
 And pure as he from taint of craven 
 
 guile, 
 O saviour of the silver-coasted isle, 
 O shaker of the Baltic and the Nile, 
 If aught of things that here befall 
 Touch a spirit among things divine, 
 If love of countiy move thee there at all. 
 Be glad, because his bones are laid by 
 
 thine ! 
 And thi'o' the centuries let a people's 
 
 voice 
 In full acclaim, 
 A people's voice, 
 
 The proof and echo of all human fame, 
 A people's voice, when they rejoice 
 At civic revel and pomp and game. 
 Attest their great commander's claim 
 With honor, honor, honor, honor to him, 
 Eternal honor to hh name. 
 
 A people's voice ! we are a people yet. 
 Tho' all men else their nobler dreams 
 
 forget, 
 Confused by brainless mobs and lawless 
 
 Powers, 
 Thank Him who isled us here, and 
 
 roughly set 
 His Briton in blown seas and storming 
 
 showers, 
 We have a voice with which to pay the 
 
 debt 
 Of boundless love and reverence and 
 
 regret 
 To those great men wlio fouglit, and 
 
 kept it ours. 
 And keep it ours, O God, from brute 
 
 control I 
 O Statesmen, guard us, guard the eye, 
 
 the soul 
 Of Europe, keep our noble England 
 
 whole. 
 And save the one true seed of freedom 
 
 sown 
 Betwixt a people and tlieir ancient 
 
 throne, 
 That sober freedom out of which there 
 
 springs 
 Our loyal passion for our temperate 
 
 kings ! [kind 
 
 For, saving that, ye help to save man- 
 
 Till public wrong be crumbled into dust, 
 And drill the raw world for the march 
 
 ' of mind. 
 Till crowds at length be sane and crowns 
 
 be just. 
 But wink no more in slothful overtrust. 
 Remember him wlio led your hosts ; 
 He bade you guard the sacred coasts. 
 Your cannons moulder on the seaward 
 
 wall ; 
 His voice is silent in your council-hall 
 For ever ; and whatever tempests lour 
 For ever silent ; even if they broke 
 In thunder, silent ; yet remember all 
 He spoke among you, and the Man who 
 
 spoke ; 
 AVlio never sold the truth to serve the 
 
 liour. 
 Nor palter'd with Eternal God for power; 
 Who let the turbid streams of rumor 
 
 flow 
 Thro' either babbling world of high and 
 
 low ; 
 Whose life was work, whose language 
 
 rife 
 With rugged maxims hewn from life ; 
 Who never spoke against a foe ; 
 Whose eiglity winters freeze with one 
 
 rebuke 
 All great self-seekers trampling on the 
 
 right. 
 Truth-teller was our England's Alfred 
 
 named ; 
 Truth-lover was our English Duke ! 
 AVhatever record leap to light 
 He never shall be shamed. 
 
 Lo ! the leader in these glorious wars 
 Now to glorious burial slowly borne, 
 Follow'd by the brave of other lands. 
 He, on whom from both her open hands 
 Lavish Honor shower'd all lier stars. 
 And affluent Fortune emptied all her 
 
 horn . 
 Yea, let all good things await 
 Him who cares not to be great 
 But as he saves or serves the state. 
 Not once or twice in our rough island- 
 story 
 The path of duty was the way to glory. 
 He that walks it, only tliirsting 
 For the right, and learns to deaden 
 Love of self, before his journey closes, 
 He shall find tlie stubborn tliistle burst- 
 ing 
 Into glossy purples, whicli out-redden 
 All voluptuous garden-roses. 
 Not once or twice in our fair island-story 
 
TENNYSON 
 
 517 
 
 The path of duty was tlie way to gloiy. 
 He, that ever following her commands, 
 On with toil of heart and knees and 
 
 hands. 
 Thro' the long gorge to the far light has 
 
 won 
 His path upward, and prevail'd, 
 Shall find the toppling crags of Duty 
 
 scaled 
 Are close upon the shining table-lands 
 To wliich our God Himself is moon and 
 
 sun . 
 Such was he : his work is done. 
 But while the races of mankind endure 
 Let his great example stand 
 Colossal, seen of every land, 
 And keep the soldier firm, the statesman 
 
 pure ; 
 Till in all lands and thro' all human story 
 The path of duty be the way to glory. 
 And let the land whose hearths he saved 
 
 from shame 
 For many and many an age proclaim 
 At civic revel and pomp and game. 
 And when the long-illumined cities 
 
 flame. 
 Their ever-loyal iron leader's fame. 
 With honor, honor, honor, honor to liim. 
 Eternal honor to his name. 
 
 IX 
 
 Peace, his triumph will be sung 
 
 By some yet unmoulded tongue 
 
 Far on in summers that we shall not see. 
 
 Peace, it is a day of pain 
 
 For one about whose patriarchal knee 
 
 Late the little children clung. 
 
 O peace, it is a day of pain 
 
 For one upon whose hand and heart and 
 
 brain 
 Once the weight and fate of Europe 
 
 hung. 
 Ours the pain, be his the gain ! 
 More than is of man's degree 
 Must be with us, watching here 
 At this, our great solemnity. 
 Whom we see not we revere ; 
 We revere, and we refrain 
 From talk of battles loud and vain, 
 And brawling memories all too free 
 For such a wise humility 
 As befits a solemn fane : 
 We revere, and while we hear 
 The tides of Music's golden sea 
 Setting toward eternity. 
 Uplifted high in heart and hope are we, 
 Until we doubt not that for one so true 
 There must be other nobler work to do 
 Thau when he fought at Waterloo, 
 
 And Victor he must ever be. 
 For tho' the Giant Ages heave the hill 
 And break the shore, and evermore 
 Make and break, and work their will, 
 Tho' world on world in myriad myriads 
 
 roll 
 Round us. each witli different powers. 
 And other forms of life than ours. 
 What know we greater than the soul? 
 On God and Godlike men we build our 
 
 trust. 
 Hush, the Dead March wails in tlie 
 
 people's ears ; 
 The dark crowd moves, and there are 
 
 sobs and tears ; 
 The black eai'th j^awns ; the mortal dis- 
 appears ; 
 Ashes to ashes, dust to dust ; 
 He is gone wlio seem'd so great. — 
 Gone, but notliing can bereave him 
 Of the force he made his own 
 Being hei'e, and we believe him 
 Something far advanced in State, 
 And that he wears a truer crown 
 Than any wreath that man can weave 
 
 him. 
 Speak no more of his renown, 
 Lay your earthly fancies down. 
 And in the vast cathedral leave him, 
 God accept him, Christ receive him ! 
 
 1853. 
 
 HANDS ALL ROUND 
 
 First pledge our Queen this solemn 
 night. 
 Then drink to England, every guest ; 
 That man's the best Cosmopolite 
 
 Who loves his native country best. 
 May freedom's oak for ever live 
 
 With stronger life from day to day ; 
 That man's the true Conservative 
 
 Who lops the moulder'd branch away. 
 
 Hands all round ! 
 God the traitor's hope confound ! 
 To this great cause of Freedom drink, my 
 friends, 
 And the great name of England, round 
 and round. 
 
 To all the loyal hearts who long 
 
 To keep our English Empire whole ! 
 To all our noble sons, the strong 
 
 New England of the Southern Pole I 
 To England under Indian skies. 
 
 To those dark millions of her reahn 1 
 To Canada whom we love and prize, 
 
 Whatever statesman hold the helm. 
 Hands all round ! 
 
BRITISH POETS 
 
 God the traitor's hope confound ! 
 To this great name of England drink, my 
 friends, [round. 
 
 And all her glorious emijire, round and 
 
 To all our statesmen so they be 
 
 True leaders of the land's desire ! 
 To both our Houses, may tliey see 
 
 Beyond tlie borougli and the sliire ! 
 We sail'd wlierever sliip covdd sail. 
 
 We founded many a mightj^ state ; 
 Pray God our greatness may not fail 
 Tino' craven fears of being great ! 
 
 Hands all round ! 
 God the traifior's ho])e confound ! 
 To tliis great cause of Freedom drink, my 
 friends. 
 And the great name of England, round 
 and round. 1852. 
 
 THE 
 
 CHARGE OF THE LIGHT 
 BRIGADE 1 
 
 Half a league, half a league, 
 Half a league onward, 
 All in the valle.y of Death 
 
 Rode the six hundred. 
 " Forward the Light Brigade ! 
 Charge for the guns ! " he said. 
 Into the valley of Death 
 
 Rode the six hundred. 
 
 " Forward, the Light Brigade ! " 
 Was there a man dismayed ? 
 Not tho' the soldier knew 
 
 Some one had blunder'd. 
 Theirs not to make reply, 
 Theirs not to reason why, 
 Theirs but to do and die. 
 Into the valley of Death 
 
 Rode the six hundred. 
 
 Cannon to right of them, 
 Cannon to left of Ihem, 
 Cannon in front of them 
 
 Volley'd and thunder'd ; 
 Storm'd at with shot and shell, 
 Boldly they rode and well, 
 Into the jaws of Death, 
 Into the mouth of hell 
 
 Rode the six hundred. 
 
 Flash'd all their sabres bare, 
 Flash'd as they turn'd in air 
 
 1 " On Dec. 3d he wrote the Charge of the 
 Light Brigade in a few niiiiutes, after refilling 
 the description in tlie Timrs in which occurred 
 tlie phrase ' Some one hail liliitidered,' and this 
 was the origin of the metre of liis poem." (Life 
 I, 381.) 
 
 Sabring the guiniers there. 
 Charging an army, while 
 
 All the world wonder'd. 
 Plunged in the battery-smoke 
 Right thro' the line they broke ; 
 Cossack and Ru.ssian 
 Reel'd from the sabre -stroke 
 
 Shatter'd and sunder'd. 
 Then they rode back, but not, 
 
 Not the six hundred. 
 
 Caimon to right of them, 
 Cannon to left of tliem, 
 Cannon behind them 
 
 Volley'd and thunder'd ; 
 Storm'd at with shot and shell, 
 While horse and hei'o fell, 
 They that had fought so well 
 Came thro" the jaws of Death, 
 Back from tlie mouth of hell, 
 All that was left of them, 
 
 Left of six hundred. 
 
 When can tlieir glory fade ? 
 O the wild charge they made ! 
 
 All the world wonder'd. 
 Honor the charge they made ! 
 Honor the Light Brigade, 
 
 Noble six hundred ! 
 
 December 9, 1854. 
 
 THE BROOK 
 
 I COME from haunts of coot and hern, 
 
 I make a sudden sally. 
 And sparkle out among the fern. 
 
 To bicker down a valley. 
 
 By tliirty hills I hurry down, 
 Or slip between tlte ridges, 
 
 By twenty thorps, a little town, 
 And half a hundred bridges. 
 
 Till last by Philip's farm I flow 
 To join tlie brimming river. 
 
 For Dien may come and men may go, 
 But I go on forever. 
 
 I chatter over stony ways. 
 In little sharps and trebles, 
 
 I bubble into eddying ba3"S, 
 I babble on the pebbles. 
 
 With many a curve my banks I fret 
 By many a field and fallow, 
 
 And many a fairy foreland set 
 With willow -weed and mallow. 
 
TENNYSON 
 
 5^9 
 
 I chatter, cliatter, as I flow 
 
 To join the brimming river, 
 For men may come and men may go. 
 But I go on for ever. 
 
 I wind about, and in and out. 
 With here a blossom sailing. 
 
 And here and tliere a lusty trout, 
 And here and there a grayling. 
 
 And here and tliere a foamy flake 
 
 Upon me, as I travel 
 With many a silvery water-break 
 
 Above the golden gravel. 
 
 And draw them all along, and flow 
 To join the brimming river, 
 
 For men may come and men may go. 
 But I go on for ever. 
 
 I steal by lawns and grassy plots, 
 
 I slide by hazel covers ; 
 I move tiie sweet forget-me-nots 
 
 That grow for happy lovers. 
 
 I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, 
 A^mong my sknnming swallows ; 
 
 I make the netted sunbeam dance 
 Against my sandy shallows. 
 
 I murmur under moon and stars 
 
 In brambly wildernesses ; 
 I linger by my shingly bars, 
 
 I loiter round my cresses ; 
 
 And out again I curve and flow 
 To join the brimming river. 
 
 For men may come and men maj' go. 
 But I go on forever. ,t 1855. 
 
 LYRICS FROM MAUDi 
 
 A VOICE by the cedar tree 
 
 In the meadow under tlio Hall ! 
 
 Siie is singing an air that is known to 
 
 me, 
 A passionate ballad gallant and gay, 
 A martial song like a trumpet's call ! 
 Singing alone in the morning of life. 
 In the happy morning of life and of May, 
 Singing of men that in battle array. 
 Ready in heart and ready in hand, 
 March with banner and bugle and fife 
 To the death, for tlieir native land. 
 
 1 See the Life of Teunysou, I, 393-406. 
 
 Maud with her exquisite face. 
 
 And wild voice pealing up to the sunny 
 sky. 
 
 And feet like sunny gems on an English 
 green, 
 
 Maud in the light of her j'outh and her 
 grace. 
 
 Singing of Death, and of Honor that 
 cannot die, 
 
 Till I well could weep for a time so sor- 
 did and mean. 
 
 And mj'self so languid and base. 
 
 Silence, beautiful voice ! 
 
 Be still, for you only trouble the mind 
 
 With a joy in wliich I cannot rejoice, 
 
 A glory I shall not find. 
 
 Still ! I will hear you no more. 
 
 For your sweetness hardly leaves me a 
 choice 
 
 But to move to the meadow and fall be- 
 fore 
 
 Her feet on the meadow grass, and adore. 
 
 Not her, who is neither courtly nor kind, 
 
 Not her, not her, but a voice. 
 
 XI 
 
 O, let the solid ground 
 Not fail beneath my feet 
 
 Before my life has found 
 
 Wliat some have found so sweet ! 
 
 Then let come what come ma}^, 
 
 What matter if I go mad, 
 
 I shall have had my day. 
 
 Let the sweet heavens endure, 
 
 Not close and darken above me 
 Before I am quite quite sure 
 • That there is one to love me ! 
 Then let come what come may 
 To a life that has been so sad, 
 I shall have had my day. 
 
 Birds in the high Hall-garden 
 When twilight was falling, 
 
 Maud, Maud, Maud, Maud, 
 They were crying and calling. 
 
 Where was Maud ? in our wood ; 
 
 And I — who else ?— was with her, 
 Gathering woodland lilies, 
 
 Myriads blow together. 
 
 Birds in our wood sang 
 Ringing thro' the valleys, 
 
 Maud is here, here, here 
 In among the lilies. 
 
520 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 I kiss'd her slender hand, 
 
 She took the kiss sedately ; 
 Maud is not seventeen, 
 
 But she is tall and stately. 
 
 I to cry out on pride 
 
 Who have w^on her favor ! 
 O, Maud were sure of heaven 
 
 If lowliness could save her ! 
 
 I know the way she went 
 Home with her maiden posy, 
 
 For her feet have touch'd the meadows 
 And left the daisies rosy. 
 
 Birds in the high Hall-garden 
 Were crying and calling to her, 
 
 Where is Maud, Maud, Maud ? 
 One is come to woo her. 
 
 Look, a horse at the door. 
 
 And little King Charley snarling ! 
 Go back, my lord, across the moor, 
 
 You are not her darling. 
 
 XVII 
 
 . Go not, happy day, 
 
 From the shining fields, 
 Go not, happy day, 
 
 Till the maiden yields. 
 Rosy is the West, 
 
 Rosy is the South, 
 Roses are her cheeks, 
 
 And a rose her mouth. 
 When the happy Yes 
 
 Falters from her lips, 
 Pass and blush the news 
 
 Over glowing ships ; 
 Over blowing seas, 
 
 Over seas at rest, 
 Pass the happy news, 
 
 Blusli it thro' the West ; 
 Till the red man dance 
 
 By his red cedar-tree. 
 And the red man's babe 
 
 Leap, beyond tlie sea. 
 Blush from West to East, 
 
 Blush from East to West, 
 Till the West is East, 
 
 Blusli it tliro' the West. 
 Rosy is the West, 
 
 Rosy is the South, 
 Roses are her cheeks. 
 
 And a rose her mouth. 
 
 XVIII 
 
 I have led her home, my love, my only 
 
 friend. 
 There is none like her, none. 
 
 And never yet so warmly ran my blood 
 And sweetly, on and on 
 Calming itself to the long-wish'd-for end , 
 Full to the banks, close on the promised 
 good. 
 
 None like her. none. 
 
 Just now the dry-tongued laurels' patter- 
 ing talk 
 
 Seem'd her light foot along the garden 
 walk. 
 
 And sliook my heart to think she comes 
 once more. 
 
 But even then I heard her close the door ; 
 
 The gates of heaven are closed, and she 
 is gone. 
 
 There is none like her, none. 
 
 Nor will be when our summers have de- 
 ceased. 
 
 O, art thou sighing for Lebanon 
 
 In the long breeze that streams to tliy 
 delicious East, 
 
 Sighing for Lebanon, 
 
 Dark cedar, tho' thy limbs have here in- 
 creased. 
 
 Upon a pastoral slope as fair. 
 
 And looking to the Soutli and fed 
 
 With honey'd rain and delicate air, 
 
 And haunted by the starry head 
 
 Of her whose gentle will has changed my 
 fate, 
 
 And made my life a perfumed altar- 
 flame : 
 
 And over wliom thy darkness must have 
 spread 
 
 With such delight as theirs of old, thy 
 great 
 
 Forefathers of tlie thornless garden, 
 there 
 
 Shadowing the snow-limb'd Eve fi-om 
 whom she came ? 
 
 Here will I lie, while these long branches 
 
 sway, [da.v 
 
 And you fair stars that crown a happy 
 Go in and out as if at merry play. 
 Who am no more so all forlorn 
 As when it seem'd far better to be born 
 To labor and tlie mattock-liai'den'd hand 
 Than nursed at ease and brouglit to 
 
 understand 
 A sad astrology, the boundless plan 
 That makes you tyrants in your iron 
 
 skies. 
 Innumerable, pitiless, passionless eyes. 
 Cold fires, yet with power to burn and 
 
 brand 
 His notliingness into man. 
 
TENNYSON 
 
 52,1 
 
 But now shine on, and what care I 
 Who in this stormy gulf have found a 
 
 pearl 
 The countercharm of space and hollow 
 
 sky, 
 And do "accept my madness, and would 
 
 die 
 To save from some slight shame one 
 
 simple girl ? — 
 
 Would die, for sullen-seeming Deatli 
 
 may give 
 More life to Love than is or ever was 
 In our low world, where yet 't is sweet 
 
 to live. 
 Let no one ask me how it came to pass ; 
 It seems that I am happy, that to me 
 A livelier emerald twinkles in the grass, 
 A purer sapphire melts into the sea. 
 
 Not die, but live a life of truest breath, 
 
 And teach true life to fight with mortal 
 wrongs. 
 
 O, why should Love, like men in drink- 
 ing songs, 
 
 Spice his fair banquet with the dust of 
 death ? 
 
 Make answer, Maud my bliss, 
 
 Maud made my Maud by that long loving 
 kiss. 
 
 Life of my life, wilt thou not answer 
 this ? 
 
 " The dusky strand of Death inwoven 
 here 
 
 With dear Love's tie, makes Love him- 
 self more dear." 
 
 Is that enchanted moan only the swell 
 Of the long waves that roll in j^onder 
 
 bay? 
 And hark the clock within, the silver 
 
 knell 
 Of twelve sweet hours that past in bridal 
 
 white, 
 And died to live, long as my pulses 
 
 play ; 
 But now by this my love has closed her 
 
 sight, 
 And given false death her hand, and 
 
 stolen away 
 To dreamful wastes where footless fan- 
 cies dwell 
 Among the fragments of the golden 
 
 day. 
 May nothing there her maiden grace 
 
 affright ! 
 Dear heart, I feel with thee the drowsy 
 
 spell. 
 My bride to be, my evermore delight, 
 
 My own heart's heart, my ownest own, 
 
 farewell ; 
 It is but for a little space I go. 
 And ye meanwhile far over moor and 
 
 fell 
 Beat to the noiseless music of the night ! 
 Has ovir whole earth gone nearer to tlie 
 
 glow 
 Of your soft splendors that you look so 
 
 bright ? 
 I have climb'd nearer out of lonely hell. 
 Beat, hapi)y stars, timing with things 
 
 below, 
 Beat with my heart more blest than 
 
 heart can tell. 
 Blest, but for some dark undercurrent 
 
 woe [so ; 
 
 That seems to draw — but it shall not be 
 Let all be well, be well. 
 
 Rivulet crossing my ground, 
 
 And bringing me down from the Hall 
 
 This garden-rose that I found, 
 
 Forgetful of Maud and me. 
 
 And lost in trouble and moving round 
 
 Here at the head of a tinkling fall. 
 
 And trying to pass to the sea ; 
 
 O rivulet, born at the Hall, 
 
 My Maud has sent it by thee — 
 
 If I read her sweet will right — 
 
 On a blushing mission to me. 
 
 Saying in odor and color, " Ah be 
 
 Among the roses to-night." 
 
 Come into the garden, Maud, 
 
 For the black bat, night, has flown, 
 
 Come into the garden, Maud, 
 I am here at tiie gate alone ; 
 
 And the woodbine spices are wafted 
 abroad, 
 And the musk of the rose is blown. 
 
 For a breeze of morning moves, 
 And the planet of love is on high. 
 
 Beginning to faint in the liglit that she 
 loves 
 On a bed of daffodil sky, 
 
 To faint in the liglit of the sun she loves, 
 To faint in his light, and to die. 
 
 All night have the roses heard 
 
 The flute, violin, bassoon ; 
 All night has the casement jessamine 
 stirr'd 
 
 To the dancers dancing in tune ; 
 Till a silence fell with the waking bird, 
 
 And a hush with the setting moon. 
 
i;22 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 I said to the lily, " There is but one. 
 
 With whom she has heart to be gay. 
 When will the dancers leave her alone ? 
 
 She is weary of dance and play." 
 Now half to the setting moon are gone, 
 
 And half to the rising day ; 
 Low on the sand and loud on the stone 
 
 The last wheel echoes away. 
 
 I said to the rose, " The brief night goes 
 In babble and revel and wine. 
 
 O young lord-lover, what sighs are those, 
 For one that will never be thine ? 
 
 But mine, but mine," so I sware to the 
 rose, 
 " For ever and ever, mine." 
 
 And the soul of tlie rose went into my 
 blood, 
 As the music clasli'd in the Hall ; 
 And long by the garden lake I stood, 
 
 For I heard your rivulet fall 
 From tlie lake to the meadow and on to 
 the wood. 
 Our wood, that is dearer than all ; 
 
 From the meadow your walks have left 
 so sweet 
 That whenever a Marchrwind sighs 
 He sets the jewel-print of your feet 
 
 In violets blue as j'our eyes. 
 To the woody hollows in which we 
 meet 
 And the valleys of Paradise. 
 
 The slender acacia would not shake 
 
 One long milk-bloom on tlie tree ; 
 The wliite lake-blossom fell into the 
 lake 
 
 As tlie pimpernel dozed on the lea ; 
 But the rose was awake all night for 
 your sake, 
 
 Knowing your promise to me ; 
 The lilies and roses were all awake, 
 
 They sigii'd for the dawn and thee. 
 
 Queen rose of the rosebud garden of 
 girls. 
 
 Come hither, the dances are done, 
 In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls, 
 
 Queen lily and rose in one ; [curls, 
 Shine out, little head, sunning over with 
 
 To the flowers, and be their sun. 
 
 There lias fallen a splendid tear 
 From the passion-flower at the gate. 
 
 She is coming, my dove, my dear ; 
 Slie^is coming, my life, my fate. 
 
 The red rose cries, " She is near, she is 
 near ; " 
 
 And the white rose weeps, " She is 
 late ; " 
 The larkspur listens, " I hear, I hear ; " 
 And the lily whispers, " I wait." 
 
 She is coming,my own, my sweet ; 
 
 Were it ever so aiiy a tread. 
 My heart would hear her and beat, 
 
 Were it earth in an earthy bed ; 
 My dust would hear her and bent, 
 
 Had I lain for a century dead. 
 Would start and tremble under lier feet, 
 
 And blossom in purple and red. 
 
 PART II 
 
 See what a lovely shell. 
 Small and pure as a pearl. 
 Lying close to nn' foot. 
 Frail, but a work divine. 
 Made so fairily well 
 With delicate spire and whorl, 
 How exquisitely minute, 
 A miracle of design ! 
 
 What is it ? a learned man 
 Could give it a clumsy name. 
 Let him name it who can. 
 The beauty would be the same. 
 
 The tiny cell is forlorn, 
 Void of the little living will 
 That made it stir on the shore. 
 Did he stand at the diamond door 
 Of his house in a rainbow frill ? 
 Did he push, when he was uncurl'd, 
 A golden foot or a fairy horn 
 Thro' his dim water-world ? 
 
 Slight, to be crusli'd with a tap 
 Of my finger-nail on the sand, 
 Small, but a work divine, 
 Frail, but of force to withstand. 
 Year upon year, the shock 
 Of cataract seas that snap 
 The three-decker's oaken spine 
 Athwart the ledges of rock, 
 Here on the Breton strand ! 
 
 Breton, not Briton : here 
 
 Like a shipwreck'd man on a coast 
 
 Of ancient fable and fear — 
 
 Plagued with a flitting to and fro,' 
 
 A disease, a hard mechanic ghost 
 
 That never came from on high 
 
 Nor ever arose from below. 
 
 But only moA'es with the moving eye. 
 
 Flying along the land and the main — 
 
TENNYSON 
 
 523 
 
 Why sliould it look like Maud ? 
 Am I to be overawed 
 By what I cannot but know 
 Is a juggle born of the brain ? 
 
 Back from the Breton coast, 
 
 Sick of a nameless fear, 
 
 Back to the dark sea-line 
 
 Looking, thinking of all I have lost ; 
 
 An old song vexes my ear. 
 
 But that of Lamecli is mine. 
 
 For years, a measureless ill, 
 For years, for ever, to part — 
 But she, she would love me still ; 
 And as long, O God, as slie 
 Have a grain of love for me. 
 So long, no doubt, no doubt, 
 Sliall I nurse in my dark lieart. 
 However weary, a spark of will 
 Not to be trampled out. 
 
 Strange, that the mind, when frauglit 
 
 With a passion so intense 
 
 One would think that it well 
 
 Miglit drown all life in the eye, — 
 
 Tliat it should, by being so overwrought, 
 
 Suddenly strike on a sharper sense 
 
 For a shell, or a flower, little things 
 
 Whicli else would have been past by ! 
 
 And now I remember, I, 
 
 AVhen lie lay djang there, 
 
 I noticed one of his many rings — 
 
 For he had many, poor worm — and 
 
 thought. 
 It is his mother's hair. 
 
 Who knows if he be dead ? 
 
 Wliether I need have fled? 
 
 Am I guilty of blood? 
 
 However this may be, 
 
 Comfort her, comfort lier, all things 
 
 good , 
 While I am over the sea ! 
 Let me and my passionate love goby, 
 But speak to her all tilings holy and 
 
 high, 
 Whatever happen to me ! 
 Me and my harmful love go by ; 
 But come to her waking, find lier asleep. 
 Powers of the height. Powers of tlie 
 
 deep, ' 
 And comfort her tho' I die ! 
 
 IV 
 
 O that "t were possible 
 
 After long grief and pain 
 
 To find the arms of my true love 
 
 Round me once again ! 
 
 When I was wont to meet her 
 In tlie silent woody places 
 By the home that gave me birth, 
 We stood tranced in long embraces 
 ]\Iixed witli kisses sweeter, sweeter 
 Than anything on earth. 
 
 A shadow flits before me, 
 
 Not thou, but like to thee. 
 
 All, Christ, that it were possible 
 
 For one short hour to see 
 
 The souls we loved, that they might tell 
 
 us 
 What and where they be ! 
 
 It leads me forth at evening, 
 
 It lightly winds and steals 
 
 In a cold wliite robe before me. 
 
 When all my spirit reels 
 
 At the shouts, the leagues of lights, 
 
 And the roaring of the wheels. 
 
 Half the night I waste in sighs, 
 Half in dreams I sorrow after 
 The delight of earlj' skies ; 
 In a wakeful doze I sorrow 
 For the hand, the lips, the eyes. 
 For the meetijig of the morrow, 
 The delight of happy laughter, 
 The delight of low replies. 
 
 'T is a morning pure and sweet, 
 And a dewy splendor falls 
 On the little flower that clings 
 To the turi'ets and the walls ; 
 'T is a morning pure and sweet, 
 And the light and shadow fleet. 
 
 She is walking in the meadow, 
 And the woodland echo rings ; 
 In a moment we shall meet. 
 She is singing in the meadow, 
 And tlie rivulet at her feet 
 Ripples on in light and shadow 
 To the ballad that she sings. 
 
 Do I hear her sing as of old, 
 My bird with the shining head, 
 My own dove with the tender eye ? 
 But there rings on a sudden a passionate 
 
 cry. 
 There issome one dying or dead. 
 And a sullen thunder is roll'd ; 
 For a tumult shakes the city, 
 And I wake, my dream is fled. 
 In the shuddering dawn, behold, 
 Without knowledge, without pity, 
 By the curtains of my bed 
 That abiding phantom cold ! 
 
524 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Get thee hence, nor come again, 
 Mix not memory with doubt, 
 Pass, thou deathlike type of pain, 
 Pass and cease to move about ! 
 'T is the blot upon the brain 
 That will show itself without. 
 
 Then I rise, the eave-drops fall. 
 And tlie j'ellow vapors choke 
 The gi'eat city sounding wide ; 
 The day comes, a dull red ball 
 Wrapt in drifts of lurid smoke 
 On the misty river-tide. 
 
 Thro" the hubbuli of the market 
 
 I steal, a wasted frame ; 
 
 It crosses here, it crosses there. 
 
 Thro' all that crowd confused and loud. 
 
 The shadow still tiie same ; 
 
 And on my heavy eyelids 
 
 My anguish hangs like shame. 
 
 Alas for her that met me. 
 
 That heard me softly call. 
 
 Came glimmering thro' the laurels 
 
 At the quiet eveufall. 
 
 In the garden by the turrets 
 
 Of the old manorial hall ! . 
 
 Would the happy spirit descend 
 From the realms of light and song. 
 In the chamber or the street. 
 As she looks among the blest. 
 Should I fear to greet my friend 
 Or to say " Forgive the wrong," 
 Or to ask her, " Take me, sweet, 
 To the regions of thy rest " ? 
 
 But tlie broad light glares and beats, 
 
 And the sliadow flits and fleets 
 
 And will not let me be ; 
 
 And I loathe the squares and streets. 
 
 And the faces that one meets, 
 
 Hearts with no love for me. 
 
 Always I long to creep 
 
 Into some still cavern deep. 
 
 There to weep, and weep, and weep 
 
 My whole soul out to thee. 1855. 
 
 WILL 
 
 O, WELL for him whose will is strong ! 
 
 He suffers, but he will not suffer long ; 
 
 He suffers, but he cannot suffer wrong. 
 
 For him nor moves the loud world's 
 random mock. 
 
 Nor all Calamity's hugest waves con- 
 found, 
 
 Who seems a promontory of rock, 
 
 That, compass'd round with turbulent 
 
 sound. 
 In middle ocean meets the surging shock, 
 Tempest-buffeted, citadel-crown'd. 
 
 But ill for him who, bettering not with 
 time. 
 
 Corrupts the strength of heaven-de- 
 scended Will, 
 
 And ever weaker grows thro' acted 
 crime. 
 
 Or seeming-genial venial fault. 
 
 Recurring and suggesting still ! 
 
 He seems as one wliose footsteps halt, 
 
 Toiling in immeasurable sand. 
 
 And o'er a weary sultry land, 
 
 Far beneath a blazing vault. 
 
 Sown in a wrinkle of the monstrous 
 hill. 
 
 The city sparkles like a grain of salt. 
 
 1855. 
 
 ENID-S SONG 
 
 Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel, and 
 
 lower the proud ; 
 Turn thy wild wheel thro' sunshine, 
 
 storm, and cloud ; 
 Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor 
 
 hate. 
 
 Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel with 
 
 smile or frown ; 
 With that wild wheel we go not up or 
 
 down ; 
 Our hoard is little, but our hearts are 
 
 great. 
 
 Smile and we smile, the lords of many 
 
 lands ; 
 Frown and we smile, the lords of our 
 
 own hands ; 
 For man is man and master of his fate. 
 
 Turn, turn thj'^ wheel above the staring 
 
 crowd ; 
 Thy wheel and thou are shadows in the 
 
 cloud ; 
 Thy wheel and tliee we neither love nor 
 
 Jiate. 
 From the Marriaye of Geraint, 1859, 
 
 VIVIEN'S SONG 
 
 In love, if love be love, if love be ours. 
 Faith and unfaith can ne'er be e<fiial 
 
 powers : 
 Unfaith in aught is want of faith in all. 
 
TENNYSON 
 
 525 
 
 It is the little rift within the lute, 
 That by and by will make the music 
 
 mute, 
 And ever widening slowly silence all. 
 
 The little rift within the lover's lute, 
 Or little pitted speck in garner'd fruit, 
 That rotting inward slowly moulders all. 
 
 It is not worth the keeping ; let it go : 
 But shall it ? answer, darling, answer, no. 
 And trust me not at all or all in all. 
 
 From Merlin and Vivien, 1859. 
 
 ELAINE-S SONG 
 
 Sweet is true love tho' given in vain, in 
 
 vain ; 
 And sweet is death who puts an end to 
 
 pain. 
 I know^ not which is sweeter, no, not I. 
 
 Love, art thou sweet ? then bitter death 
 
 must be. 
 Love, thou art bitter ; sweet is death to 
 
 me. 
 
 liove, if death be sweeter, let me die. 
 
 Sweet love, that seems not made to fade 
 away ; 
 
 Sweet death, that seems to make us love- 
 less clay ; 
 
 1 know not which is sweeter, no, not I. 
 
 I fain would follow love, if that could 
 
 be; 
 I needs must follow death, who calls for 
 
 me ; 
 Call and I follow, I follow ! let me die. 
 
 From Lancelot and Elaine, 1839. 
 
 GUINEVERE 
 
 Queen Guinevere liad fled the court, 
 
 and sat 
 There in tlie holy liouse at Almesbury 
 Weeping, none with her save a little 
 
 maid, 
 A novice. One low light betwixt them 
 
 burn'd 
 Blurr'd by the creeping mist, for all 
 
 abroad. 
 Beneath a moon unseen albeit at full. 
 The white mist, like a face-cloth to the 
 
 face, 
 Clung to the dead earth, and the land 
 ^ was still. 
 
 For hither had she fled, her cause of 
 flight 
 
 Sir Modred ; he that like a subtle beast 
 Lay couchant with his eyes upon the 
 
 throne. 
 Ready to spring, waiting a chance. For 
 
 this 
 He chill'd the popular praises of tlie 
 
 King 
 With silent smiles of slow dispai'age- 
 
 ment ; 
 And tamper'd with tlie Lords of the 
 
 Wliite Horse, 
 Heatlien, the brood by Hengist left ; and 
 
 sought 
 To make disruption in the Table Round 
 Of Arthur, and to splinter it into feuds 
 Serving his traitorous end ; and all his 
 
 aims 
 Were sharpened by strong hate for Lance- 
 lot. 
 
 For thus it chanced one morn when all 
 the court, 
 
 Green-suited, but with plumes that 
 mock'd the May, 
 
 Had been — their wont— a-maying and 
 returned, 
 
 Tliat Modred still in green, all ear and 
 eye, 
 
 Climb'd to the high top of the garden- 
 wall 
 
 To spy some secret scandal if he might. 
 
 And saw the Queen who sat betwixt her 
 best 
 
 Enid and lissome Vivien, of her court 
 
 The wiliest and tlie worst ; and more 
 than this 
 
 He saw not, for Sir Lancelot passing by 
 
 Spied where he couch'd, and as the gar- 
 dener's liand 
 
 Picks from the colewort a green cater- 
 pillar, 
 
 So from the high wall and the flowering 
 grove 
 
 Of grasses Lancelot pluck'd him by the 
 heel, 
 
 And cast him as a worm upon tlie way ; 
 
 But when he knew the prince thu' 
 marr'd witli dust. 
 
 He, reverencing king's blood in a bad 
 man , 
 
 Made such excuses as he might, and 
 these 
 
 Full knightly without scorn. For in 
 those days 
 
 No knight of Artliur's noblest dealt in 
 scorn ; [liiia 
 
 But, if a man were halt, or hunch'd, in 
 
 By those whom God had made full- 
 limb'd and tall. 
 
526 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Scorn was allow'd as part of his defect, 
 And he was answer'd softly by the King 
 And all his Table. So Sir Lancelot holp 
 To raise the prince, who rising twice or 
 
 thrice 
 Full sharply smote his knees, and smiled, 
 
 and went ; 
 But, ever after, the small violence done 
 Rankled in him and rufHed all his heart, 
 As the sharp wind that ruffles all day 
 
 long 
 A little bitter pool about a stone 
 On the bare coast. 
 
 But when Sir Lancelot told 
 Tliis matter to the Queen, at first she 
 
 laugh'd 
 Lightly, to think of Modred's dusty fall, 
 Then shudder'd, as the village wife who 
 
 cries, 
 ' ' I shudder, some one steps across mj' 
 
 grave ; " 
 Then laugh'd again, but faintlier, for in- 
 deed 
 She half-foresaw that he, the subtle beast, 
 Would track her guilt until he found, 
 
 and hers 
 Would be for evermore a name of scorn. 
 Henceforward rarely could she front in 
 
 hall. 
 Or elsewliere. Modred's narrow foxy face. 
 Heart-hiding smile, and gray persistent 
 
 eye. 
 Henceforward too, the Powers that tend 
 
 tlie soul, 
 To help it from the death that cannot 
 
 die, 
 And save it even in extremes, began 
 To vex and plague her. Many a time for 
 
 hours, 
 Beside the placid breathings of the King, 
 In the dead night, grina faces came and 
 
 went 
 Before her, or a vague spiritual fear — 
 Like to some doubtful noise of creaking 
 
 doors. 
 Heard by the watcher in a haunted 
 
 house. 
 That keeps the rust of murder on the 
 
 walls — 
 Held her awake ; or if she slept she 
 
 dream'd [stand 
 
 An awful dream, for then she seem'd to 
 On some vast plain before a setting sun. 
 And from tlie sun there swiftly made at 
 
 her 
 A ghastly something, and its shadow flew 
 Before it till it touch'd her, and she 
 
 turn'd — 
 
 When lo ! her own, that broadening 
 
 from her feet, 
 And blackening, swallow'd all the land, 
 
 and in it 
 Far cities burnt, and with a crj^ she 
 
 woke. 
 And all this trouble did not })ass but 
 
 grew, 
 Till even the clear face of tlie guileless 
 
 King, 
 And trustful courtesies of household life. 
 Became her bane ; and at the last she 
 
 said : 
 " O Lancelot, get thee hence to thine 
 
 own land. 
 For if thou tarry we shall meet again. 
 And if we meet again some evil chance 
 Will make the smouldering scandal 
 
 break and blaze 
 Before the people and our lord the King." 
 And Lancelot ever promised, but re- 
 
 main'd 
 And still they met and met. Again she 
 
 said . 
 "O Lancelot, if thou love me get thee 
 
 hence." 
 And then they were agreed upon a 
 
 night — 
 When the good King should not be there 
 
 — to meet 
 And part for ever. Vivien, lurking, 
 
 heard. 
 She told Sir Modred. Passion-pale they 
 
 met 
 And greeted. Hands in hands, and eye 
 
 to eye. 
 Low on the Ijorder of her couch they sat 
 Stammering and staring. It was their 
 
 last hour, 
 A madness of farewells. And Modred 
 
 brought 
 His creatures to the basement of the 
 
 tower 
 For testimony ; and crying with full 
 
 voice, 
 " Traitor, come out, ye are trapped at 
 
 last," aroused 
 Lancelot, who rushing outward lionlike 
 Leapt on him, and hurl'd him lieadlong, 
 
 and he fell 
 Stunn'd and his creatures took and bare 
 
 him off. 
 And all was still. Tlien she, " The end 
 
 is come, 
 And I am shamed for ever ; " and he 
 
 said : 
 " Mine be the shame, mine was the sin ; 
 
 but rise, 
 And fly to my strong castle over-seas. 
 
TENNYSON 
 
 527 
 
 There will I hide thee till my life shall 
 
 end, 
 There hold thee with my life against tlie 
 
 world.'' 
 She answer'd : ' ' Lancelot, wilt thou hold 
 
 me so ? 
 Nay, friend, for we have taken ourfare- 
 
 wells. 
 Would God tliat thou couldst hide me 
 
 from myself ! 
 Mine is the shame, for I was wife, and 
 
 thou 
 Unwedded ; yet rise now, and let us fly, 
 For I will draw me into sanctuary, 
 And bide my doom." So Lancelot got 
 
 her horse, 
 Set her thereon, and mounted on his 
 
 own, 
 And then they rode to the divided way, 
 Tiiere kiss'd, and parted weeping ; for 
 
 he passed. 
 Love-loyal to the least wish of the Queen , 
 Back to his land ; but siie to Almesbury 
 Fled all night long by glimmering waste 
 
 and weald, 
 And heard the spirits of the waste and 
 
 weald 
 Moan as she fled, or thought she heard 
 
 them moan. 
 And in herself she moan'd, " Too late, 
 
 too late ! " 
 Till in the cold wind that foreruns the 
 
 morn, 
 A blot in heaven, tlie raven, flying high, 
 Croak'd, and she thought, "He spies a 
 
 field of death ; 
 For now the heathen of the Northern 
 
 Sea, 
 Lured by the crimes and frailties of tlie 
 
 court. 
 Begin to slay the folk and spoil the land." 
 
 And when she came to Almesbury she 
 spake 
 
 There to the nuns, and said, " Mine ene- 
 mies 
 
 Pursue me, but, O peaceful Sisterhood, 
 
 Receive and j'ield me sanctuary, nor ask 
 
 Her name to whom j^e yield it till her 
 time 
 
 To tell j'ou ; " and her beauty, grace, 
 and ]5owev 
 
 Wrought as a cliarm upon them, and 
 they spared 
 
 To ask it. 
 
 So the stately Queen abode 
 For many a week, unknown, among the 
 nuns, 
 
 Nor with them mix'd, nor told her name, 
 
 nor sought. 
 Wrapt in lier grief, for housel or for 
 
 shrift, 
 But communed only with the little 
 
 maid , 
 Who pleased her with a babbling heed- 
 lessness 
 Which often lured her from herself ; 
 
 but now. 
 This night, a rumor wildly blown about 
 Came that Sir Modred had usurp'd the 
 
 realm 
 And leagued him with the heatiien, 
 
 wliile the King 
 Was waging war on Lancelot. Tlien 
 
 she tliought. 
 " Witli what a hate the people and tlie 
 
 King 
 Must hate me," and bowVl down upon 
 
 her hands 
 Silent, until tlie little maid, who brook'd 
 No silence, brake it, uttering '■ Late ! so 
 
 late! 
 What, hour, I wonder now ?"and when 
 
 she drew 
 No answer, by and by began to hum 
 An air tlie nuns had taught her : " Late, 
 
 so late ! " 
 Which when she heard, the Queen look'd 
 
 up and said. 
 " O maiden, if indeed ye list to sing. 
 Sing, and unbind my lieart that I may 
 
 weep." 
 Whereat full willingly sang the little 
 
 maid. 
 
 " Late, late, so late ! and dark the night and 
 cliill I 
 L.ite, late, so late ! but we can enter still. 
 Too late, too late 1 ye cannot enter now. 
 
 " No light had we ; for that we do repent. 
 And learning this, the britlegroom will relent. 
 Too late, too late ! ye cannot enter now. 
 
 "No light I so late ! and dark and chill the 
 night ! 
 O, let us in, that we may find the light I 
 Too late, too late I ye cannot enter now. 
 
 " Have we not heard the bridegroom is so 
 sweet 1 
 O, let us in, tho' late, to kiss his feet ! 
 No, no, too late 1 ye cannot enter now." 
 
 So sang the novice, while full pas- 
 sionately, 
 Her head upon her hands, remembering 
 Her thought when first she came, wept 
 
 the sad Queen. 
 Then said the little novice, prattling to 
 her : 
 
BRITISH POETS 
 
 
 "O pray you, noble lady, weep no 
 
 nioie ; 
 But let my words — tlie words of one so 
 
 small, 
 Who knowing nothing Iciiows but to 
 
 obey, 
 And if I do not there is penance given — 
 Comfort your sorrows, for they do not 
 
 flow 
 From evil done ; right sure am I of that, 
 Who sees your tender grace and state- 
 
 liness. 
 But weigh your sorrows with our lord 
 
 the King's, 
 And weighing find them less ; for gone 
 
 is he 
 To wage grim war against Sir Lancelot 
 
 there, 
 Round that strong castle where he holds 
 
 the Queen ; 
 And Modred whom he left in charge of 
 
 all. 
 The traitor— Ah, sweet lady, the King's 
 
 grief 
 For his own self, and his own Queen 
 
 and realm. 
 Must needs be thrice as great as any of 
 
 ours 1 
 For me, I thank the saints, I am not 
 
 great ; 
 For if there ever come a grief to me 
 I cry my cry in silence, and luive done ; 
 None knows it, and my tears have 
 
 brought me good. 
 But even were the griefs of little ones 
 As great as those of great ones, yet this 
 
 grief 
 Is added to the griefs the great must 
 
 bear, 
 That, howsoever much they may desire 
 Silence, they cannot weep behind a 
 
 cloud ; 
 As even here they talk at Almesbury 
 About the good King and his wicked 
 
 Queen, 
 And were I such a King with such a 
 
 Queen, 
 Well might I wish to veil her wicked- 
 ness. 
 But were I such a King it could not be." 
 
 Then to her own sad heart mutter'd 
 the Queen, 
 
 "Will the child kill me with her inno- 
 cent talk ? " 
 
 But openly she answer'd, " Must not I, 
 
 If this false traitor have displaced his 
 lord, [realm ? " 
 
 Grieve with the common grief of all the 
 
 "Yea," said the maid, "that all is 
 
 woman's grief, 
 That she is woman, whose disloyal life 
 Hath wrought confusion in the Table 
 
 Round 
 Which good King Arthur founded, years 
 
 ago. 
 With signs and miracles and wonders, 
 
 there 
 At Camelot, ere the coming of the 
 
 Queen." 
 
 Then thought the Queen within her- 
 self again, 
 
 " Will the cliild kill me with her foolisli 
 prate ? " 
 
 But openly slie spake and said to her, 
 
 "O little maid, shut in by nunnery 
 walls, 
 
 What canst thou know of Kings and 
 Tables Round, 
 
 Or what of signs and wonders, but the 
 signs 
 
 And simple miracles of thy nunnery ? " 
 
 To wliom the little novice garrulously: 
 " Yea, but I know ; the land was full of 
 
 signs 
 And wonders ere the coming of the 
 
 Queen. 
 So said my father, and himself was 
 
 knight 
 Of the great Table— at the founding of 
 
 it. 
 And rode thereto from Lyonnesse ; and 
 
 he said 
 That as he rode, an hour or maybe twain 
 After the sunset, down the coast, he 
 
 heard 
 Strange music, and he paused, and turn- 
 ing — there. 
 All down the lonely coast of Lyonnesse, 
 Each with a beacon-star upon his head. 
 And with a wild sea-light about liis feet. 
 He saw them — headland after headland 
 
 flame 
 Far on into the rich heart of the west. 
 And in the light the white mermaiden 
 
 swam, 
 And strong man-breasted things stood 
 
 from the sea. 
 And sent a deep sea-voice thro' all the 
 
 land. 
 To whicli the little elves of chasm and 
 
 cleft 
 Made answer, sounding like a distant 
 
 horn. 
 So said my father — yea, and further- 
 more, 
 
 I 
 
TENNYSON 
 
 529 
 
 Next morning, while he past the dim-lit 
 
 woods 
 Himself beheld thi'ee spirits mad witli 
 
 joy 
 
 Come dashing down on a tall waj'side 
 
 flower, 
 That shook beneath them as the thistle 
 
 shakes 
 When three gray linnets wrangle for the 
 
 seed. 
 And still at evenings on before liis 
 
 horse 
 The flickering fairj^-circle wheel'd and 
 
 broke 
 Flying, and link'd again, and wheel'd 
 
 and broke 
 Fl3ang, for all the land was full of life. 
 And when at last he came to Camelot, 
 A wreath of airy dancers hand-in-hand 
 Swung round the lighted lantern of tiie 
 
 hall ; 
 And in the hall itself was such a feast 
 As never man had dream'd ; for every 
 
 knight 
 Had whatsoever meat he long'd for 
 
 served 
 By hands unseen ; and even as he said 
 Down in the cellars merry bloated things 
 Shoulder'd the spigot, straddling on the 
 
 butts 
 While the wine ran ; so glad were spirits 
 
 and men 
 Before the coming of the sinful Queen." 
 
 Then spake the Queen and somewhat 
 
 bitterly, 
 "Were they so glad? ill prophets were 
 
 they all, 
 Spirits and men. Could none of them 
 
 foresee. 
 Not even th}' wise father with his signs 
 And wonders, what has fallen upon the 
 
 realm ? " 
 
 To whom the novice garrulously 
 
 again : 
 " Yea, one, a bard, of whom my father 
 
 said. 
 Full many a noble war-song had he sung, 
 Even in the presence of an enemy's 
 
 fleet. 
 Between the steep cliff and the coming 
 
 wave ; 
 And many a mystic lay of life and 
 
 death 
 Had chanted on the smoky mountain- 
 tops. 
 When round him bent the spirits of the 
 
 hills 
 
 34 
 
 With all their dewy hair blown back 
 
 like flame. 
 So said my father — and that night the 
 
 bard 
 Sang Arthur's glorious wars, and sang 
 
 the King 
 As wellnigh more than man, and rail d 
 
 at those 
 Who call'd him the false son of Gorlois. 
 For there was no man knew from 
 
 whence he came ; 
 But after tempest, when the long wave 
 
 broke 
 All down the thundering shores of Bude 
 
 and Bos, 
 There came a day as still as heaven, and 
 
 then 
 They found a naked child upon the 
 
 sands 
 Of dark Tintagil by the Cornish sea. 
 And that was Arthur, and they foster 'd 
 
 him 
 Till he by miracle was approven King ; 
 And that his grave should be a mystery 
 From all men, like his birth ; and could 
 
 he find 
 A woman in her M'omanhood as great 
 As he was in his manhood, then, he 
 
 sang, 
 The twain together well might change 
 
 tlie world. 
 But even in the middle of his song 
 He falter'd, and his hand fell from the 
 
 liarp, 
 And pale he turn'd and reel'd, and would 
 
 have fallen. 
 But that they stay'd him up ; nor would 
 
 he tell" 
 His vision ; but what doubt that he fore- 
 saw 
 This evil work of Lancelot and the 
 
 Queen ? " 
 
 Then thought the Queen, " Lo ! they 
 
 have set her on. 
 Our simple-seeming abbess and her nuns, 
 To play upon me," and bow'd her head 
 
 nor spake. 
 Whereat the novice crying, with clasp'd 
 
 hands. 
 Shame on her own gari'ulity garrulously. 
 Said the good nuns would check her 
 
 gadding tongue 
 Full often, " and, sweet lady, if I seem 
 To vex an ear too sad to listen to me, 
 Unmannerly, with prattling and the 
 
 tales 
 Which my good father told me, check 
 
 me too 
 
S3< 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Nor let me shame my father's inemorj^ 
 
 one 
 Of noblest manners, tho' himself would 
 
 say 
 Sir Lancelot had the noblest ; and he 
 
 died, 
 Kill'd in a tilt, come next, five summers 
 
 back. 
 And left me ; but of others who remain, 
 And of the two first-famed for cour- 
 tesy— 
 And pray you check me if I ask amiss— - 
 But pray you, wliich had noblest, wliile 
 
 you moved 
 Among them, Lancelot or our lord tlie 
 
 King ■? " 
 
 Then the pale Queen look'd up and 
 
 answer'd her : 
 "Sir Lancelot, as became a noble kniglit. 
 Was gracious to all ladies, and the same 
 In open battle or tlie tilting-field 
 Forbore his own advantage, and the 
 
 King 
 In open battle or the tilting-field 
 Forbore his own advantage, and these 
 
 two 
 Were the most nobly manner'd men of 
 
 all; 
 For manners are not idle, but the fruit 
 Of loyal nature and of noble mind." 
 
 '* Yea," said the maid, " be manners 
 such fair fruit? 
 Tlien Lancelot's needs must be a thou- 
 sand-fold 
 Less noble, being, as all rumor runs. 
 The most disloyal friend in all the 
 world." 
 
 To which a mournful answer made 
 
 the Queen : 
 " O, closed about by narrowing nunnery- 
 walls. 
 What knowest thou of the world and all 
 
 its lights 
 And shadows, all tlie wealth and all the 
 
 woe ? 
 If ever Lancelot, that most noble knight. 
 Were for one hour less noble than liim- 
 
 self, 
 Pray for him that he scape the doom of 
 
 fire, 
 And weep for her who drew him to his 
 
 doom." 
 
 "Yea," said the little novice, " I pray 
 
 for both ; 
 But I should all as soon believe that his. 
 
 Sir Lancelot's, were as noble as the 
 
 King's, 
 As I could think, sweet lady, yours 
 
 would be 
 Such as they are, were you the sinful 
 
 Queen." 
 
 So she, like many another babbler, 
 
 liurt 
 Whom she would soothe, and harm'd 
 
 where she would heal : 
 For here a sudden flusli of wrathful heat 
 Fired all the pale face of the Queen, wlio 
 
 cried : 
 " Such as thou art be never maiden more 
 For ever ! thou tlieir tool, set on to 
 
 plague 
 And play upon and harrj' me, petty spy 
 And traitress ! " Wlien that storm of 
 
 anger brake 
 From Guinevere, aghast the maiden rose, 
 White as her veil, and stood before the 
 
 Queen 
 As tremulously as foam upon the beach 
 Stands in a wind, ready to break and fly. 
 And wlien the Queen had added, " Get 
 
 I^Ik^q hence ! " 
 Fled frighted. Then that other left 
 
 alone 
 Sigh'd, and began to gather lieart again, 
 Saving in herself : '" The simple, fearful 
 
 child 
 Meant nothing, but my own too-fearful 
 
 guilt. 
 Simpler tlian any child, betrays itself. 
 But help me, Heaven, for surely I re- 
 pent ! 
 For wliat is true repentance but in 
 
 thouglit — 
 Not even in inmost thought to think 
 
 again 
 The sins tliat made the past so pleasant 
 
 to us? 
 And I have sworn never to see him more, 
 To see liim more." 
 
 And even in saying this. 
 Her memory from old habit of the mind 
 Went slipping back upon the golden days 
 In whicdi she saw him first, when Lan- 
 celot came, 
 Reputed the best knight and gooilliest 
 
 man. 
 Ambassador, to yield her to his lord 
 Arthur, and led her forth, and far ahead 
 Of his and her retinue moving, they, 
 Rapt in sweet talk or lively, all on love 
 And sport and tilts and pleasure, — for 
 the time 
 
 , 
 
TENNYSON 
 
 531 
 
 Was may-time, and as yet no sin was 
 
 dream'd, — 
 Rode under groves that look'd a paradise 
 Of blossom, over sheets of hyacintli 
 Tliat seem'd the heavens upbreaking 
 
 thro' the earth. 
 And on from hill to hill, and every day 
 Beheld at n'^on in some delicious dale 
 The silk pavilions of King Arthur raised 
 For brief repast or afternoon repose 
 By oouriei's gone before ; and on again. 
 Till yet once more ere set of sun tliey 
 
 saw 
 The Dragon of the great Pendragonship, 
 Tliat crown'd the state pavilion of the 
 
 King, 
 Blaze by the rushing brook or silent 
 
 well. 
 
 But when the Queen immersed in such 
 a trance, 
 And moving thro' the past unconscious- 
 
 Came to that point where first she saw 
 
 tlie King 
 Ride toward her from the city, sigh'd to 
 
 find 
 Her journey done, glanced at him, 
 
 thought liim cold, 
 Higli, self-con tain'd, and passionless, not 
 
 like him, 
 " Not like my Lancelot*' — wliile she 
 
 brooded thus 
 And grew lialf-guilty in her thoughts 
 
 again, 
 Tliere rode an armed warrior to the 
 
 doors. 
 A murmuring whisper thro' the nunnery 
 
 ran. 
 Then on a sudden a crj^ " The King ! " 
 
 Siie sat 
 Stiff -stricken, listening ; but when armed 
 
 feet 
 Thro' tlie long gallery from the outer 
 
 doors 
 Rang coming, prone from off her seat 
 
 she fell, 
 And grovell'd with her face against the 
 
 floor. 
 There with her milk-white arms and 
 
 shadowy hair 
 She made her face a darkness from the 
 
 King, 
 And in the darkness heard his armed feet 
 Pause by her ythen came silence, then a 
 
 voice, 
 Monotonous and liollow like a ghost's 
 Denouncing judgment, but, though 
 
 changed, the King's : 
 
 " Liest thou here so low, the child of 
 
 one 
 I honor'd, liappy, dead before thj^ shame ? 
 Well is it that no child is Iwrn of thee. 
 The children born of thee are sword and 
 
 fire, 
 Red ruin, and the breaking up of laws, 
 The craft of kindred and the godless 
 
 hosts 
 Of heathen swarming o'er the Northern 
 
 Sea; 
 Whom I, wliile yet Sir Lancelot, my 
 
 right arm. 
 The migiitiest of my knights, abode with 
 
 me. 
 Have everywhere about this land of 
 
 Christ 
 In twelve great battles ruining over- 
 thrown. 
 And knowest thou now from whence I 
 
 come — from him, 
 From waging bitter war witli him ; and 
 
 he. 
 That did not shun to smite me in worse 
 
 way. 
 Had yet that grace of courtesy in him 
 
 left. 
 He spared to lift his hand against the 
 
 King 
 Who made him knight. But many a 
 
 kniglit was slain ; 
 And many more and all his kith and 
 
 kin 
 Clave to him, and abode in his own land. 
 And many more when Modred rai.sed 
 
 revolt, 
 Forgetful of their troth and fealty, clave 
 To Modi'ed, and a remnant stajs with 
 
 me. 
 And of this remnant will I leave a part, 
 True men who love me still, for whom I 
 
 live. 
 To guard thee in the wild hour coming 
 
 on, 
 Lest but a hair of this low head be 
 
 harm'd. 
 Fear not ; thou shalt be guarded till my 
 
 death. 
 Howbeit I know, if ancient prophecies 
 Have err'd not, that I march to meet my 
 
 doom. 
 Tliou hast not made mj^ life so sweet to 
 
 me, 
 That I the King should greatly care to 
 
 live ; 
 For thou hast spoilt the purpose of my 
 
 life. 
 Bear with me for the last time whilel 
 
 show. 
 
532 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Even for tliy sake, the sin wliicli thou 
 
 hast sinn'd. [law 
 
 For when the Roman left us, and their 
 Relax'd its hold u})oii us, and tlie ways 
 Were fiU'd with rapine, here and there 
 
 a deed 
 Of prowess done redress"d a random 
 
 wrong. 
 But I was first of all the kings who drew 
 The knighthood-errant of this realm and 
 
 all 
 The realms together under me, their 
 
 Head, 
 In that fair Order of my Table Round, 
 A glorious company, the flower of men. 
 To serve as model for the mighty world. 
 And be the fair beginning of a time. 
 I made them lay their hands in mine 
 
 and swear 
 To reverence the King, as if he were 
 Their conscience, and their conscience 
 
 as their King, 
 To break tlie heathen and uphold the 
 
 Christ, 
 To ride abroad redressing human wrongs, 
 To speak no slander, no, nor listen to it. 
 To honor his own word as if his God's, 
 To lead sweet lives in purest chastity. 
 To love one maiden only, cleave to her. 
 And worship her by years of noble deeds, 
 Until tl\ey won her ; for indeed I knew 
 Of no more subtle master under heaven 
 Than is the maiden passion for a maid. 
 Not only to keep down the base in man. 
 But teach high thougiit, and amiable 
 
 words 
 And courtliness, and the desire of fame, 
 And love of truth, and all that makes a 
 
 man. 
 And all this throve before I wedded thee. 
 Believing, " Lo, mine helpmate, one to 
 
 feel 
 My purpose and rejoicing in my joy ! " 
 Then came thy shameful sin with Lance- 
 lot : 
 Then came the sin of Tiistram and Isolt ; 
 Then others. following these my 
 
 mightiest knights. 
 And drawing foul ensample from fair 
 
 names, 
 Sinn'd also, till the loathsome opposite 
 Of all my heart liad destined did obtain. 
 And all thro' thee ! so that this life of 
 
 mine 
 I guard as God's higli gift from scathe 
 
 and wrong. 
 Not greatly care to lose ; but rather think 
 How sad it were for Arthur, should he 
 
 live, 
 
 To sit once more within his lonely liall. 
 And miss the wonted number of my 
 
 knights. 
 And miss to hear high talk of noble deeds 
 As in the golden days before tliy sin. 
 For which of us who might be left could 
 
 speak 
 Of the pure heart, nor seem to glance at 
 
 tliee ? 
 And in tlij^ bowers of Camelot or of Usk 
 Thy shadow still would glide from room 
 
 to room, 
 And I sliould evermore be vext with thee 
 In lianging robe or vacant ornament, 
 Or ghostly footfall echoing on the stair. 
 For think not, tho' thou wouldst not 
 
 love thy lord. 
 Thy lord has wholly lost his love for 
 
 thee. 
 I am not made of so slight elements. 
 Yet must I leave thee, woman, to tliy 
 
 shame. 
 I hold that man the worst of public foes 
 Who eitlier for his own or children's 
 
 sake, 
 To save his blood from scandal, lets tlie 
 
 wife 
 Whom he knows false abide and rule 
 
 the house : 
 For being thro' his cowardice allow'd 
 Her station, taken everywhere for pure. 
 She like a new disease, unknown to men. 
 Creeps, no precaution used, among the 
 
 crowd. 
 Makes wicked lightnings of her eyes, and 
 
 saps 
 The fealty of our friends, and stirs the 
 
 pulse 
 With devil's leaps, and poisons half the 
 
 young. 
 Worst of the worst were that man he 
 
 that reigns ! 
 Better the King's waste hearth and 
 
 aching heart 
 Than tliou reseated in thy place of light. 
 The mockery of my people and their 
 
 bane ! " 
 
 He paused, and in the pause she crept 
 
 an inch 
 Nearer, and laid her hands about his feet. 
 Far off a solitary trumpet blew 
 Then waiting by the doors the war-horse 
 
 neigh'd 
 As at a friend's voice, and he spake 
 
 again : 
 
 "Yet think not that I come to urge, 
 thy crimes ; 
 
TENNYSON 
 
 533 
 
 I did not come to curse thee, Guinevere, 
 I, whose vast pity almost makes me die 
 To see thee, laj'ing there thy golden head, 
 Jly pride in happier summers, at my feet. 
 Tlie wrath which forced my thoughts on 
 
 that fierce law, 
 The doom of treason and the flaming 
 
 death, — 
 Wlien first I learned thee hidden here, — 
 
 is past. 
 The pang — wliich, while I weigh'd thy 
 
 lieart witli one 
 Too wliolly true to dream untruth in 
 
 thee, 
 Made my tears burn — is also ijast — in 
 
 part. 
 And all is past, the sin is siini'd, and I, 
 Lo, I forgive thee, as Eternal God 
 Forgives ! do thou for thine own soul the 
 
 rest. 
 But how to take last leave of all I loved ? 
 
 golden Jiair, with which I used to play 
 Not knowing ! O imperial-moulded 
 
 form , 
 And beauty such as never woman wore. 
 Until it came a kingdom's curse witli 
 
 thee — 
 
 1 cannot touch thy lips, they are not 
 
 mine, 
 But Lancelot's ; nay, they never were 
 
 the King's. 
 I cannot take tliy hand ; that too is flesli , 
 And in the flesli thou hast sinn"d : and 
 
 mine own flesh. 
 Here looking down on thine polluted, 
 
 cries, 
 ' I loathe thee ; ' yet not less, O Guine- 
 vere, 
 For I was ever virgin save for thee. 
 My love thro' flesh hath wrouglit into 
 
 my life 
 So far that my doom is, I love thee still. 
 Let no man dream but that I love thee 
 
 still. 
 Perchance, and so thou purify thy soul. 
 And so thou lean on our fair father 
 
 Christ, 
 Hereafter in that world where all are 
 
 pure 
 We two may meet before high God, and 
 
 thou 
 Wilt spring to me, and claim me thine, 
 
 and know 
 I am thine husband — not a smaller soul. 
 Nor Lancelot, nor another. Leave ine 
 
 that, 
 I charge thee, my last hope. Now must I 
 
 hence. [blow. 
 
 Thro' the thick night I hear the trumpet 
 
 They summon me their King to lead 
 
 mine hosts 
 Far down to that great battle in the west, 
 Where I must strike against the man 
 
 they call 
 My sister's son — no kin of mine, wlio 
 
 leagues 
 With Lords of the White Horse, heathen, 
 
 and kniglits. 
 Traitors — and strike him dead, and meet 
 
 myself 
 Death, or I know not what mysterious 
 
 doom. 
 And thou remaining here wilt learn the 
 
 event ; 
 But hither shall I never come again, 
 Never lie by thy side, see thee no more — 
 Farewell ! " 
 
 And wdiile she grovell'd at his feet, 
 She felt the King's breath wander o'er 
 
 her neck. 
 And in the darkness o'er her fallen head 
 Perceived the waving of his hands that 
 
 blessed. 
 
 Then, listening till those armed steps 
 
 were gone, 
 Rose the pale Queen, and in her anguish 
 
 found 
 Tlie casement: " 2)erad venture," so she 
 
 thought, 
 "If I might see his face, and not be 
 
 seen." 
 And lo. he sat on horseback at the door ! 
 And near him the .sad nuns with each a 
 
 light 
 Stood, and he gave them charge about 
 
 the Qupen, 
 To guaiil and foster her for evermore. 
 And while he spake to these his helm 
 
 was lower'd. 
 To which for crest the golden dragon 
 
 clung 
 Of Britain ; so she did not see the face. 
 Which then was as an angel's, but she 
 
 saw. 
 Wet with the mists and smitten by the 
 
 lights, 
 The Dragon of the great Pendragonship 
 Blaze, making all the night a steam of 
 
 fire. 
 And even then he turn'd ; and more and 
 
 more 
 The moony vapor rolling round the King, 
 Who seem'd the i^hantom of a giant in 
 
 it, 
 Enwoimd him fold by fold, and made 
 
 him gray 
 
534 
 
 BRITISH t»OP:TS 
 
 And grayer, till himself became as mist 
 Before her, uioviug ghostlike to his 
 doom. 
 
 Then she stretch 'd out her arms and 
 
 ci'ied aloud, 
 " O Arthur ! " there her voice brake sud- 
 
 • denly, 
 Then — as a stream that spouting from a 
 
 cliff 
 Fails in mid air, but gathering at the 
 
 base 
 Re-makes itself, and flashes down the 
 
 vale — 
 Went on in passionate utterance : 
 
 " Gone— my lord ! 
 Gone thro' my sin to slay and to be slain ! 
 And he forgave me, and I could not 
 
 speak. 
 Farewell? I should have answei-'d his 
 
 farewell. 
 His mercy choked me. Gone, my lord 
 
 the King, 
 My own true lord ! how dare I call him 
 
 mine ? 
 The shadow of another cleaves to me, 
 And makes me one pollution. He, the 
 
 King, 
 Call'd me polluted. Shall I kill myself ? 
 What help in that? I cannot kill my 
 
 sin. 
 If soul be soul, nor can I kill mj^ shame ; 
 No, nor by living can I live it down. 
 The days will grow to weeks, the weeks 
 
 to mouths. 
 The montlis will add themselves and 
 
 make the years. 
 The years will roll into the centuries, 
 And mine will ever be a name of scorn. 
 I must not dwell on that defeat of fame. 
 Let the Avorld be ; that is but of the 
 
 world — 
 What else? what ho^ie? I think there 
 
 was a liope. 
 Except he mock'd me when he spake of 
 
 hope ; 
 His hope he call'd it ; but he never 
 
 mocks. 
 For mockery is the fume of little hearts. 
 And blessed be the King, who hath for- 
 given 
 My wickedness to him, and left me hope 
 That in mine own heart I can live down 
 
 sin 
 And be his mate hereafter in tlie heavens 
 Before high God ! Ali great and gentle 
 
 lord, 
 Who wast, as is the conscience of a saint 
 
 Among his warring senses, to thy 
 
 knights — 
 To whom my false voluptuous pride, 
 
 that took 
 Full easily all impressions from below, 
 Would not look up, or half-despised the 
 
 height 
 To which I would not or I could not 
 
 climb — 
 I thought I could not breathe in that 
 
 fine air, 
 That pure severity of perfect light — 
 I yearn'd for warmth and color which I 
 
 found 
 In Lancelot — now I see thee what thou 
 
 art. 
 Thou art the highest and most human 
 
 too, 
 Not Lancelot, nor another. Is there 
 
 none 
 Will tell the King I love him tho' so 
 
 late? 
 Now — ere he goes to the great battle? 
 
 none ! 
 Myself must tell him in that purer life. 
 But now it were too daring. Ah my God , 
 What might I not have made of thy fair 
 
 world. 
 Had I but loved thj^ highest creature 
 
 here ? 
 It was my duty to have loved the 
 
 highest ; 
 It surely was my profit had I Ivuown ; 
 It would have been my pleasure liad I 
 
 seen. 
 We needs must love the highest when 
 
 we see it, 
 Not Lancelot, nor another." 
 
 Here her hand 
 Grasp'd made her veil her eyes. She 
 
 look'd and saw 
 The novice, weeping, suppliant, and said 
 
 to her, 
 "Yea, little maid, for am I not for- 
 given ? " 
 Tlien glancing up beheld the holy nuns 
 All round her, weeping ; and her heart 
 
 was loosed 
 Within her, and she M'ept with these 
 and said : 
 
 " Ye know me then, that wicked one, 
 
 who broke 
 The vast design and purpose of the King, 
 O, shut me round witli narrowing nun- 
 
 nerj'^ walls, 
 Meek maidens, from the voices crying, 
 
 ' Shame ! ' 
 
TENNYSON 
 
 535 
 
 I must not scorn myself ; he loves me 
 
 still. 
 Let no one dream but that he loves me 
 
 still. 
 So let me, if you do not sliudder at me. 
 Nor shun to call me sister, dwell with 
 
 you ; 
 Wear black and white, and be a nun 
 
 like you, 
 Fast with your fasts, not feasting with 
 
 your feasts ; 
 Grieve with your griefs, not grieving at 
 
 your joys, 
 But not rejoicing ; mingle with your 
 
 rites ; 
 Pray and be pray'd for ; lie before your 
 
 shrines : 
 Do eacli low office of your lioly house ; 
 AYalk your dim cloister, and distribute 
 
 dole 
 To poor sick people, richer in His eyes 
 Wlio ransom'd us, and haler too than I ; 
 And treat their loathsome hurts and lieal 
 
 mine own ; 
 And so wear ovit in alms-deed and in 
 
 prayer 
 The sombre close of that voluptuous day 
 Which wrought the ruin of my lord the 
 
 King." 
 
 She said. They took her to themselves ; 
 and she 
 
 Still lioping, fearing " Isit yet too late? '' 
 
 Dwelt with them, till in time their ab- 
 bess died. 
 
 Tlien she, for her good deeds and her pure 
 life. 
 
 And for tbe power of ministration in her. 
 
 And likewise for the high rank she liad 
 borne, 
 
 Was chosen abbess, there, an abbess, 
 lived 
 
 For three brief years, and there, an ab- 
 bess, passed 
 
 To where beyond these voices there is 
 peace. 1859. 
 
 TITHONUS 
 
 The woods decay, the woods decay and 
 fall, 
 
 The vapors weep their burthen to the 
 ground, 
 
 ]\ran comes and tills the field and lies be- 
 neath. 
 
 And after many a summer dies the swan. 
 
 Me only cruel immortalitj'- 
 
 Consumes ; I wither slowly in tiiine arms, 
 
 Here at the quiet limit of the world, 
 
 A white-hair 'd shadow roaming like a 
 
 dream 
 The ever-silent spaces of the East, 
 Far-folded mists, and gleaming halls of 
 
 morn. 
 Alas ! for tliis gray shadow, once a 
 
 man — 
 So glorious in his beauty and thy choice, 
 Who madest liim thy cliosen, tliat he 
 
 seem'd 
 To his great heart none other than a 
 
 God! 
 I ask'd thee, " Give me immortality." 
 Then didst thou grant mine asking with 
 
 a smile, 
 Like wealthj^ men who care not how 
 
 they give. 
 But thy strong Hours indignant work'd 
 
 their wills. 
 And beat me down and marr'd and 
 
 wasted me. 
 And tho' they could not end me, left me 
 
 maim'd 
 To dwell in presence of inimortal youth, 
 
 Immortal age beside immortal youtli^ 
 
 And all I was in ashes. Can thy love. 
 Thy beauty, make amends, tho' even 
 
 now. 
 Close over us, the silver star, thy guide, 
 Shines in those tremulous eyes that fill 
 
 with tears 
 To hear me ? Let me go ; take back thy 
 
 gift. 
 Why should a man desire in any way 
 To vary from the kindly race of men, 
 Or pass beyond the goal of ordina:ice 
 Where all should pause, as is niost meet 
 
 for all ? 
 A soft air fans the cloud apart ; there 
 
 comes 
 A glimpse of that dark world where I 
 
 was born. 
 Once more the old mysterious glimmer 
 
 steals 
 From thy pure brows, and from thy 
 
 shoulders pure. 
 And bosom beating with a heart renew'd. 
 Thy cheek begins to redden thro' the 
 
 gloom. 
 Thy sweet eyes brighten slowly close to 
 
 mine. 
 Ere yet they blind the stars, and the 
 
 wild team 
 Which love thee, yearning for thy yoke, 
 
 arise. 
 And shake the darkness from their 
 
 loosen'd niiines. 
 And beat the twilight into flakes of fire. 
 Lo ! ever thus thou growest beautiful 
 
536 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 In silence, then before thine answer 
 
 given 
 Departest, and thy tears are on my 
 
 cheek. 
 Why wilt thou ever scare me with thy 
 
 tears, 
 And make me tremble lest a saying 
 
 learnt, 
 In days far-oflf. on that dark earth, be 
 
 true ? 
 "The Gods themselves cannot recall 
 
 their gifts." 
 Ay me ! ay me ! with what another 
 
 heart 
 In days far-off, and with what other 
 
 eyes 
 I used to watch — if I be he that 
 
 watch'd — 
 The lucid outline forming round thee ; 
 
 saw 
 The dim curls kindle into sunny rings ; 
 Changed with thy mystic change, and 
 
 felt my blood 
 Glow with the glow that slowly crim- 
 son 'd all 
 Thy presence and thy portals, while I 
 
 lay. 
 Mouth, forehead, eyelids, growing dewy- 
 warm 
 With kisses balmier than half -opening 
 
 buds 
 Of April, and could hear the lips that 
 
 kiss'd 
 Whispering I knew not what of wild 
 
 and sweet. 
 Like that strange song I heard Apollo 
 
 sing, 
 While Ilion like a mist rose into towers. 
 Yet hold me not for ever in thine 
 
 East ; 
 How can my nature longer mix with 
 
 thine? 
 Coldly tljy rosy shadows bathe me, cold 
 Are all thy lights, and cold my wrink- 
 led feet 
 Upon thy glimmering thresholds, when 
 
 the steam 
 Floats up from those dim fields about 
 
 the homes [die. 
 
 Of happy men that have the power to 
 And grassy barrows of the happier dead. 
 Release me, and restore me to the 
 
 ground. [grave ; 
 
 Thou seest all things, thou wilt see my 
 Thou wilt renew thy beauty morn by 
 
 morn, [courts. 
 
 I earth in earth forget these empty 
 And thee returning on thy silver wl)eels. 
 
 1860. 
 
 THE SAILOR BOY 
 
 He rose at dawn and, fired with hope, 
 Shot o'er the seething harbor-bar. 
 
 And reach'd the ship and cauglit the 
 rope. 
 And whistled to the morning star. 
 
 And while he whistled long and loud 
 He heard a fierce mermaiden cry, 
 
 " O boy, tho' thou art young and proud, 
 I see the place where thou wilt lie. 
 
 " The sands and j^easty surges mix 
 In caves about the dreary bay, 
 
 And on thy ribs the limpet sticks, 
 And in thy heart the scrawl shall 
 play." 
 
 " Fool," he answer'd, " death is sure 
 To those that stay and those that roam, 
 
 But I will nevermore endure 
 To sit with empty hands at home. 
 
 ' ' My mother clings about my neck, 
 My sisters crying, ' Stay for shame ; ' 
 
 My father raves of death and wi-eck, — 
 They are all to blame, they are all to 
 blame. 
 
 ' ' God help me ! save I take my part 
 Of danger on the roaring sea, 
 
 A devil rises in my heart, 
 Far worse than any death to me." 
 
 1861. 
 
 MILTON 
 
 (ALCAICS) 
 
 O MIGHTY-MOUTH'd inventor of harmo- 
 nies, 
 O skill'd to sing of Time or Eternity, 
 God-gifted organ-voice of England, 
 Milton, a name to resound for ages : 
 Whose Titan angels, Gabriel, Abdiel. 
 Starr'd from Jehovah's gorgeous armo- 
 ries, 
 Tower, as the deep-domed eminrean 
 Rings to tlie roar of an angel onset ! 
 Me rather all that bowery loneliness. 
 The brooks of Eden mazily murmuring. 
 And bloom profuse and cedar arches 
 Charm, as a. wanderer out in ocean, 
 Wliere some refulgent sunset of India 
 Streams o'er a rich ambrosial ocean isle, 
 And crimson-hued the stately palm- 
 woods 
 Whisper in odorous heights of even. 
 
 1863. 
 
TENNYSON 
 
 537 
 
 THE VOYAGE 
 
 We left behind the painted buoy 
 
 Tliat tosses at the harbor-mouth ; 
 And madly danced our hearts with joy, 
 
 As fast we fleeted to the south. 
 How fresh was everj^ sight and sound 
 
 On open main or winding shore ! 
 We knew the merry world was round, 
 
 And we might sail for evermore. 
 
 Warm broke the breeze against the 
 brow, 
 
 Dry sang the tackle, sang the sail ; 
 Tlie lady's-head upon the prow 
 
 Caught the shrill salt, and sheer'd the 
 gale. 
 The broad seas swell'd to. meet the keel, 
 
 And swept behind ; so quick the run 
 We felt the good ship shake and reel, 
 
 We seem'd to sail into the sun ! 
 
 How oft we saw tlie sun retire, 
 
 And burn the thresliold of the niglit, 
 Fall from his Ocean-lane of fire. 
 
 And sleep beneath his pillar'd light ! 
 How oft the purple-skirted robe 
 
 Of twilight slowly downward drawn, 
 As thro' the slumber of the globe 
 
 Again we dash'd into the dawn ! 
 
 New stars all night above the brim 
 
 Of waters lighten'd into view ; 
 They clinib'd as quickly, for the rim 
 
 Chctnged every moment as we flew. 
 Far ran the naked moon across 
 
 The houseless ocean's heaving field, 
 Or flying shone, the silver boss 
 
 Of her own halo's dusky shield. 
 
 The peaky islet shifted shapes. 
 
 High towns on hills were dimly seen ; 
 We passed long lines of Northern ca])es 
 
 And dewy Northern meadows green. 
 We came to warmer waves, aiul deep 
 
 Across the boundless east we drove. 
 Where those long swells of breaker 
 sweep 
 
 The nutmeg rocks and isles of clove. 
 
 By peaks that flamed, or, all in shade, 
 
 Gloom'd the low coast and quivering 
 brine 
 With ashy rains, that spreading made 
 
 Fantastic plume or sable pine ; 
 By sands and steaming flats, and floods 
 
 Of mighty mouth, we scudded fast. 
 And hills and scarlet-mingled woods 
 
 Glovv'd for a nioment as we passed. 
 
 O hundred shores of happy climes. 
 
 How swiftly stream'd ye by the bark ! 
 At times the wliole sea burn'd, at times 
 
 With wakes of fire we tore the dark ; 
 At times a carven craft would shoot 
 
 From havens hid in fairy bowers, 
 With naked limbs and flowers and fruit, 
 
 But we nor paused for fruit nor 
 flowers. 
 
 For one fair Vision ever fled 
 
 Down the waste waters day and night, 
 And still we folio w"d where she led. 
 
 In hope to gain upon her flight. 
 Her face was evermore unseen, 
 
 And fixed upon the far sea-line ; 
 But each man murmur'd, " Omy queen, 
 
 I follow till I make thee mine ! " 
 
 Aiul now we lost her, now she gleani'd 
 
 Like Fancy made of golden air. 
 Now nearer to the ])row she seem'd 
 
 Like Virtue firm, like Knowledge fair, 
 Now high on waves that idly burst 
 
 Like Heavenly Hope she crown'd the 
 sea. 
 And now, the bloodless point reversed, 
 
 She bore the blade of Liberty. 
 
 And only one among us — him 
 
 We jileased not — he was seldom 
 pleased ; 
 He saw not far, his eyes were dim. 
 
 But ours he swore were iiU diseased. 
 ■' A ship of fools," he shriekM in spite, 
 
 "A ship of fools," he sneer'd and 
 wept. 
 And overboard one stormy night 
 
 He cast his bod}-, and on we swept. 
 
 And never sail of ours was furi'd. 
 
 Nor anchor dropi)ed at eve oi- morn ; 
 We loved the glories of the world. 
 
 But laws of nature were our scorn. 
 For blasts would rise and rave and cease, 
 
 But whence were those that drove the 
 sail 
 Across the whirlwind's heart of peace, 
 
 And to and thro' the counter gale ? 
 
 Again to colder climes we came. 
 
 For still we follow"d where she led ; 
 Now mate is blind and captain lame. 
 
 And half the crew are sick or dead, 
 But, blind or lame or sick or sound. 
 
 We follow that -which flies before ; 
 We know the merry world is round, 
 
 And we may sail for evermore. 
 
 1864. 
 
538 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 NORTHERN FARMER 
 
 OLD STYLE 
 
 Wheer 'asta bean saw long and mea 
 
 liggin' 'ere aloan ? 
 Noorse? thoort nowt o' anoorse; whoy, 
 
 Doctor 's abean an' agoan ; 
 Says that I nioant 'a naw moor aale, but 
 
 I beaut a fool ; 
 Git ma my aale, fur I beant a-gavvin' 
 
 to break my rule. 
 
 Doctors, they knaws nowt, fur a says 
 
 what 's nawwaj's true ; 
 Naw soort o' koiiid o' use to saay the 
 
 things that a do. 
 I 've 'ed my point o' aale ivry noiglit 
 
 sin' I bean 'ere. 
 An' I 've *ed my quart ivry market- 
 
 noight for foorty year. 
 
 Parson 's a bean loikewoise, an' a sittin' 
 
 ere o' my bed. 
 "Tlie Amoighty 's a taakin o' you^ to 
 
 'issen, my friend," a said. 
 An' a towd ma my sins, an' 's toithe 
 
 were due, an' I gied it in bond ; 
 I done moy duty boy 'um, as I 'a done 
 
 boy the loud. 
 
 Larn'd a ma' bea. I reckons I 'annot 
 
 sa mooch to larn. 
 But a cast oop, thot a did, 'bout Bessy 
 
 Harris's barne. 
 Thaw a knaws I hallus voated wi' 
 
 Squoire an' choorch an' staate, 
 An' i' the woost o' toimes I wur niver 
 
 agin the raate. 
 
 An' I liallus coom'd to 's choorch afoor 
 
 moy Sally wur dead. 
 An' 'eard 'um a bvmunin' awaay loike a 
 
 buzzard-clock ^ ower my 'ead. 
 An' I niver knaw'd whot a mean'd but 
 
 I thowt a 'ad sunimut to saay, 
 An' I thowt a said whot a owt to 'a said, 
 
 an' I coom'd awaay. 
 
 Bessy Harris's barne ! tha knaws she 
 
 laaid it to mea. 
 Blowt a bean, mayhap, for she wur a 
 
 bad un, shea. 
 'Siver, I kep 'um, I kep 'um, my lass, 
 
 tha mun understond ; 
 I done moy duty boy 'um, as I 'a done 
 
 boy the lond. 
 
 1 oil as in hour. [The notes on this poem are 
 Tennyson's. 1 
 ^ Cockchafer. 
 
 But Parson a cooms an' a goas, an' a 
 
 says it ea.sy an' freea : 
 "The Amoighty s a taakin o' you to 
 
 'issen, my friend," says 'ea. 
 I weant saay men be loiars, thaw suni- 
 
 mun said it in 'aaste ; 
 But 'e reads wonn sarmin a weeak. an' I 
 
 'a stubb'd Thurnaby waaste. 
 
 D' ya moind tlie waaste, mj^ lass ? naw, 
 
 naw, tha was not born then ; 
 Theer wur a boggle in it, I often 'eard 
 
 'um mysen ; 
 Moast loike a butter-buuqi,i fur I 'eaid 
 
 'um about an' about. 
 But I stubb'd 'um oop wi' the lot, an' 
 
 raaved an' rembled 'um out. 
 
 Keaper's it wur ; fo' they fun 'um theer 
 
 a-laaid of 'is faace 
 Down i' the woikl 'enemies ^ afbor I 
 
 coom'd to the plaace. 
 Noaks or Thimbleby — toaner^ "ed shot 
 
 'um as dead as a naail. 
 Noaks wur "ang'd for it oop at 'soiZ9 — 
 
 but git ma my aale. 
 
 Dubbut loook at the waaste ; theer 
 
 warn't not feead for a cow ; 
 Nowt at all but bracken an' fuzz, an' 
 
 loook at it now — 
 Warn't wortli nowt a haacre, an' now 
 
 theer 's lots o' feead, 
 Fourscoor yows* u)ion it, an' some on it 
 
 down i' seead.^ 
 
 Nobbut a bit on it 's left, an' I mean'd to 
 
 'a stubb'd it at fall. 
 Done it ta-year I mean'd, an' runn'd plow 
 
 thruff it an' all. 
 If Godamoighty an' parson 'ud nobbut let 
 
 ma aloan, — 
 Hea, wi' haate hoonderd haacre o' 
 
 Squoire's, an lond o' my oan. 
 
 Do Godamoighty knaw wliat a's doing 
 a-taakin' o' mea ? 
 
 I beant wonn as saws 'ere a bean an yon- 
 der a pea ; 
 
 An' Squoire 'nil be sa mad an' all — a' 
 dear, a' dear ! 
 
 And I 'a managed for Squoire coom 
 Hichaelmas thutty year. 
 
 A mowt 'a taaen owd Joanes, as 'ant not 
 
 a 'aapoth o' sense, 
 Or a mowt a' taaen young Robins — a 
 
 niver mended a fence ; 
 
 1 Bittern. 2 Anemones. 
 * ou as in hour. 
 
 5 One or other. 
 ■^ Clover. 
 
TENNYSON 
 
 539 
 
 But Godainoighty a iiioost taake niea an' 
 
 taake ma now, 
 Wi' aaf the cows to cauve an' Thurnaby 
 
 hoalms to plow ! 
 
 Loook 'ow quoloty snioiles when they 
 
 seeas ma a passin' boy, 
 Says to thessen, naw doubt, " What a 
 
 man a bea sevver-loy ! " 
 Fur they knaws what I bean to Squoire 
 
 sin' fust a coom'd to the 'AH ; 
 I done moy duty by Squoire an' I done 
 
 moy duty boy hall. 
 
 S(iuoire ' s i' Lunnon, an' sunimun I 
 
 reckons 'nil 'a to wroite, 
 For whoa 's to liowd the lond ater mea 
 
 thot muddles ma quoit ; 
 Sartin-sewer I bea tliot a weant niver 
 
 give it to Joanes, 
 Naw, nor a moant to Robins — a niver 
 
 renihles the stoans. 
 
 But summun 'ull come ater mea mayhap 
 
 wi' 'is kittle o' steam 
 Huzzin' an' maazin' the blessed fealds 
 
 wi' tlie divil's oan team. 
 Sin' I mun doy I niun doy, thaw loife 
 
 tliey says is sweet, 
 But sin' I mun doy I mun doy, for I 
 
 couldn abear to see it. 
 
 What atta stannin' tlieer fur, an' doesn 
 
 bring ma the aale ? 
 Doctor 's a 'toattler, lass, an a's hallus i' 
 
 tlie owd taale ; 
 I weant lireak rules fur Doctor, a knaws 
 
 naw moor nor a floy ; 
 Git ma my aale. I tell tha, an' if I mun 
 
 doy I mun doy. 1864. 
 
 THE FLOWER i 
 
 Once in a golden liour 
 
 I cast to earth a seed. 
 Up tliere came a flower. 
 
 The people said, a weed . 
 
 To and fro they went 
 Tluo' my garden-bower, 
 
 And muttering discontent 
 Cursed nie and my flower. 
 
 Tlien it grew so tall 
 
 It wore a crown of light. 
 
 But thieves from o'er the wall 
 Stole the seed l)y night ; 
 
 * See the Life of Tennyson II, 10-11. 
 
 Sow'd it far and wide 
 
 By every town and tower, 
 
 Till all the people cried 
 " Splendid is the flower." 
 
 Read my little fable : 
 He that runs may read. 
 
 Most (;an raise the flowers now 
 For all have got the seed. 
 
 And some are pretty enough, 
 And some are poor indeed ; 
 
 And now again the people 
 Call it but a weed. 1SG4. 
 
 IN THE VALLEY OF CAUTERETZ 
 
 All along tlie valley, stream thatflashest 
 
 white, 
 Deepening thy voice witli the deepening 
 
 of the niglit. 
 All along the valley, where thy waters 
 
 flow, 
 I walk'd with one I loved two and thirty 
 
 j^ears ago. 
 All along the valley, while I walk'd to- 
 day, 
 Tlie two and thirty years were a mist 
 
 that rolls away ; 
 For all along the valley, down thy rocky 
 
 bed, 
 Tliy living voice to me was as the voice 
 
 of the dead. 
 And all along the valley, by rock and 
 
 cave and tree. 
 The voice of tlie dead was a living voice 
 
 to me. 1864. 
 
 A DEDICATION 
 
 Dear, near and true, — no truer Time 
 
 himself 
 Can prove you, tlio' he make you ever- 
 more 
 Dearer and nearer, as the rapid of life 
 Shoots to the fall, — take this and pray 
 
 that he 
 Who wrote it, honoring your sweet faith 
 
 in him. 
 May trust himself ; and after jwaise and 
 
 scorn , [world , 
 
 As one who feels the immeasurable 
 Attain the wise indifference of the wise ; 
 And after autumn past — if left to pass 
 His autumn into seeming-leafless days — 
 Draw toward the long frost and longest 
 
 night, [fruit 
 
 Wearing his wisdom lightly, like the 
 Which in our winter woodlainl looks a 
 
 flower. 1864. 
 
S40 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 WAGES 
 
 Glory of warrior, glory of orator, glory 
 
 of song, 
 Paid with a voice flying by to be lost 
 
 on an endless sea — 
 Glory of Virtue, to fight, to struggle, to 
 
 riglit the wrong — 
 Nay, but she aim'd not at glory, no 
 
 lover of glory she ; 
 Give her the glory of going on, and still 
 
 to be. 
 
 The wages of sin is death : if the wages 
 
 of Virtue be dust. 
 Would she have heart to endure for 
 
 the life of the worm and the fl}' ? 
 She desires no isles of the blest, no quiet 
 
 seats of the just. 
 To rest in a golden grove, or to bask 
 
 in a summer sky ; 
 Give her the wages of going on, and not 
 
 to die. , 1868. 
 
 FROM THE COMING OF ARTHUR 
 merlin's riddle 
 
 Rain, rain, and sun I a rainbow in the 
 
 sky ! 
 A young man will be wiser by and by ; 
 An old man's wit may wander ere he die. 
 
 Rain, rain, and sun ! a rainbow on the 
 
 lea! 
 And trutli is this to me, and th.at to tliee ; 
 And trutli or clothed or naked let it be. 
 
 Rain, sun, and rain ! and tlie free blos- 
 som blows ; 
 
 Sun, rain, and sun ! and where is he who 
 knows ? 
 
 From the great deep to the great deep 
 he goes. 
 
 TRUMPET SONG 
 
 Blow trumpet, for the world is white 
 
 with May ! 
 Blow trumpet, the long night hath roU'd 
 
 away ! 
 Blow thro' the living world — " Let the 
 
 King reign ! " 
 
 Shall Rome or Heathen rule in Arthur's 
 
 realm ? 
 Flash brand and lance, fall battle-axe 
 
 upon helm. 
 Fall biittle-axe, and flash brand ! Let 
 
 the King reign ! 
 
 Strike for the King and live ! his knights 
 
 have heard 
 That Goel hath told the King a secret 
 
 word. 
 Fall battle-axe, and flash brand ! Let 
 
 the King reign ! 
 
 Blow trumpet 1 he will lift us from the 
 
 dust. 
 Blow trumpet I live the strength, and 
 
 die the lust ! 
 Clang battle-axe, and clash brand ! Let 
 
 the King reign ! 
 
 Strike for the King and die ! and if thou 
 
 diest. 
 The King is king, and ever wills the 
 
 highest. 
 Clang battle-axe, and clash brand ! Let 
 
 the King reign ! 
 
 Blow, for our Sun is mighty in his May I 
 Blow, for our Sun is mightier day by 
 
 day! 
 Clang battle-axe, and clash brand ! Let 
 
 the King reign ! 
 
 The King will follow Christ, and we the 
 
 King, 
 In whom higli God hath breathed a 
 
 secret (liing. 
 Fall battle-axe. and clash brand ! Let 
 
 the King reign ! 1869. 
 
 THE HIGHER PANTHEISM 
 
 The sun, the moon, the stars, the seas, 
 the hills and tlie plains, — 
 
 Are not these, OSoul, the Vision of Him 
 who reigns ? 
 
 Is not the Vision He, tho' He be not that 
 
 wliich He seems? 
 Dreams are true wliile they last, and do 
 
 we not live in dreams ? 
 
 Earth, these solid stars, this weight of 
 
 body and limb. 
 Are they not sign and symbol of thy 
 
 division from Him ? 
 
 Dark is the world to thee ; thyself art 
 
 the reason why. 
 For is He not all but thou, that hast 
 
 power to feel " I am I " "? 
 
 Glory about thee, without thee ; and 
 thou fulfillest thy doom. 
 
 Making Him broken gleams and a stifled 
 splendor and gloom. 
 
 
TENNYSON 
 
 541 
 
 Speak to Him, thou, for He hears, and 
 Spirit with Spirit can meet — 
 
 Closer is He tliau breathing, and nearer 
 than hands and feet. 
 
 God is law, say the wise ; O soul, and 
 
 let us rejoice, 
 For if He thunder by law the thunder is 
 
 yet His voice. 
 
 Law is God, say some ; no God at all, 
 
 says tlie fool. 
 For all we have power to see is a straight 
 
 statf bent in a pool ; 
 
 And the ear of man cannot hear, and tlie 
 
 eye of man cannot see ; 
 But if we could see and hear, this 
 
 Vision — were it not He ? 1870. 
 
 FLOWER IN THE CRANNIED WALL 
 
 Flower in the crannied wall, 
 
 I pluck you out of the cramiies. 
 
 I liold you here, root and all, in my 
 
 hand, 
 Little flower — but if I could understand 
 What you are, root and all, and all in 
 
 all, 
 I should know what God and man is. 
 
 1870. 
 
 NORTHERN FARMER 
 
 NEW^ STYLE 
 
 Dosn't thou 'ear my 'erse's legs, as they 
 
 canters- awaay ? 
 Proputty, proputty, proputty — that's 
 
 wliat I 'ears 'em saay. 
 Proputty, proputt3% proputty — Sam, 
 
 thou's an ass for thy pa'ins ; 
 Theer's moor sense i' one o' 'is legs, nor 
 
 in all tliy brains. 
 
 Woa — theer's a craw to pluck wi' tha, 
 Sam : yon 's parson's 'ouse — ■ 
 
 Dosn't thou knaw tliat a man mun be 
 eather a man or a mouse ? 
 
 Time to think on it tlien ; for thou'll be 
 twenty to weeak.^ 
 
 Proputt3\ proputty — woa then, woa — let 
 ma 'ear mysen speak. 
 
 Me an' thy muther, Sammy, 'as bean 
 
 a-talkin' o' tliee ; 
 Thou's bean talkin' to muther, an' she 
 
 bean a-tellin' it me. 
 Thou'll not marry for niunny — tliou's 
 
 sweet upo' parson's lass — 
 
 * This week. 
 
 Noa — thou '11 n\arry for luvv — an' we 
 boath on us thinks tha an ass. 
 
 Seea'd her to-daay goa by — Saaint's daay 
 
 — tliey was ringing the bells. 
 She's a beauty, thou thinks — an' soa is 
 
 scoors o' gells. 
 Them as 'as munny an' all — vvot's a 
 
 beauty? — the flower as blaws. 
 But proputt\', proputty sticks, an' jno- 
 
 putty, proputty grows. 
 
 Do'ant be stunt ;i taake time. I knaws 
 
 what maakes tha samad. 
 Warn't I craazed fur the lasses ni)'sen 
 
 when I wur a lad ? 
 But I knaw'd a Quanker feller as often 
 
 'as towd ma this : 
 " Doant thou many for munny, but goa 
 
 wheer munny is ! " 
 
 An' I went wheer munny war ; an' thy 
 
 muther coom to 'and, 
 Wi' lots o' munny laaid by, an' a nicetish 
 
 bit o' land. 
 Maaybe she warn't a beauty — Iniver giv 
 
 it a thowt — 
 But warn't she as good to cuddle an' kiss 
 
 as a lass as 'ant nowt "? 
 
 Parson's lass 'ant nowt, an' she weant 'a 
 
 now4 when 'e 's dead, 
 Mun be a guvness. lad, or summut, and 
 
 addle ^ her bread. 
 Why? fur 'e 's nobbut a curate, an' 
 
 weant niver get liissen clear. 
 An' 'e maade the bed as 'e ligs on afoor 
 
 'e coom'd to the shere. 
 
 An' thin 'e coom'd to the parish wi' lots 
 
 o' Varsity debt. 
 Stock to his taail they did, an' 'e 'ant 
 
 got shut on 'em yet. 
 An' 'e ligs on 'is back i' the grip, wi' 
 
 noan to lend 'ini a shove. 
 Woorse nor a far-welter'd ^ j-owe ; fur, 
 
 Sammy, 'e married fur luvv. 
 
 Luvv ? what's luw ? thou can luvv thy 
 
 lass an' 'er munny too, 
 Maakin' 'em goa togither, as they've good 
 
 right to do. 
 Couldn I luvv thy muther by cause 'o 
 
 'er munny laaid by ? 
 Naay— f ur I luvv'd 'er a vast sight moor 
 
 fur it ; reason why. 
 
 1 Obstinate. =* Earn. 
 
 3 Or, fow-welter'd,— said of a sheeplj'ingon its 
 back in the furrow. 
 
542 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Ay, an' thy muther says thou wants to 
 
 marry tlie lass, 
 Coonis of a gentleman burn ; an' we 
 
 boath on us thinks tha an ass. 
 Woa then, proputty, wiltha ? — an ass as 
 
 near as mays nowt ^ — 
 Woa then, wiltha ? dangtha !— the bees 
 
 is as fell as owt.^ 
 
 Break me a bit o' the esh for his 'ead, 
 
 lad, out o' tl»e fence,! 
 Gentleman burn ! what s gentleman 
 
 burn? is it shillins an' pence ? 
 Proputty, proputty's ivrything 'ere, an', 
 
 Sammy, I'm blest 
 If it is n't the saame oop yonder, fur 
 
 them as 'as it 's the best. 
 
 Tis 'n them as 'as ntiunny as breaks into 
 
 'ouses an' steals. 
 Them as 'as coats to their backs an" 
 
 taakes their regular meals. 
 Noa, but it 's them as niver knaws wheer 
 
 a meal's to be 'ad. 
 Taake my word for it Sammy, the poor 
 
 in a loomp is bad. 
 
 Them or thir feythers, tha sees, mun 'a 
 
 bean a laazy lot, 
 Fur work mun 'a gone to the gittin' wliin- 
 
 iver munny was got. 
 Peyther 'ad amniost nowt ; leastways 'is 
 
 munny was 'id. 
 But 'e tued an' moil'd issen dead, an' 'e 
 
 died a good un, 'e did. 
 
 Loook thou theer wheer Wrigglesby beck 
 
 cooms out by the 'ill ! 
 Feyther run oop to the farm, an' I runs 
 
 oop to the mill ; 
 An' I '11 run oojj to the brig, an' that 
 
 thou '11 live to see ; 
 And if thou marries a good un I '11 leave 
 
 the land to thee. 
 
 Thim's my noations, Sammy, wheerby 
 
 I means to stick ; 
 But if thou marries a bad un, I '11 leave 
 
 the land to Dick. — 
 Coom oop, proputty, proputty — that's 
 
 what I 'ears 'im saay — 
 Proputty, proputty, proputty — canter 
 
 an' canter awaay. 1870. 
 
 ENGLAND AND AMERICA IN 1783 
 
 O THOU that sendest out the man 
 To rule by land and sea, 
 
 ' Makes nothing. 
 
 2 The flies are as fierce as anything. 
 
 Strong mother of a lion-line, 
 Be proud of those strong sons of thine 
 Who wrench'd their rights from thee ! 
 
 What wonder if in noble heat 
 
 Those men thine arms withstood. 
 Retaught the lesson thou hadst taught. 
 And in tliy spirit with thee fought — 
 Who sprang from English blood ! 
 
 But tliou rejoice with liberal joy. 
 
 Lift up thy rocky face, 
 And shatter, when the storms are black. 
 In many a streaming torrent back. 
 
 The seas that shock thy base ! 
 
 Whatever harmonies of law 
 
 Tlie growing world assume, 
 Tliy work is thine — tlie single note 
 From that deep chord which Hampden 
 smote 
 
 Will vibrate to the doom. 1873. 
 
 THE VOICE AND THE PEAK 
 
 The voice and the Peak, 
 
 Far over summit and lawn, 
 Tlie lone glow and long roar 
 
 Green-rushing from the rosy thrones 
 of dawn ! 
 
 All night have I heard the voice 
 
 Rave over the rocky bar, 
 But thou wert silent in heaven, 
 
 Above thee glided the star. 
 
 Hast thou no voice, O Peak. 
 
 That standest high above all ? 
 " I am the voice of the Peak, 
 
 I roar and rave, for I fall. 
 
 " A thousand voices go 
 
 To North, South, East, and West ; 
 They leave the heights and are troubled, 
 
 And moan and sink to their rest. 
 
 " The fields are fair beside them, 
 Tlie chestnut towers in his bloom ; 
 
 But they — they feel the desire of the 
 deep — 
 Fall, and follow their doom. 
 
 " The deep has power on the height, 
 And the height has power on the deep ; 
 
 They are raised for ever and ever, 
 And sink again into sleep." 
 
 Not raised for ever and ever, 
 But when their cycle is o'er, 
 
TENNYSON 
 
 543 
 
 The valley, the voice, the peak, the star 
 Pass, and are found no more. 
 
 The Peak is high and flush'd 
 At liis highest with sunrise fire ; 
 
 The Peak is high, and the stars are high, 
 And the thought of a man is higher. 
 
 A deep below the deep. 
 
 And a height beyond the height ! 
 Our hearing is not hearing, 
 
 And our seeing is not sight. 
 
 The voice and the Peak 
 
 Far into heaven withdrawn, 
 
 The lone glow and long roar 
 
 Green-rushing from tlie rosy tlirones 
 of dawn ! I«'r4. 
 
 LYRICS FROM QUEEN MARY 
 milkmaid's song 
 
 Shame upon you, Robin, 
 
 Shame iii)on 3'ou now ! 
 Kiss me would you? witli my hands 
 
 Milking tlie cow ? 
 
 Daisies grow again, 
 
 Kingcups blow again, 
 And yovi came and kissYl me milking 
 the cow. 
 
 Robin came behind me, 
 
 Kiss'd me well, I vow. 
 Cuflfhim could I ? with my hands 
 
 Milking the cow ? 
 
 Swallows fly again. 
 
 Cuckoos cry again, 
 And you came and kiss'd me milking 
 the cow. 
 
 Come, Robin, Robin, 
 
 Come and kiss me now ; 
 Helj) it can I ? with my hands 
 
 Milking the cow ? 
 
 Ringdoves coo again. 
 
 All tilings woo again. 
 Come behind and kiss me milking 
 the cow ! 
 
 LOW, LUTE, low! 
 
 Hapless doom of woman happy in be- 
 trothing ! 
 
 Beauty passes like a breath, and love is 
 lost in loathing. 
 
 Low, my lute ; speak low, my lute, but 
 say the world is nothing — 
 Low, lute, low ! 
 
 Love will hover round the flowers when 
 
 they first awaken ; 
 Love will fly the fallen leaf, and not be 
 
 overtaken. 
 L(nv, my lute I O, low, my lute ! we fade 
 and are forsaken — 
 
 Low% dear lute, low ! 
 
 1875. 
 
 MONTENEGRO 
 
 They rose to where their sovran eagle 
 sails. 
 
 They kept their faith, their freedom, on 
 the height. 
 
 Chaste, frugal, savage, arm'd by day 
 and night 
 
 Against the Turk ; wbose inroad no- 
 where scales 
 
 Their headlong passes, but his footstep 
 fails, 
 
 And red with blood the Crescent reels 
 from fight 
 
 Before their dauntless hundreds, in 
 prone flight 
 
 By thousands down the crags and thro' 
 the vales. 
 
 O smallest among peoples ! rougb rock- 
 throne 
 
 Of Freedom ! warriors beating back the 
 swarm 
 
 Of Turkish Islam for five hundred years. 
 
 Great Tsernogora.! never since thine own 
 
 Black ridges drew the cloud and brake 
 the storm 
 
 Has breathed a race of mightier moun- 
 taineers. 1877. 
 
 THE REVENGE ^ 
 
 A BALLAD OF THE FLEET 
 
 At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard 
 
 Grenville lay. 
 And a pinnace, like a flutter'd bird, 
 
 came flying from faraway ; 
 "Spanish ships of war at sea ! we have 
 
 sighted fifty -three ! " 
 Then sware Lord Thomas Howard : 
 
 " 'Fore God I am no coward ; 
 But I cannot meet them here, for my 
 
 ships are out of gear. 
 And the half my men are sick. I must 
 
 fly, but follow quick. 
 We are six ships of the line ; can we 
 
 fight with fifty-three ? " 
 
 1 See the Life of Tennyson, II. 251-2. 
 
544 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Then spake Sir Richard Greuville : "1 
 know you are no coward ; 
 
 You fly them for a moment to fight with 
 them again. 
 
 But I 've ninet_y men and more that are 
 lying sick ashore. 
 
 I should count myself the coward if I 
 left them, my Lord Howard, 
 
 To these Inquisition dogs and tlie devil- 
 doms of Spain." 
 
 Ill 
 
 So Lord Howard past away with five 
 
 ships of war that day, 
 Till lie melted like a cloud in the silent 
 
 summer heaven : 
 But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick 
 
 men from the land 
 Very carefully and slow, 
 Men of Bideford in Devon, 
 And we laid them on the ballast down 
 
 below : 
 For we brought them all aboard. 
 And they blest him in their pain, that 
 
 they were not left to Spain, 
 To tlie tliumb-screw and the stake, for 
 
 the glory of the Lord. 
 
 IV 
 
 He had only a hundred seamen to work 
 
 the ship and to fight 
 And he sailed away from Florestill the 
 
 Spaniard came in sight, 
 Witli his huge sea-castles heaving upon 
 
 the weather bow. 
 " Shall we fight or shall we fly? 
 Good Sir Richard, tell us now, 
 For to fight is but to die ! 
 There '11 be little of us left by the time 
 
 tl^is sun be set." 
 And Sir Richard said again : "We be all 
 
 good English men. 
 Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the 
 
 children of the devil. 
 For I never turn'd my back upon Don or 
 
 devil yet." 
 
 Sir Richard spoke and he laugh'd, and 
 we roar'd a hurrah, and so 
 
 The little Revenge ran on sheer into the 
 heart of the foe, 
 
 With her liundred fighters on deck, and 
 her ninety sick below ; 
 
 For half of their fleet to the right and 
 half to the left were seen. 
 
 And the little Revenge ran on thro" the 
 long sea-lane between. 
 
 Thousands of their soldiers look'd down 
 
 from their decks and laugh'd, 
 Tiiousands of their seamen made mock 
 
 at the mad little craft 
 Running on and on. till delay'd 
 B}- tlieir mountain-like San Philip that, 
 
 of fifteen hundred to)is. 
 And up-shadowing high above us with 
 
 her j'awning tiers of guns, 
 Took the breath from our sails, and we 
 
 .stay'd. 
 
 VII 
 
 And while now the great San Pliilip 
 hung above us like a cloud 
 
 Whence the thunderbolt will fall 
 
 Long and loud. 
 
 Four galleons drew away 
 
 From the Spanish fleet that daj% 
 
 And two upon the larboard and two 
 upon the starboard lay. 
 
 And the battle-thunder broke from them 
 all. 
 
 VIII 
 
 But anon the great San Philip, she be- 
 thought herself and went. 
 
 Having that within her womb that had 
 left her ill content ; 
 
 And tlie rest they came aboard us, and 
 they fought us hand to liand. 
 
 For a dozen times they came with tlieir 
 pikes and musqueteers. 
 
 And a dozen times we sliook 'em off as a 
 dog that shakes his ears 
 
 When he leaps from the water to the 
 land. 
 
 And the sun went down, and the stars 
 
 came out far over the summer 
 
 sea, 
 But never a moment ceased the fight of 
 
 the one and tlie fifty-thi'ee. . 
 
 Ship after ship, the whole night long, 
 
 their high-built galleons came. 
 Ship after sliip, the wliole night long, 
 
 with her battle-thunder and flame; 
 Ship after .ship, the whole night long. 
 
 drew back with her dead and her 
 
 shame. 
 For some were sunk and many were 
 
 shatter'd, and so could fight us no 
 
 more — 
 
TENNYSON 
 
 545 
 
 God of battles, was ever a battle like 
 this in the world before ? 
 
 For lie said, " Fight on ! fight on ! " 
 
 Tho' his vessel w;i,s all but a wreck ; 
 
 And it chanced that, when half of the 
 short summer night was gone, 
 
 With a grisly wouiid to be drest he had 
 left tlie deck, 
 
 But a bullet struck liim that was dress- 
 ing it suddenly dead, 
 
 And himself he was wounded again in 
 the side and the head. 
 
 And he said, " Fight on ! fight on ! " 
 
 And the night went down, and the sun 
 
 smiled out far over the sunimer 
 
 sea, 
 And the Spanisli fleet witli broken sides 
 
 lay round us all in a ring ; 
 But tiiey dared not touch us again, for 
 
 tliey fear'd that we still could 
 
 sting, 
 So they watch'd wliat the end would be. 
 And we had not fouglit them in vain, 
 But in perilous pliglit were we, 
 Seeing forty of our poor hundred were 
 
 slain, 
 And half of the rest of us maim'd for 
 
 life 
 In the crash of the cannonades and the 
 
 desiderate strife ; 
 And the sick men down in the hold were 
 
 most of tliem stark and cold. 
 And the pikes were all broken or bent, 
 
 and the powder was all of it spent ; 
 And the masts and the rigging were 
 
 lying over the side ; 
 But Sir Richard cried in his English 
 
 pride : 
 ' ' We have fought such a fight for a day 
 
 and a niglit 
 As may never be fought again ! 
 We have won great glory, my men ! 
 And a day less or moi'e 
 At sea or ashore. 
 We die — does it matter when ? 
 Sink me the ship. Master Gunner — sink 
 
 her, split her in twain ! 
 Fall into the hands of God, not into the 
 
 hands of Spain I " 
 
 XII 
 
 And the gunner said, " Ay, ay," but the 
 seamen made reply : 
 
 35 
 
 " We have children, we have wives. 
 And the Lord hath spared our lives. 
 We will make the Spaniard promise, if 
 
 we yield, to let us go ; 
 We shall live to fight again and to strike 
 
 another blow." 
 And the lion there lay dying, and they 
 
 yielded to the foe. 
 
 And the stately Spanish men to their 
 
 flagsliip bore him then. 
 Where they laid him by the mast, old 
 
 Sir Richai-d cavight at last. 
 And tliey praised him to his face with 
 
 their courtly foreign grace ; 
 But he rose upon their decks, and he 
 
 cried : 
 " I have fought for Queen and Faith 
 
 like a valiant man and true ; 
 I have only done my duty as a man is 
 
 bound to do. 
 With a joyful spirit I Sir Richard Gren- 
 
 ville die ! " 
 And he fell upon their decks, and he 
 
 died. 
 
 XIV 
 
 And they stared at the dead that had 
 
 been so valiant and true, 
 And had holden tlie power and glory of 
 
 Spain so cheap 
 That he dared her with one little ship 
 
 and his English few ; 
 Was lie devil or man ? He was devil for 
 
 aught tliey knew. 
 But they sank his body with honor down 
 
 into the deep. 
 And they mann'd the Revenge witli a 
 
 swarthier alien crew. 
 And away she sail'd with her loss and 
 
 long'd for her own ; 
 When a wind from the lands they had 
 
 ruin'd awoke from sleep, 
 And tlie water began to heave and the 
 
 weather to moan. 
 And or ever that evening ended a great 
 
 gale blew, 
 And a wave like the wave that is raised 
 
 by an earthquake grew, 
 Till it smote on their hulls and their sails 
 
 and their masts and their flags. 
 And tlie whole sea plunged and fell on 
 
 the shot-shatter'd navy of Spain, 
 And the little Revenge herself went 
 
 down by the island crags 
 To be lost evermore in the main. 
 
 1878. 
 
546 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 THE DEFENCE OF LUCKNOWi 
 
 Banner of England, not for a season, O 
 
 banner of Britain, hast thou 
 Floated in conquering battle or flapped 
 
 to the battle-cry ! 
 Never with mightier glory than when 
 
 we had rear'd thee on high 
 Flying at top of the roofs in the ghastly 
 
 siege of Lucknow — 
 Shot thro' the staff or the halyard, but 
 
 ever we raised tliee anew, 
 And ever upon the topmost roof our 
 
 banner of England blew. 
 
 Frail were the works that defended the 
 
 hold that we held with our lives — 
 Women and children among us, God 
 
 help them, our children and wives! 
 Hold it we might— and for fifteen days 
 
 or for twenty at most. 
 " Never surrender, I charge you, but 
 
 every man die at his i^ost ! " 
 Voice of the dead whom we loved, our 
 
 Lawrence, the best of the brave ; 
 Cold were his brows when we kiss'd 
 
 him — we laid him that night in 
 
 his grave. 
 *' Every man die at his post ! " and there 
 
 hail'd on our houses and halls 
 Death from their rifle bullets, and death 
 
 from their cannon-balls. 
 Death in our innermost chamber, and 
 
 death at our sliglit barricade. 
 Death while we stood with the musket, 
 
 and death while we stooped to the 
 
 spade. 
 Death to the dying, and wounds to the 
 
 wounded, for often there fell. 
 Striking the hospital wall, crashing 
 
 thro' it, their shot and their shell. 
 Death — for their spies were among us. 
 
 their marksmen were told of our 
 
 best, 
 So that the brute bullet broke thro' the 
 
 brain that could think for the 
 
 rest ; 
 Bullets would sing by our foreheads, 
 
 and bullets would rain at our 
 
 feet — 
 
 > " The old flag used during the defence of the 
 Residency, was hoisted on the Lucknow flagstaff 
 by General Wilson, and the soldiers who still 
 survived from the siege were all mustered on 
 parade in honor of this poem, when my son 
 Lionel (who died on his journey from India) 
 visited Lucknow. A tribute overwhelmingly 
 touching.'" (Tennyson.) 
 
 Fire from ten thousand at once of the 
 If rebels that girdled us round — 
 Death at the glimpse of a finger from 
 
 over tlie breadth of a street. 
 Death from the heights of the mosque 
 
 and the palace, and death in the 
 
 ground ! 
 Mine? yes, a mine! Countermine! 
 
 down, down! and creep thro'tlie 
 
 hole ! 
 Keep the revolver in hand I you can 
 
 hear him — the murderous mole ! 
 Quiet , ah ! quiet — wait till the point of 
 
 the pickaxe be thro' ! 
 Click with the pick, coming nearer and 
 
 nearer again than before — 
 Now let it .speak, and you fire, and the 
 
 dark pioneer is no more ; 
 And ever upon the topmost roof our 
 
 banner of England blew ! 
 
 Ay, but the foe sprung his mine many 
 
 times, and it chanced on a day 
 Soon as the blast of that underground 
 
 thunder-clap echo'd away 
 Dark thro' the smoke and the sulpliur 
 
 like so man)" fiends in their hell — 
 Cannon-shot, musket-shot, volley on 
 
 volley, and yell upon yell — 
 Fiercely on all the defences our myriad 
 
 enemy fell. 
 What have they done ? where is it ? 
 
 Out yonder. Guard the Redan ! 
 Storm at the Water-gate ! storm at the 
 
 Bailey-gate ! storm, and it ran 
 Surging and swaying all round us, as 
 
 ocean on every side 
 Plunges and heaves at a bank that is 
 
 daily drowned by the tide — 
 So many thousands that, if they be bold 
 
 enough, who shall escape? 
 Kill or be kill'd, live or die, they shall 
 
 know we are soldiers and men ! 
 Ready ! take aim at their leaders — their 
 
 masses are gapp'd with our grape- 
 Backward they reel like the wave, like 
 
 the wave fingering forward again, 
 Flying and foil'd at the last by the 
 
 handful they could not subdue ; 
 And ever upon the topmost roof our 
 
 banner of England blew ! 
 
 IV 
 
 Handful of men as we were, we were 
 English in heart and in limb. 
 
 Strong with the strength of the race to 
 command, to obey, to endure. 
 
TENNYSON 
 
 547 
 
 Each of us fought as if hope for the gar- 
 rison hung but on hiui ; 
 Still — could we watch at all points? we 
 
 were every day fewer and fewer. 
 Tliere was a whisper among us, but only 
 
 a whisper that past : 
 " Ciiildren and wives — if the tigers leap 
 
 into the fold unawares — 
 Every man die at his post — and the foe 
 
 may outlive us at last — • 
 Better to fall by tlie liands that they 
 
 love, than to fall into theirs ! " 
 Roar upon roar in a moment two mines 
 
 by the enemy sprung 
 Clove into i^erilous chasms our walls and 
 
 our poor palisades. 
 Riflemen, true is j'our heai't, but be sure 
 
 tliat your hand be as true ! 
 Sharp is the fire of assault, better aimed 
 
 are your flank fusilades — 
 Twice do we hurl them to earth from 
 
 the ladders to which they had 
 
 clung, 
 Twice from the ditcli where they slielter 
 
 we drive them with hand-gre- 
 nades ; 
 And ever upon the topmost roof our 
 
 banner of England blew ! 
 
 Then on another wild morning anotlier 
 
 wild earthquake out-tore 
 Clean from our lines of defence ten or 
 
 twelve good paces or more. 
 Riflemen, high on the roof, hidden there 
 
 from the light of the sun 
 One has leaped up on the breach, crj'ing 
 
 out : " Follow me, follow me ! " — 
 Mark him — he falls ! then another and 
 
 him too, and down goes he. 
 Had they been bold enougii then, who 
 
 can tell but the traitors had won ? 
 Boardings and rafters and doors — an 
 
 embrasure ! make way for the gun ! 
 Now double-charge it witli grape ! It is 
 
 charged and we fire, and they run. 
 Praise to our Indian brothers, and let 
 
 the dark face have his due ! 
 Thanks to the kindly dark faces who 
 
 fought with us, faithful and few. 
 Fought with the bravest among us, and 
 
 drove them, and smote them, and 
 
 slew. 
 That ever upon the topmost roof our 
 
 banner in India blew. 
 
 Men will forget what we suffer and not 
 what we do. We can fight ! 
 
 But to be soldier all day, and be sentinel 
 
 all thro' the night — 
 Ever the mine and assault, our sallies, 
 
 their lying alarms. 
 Bugles and drums in the darkness, and 
 
 shoutings and soundings to arms. 
 Ever the labor of fifty that had to be 
 
 done by five, 
 Ever the marvel among us that one 
 
 sliould be left alive, 
 Ever the day with its traitorous death 
 
 from the loopholes around. 
 Ever the night with its coffinless corpse 
 
 to be laid in the ground. 
 Heat like the mouth of a hell, or a deluge 
 
 of cataract skies. 
 Stench of old offal decaying, and infinite 
 
 torment of flies, 
 Thoughts of the breezes of May blowing 
 
 over an English field. 
 Cholera, scurvy, and fever, the wound 
 
 that looidd not be heal'd, 
 Lopping away of the limb by the pitiful- 
 pitiless knife. — 
 Torture and trouble in vain, — for it never 
 
 could save us a life. 
 Valor of delicate women who tended 
 
 the hospital bed. 
 Horror of women in travail among the 
 
 dying and dead. 
 Grief for our perishing children, and 
 
 never a moment for grief, 
 Toil and ineffable weax'iness, faltering 
 
 hopes of relief, 
 Havelock baffled, or beaten, or butcher'd 
 
 for all tliat we knew — 
 Then day and night, day and night, com- 
 ing down on the still-shatter'd 
 
 walls 
 Millions of musket-bullets, and thou- 
 sands of cannon-balls — 
 But ever upon the topmost roof our 
 
 banner of England blew. 
 
 VII 
 
 Hark cannonade, fusillade ! is it true 
 
 wliat was told by the scout. 
 Outran! and Havelock breaking their 
 
 way through the fell mutineers ? 
 Surely the pibroch of Europe is ringing 
 
 again in our ears ? 
 All on a sudden the garrison utter a 
 
 jubilant shout. 
 Havelock's glorious Highlanders answer 
 
 with conquering cheers, 
 Sick from the hospital echo them, women 
 
 and children come out, 
 Blessing the wholesome white faces of 
 
 Havelock's good fusileers, 
 
548 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Kissing tlie war-harden"d hand of the 
 
 Highhmder wet with their tears ! 
 Dance to the pibrocli ! — saved ! we are 
 
 saved ! — is it 3^111? is it you? 
 Saved hy the valor of Havelock, saved 
 
 by the blessing of heaven ! 
 "Hold it for fifteen days!" vi^e have 
 
 held it for eighty-seven ! 
 And ever aloft on the palace roof the old 
 
 banner of England blew. 1879. 
 
 RIZPAHi 
 
 it- 
 Wailing, wailing, wailing, the wind 
 
 over land and sea — 
 And Will3''s voice in the vrind, " O 
 
 mother, come out to me ! " 
 Why should he call me to-night, when 
 
 he knows that I cannot go? 
 For the downs are as bright as day, and 
 
 the full moon stares at the snow. 
 
 We should be seen, my dear ; they would 
 
 spy us out of the town. 
 The loud black nights for us, and the 
 
 storm rushing over the down, 
 Wlien I cannot see my own hand, but 
 
 am led by the creak of the chnin. 
 And grovel and grope for my son till I 
 
 find myself drenched with the 
 
 rain. 
 
 Anything fallen again ? nay — what was 
 
 there left to fall ? 
 I have taken them home, I have num- 
 
 ber'd the bones, I have hidden 
 
 theni all. 
 What am I saying? and what are you ? 
 
 do you come as a spy ! 
 Falls? what falls? who knows? As the 
 
 tree falls so must it lie. 
 
 Who let her in ? how long has she been ? 
 
 you — what have you heard ? 
 Why did you sit so quiet? you never 
 
 have spoken a word. 
 O — to pray with me — yes — a lady — none 
 
 of their spies — 
 But the night has crept into nay heart, 
 
 and begun to darken my eyes. 
 
 Ah — you, that have lived so soft, what 
 should you know of the night. 
 
 The blast and the burning shame and 
 the bitter frost and the fright ? 
 
 I have done it, while you were asleep — 
 you wei'e only made for the day. 
 
 » See the Life of Tennyson II, 349-351. 
 
 I have gather'd my baby together — and 
 now you may go your way. 
 
 Nay — for it 's kind of you, madam, to sit 
 
 by an old djajig wife. 
 But say nothing hard of my boy, I liave 
 
 only an hour of life. 
 I kiss'd my boy in the prison, before he 
 
 went out to die. 
 " They dared me to do it," he said, and 
 
 he never has told me a lie. 
 I whipped him for robbing an orchard 
 
 once when he was but a child— 
 " The farmer dared me to do it," he said ; 
 
 lie was always so wild — 
 And idle — and could n't be idle — my 
 
 Willy — he never could rest. 
 The King should have made him a sol- 
 dier, he would have been one of 
 
 his best. 
 
 But he lived with a lot of wild mates, 
 
 and they never would let him be 
 
 good ; 
 They swore that he dare not rob the 
 
 mail, and he swore that he would ; 
 And he took no life, but he took one 
 
 l)urse, and when all was done 
 He flung it among his fellows — "I'll 
 
 none of it," said my son. 
 
 I came into court to the judge and the 
 
 lawyers. I told them my tale, 
 God's own truth — but they kill'd him, 
 
 they kill'd him for robbing the 
 
 mail. 
 They hang'd him in chains for a show — 
 
 we had always borne a good 
 
 name — 
 To be hang'd for a thief — and then put 
 
 away — is n't that enough shame ? 
 Dust to dust — low down — let us hide ! 
 
 but they set him so high 
 That all the ships of the world could 
 
 stare at him, passing b3^ 
 God '11 pardon the hell-black raven and 
 
 horrible fowls of the air. 
 But not the black heart of the lawyer 
 
 who kill'd him and hang'd him 
 
 there. 
 
 And the jailer forced me away. I had 
 
 bid him my last good-bye ; 
 They had fasten'd the door of his cell. 
 
 " O mother ! " I heard him cry. 
 I could n't get back tho" I tried, he had 
 
 something further to say. 
 And now I never shall know it. The 
 
 jailer forced me away. 
 
TENNYSON 
 
 549 
 
 Then since I could n't but hear that cry 
 of my boy that was dead, 
 
 They seized me and sliut me up : they 
 fasten'd me down on my bed. 
 
 " Mother, O mother ! " — lie call'd in tlie 
 dark to me year after year — 
 
 They beat me for that, tliey beat me — 
 you knovv that I could n't but 
 hear ; 
 
 And then at the last they found I had 
 grown so stupid and still 
 
 They let me abroad again — but the crea- 
 tures had worked their will. 
 
 Flesh of my flesh was gone, but bone of 
 
 my bone was left— 
 I stole them all from the lawj^ers — and 
 
 you, will you call it a theft? — 
 My baby, the bones that had suck'd me, 
 
 the bones that had laughed and 
 
 had cried — 
 Theirs ? O, no ! they are mine— not 
 
 theirs — they had moved in my 
 
 side. 
 
 Do you think I was scared by the bones ? 
 
 I kiss'd 'em, T buried 'em all — 
 I can't dig deep, I am old — in the night 
 
 by the churchyard wall. 
 My Willy '11 rise up whole when the. 
 
 trumpet of judgment '11 sound, 
 But I charge you never to say that I 
 
 laid him in holy ground. 
 
 They would scratch liim up — they would 
 
 hang him again on the cursed tree. 
 Sin? O, yes, we are sinners, I knovv — let 
 
 all that be, 
 And read me a Bible verse of the Lord's 
 
 goodwill toward men — 
 " Full of compassion and mercy, the 
 
 Lord "—let me hear it again ; 
 " Full of compassion and mercy — long- 
 suffering." Yes, O. yes! 
 For the lawyer is born but to murder — 
 
 the Saviour lives but to bless. 
 He '11 never put on the black cap except 
 
 for the worst of the worst. 
 And the first may be last — I have heard 
 
 it in chui'ch — and the last may be 
 
 first. 
 Suffering — O, long-suffering — yes, as the 
 
 Lord must know, 
 Year after year in the mist and the wind 
 
 and the shower and the snow; 
 
 Heard, have you? what? they have told 
 you he never repented his sin. 
 
 How do they know it? are they his 
 mother ? are you of his kin ? 
 
 Heard ! have you ever heard, when the 
 storm on the downs began. 
 
 The wind that '11 wail like a child and 
 the sea that '11 moan like a man ? 
 
 Election, Election, and Reprobation — 
 
 it 's all very well. 
 But I go to-night to my boy, and I sliall 
 
 not find him in hell. 
 For I cared so much for my boy that the 
 
 Lord has look'd into my care, 
 And He means me I 'm sure to be happy 
 
 with Willy, I know not where. 
 
 And if he be lost — but to save my soul, 
 
 that is all your desire — 
 Do you think that I care for viy soul if 
 
 liiy boy be gone to the fire ? 
 I have been with God in the dark — go, 
 
 go, you may leave me alone — 
 You never have Jborne a child — you are 
 
 just as hard as a stone. 
 
 Madam, I beg your pardon ! I think 
 that you mean to be kind. 
 
 But I cannot hear what you say for my 
 Willy's voice in the wind — 
 
 The snow and the sky so bright — he 
 used but to call in the dark. 
 
 And he calls to me now from the 
 church and not from the gibbet — 
 for hark ! 
 
 Nay — you can hear it yourself — it is 
 coming — shaking the walls — 
 
 Willy — the moon 's in a cloud Good- 
 night. I am going. He calls. 
 
 1880. 
 
 SONG FROM THE SISTERS 
 
 O DIVINER air. 
 
 Thro' the heat, the drowth, the dust, the 
 
 glare. 
 Far from out the west in shadowing 
 
 showers. 
 Over all the meadow baked and bare, 
 Making fresh and fair 
 All the bowers and the flowers. 
 Fainting flowers, faded bowers. 
 Over all this weary world of ours. 
 Breathe, diviner Air ! 
 
 O diviner light. 
 
 Thro' the cloud that roofs our noon with 
 
 night. 
 Thro' the blotting mist, the blinding 
 
 showers. 
 Far from out a sky for ever bright, 
 Over all the woodland's flooded bowers, 
 
55° 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Over all the meadow's drowning flowers, 
 Over all this ruin'd world of ours, 
 Break, diviner light 1 1880. 
 
 TO VIRGIL 1 
 
 Roman Virgil, thou that singest Ilion's 
 lofty temples robed in fire, 
 
 Ilion falling, Rome arising, wars, and 
 filial faith, and Dido's pyre ; 
 
 Landscape-lover, lord of language more 
 than lie that sang the " Works and 
 Days," 
 
 All the chosen coin of fancy flashing out 
 from many a golden phrase ; 
 
 Tliou that singest wheat and woodland » 
 tilth and vineyard, hive and horse 
 and herd ; 
 
 All the charm of all the Muses 
 
 often flowering in a lonely word ; 
 
 Poet of the happy Tityrus piping under- 
 neath his beechen bowers ; 
 
 Poet of the poet-satyr whom the laugh- 
 ing sheplierd bound with flowers ; 
 
 Chanter of the Pollio, glorying in the 
 blissful years again to be. 
 
 Summers of the snakeless meadow, un- 
 laborious eai'th and oarless sea ; 
 
 Thou that seest Universal Nature moved 
 
 by Universal JMind ; 
 Thou majestic in thy sadness at the 
 
 doubtful doom of human kind ; 
 
 Light among the vanish'd ages ; star 
 
 that gildest yet tliis phantom 
 
 shore ; 
 Golden branch amid the shadows, kings 
 
 and realms tliat pass to rise no 
 
 more ; 
 
 Now thy Forum roars no longer, fallen 
 every purple Caesar's dome — 
 
 Tho' thine ocean-roll of rhythm sound 
 forever of Imperial Rome — 
 
 Now the Rome of slaves hath perisli'd, 
 and the Rome of freemen liolds lier 
 place, 
 
 I, from out the Northern Island sunder'd 
 once from all the human race, 
 
 • " To Virgil was written at the request of tlie 
 Mantuans for the nineteenth centenary of Virgil's 
 Death." (Life of Teunysou, II, 320.) 
 
 I salute thee, Mantovano, I that loved 
 thee since my day began, 
 
 Wielder of the stateliest measure ever 
 moulded by the lips of man. 
 
 1882. 
 
 "FRATER AVE ATQUE VALE" 
 
 Row us out from Desenzano, to your 
 
 Sirmione row ! 
 So they row'd, and there we landed— " O 
 
 venusta Sirmio ! " 
 There to me thro' all the groves of olive 
 
 in the summer glow. 
 There beneath the Roman ruin where the 
 
 purple flowers grow. 
 Came that " Ave atque Vale" of the 
 
 Poet's hopeless woe, 
 Tenderest of Roman poets nineteen 
 
 hundred years ago 
 " Frater Ave atque Vale" — as we 
 
 wander'd to and fro 
 Gazing at the Lydian laughter of the 
 
 Garda Lake below 
 Sweet Catullus's all-but-island, olive- 
 silvery Sirmio ! 1883. 
 
 EPILOGUE TO THE CHARGE OF 
 THE HEAVY BRIGADE 
 
 And here the Singer for his art 
 
 Not all in vain may plead 
 " The song that nerves a nation's heart 
 
 Is in itself a deed.'' 1885. 
 
 VASTNESS 
 
 Many a hearth upon our dark globe sighs 
 after many a vanish'd face, 
 
 Many a planet by many a sun may roll 
 with the dust of a vanish'd race. 
 
 Raving politics, never at rest — as this 
 ]i()or eartli's pale liistorv runs, — 
 
 Wliat is it all but a trouble of ants in the 
 gleam of a million million of suns ? 
 
 Lies upon this side, lies upon that side, 
 
 truthless violence mourn'd by the 
 
 wise. 
 Thousands of voices drowning his own 
 
 in a popular torrent of lies upon 
 
 lies ; 
 
 Stately purposes, Aalor in battle, glorious 
 annals of arjny and fleet. 
 
 Death for tlie riglit cause, deatli for the 
 wrong cause, trumpets of victory, 
 groans of defeat ; 
 
TENNYSON 
 
 551 
 
 Innocence seethed in her mother's milk, 
 
 and Charity setting the martyr 
 
 aflame ; 
 Thraldom who walks with the banner of 
 
 Freedom, and recks not to ruin a 
 
 realm in her name. 
 
 Faith at her zenith, or all but lost in the 
 
 gloom of doubts that darken the 
 
 schools ; 
 Craft with a bunch of all-heal in her 
 
 hand, foUow'd up by her vassal 
 
 legion of fools ; 
 
 Trade flying over a tliousand seas with 
 her spice and her vintage, her silk 
 and her corn ; 
 
 Desolate offing, sailorless harbors, fam- 
 ishing populace, wharves forlorn ; 
 
 Star of the morning, Hope in the sun- 
 rise ; gloom of the evening, Life 
 at a close ; 
 
 Pleasure who flaunts on her wide down- 
 way with her flying robe and her 
 poison'd rose ; 
 
 Pain that has crawl'd from the corpse of 
 
 Pleasure, a worm vvhicli writhes 
 
 all day, and at night 
 Stirs vip again in the heart of the sleeper, 
 
 and stings him back to the curse 
 
 of the light ; 
 
 Wealth w'ith his wines and his wedded 
 harlots ; honest Poverty, bare to 
 tlie bone ; 
 
 Opulent Avarice, lean as Poverty ; Flat- 
 tery- gilding the rift in a throne ; 
 
 Fame blowing out from her golden trum- 
 pet a jubilant challenge to Time 
 and to Fate ; 
 
 Slander, her shadow, sowing the nettle 
 on all the laurell'd graves of the 
 great ; 
 
 Love for the maiden, crown'd with mar- 
 riage, no regrets for aught that 
 has been. 
 
 Household happiness, gracious children, 
 debtless competence, golden mean ; 
 
 National liatreds of whole generations, 
 and pigmy spites of the village 
 spire ; 
 
 Vows that will last to the last death- 
 ruckle, and vows that are snapted 
 in a moment of fire ; 
 
 He that has lived for the lust of the 
 
 minute, and died in the doing it, 
 
 flesh without mind ; 
 He that has nail'd all flesh to the Cross, 
 
 till Self died out in the love of his 
 
 kind ; 
 
 Spring and Summer and Autumn and 
 Winter, and all these old revolu- 
 tions of earth ; 
 
 All new-old revolutions of Empire- 
 change of the tide — what is all of 
 it worth ? 
 
 What the philosophies, all the sciences, 
 poesy, varying voices of prayer. 
 
 All that is noblest, all that is basest, all 
 that is filthy with all that is fair ? 
 
 What is it all, if we all of us end but in 
 being our own corpse-coffins at 
 last? 
 
 Swallow'd in Vastness, lost in Silence, 
 drown'd in the deeps of a meaning- 
 less Past ? 
 
 What but a murmur of gnats in the 
 gloom, or a moment's anger of 
 bees in their hive ? — 
 
 Peace, let it be ! for I loved him. and 
 love him for ever : the dead are 
 not dead but alive. 1885. 
 
 MERLIN AND THE GLEAM 1 
 
 YOUNG Mariner, 
 You from the haven 
 Under the sea-cliff, 
 You that are watching 
 The gray Magician 
 With eyes of wonder, 
 
 1 am Merlin , 
 And Jam dying, 
 I am Merlin 
 
 Who follow the Gleam. 
 
 Mighty the Wizard 
 Who found me at sunrise 
 Sleeping and woke me 
 And learn'd me Magic ! 
 Great the Master, 
 And sweet the Magic, 
 When over the valley, 
 In early summers, 
 Over the mountain. 
 On human faces, 
 
 1 See the Life of Teunyson, II, 366. 
 
552 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 And all around me, 
 Moving to melody, 
 Floated the Gleam. 
 
 Once at the croak of a Raven who 
 crossed it, 
 A barbarous people, 
 Blind to the magic 
 And deaf to the melody, 
 Snarl'd at and cursed me. 
 A demon vexed me, 
 Tlie light retreated, 
 The landskip darken'd, 
 The melody deaden'd. 
 The Master whisper'd, 
 " Follow the Gleam." 
 
 Then to the melody. 
 
 Over a wilderness 
 
 Gliding, and glancing at 
 
 Elf of the woodland. 
 
 Gnome of the cavern, 
 
 Griffin and Giant, 
 
 And dancing of Fairies 
 
 In desolate hollows, 
 
 And wraiths of tiie mountain, 
 
 And rolling of dragons 
 
 By warble of water, 
 
 Or cataract music 
 
 Of falling torrents. 
 
 Flitted the Gleam. 
 
 Down from the mountain 
 
 And over the level, 
 
 And sti'eaming and shining on 
 
 Silent river, 
 
 Silvery willow, 
 
 Pasture and plowland, 
 
 Innocent maidens. 
 
 Garrulous children. 
 
 Homestead and harvest, 
 
 Reaper and gleaner. 
 
 And rough-ruddy faces 
 
 Of lowly labor, 
 
 Slided the Gleam — 
 
 Then, with a melody 
 Stronger and statelier, 
 Led me at length 
 To the city and palace 
 Of Arthur the King ; 
 Touch'd at the golden 
 Cross of the churches, 
 Flash'd on the tournament, 
 Flicker'd and bicker'd 
 From helmet to helmet. 
 And last on the forehead 
 Of Arthur the blameless 
 Rested the Gleam. 
 
 Clouds and darkness 
 
 Closed upon Camelot ; 
 
 Arthur had vanish'd 
 
 I knew not whither. 
 
 The king who loved me, 
 
 And cannot die ; 
 
 For out of the darkness 
 
 Silent and slowly 
 The Gleam, tliat had waned to a wintry 
 glimmer 
 
 On icy fallow 
 
 And faded forest, 
 
 Di"evv^ to the valley 
 
 Named of the shadow, 
 
 And slowly brightening 
 
 Out of the glimmer, 
 And slowly moving again to a melody 
 
 Yearningly tender. 
 
 Fell on the shadow. 
 
 No longer a shadow. 
 
 But clothed with the Gleam. 
 
 And broader and brighter 
 
 The Gleam flying onward, 
 
 Wed to the melody, 
 
 Sang thro' the world ; 
 
 And slower and fainter, 
 
 Old and wear}\ 
 
 But eager to follow, 
 
 I saw, whenever 
 
 In passing it glanced upon 
 
 Hamlet or city, 
 
 That under the Crosses 
 
 Tlie dead man's garden, 
 
 The mortal hillock, 
 
 Would break into blossom ; 
 
 And so to the land's 
 
 Last limit I came — 
 
 And can no longer. 
 
 But die rejoicing. 
 
 For thro' the Magic 
 
 Of Him the Mighty, 
 
 Who taught me in childhood, 
 
 There on the bordej" 
 
 Of boundless Ocean, 
 
 And all but in Heaven 
 
 Hovers the Gleam. 
 
 Not of the sunlight. 
 
 Not of the moonlight. 
 
 Not of the starlight ! 
 
 O young Mariner, 
 
 Down to the haven. 
 
 Call your companions, 
 
 Launch your vessel 
 
 And crowd your canvas, 
 
 And, ere it vanishes 
 
 Over the margin. 
 
 After it, follow it. 
 
 Follow tiie Gleam. 1889. 
 
TENNYSON 
 
 553 
 
 FAR— FAR— AWAY 
 
 (FOR MUSIC) 
 
 What siglit so lured him thro' the fields 
 
 lie knew 
 As vvliere earth's green stole into 
 
 heaven's own hue, 
 
 Far — far — away ? 
 
 What sound was deai-est in his native 
 
 dells ? 
 TJie mellow lin-lan-lone of evening bells 
 Fa r — far — away . 
 
 What vague world-whisper, mystic pain 
 
 or joy. 
 Thro' those three words would haunt 
 
 him when a boy, 
 
 Far — far — away ? 
 
 * A whisper from liis dawn of life ? a 
 breath 
 From some fair dawn beyond the doors 
 of death 
 
 Far — far — away ? 
 
 Far, far, how far ? from o'er the gates of 
 
 birth, 
 The faint horizons, all the bounds of 
 
 earth, 
 
 Far — far— away ? 
 
 What charm in words, a charm no words 
 
 could give ? 
 O dying words, can Music make you live 
 Far— far— away ? 1889. 
 
 THE THROSTLE 
 
 " Summer is coming, summer is coming. 
 
 I know it, I know it, I know it. 
 Light again, leaf again, life again, love 
 again ! " 
 
 Yes, my wild little Poet. 
 
 Sing the new year in under the blue. 
 
 Last year you sang it as gladly. 
 " New, new, new, new ! " Is it then so 
 new 
 
 That you should carol so madly ? 
 
 " Love again, song again, nest again, 
 young again," 
 
 Never a propliet to crazy ! 
 And hardly a daisy as yet, little friend, 
 
 See, there is hardly a daisy. 
 
 '* Here again, here, here, here, happy 
 year ! " 
 
 U warble uncliidden, unbidden ! 
 
 Summer is coming, is coming, my dear, 
 
 And all the winters are hidden. 
 
 1889. 
 
 THE OAK 
 
 Live tliy Life, 
 
 Young and old. 
 Like yon oak. 
 Bright in spring, 
 
 Living gold ; 
 
 Summer-rich 
 
 Then ; and then 
 Autumn-changed, 
 Soberer-hued 
 
 Gold again. 
 
 All liis leaves 
 
 Fallen at length, 
 Look, he stands. 
 Trunk and bough. 
 
 Naked strength, 1889. 
 
 CROSSING THE BARi 
 
 Sunset and evening star. 
 
 And one clear call for me ! 
 And may there be no moaning of the 
 bar. 
 
 When I put out to sea, 
 
 But such a tide as moving seems asleep, 
 Too full for sound and foam. 
 
 When that which drew from out the 
 boundless deep 
 Turns again home. 
 
 Twilight and evening bell. 
 
 And after that the dark ! 
 And may there be no sadness of fare- 
 well, 
 
 When I embark ; 
 
 For tho' from out our bourne of Time 
 and Place 
 
 The flood may bear me far, 
 I hope to see my Pilot face to face 
 
 When I have crossed the bar. 1889. 
 
 ' " Crossing the Bar was written in my father's 
 eia:hty-first year, on a clay in October. . . . 
 
 " I said, ' That is tlie crown of your life's worlt ;' 
 he answered, 'It came in a moment.' He ex- 
 plained the 'Pilot' as ' That Divine and Unseen 
 Who is always guiding us.' 
 
 " A few days before his death he said to me : 
 ' IMind you put Crossing the Bur at the end of all 
 editions of mv poems.' " (Life of Tennyson, II., 
 307.) 
 
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 
 
 LIST OF REFERENCES 
 
 Editions 
 
 Poetical Works, edited by C. Porter and II. Clarke, G volumes, Crowell ; 
 Poetical Works, 5 volumes, Dodd, Mead & Co. ; 6 volumes, Scribner\s ; 
 Cambridge Edition, 1 volume, Houghton, JMifflin & Co. ; * Globe Edition, 
 
 1 volume, The Macmillan Co. Letters, edited ])y F. G. Kenyon, 2 vo- 
 lumes. The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, 
 
 2 volumes. 
 
 Biography 
 
 * Kenton (F. G.), Letters of Elizabeth Barrett Browning, edited with 
 biographical additions. IIokne (R. H.), Life and Letters of Mrs. Brown- 
 ing. Ingram (J. II.), Elizabeth Barrett Browning (Famous Women Se- 
 ries). See also L'Estrange's Life of 31. R. Mitford, and The Friendshijis 
 of M. R. Mitford ; The Letters of M. R. Mitford ; Macpherson's Memoirs 
 of Anna Jameson ; and Forster's Life of Landor. 
 
 Reminiscences and Early Criticism 
 
 HoRNE (R. H.), A New Spirit of the Age, 1844. Ritchie (Anne Thack- 
 eray), Records of Tennyson, Ruskin, Robert and Elizabeth Barrett 
 Browning. * Mitford (M. R.), Recollections of a Literary Life. Cole- 
 RiD(iE (Sara), Memoirs and Letters, Vol. I, Chap. 12 (letter of 1844 to John 
 Kenyon) ; Vol. II, Chap. 12 (letter of 1851 to Ellis Yarnall). Bayne 
 (Peter), Essays in Biography and Criticism (1st Series) : Mrs. Barrett 
 Browning. Roscoe (W. C), Poems and Essays, Vol. II. Ossoli (Mar- 
 garet Fuller), Art, Literature and the Drama. ■ Poe (E. A.), Works, Vol. 
 IV (1890). IIawtfiorm:, Italian Note-books. Hillard (G. S.), Six 
 Months in Italy. * W. W. Sturv and his Friends, edited by Henry 
 James. 
 
 Later Criticism 
 
 Benson (A. C), Essays : Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Chesterton 
 (G. K.), Twelve Types. Darmesteter (Mary J.), Menage de Poetes ; in 
 the Revue de Paris, Vol. 5, p. 295 and p. 788. *Gosse (E. W.), Critical 
 Kit-Kats : The Sonnets from tlie Portuguese, etc. Milsand (J.), Littera- 
 ture anglaise et philosophic. Montegut (Emile), Ecrivains modernes de 
 TAngleterre, Vol. II. Schuyler (E.), Italian Influences. * Stedman 
 (E. C), Victorian Poets. Texte (Joseph), Etudes de litterature euro- 
 peene. Taylor (Bayard), At Home and Abroad. 
 
 554 
 
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 
 
 SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE' 
 
 I THOUGHT once how Theocritus had 
 
 sung 
 Of the sweet years, the dear and wished- 
 
 for years, 
 Who each one in a gracious hand appears 
 To bear a gift for mortals, old or young ; 
 And, as I mused it in his antique tongue, 
 I saw, in gradual vision through my 
 
 tears. 
 The sweet, sad years, the melancholy 
 
 years, 
 Those of my own life, who by turns had 
 
 flung 
 A shadow across me. Straightway I 
 
 was 'ware. 
 So weeping, how a mystic Shape did 
 
 move 
 Behind me, and drew me backward by 
 
 the hair ; 
 And a voice said in mastery, while I 
 
 strove, — 
 "Guess now who holds thee ? " — "Death," 
 
 I said. But, there. 
 The silver answer rang, — "Not Death, 
 
 but Love." 
 
 But only three in all God's universe 
 Have heard this word thou hast said, — 
 
 Himself, beside 
 Thee speaking, and me listening ! and 
 
 replied 
 One of us . . . that was God, . . . and 
 
 laid the curse 
 So darkly on my eyelids, as to amerce 
 ily sight from seeing thee, — tliat if I 
 
 had died, 
 The deathweiglits, placed there, would 
 
 have signified 
 Less absolute exclusion. "Nay" is 
 
 worse 
 From God than from all others, O my 
 
 friend ! 
 Men could not part us with their worldl}" 
 
 jars, 
 
 Nor the seas change us, nor the tempests 
 
 bend ; 
 Our hands would touch for all the 
 
 mountain-bars : 
 And, heaven being rolled between us at 
 
 the end. 
 We should but vow the faster for the 
 
 stars. 
 
 Unlike are we, unlike, O princely Heart ! 
 Unlike our uses and our destinies. 
 Our ministering two angels look surprise 
 On one another, as they strike athwart 
 Their wings in passing. Thou, bethink 
 
 thee, art 
 A guest for qvieens to social pageantries. 
 With gages from a hundred brighter 
 
 eyes 
 Than tears even can make mine, to play 
 
 thy part 
 Of cliief musician. What hast thou to 
 
 do 
 With looking from the lattice-lights at 
 
 me, 
 A poor, tired, wandering singer, sing- 
 ing through 
 The dark, and leaning up a cypress tree ? 
 The chrism is on thine head, — on mine, 
 
 the dew. — 
 And Death must dig the level where 
 
 these agree. 
 
 Thou hast thy calling to some palace- 
 floor. 
 
 Most gracious singer of high poems ! 
 where 
 
 The dancers will break footing, from the 
 care 
 
 Of watching up thy pregnant lips for 
 more. 
 
 * See the Letters of Elizabeth Barrett Brown- 
 ing, I, 310-317. 
 
 2 See the Letters of Robert Browning and Eliz- 
 abeth Barrett Barrett, I, 74-75. (May 34, 1845.) 
 
 555 
 
556 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 And dost thou lift tliis house's latch too 
 
 poor 
 For hand of thine ? and canst thou think 
 
 and bear 
 To let thy music drop here unaware 
 In folds of golden fulness at my door ? 
 Look up and see the casement broken in, 
 The bats and owlets builders in the roof ! 
 My cricket chirps against thy mandolin. 
 Hush, call no echo up in further proof 
 Of desolation ! there's a voice within 
 Tliat weeps ... as thou must sing . , . 
 
 alone, aloof. 
 
 I LIFT ni}' heavy heart up solemnly. 
 As once Electra her sepulchral urn, 
 And looking in thine eyes, I overturn 
 The ashes at thy feet. Behold and see 
 What a great heap of grief lay hid in 
 
 me, 
 And how the red wild sparkles dimly 
 
 burn 
 Through the aslien grayness. If thy 
 
 foot in scorn 
 Could tread them out to darkness utterly. 
 It might be well perhaps. But if in- 
 stead 
 Thou wait beside me for the wind to 
 
 blow 
 The gray dust up, . , . those laurels on 
 
 thine head, 
 O my Beloved, will not shield thee so. 
 That none of all the fires shall scorch 
 
 and shred 
 The hair beneath. Stand farther off 
 
 then ! go. 
 
 VI 1 
 
 Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall 
 stand 
 
 Henceforward in tliy shadow. Never- 
 more 
 
 Alone upon the threshold of my door 
 
 Of individual life, I shall command 
 
 The uses of my soul, nor lift my liand 
 
 Serenely in the sunshine as before. 
 
 Without the sense of that which I for- 
 bore — 
 
 Thy touch upon the palm. The widest 
 land 
 
 Doom takes to part us, leaves thy lieart 
 in mine 
 
 With pulses that beat double. What I 
 do 
 
 and 144, 
 
 the Letters of R. B. and E. B. B., I, 74-75, 
 
 And what I dream include thee, as the 
 
 wine 
 Must taste of its own grapes. And when 
 
 I sue 
 God for myself. He hears that name of 
 
 thine. 
 And sees within my eyes the tears of 
 
 two. 
 
 VII 
 
 The face of all the world is changed, I 
 
 think, 
 Since first I heard the footsteps of thy 
 
 soul 
 Move still, oh, still, beside me, as they 
 
 stole 
 Betwixt me and the dreadful outer brink 
 Of obvious death, where I, who thought 
 
 to sink. 
 Was caught up into love, and taught 
 
 tlie whole 
 Of life in a new rhythm. The cup of 
 
 dole 
 God gave for bajjtism, I am fain to drink. 
 And praise its sweetness. Sweet, with 
 
 tliee anear. 
 The names of country, heaven, are 
 
 clianged away 
 For where tliou art or shalt be, there or 
 
 here ; 
 And this . . . this lute and soiag . . . 
 
 loved yesterday, 
 (The singing angels know) are only dear 
 Because thy name moves right in what 
 
 they say. 
 
 VIII 1 
 
 What can I give thee back, O liberal 
 And princely giver, who hast brought 
 
 the gold 
 And purple of thine heart, unstained, 
 
 untold. 
 And laid them on the outside of tlie 
 
 wall 
 For such as I to take or leave withal, 
 III unexpected largesse ? am I cold, 
 Ungrateful, that for these most manifold 
 High gifts, I render nothing back at all ? 
 Not so ; not cold, — -but verj' poor instead. 
 Ask God who knows. For frequent 
 
 tears have run 
 The colors from my life, and left so dead 
 And pale a stuff, it were not fitly done 
 To give the same as pillow to thy head. 
 Go farther ! let it serve to trample on. 
 
 * With this Sonnet and the next, compare the 
 Letters, I, 183-5. 
 
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 
 
 557 
 
 Can it be right to give what I can give ? 
 To let tliee sit beneath the fall of tears 
 As salt as mine, and hear the sighing 
 
 years 
 Re-sighing on my lips renunciative 
 Through those infrequent smiles which 
 
 fail to live 
 For all thy adjurations ? O my fears, 
 Tliat this can scarce be right ! We are 
 
 not peers, 
 So to be lovers ; and I own, and grieve, 
 That givers of such gifts as mine are, 
 
 must 
 Be counted with the ungenerous. Out, 
 
 alas ! 
 I will not soil thy purple witli my dust, 
 Nor breathe my poison on thy Venice- 
 glass, 
 Nor give thee any love — which were 
 
 unjust. 
 Beloved, I only love thee ! let it pass. 
 
 Yet, love, mere love, is beautiful indeed 
 And worthy of acceptation. Fire is 
 
 bright, 
 Let temple burn, or flax ; an equal liglit 
 Leaps in tlie flame from cedar-plank or 
 
 weed : 
 And love is fire. And when I say at need 
 / love thee . . . mark I ... I love thee — in 
 
 thy sight 
 I stand transfigured, glorified aright, 
 AVitli conscience of the new rays that 
 
 proceed 
 Out of my face toward thine. There's 
 
 nothing low 
 In love, wJien love the lowest : meanest 
 
 creatures 
 Who love God, God accepts wliile loving 
 
 so. 
 And what I feel, across the inferior 
 
 features 
 Of what I am, doth flasli itself, and show 
 How that great work of Love enhances 
 
 Nature's. 
 
 And therefore if to love can be desert, 
 I am not all unworthj'. Cheeks as pale 
 As these you see, and trembling knees 
 
 that fail 
 To bear the burden of a heavy heart, — 
 This weary minstrel-life that once was 
 
 girt 
 To climb Aornus, and can scarce avail 
 To pipe now 'gainst the valley nightingale 
 
 A melancholy music, — why advert 
 To these things ? O Beloved, it is plain 
 I am not of tliy worth nor for thj' place ! 
 And yet, because I love thee, I obtain 
 From that same love this vindicating 
 
 grace. 
 To live on still in love, and yet in vain, — 
 To bless thee, yet renounce thee to thy 
 
 face. 
 
 Indeed this veiy love which is my boast, 
 And which, when rising up from breast 
 
 to brow, 
 Dotli cro^n me with a ruby large enow 
 To draw men's eyes and prove the inner 
 
 cost, — 
 Tbis love even, all my worth, to theutter- 
 
 most, 
 I should not love withal, unless that thou 
 Hadst set me an example, shown me 
 
 how. 
 When first thine earnest ej'es with mine 
 
 were crossed. 
 And love called love. And thus, I can- 
 not speak 
 Of love even, as a good thing of ray own : 
 Thy soul hatli snatched uj^mine all faint 
 
 and weak. 
 And placed it by thee on a golden 
 
 throne, — 
 And tliat I love (O soul, we must be 
 
 meek !) 
 Is by thee only, whom I love alone. 
 
 And wilt thou have me fashion into 
 
 speech 
 The love I bear thee, finding words 
 
 enough, 
 And hold the torch out, while the winds 
 
 are rougli, 
 Between our faces, to cast light on 
 
 each ? — 
 I drop it at thy feet. I cannot teach 
 My hand to hold my spirit so far off 
 From myself — me — that I should bring 
 
 thee proof 
 In words, of love hid in me out of reach. 
 Nay, let the silence of my womanhood 
 Commend my woman-love to thy be- 
 lief.— 
 Seeing that I stand unwon, however 
 
 wooed, 
 And rend the garment of my life, in 
 
 brief. 
 By a most dauntless, voiceless fortitude, 
 Lest one touch of this heart convey its 
 
 grief. _ 
 
558 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 If thou must love me, let it be for nought 
 Except for love's sake only. Do not say 
 " I love her for her smile — her look — her 
 
 way 
 Of speaking gently, — for a trick of 
 
 thought 
 That falls in well with mine, and certes 
 
 brought 
 A sense of pleasant ease on such a 
 
 day " — 
 For these things in themselves. Beloved, 
 
 may 
 Be changed, or change for thee, — and 
 
 love, so wi'ouglit. 
 May be unwrought so. Neither love me 
 
 for 
 Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks 
 
 diT> — 
 
 A creature might forget to weep, who 
 bore 
 
 Thy comfort long, and lose thy love 
 thereby ! 
 
 But love me for love's sake, that ever- 
 nrore 
 
 Tliou maystlove on, through love's eter- 
 nity. 
 
 XV 
 
 Accuse me not, beseech thee, that I 
 
 wear 
 Too calm and sad a face in front of 
 
 thine ; 
 For we two look two ways, and can- 
 not shine 
 With the same sunlight on our brow 
 
 and hair. 
 On me thou lookest with no doubting 
 
 care. 
 As on a bee shut in a crystalline ; 
 Since sorrow liath shut me safe in love's 
 
 divine, 
 And to spread wing and fly in the outer 
 
 air 
 Were most impossible failure, if I strove 
 To fail so. But I look on thee — on thee — 
 Beliolding, besides love, the end of love, 
 Hearing oblivion beyond memory ; 
 As one who sits and gazes from above, 
 Over the rivers to the bitter sea. 
 
 XVI '^ 
 
 And yet, because thou overcomest so, 
 Because thou art more noble and like a 
 king, 
 
 1 Compare the Letters, I, 356, 274-5, 506, 508. 
 ■■•Compare the Letters, I, 545. 
 
 Thou canst prevail against my fears and 
 
 fling 
 Tliy purple round me, till my heart 
 
 shall grow 
 Too close against thine heart henceforth 
 
 to know 
 How it shook when alone. Why, con- 
 quering 
 Ma}' prove as lordly and complete a 
 
 thing 
 In lifting upward, as in crushing low ! 
 And as a vanquished soldier yields his 
 
 sword 
 To one who lifts him from tlie bloody 
 
 earth. 
 Even so, Beloved, I at last record. 
 Here ends my strife. If thou invite me 
 
 forth, 
 I rise above abasement at the word. 
 Make thy love larger to enlarge my 
 
 worth. 
 
 My poet, thou canst touch on all the 
 
 notes 
 God set between His After and Before, 
 And strike up and strike off the general 
 
 roar 
 Of the rushing worlds a melody that 
 
 floats 
 In a serene air purely. Antidotes 
 Of medicated music, answering for 
 Mankind's forlornest uses, thou canst 
 
 pour 
 From thence into their ears. God's will 
 
 devotes 
 Thine to such ends, and mine to wait on 
 
 thine. 
 How, Dearest, wilt tliou have me for 
 
 most use ? 
 A hope, to sing by gladl}'^ ? or a fine 
 Sad memory, with thy songs to inter- 
 fuse ? 
 A shade, in which to sing — of palm or 
 
 pine ? 
 A grave, on which to rest from singing ? 
 
 Choose. 
 
 XVIII 
 
 I NEVER gave a lock of hair away 
 To a man. Dearest, except this to thee. 
 Which now upon mv fingers thought- 
 fully, 
 I ring out to the full brown length and 
 
 say 
 " Take it." My day of j'outh went yes- 
 terday : 
 My hair no longer bounds to my foot's 
 
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 
 
 559 
 
 Nor plant I it from rose or myrtle-tree, 
 
 As girls do, any more ; it only may 
 
 Now shade on two pale cheeks the mark 
 of tears, 
 
 Taught drooping from the liead that 
 hangs aside 
 
 Througli sorrow's trick. I thought the 
 funeral-shears 
 
 Would take this first, but love is justi- 
 fied,— 
 
 Take it thou, finding pure, from all those 
 years. 
 
 The kiss my mother left here when she 
 died. 
 
 The soul's Rialto hath its merchandise ; 
 
 I barter curl for curl upon tluit mart, 
 
 And from my poet's forehead to my 
 heart 
 
 Receive this lock which outweighs ar- 
 gosies, — 
 
 As purply black, as erst to Pindar's eyes 
 
 The dim pui-pureal tresses gloomed 
 athwart 
 
 The nine white Muse-brows. For this 
 counterpart, 
 
 The bay-crown's shade, Beloved, I sur- 
 mise. 
 
 Still lingers on tliy curl, it is so black ! 
 
 Thus, with a fillet of smooth-kissing 
 breath, 
 
 I tie tiiesliadows safe from gliding back. 
 
 And laj^ the gift where nothing hin- 
 dereth ; 
 
 Here on my heart, as on thy brow, to 
 lack 
 
 No natural heat till mine grows cold in 
 death. 
 
 XX 1 
 
 Beloved, my Beloved, when I think 
 That thou wast in the world a year ago, 
 What time I sat alone here in the snow 
 And saw no footprint, heard the silence 
 
 sink 
 No moment at thy voice, but, link bv 
 
 link. 
 Went counting all my chains as if that 
 
 so 
 They never could fall off at any blow 
 Struck by thy possible hand, — why, thus 
 
 I drink 
 Of life's great cup of wonder ! Wonder- 
 ful. 
 Never to feel thee thrill the day or night 
 With personal act or speech, — nor ever 
 cull 
 
 1 Compare the Letters, I, 147. 
 
 Some pi'escience of thee with the blos- 
 soms white 
 
 Thou sawest growing ! Atheists are as 
 dull, 
 
 Who cannot guess God's presence out of 
 sight. 
 
 XXI 1 
 
 Say over again, and yet once over again. 
 That tliou dost love me. Though the 
 
 word repeated 
 Should seem "a cuckoo-song," as thou 
 
 dost treat it. 
 Remember, never to the hill or plain. 
 Valley and wood, without her cuckoo- 
 strain 
 Comes the fresh Spring in all her green 
 
 completed. 
 Beloved, I. amid the darkness greeted 
 By a doubtful spirit-voice, in that doubt's 
 
 pain 
 Cry, " Speak once more — thou lovest ! " 
 
 Who can fear 
 Too many stars, thougli each in heaven 
 
 shall roll, 
 Too many flowers, though each shall 
 
 crown the year? 
 Say thou dost love me, love me, love me 
 
 —toll 
 The silver iterance! — onlj^ minding. 
 
 Dear, 
 To love me also in silence with thy soul. 
 
 When our two souls stand up erect and 
 
 strong. 
 Face to face, silent, drawing nigh and 
 
 nigher. 
 Until tlie lengthening wings break into 
 
 fire 
 At either curved point, — what bitter 
 
 wrong 
 Can tlie earth do to us, that we should 
 
 not long 
 Be here contented ? Think. In mount- 
 ing liigher, 
 The angels would press on us and aspire 
 To drop some golden orb of perfect song 
 Into our deep, dear silence. Let us stay 
 Rather on earth, Beloved, — where the 
 
 unfit 
 Contrarious moods of men recoil away 
 And isolate pure spirits, and permit 
 X place to stand and love in for a day. 
 With darkness and the death-hour round- 
 ing it. 
 
 1 Compare the Letters, I, 336. 
 
5Co 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Is it indeed so ? If I lay here dead, 
 Wouldst thou miss any life in losing 
 
 mine ? 
 And would the sun for thee more coldly 
 
 shine 
 Because of grave-damps falling round 
 
 my head ? * 
 
 I marvelled, my Beloved, when I read 
 Thy thought so in the letter. I am 
 
 thine — 
 But . . . so much to thee? Can I ponr 
 
 thy wine 
 While my hands tremble ? Then ni}' 
 
 soul, instead 
 Of dreams of death, resumes life's lower 
 
 range. 
 Then, love me, Love ! look on me — 
 
 breathe on me ! 
 As brighter ladies do not count it 
 
 strange, 
 For love, to give up acres and degree, 
 I yield the grave for thy sake, and ex- 
 change 
 My near sweet view of Heaven, for earth 
 
 with thee ! 
 
 Let the world's sharpness, like a clasp- 
 ing knife, 
 
 Shut in upon itself and do no harm 
 
 In this close hand of Love, now soft and 
 warm. 
 
 And let us hear no sound of human 
 strife 
 
 After the click of the shutting. Life 
 to life — 
 
 I lean upon thee, Dear, without alarm. 
 
 And feel as safe as guarded by a charm 
 
 Against the stab of worldlings, who if 
 rife 
 
 Are weak to injure. Very whitely still 
 
 The lilies of our lives may reassure 
 
 Their blossoms from their roots, ac- 
 cessible 
 
 Alone to heavenly dews that drop not 
 fewer. 
 
 Growing straight, out of man's reach, 
 on the hill. [us poor. 
 
 God only, who made us rich, can make 
 
 XXV 
 
 A HEAVY heart, Beloved, have I borne 
 From year to year until I saw tiiy face. 
 And sorrow after sorrow took the placse 
 Of all those natural jo3's as lightly worn 
 
 1 Compare the Letters, I, 337, 345, 350. 
 
 As the stringed ijearls, each lifted in its 
 turn 
 
 By a beating heart at dance-time. 
 Hopes apace 
 
 Were changed to long despairs, till God's 
 own grace 
 
 Could scarcely lift above the world for- 
 lorn 
 
 My heavy heart. Then thou didst bid 
 me bring 
 
 And let it drop adown thy calmly great 
 
 Deep being ! Fast it sinketh, as a thing 
 
 Wliich its own natvire doth precipitate. 
 
 While tliine doth close above it, media- 
 ting 
 
 Betwixt the stars and the unaccom- 
 plished fate. 
 
 I LIVED with visions for my company 
 
 Instead of men and women, years ago. 
 
 And found them gentle mates, nor 
 tliought to know 
 
 A sweeter music than they played to 
 me. 
 
 But soon their trailing purple was not 
 free 
 
 Of this world's dust, their lutes did 
 silent grow, 
 
 And I myself grew faint and blind be- 
 low 
 
 Their vanishing eyes. Then thou didst 
 come — to be. 
 
 Beloved, what they seemed. Their 
 shining fronts, 
 
 Their songs, their splendors (better, yet 
 the same, 
 
 As river-water hallowed into fonts). 
 
 Met in thee, and from out thee over- 
 came 
 
 My soul with satisfaction of all wants : 
 
 Because God's gifts put man's best 
 dreams to shame. 
 
 XXVII 1 
 
 My own Beloved, who hast lifted me 
 
 From this drear flat of earth where I 
 was thrown, 
 
 And, in betwixt the languid ringlets, 
 blown 
 
 A life-breath, till the forehead hope- 
 fully 
 
 Shines out again, as all the angels see. 
 
 Before thy saving kiss ! My own, mj' 
 own. 
 
 Who earnest to me when the world was 
 gone, 
 
 ' Compare the Letters, I, 595. 
 
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 
 
 561 
 
 And I who looked for onlj' God, found 
 thee ! 
 
 I find thee. ; I am safe, and strong, and 
 glad . 
 
 As one who stands in dewless aspliodel 
 
 Looks backward on the tedious time he 
 had 
 
 In the upper life, — so I, with bosom- 
 swell, 
 
 Make witness, here, between the good 
 and bad. 
 
 That Love, as strong as Death, retrieves 
 as well. 
 
 XXVIII 1 
 
 My letters ! all dead paper, mute and 
 
 wliite ! 
 And 3'et they seem alive and quivering 
 Against my tremulous hands which 
 
 loose the string 
 .vnd let them drop down on my knee 
 
 'o-night. 
 This said, — he wished to have me in his 
 
 sight 
 Once, as a friend: this fixed a day in 
 
 . spring 
 To come and toucl; my hand ... a 
 
 simple thing. 
 Yet I wept for it !— this, . . the paper's 
 
 i:-ht . . . 
 
 Siiid, Dear, [love thee: f^m! i sank and 
 
 quailed 
 As if God's future tluuidered on my 
 
 past. 
 This said, I am tlmu ,i,nd so its ink has 
 
 paled 
 With lying at my heart that beat too 
 
 fast. 
 And this . . . O Love, thy words have 
 
 ill availed 
 If, what this said, I dared repeat at last ! 
 
 I THINK of thee ! — my thoughts do twine 
 and bud 
 
 About tliee, as wild vines, about a tree. 
 
 Put out broad leaves, and soon there's 
 nought to see 
 
 Except the straggling green which hides 
 the wood. 
 
 Yet, O my palm-tree, be it understood 
 
 I will not have my thoughts instead of 
 thee 
 
 Who art dearer, better ! Rather, in- 
 stantly 
 
 Renew thy presence ; as a strong tree 
 should, 
 
 * Compare the Letters, 1, 6, 70, 365. 
 36 
 
 Rustle tli}^ boughs and set thj^ trunk all 
 
 bare. 
 And let these bands of greenery which 
 
 insphere thee 
 Drop heavily down, — burst, shattered, 
 
 everywhere ! 
 Because, in this deep joy to see and hear 
 
 thee 
 And breathe within thy shadow a new 
 
 air, 
 I do not think of thee — I am too near 
 
 thee. 
 
 I SEE thine image tlu'ough my tears to- 
 night, . 
 And yet to-day I saw thee smiling. 
 
 How 
 Refer the cause? — Beloved, is it thou 
 Or I, who makes me sad ? Tiie acolyte 
 Amid the ciianted joy and thankful rite 
 May so fall fiat, with pale insensate 
 
 brow, 
 On the altar-stair. I hear thy voice and 
 
 vow. 
 Perplexed, uncertain, since thou art 
 
 out of sight, 
 As he, in his swooning ears, the choir's 
 
 Amen. 
 Beloved, dost thou love ? or did I see all 
 Tlie glory as I dreamed, and fainted 
 
 when 
 Too vehement light dilated my ideal, 
 For my soul's eyes? Will that light 
 
 come again. 
 As now these teai's come — falling hot 
 and real? 
 
 Thou comest ! all is said without a word. 
 I sit beneath thy looks as children do 
 In the noon-sun, with souls that tremble 
 
 through 
 Their happy eyelids from an unaverred 
 Yet prodigal inward joy. Behold, I 
 
 erred 
 In that last doubt ! and yet I cannot rue 
 The sin most, but the occasion— that we 
 
 two 
 Should for a moment stand unminis- 
 
 tered 
 By a mutual presence. Ah, keep near 
 
 and close. 
 Thou dovelike help ! and, when my 
 
 fears would rise, 
 With thy broad heart serenely inter- 
 pose : 
 Brood down vfith thy divine sufficiencies 
 
562 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 These thoughts which tiemble when 
 
 bereft of those, 
 Like callow birds left desert to the 
 
 skies. 
 
 XXXII 
 
 The first time that the sun rose on thine 
 
 oath 
 To love me, I looked forward to the 
 
 moon 
 To slacken all those bonds which seemed 
 
 too soon 
 And quickly tied to make a lasting 
 
 trotli. 
 Quick-loving hearts, I thought, may 
 
 . quickly loafclie ; 
 And, looking on myself, I seemed not 
 
 one 
 For such man's love ; — moi'e like an out- 
 
 of-tune 
 Worn viol, a good singer would be 
 
 wroth 
 To spoil his song with, and which, 
 
 snatcJied in liaste, 
 Is laid down at the first ill-sounding 
 
 note. 
 I did not wrong myself so, but I placed 
 A wrong on thee. For perfect strains 
 
 may float 
 'Neath master-hands, from instruments 
 
 defaced. — 
 And gi'eat souls, at one stroke, may do 
 
 and doat. 
 
 XXXIII 
 
 Yes, call me by my pet-name ! let me 
 
 hear 
 The name I vised to run at, when a child. 
 From innocent play, and leave the cow- 
 slips piled. 
 To glance up in some face that proved 
 
 me dear 
 With the look of its eyes. I miss the 
 
 clear 
 Fond voices which, being drawn and 
 
 reconciled 
 Into the music of Heaven's undefiled. 
 Call me no longer. Silence on the bier, 
 While I call God— call God !— So let thy 
 
 mouth 
 Be heir to those who are now exanimate. 
 Gather the north flowers to complete the 
 
 south, 
 And catcli the early love up in the late. 
 Yes, call me by that name, — and I, in 
 
 truth. 
 With the same heart, will answer and 
 
 not wait. 
 
 With the same heart, I said, I'll answer 
 
 thee 
 As those, when thou shalt call me by my 
 
 name — 
 Lo, the vain promise ! is the same, the 
 
 same, 
 Perplexed and ruffled by life's strategj' ? 
 When called before, I told how hastily 
 I dropped my flowers or brake off from a 
 
 game. 
 To run and answer with the smile that 
 
 came 
 At play last moment, and went on with 
 
 me 
 Through my obedience. When I answer 
 
 now, 
 I drop a grave thought, break from soli- 
 tude ; 
 Yet still my heart goes to thee — ponder 
 
 how — 
 Not as to a single good, but all my good ! ^ 
 Lay thy hand on it, best one, and allow 
 That no cliild's foot could run fast as 
 
 this blood. 
 
 If I leave all for thee, wilt thou ex- 
 change 
 And be all to me ? Shall I never miss 
 Home-talk and blessing and the common 
 
 kiss 
 That comes to each in turn, nor count it 
 
 strange. 
 When I look up, to drop on anew range 
 Of walls and floors, another home than 
 
 this ? 
 Nay, wilt thou fill that place by me 
 
 which is 
 Filled by dead eyes too tender to know 
 
 change ? 
 That's hardest. If to conquer love, has 
 
 tried. 
 To conquer grief, tries more, as all • 
 
 things prove ; 
 For grief indeed is love and grief beside. 
 Alas, I have grieved so I am hard to love. 
 Yet love me — wilt thou ? Open thine 
 
 heart wide, 
 And fold within the wet wdngs of thy 
 
 dove. 
 
 XXXVI 
 
 When we met first and loved, I did not 
 
 build 
 Upon the event with marble. Could it 
 
 mean 
 
 ' Compare the Letters, I, 361. 
 
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 
 
 563 
 
 To last, a love set pendulous between 
 Sorrow and sorrow ? Nay, I rather 
 
 thrilled, 
 Distrusting every light that seemed to 
 
 gild 
 The onward path, and feared to overlean 
 A finger even. And, though I have 
 
 grovvn serene 
 And strong since then, I thiidi that (!od 
 
 has willed 
 A still renewable fear . . , O love, O 
 
 trotli . . . 
 Lest these enclasped hands should never 
 
 hold, 
 Tliis mutual kiss drop down between us 
 
 botli 
 As an unowned thing, once the lips being 
 
 cold. 
 And Love, be false ! if he, to keep one 
 
 oath. 
 Must lose one joy, by his life's star fore- 
 told. 
 
 XXXVII 
 
 Pardon, oh, pardon, that my soul should 
 
 make. 
 Of all that strong divineness which I 
 
 know 
 For thine and tliee. an image only so 
 Formed of tlie sand, and fit to shift and 
 
 break. 
 It is that distant years which did not 
 
 take 
 Tliy sovranty, recoiling with a blow. 
 Have forced my swimming brain to un- 
 dergo 
 Their doubt and dread, and blindly to 
 
 forsake 
 Thy purity of likeness and distort 
 Thy worthiest love to a worthless coun- 
 terfeit : 
 As if a shipwrecked Pagan, safe in port. 
 His guardian sea-god to commemorate, 
 Should set a sculptured porpoise, gills a- 
 
 snort 
 And vibrant tail, within the temple-gate. 
 
 First time he kissed me, he but only 
 
 kissed 
 The fingers of this hand wherewith I 
 
 write ; 
 And ever since, it grew more clean and 
 
 white. 
 Slow to world-greetings, quick with its 
 
 "Oh, list." 
 When the angels speak. A ring of 
 
 amethyst 
 
 I could not wear here, plainer to my 
 sight. 
 
 Than that first kiss. The second passed 
 in height 
 
 The first, and sought the forehead, and 
 half missed, 
 
 Half falling on the hair. O beyond meed ! 
 
 That was the chrism of love, whicli 
 love's own crown, 
 
 With sanctifying sweetness, did precede. 
 
 Tlie third upon my lips was folded down 
 
 In perfect, purple state ; since when, in- 
 deed, 
 
 I have been proud and said, " My love, 
 my own.'' 
 
 Because thou hast the power and own'st 
 
 the grace 
 To look through and behind this mask 
 
 of me 
 ( Against which years have beat thus 
 
 blanchingly 
 With their rains), and behold my soul's 
 
 true face. 
 The dim and weary witness of life's 
 
 race,— 
 Because thou hast the faith and love to 
 
 see, 
 Througli that same soul's distracting 
 
 lethargy. 
 The patient angel waiting for a place. 
 In the new Heavens, — because nor sin 
 
 nor woe. 
 Nor God's infliction, nor death's neigh- 
 borhood. 
 Nor all which others viewing, turn to 
 
 go. 
 Nor all wliich makes me tiredof all, self- 
 viewed, — 
 Nothing repels thee, . . . Dearest, teach 
 
 me so 
 To pour out gratitude, as thou dost, 
 
 good ! 
 
 Oh, yes ! they love through all this world 
 
 of ours ! 
 I will not gainsay love, called love 
 
 forsootli. 
 I have heard love talked in my early 
 
 youth, 
 And since, not so long back but that tlie 
 
 flowers ^ 
 
 Then gathered, smell still. Mussulmans 
 
 and Giaours 
 Tlirow kerchiefs at a smile, and have no 
 
 ruth 
 
5^4 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 For any weeping. Polypheme's wliite 
 
 tooth 
 Slips on tlie nut if, after frequent 
 
 sliowers, 
 Tlie shell is over-smooth, — and not so 
 
 much 
 Will turn the thing called love, aside to 
 
 hate, 
 Or else to oblivion. But thou art not 
 
 such 
 A lover, my Beloved ! thou canst wait 
 Through sorrow and sickness, to bring 
 
 souls to touch, 
 And think it soon when others cry " Too 
 
 late." 
 
 I THANK all who have loved me in their 
 
 hearts. 
 With thanks and love from mine. Deej) 
 
 thanks to all 
 AVho paused a little near the prison- wall 
 To hear my music in its louder parts 
 Ere they went onward, each one to the 
 
 mart's 
 Or temple's occupation, beyond call. 
 But thou, who, in my voice's sink and 
 
 fall 
 When the sob took it, thy divinest Art's 
 Own instrument didst drop down at thy 
 
 foot 
 To. hearken what I said between my 
 
 tears, . . . 
 Instruct me how to thank thee ! Oh, to 
 
 shoot 
 My soul's full meaning into future years, 
 That thei/ should lend it utterance, and 
 
 salute 
 Love that endures, from Life that dis- 
 appears ! 
 
 XLII 
 
 " 3l7j future ivill not copy fair viij 
 
 past " — 1 
 I wrote that once ; and thinking at my 
 
 side 
 My ministering life-angel justified 
 Tlie word by his appealing look upcast 
 To the white throne of God, I turned at 
 
 last, 
 And there, instead, saw thee, not unallied 
 To angels in thy soul ! Then I, long 
 
 tried 
 By natural ills, received the comfort fast, 
 * While budding, at thy sight, my pilgrim's 
 
 staff 
 
 1 A sonnet of Mrs. Browning's, of 1844, begins 
 with tliis line. See also the Letters, I, J381. 
 
 Gave out green leaves with morning 
 
 dews impearled. 
 I seek no copy now of life's first half : 
 Leave here the pages with long musing 
 
 curled. 
 And write me new my future's epigraph, 
 New angel mine, unhoped for in the 
 
 world ! 
 
 XLIII 
 
 How do I love thee ? Let me count the 
 
 ways. 
 I love thee to the depth and breadth and 
 
 height 
 My soul can reach, when feeling out of 
 
 sight 
 For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. 
 1 love thee to tlie level of everyday's 
 Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light. 
 I love thee freely, as men strive for 
 
 Right ; 
 I love thee purely, as they turn from 
 
 Praise. 
 I love tliee with the passion pvit to use 
 In my old griefs, and with my childhood's 
 
 faith. 
 I love thee with a love I seemed to lose 
 With my lost saints, — I love thee with 
 
 the breath, 
 Smiles, tears, of all my life ! — and, if God 
 
 choose, 
 I shall but love thee better after death. 
 
 Beloved, thou hast brought me many 
 flowers 
 
 Plucked in the garden, all the summer 
 through 
 
 And winter, and it seemed as if they grew 
 
 In tliis close room, nor missed the sun 
 and showers. 
 
 So, in tiie like name of that love of ours, 
 
 Take back these thoughts which here un- 
 folded too. 
 
 And which on warm and cold days I 
 withdi'ew 
 
 From my heart's ground. Indeed, those 
 beds and bowers 
 
 Be overgrown with bitter weeds and rue, 
 
 And wait thy weeding ; yet hero's eglan- 
 tine, 
 
 Here's ivy ! — take them, as. I used to do 
 
 Thy flowers, and keep them where they 
 sliall not pine. 
 
 Instruct thine eyes to keep their colors 
 true, 
 
 And tell thy soul their roots are left in 
 mine. [1847.] 1850. 
 
^ V^^^% .c/ V "^ ■ ^ <r] ^ ^-^ i 
 
 ^ - v^ , ^ r .. 1 
 
 ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 LIST OF REFERENCES 
 
 Editions 
 
 Poetical Works, 9 volumes, The Macmillau Co. Riverside Edition, 6 
 volumes, Houghton & jMifflin. Globe Edition, 2 volumes, edited by Aug- 
 ustine Birrell, The Macmillan Co. Cambridge Edition, 1 volume, 
 Houghton & Miffliu. Selections, 2 volumes ; Smith, Elder & Co., 1872 
 (Browning's own selection). Selections, 2 volumes, edited by C. Porter 
 and II. Clarke, Crowell (The same, with additional poems subsequent to 
 1872). 
 
 Biography 
 
 Orr (Alexandra L.), Life and Letters of Robert Browning, 1891. 
 * Smaup (Wm.), Life of Brownhig (Great Writers Series), 1890. Caky 
 (E. L.), Browning as Poet and Man. Waugu (A. R.), Robert Browning 
 (Tlie Westminster Biographies), 1900. Douglas (James), Biography of 
 Robert Browning (Bookman Series). * Chestertox (G. K.), Browning 
 (English Men of Letters), 1903. * Dowde>^ (E.), Browning (The Temple 
 Biographies), 1904. See also Forster\s Life of Landor, llallam Tennyson's 
 Life of Tennyson, The Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett 
 Barrett, and The Letters of Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 
 
 Remixiscen'ces axd Early Criticism 
 
 * GossE (E. W.), Robert Browning; Personalia, 1890. Ritchie (Anne 
 Thackeray), Records of Tennyson, Ruskin, Robert and Elizabeth Brown- 
 ing, 1892."' Duffy (C. G.), Conversations Avith Carlyle. * W. W. Story 
 and his Friends. Farrar (F. W.), Men I have Known. Bronson (K.), 
 The Century, Vol. XXXYII, p. 920 : Browning in Asolo, Bronson (K), 
 The Century, Vol. XLI, p. 572 : Browning in Venice. Lambert (L. V.), 
 Chatauquan, Vol. XXXV, p. 590 : The Brownings in Florence. IIorne 
 (R. II.), A New Spirit of the Age, 1844. Powell (T.), The Living Authors 
 of England, 1849. Ossolt (M. F.), Art, Literature and the Drama. 
 Hawtmorxe, Italian Note-F.ooks. Bagehot (W.), Literary Studies, Vol. 
 II: Wordsworth, Tennyson and Browning; or Pure, Ornate and Gro- 
 tesque Art in English Poetry (Oi'iginally in National Review, Nov- 
 ember, 1804). Nettleship (J. T.), Essays on Robert Browning's Poetiy, 
 18(38. Morris (William), Review of Men and Women, 1856. 
 
 565 
 
566 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Introductions to Browning 
 
 Alexander (W. IT.), An Introduction to the Poetry of Robert Brown- 
 ing. * Berdoe (E.), The Browning Cj^clopaedia, a Guide to the Study of 
 the Works of Robert Browning. Chicago Browning Society, Browning's 
 Poetry, Outline Studies. Cooke (Bancroft), An introduction to Robert 
 Browning. Cooke (G. W.), A Guide-Book to the Poetic and Dramatic 
 Works of Robert Browning. Corson (Hiram), An Introduction to the 
 Study of Robert Browning's Poetr3^ Defries (E. P.), Browning Primer. 
 FoTHERiNGHAM (J.), Studics of tlic Miud and Art of Browning. Holland 
 (F. M.), Stories from Robert Browning. Kingsland (W. G.), Robert 
 Browning, Chief Poet of the Age. Molineux (M. A.), A Phrase-Book 
 from tlie Poetic and Dramatic Works of Robert Browning. Morison^ 
 (Jeanie), Sordello, an outline Analysis of Mr. Browning's Poem. Orr 
 (Alexandra L.), A Handl)ook to the Works of Robert Browning. Symons 
 (A.), An Introduction to the Study of Browning. Wilson (F. M.), A 
 Primer on Browning. 
 
 (The above books are for the most part more elementary than could be 
 needed to-day ])y any person of ordinary intelligence. Some of them 
 however, especially that of J^erdoe, and in a less degree tliose of Corson, 
 G. W. Cooke, and Mrs. Orr, contain much valuable information not else- 
 where so easily obtainable.) 
 
 Later Criticism 
 
 * Bkatty (Arthur), Browning's Verse-Form, its Organic Character. 
 * Berdoe (E.) Browning's Message to his Time ; his Religion, Philosophy 
 and Science. Birrell ( \ugustine), Essays and Addresses. * Birrell 
 (Augustine), Obiter Dicta, Vol. I : On the Alleged Obscurity of Mr. 
 Browning's Poetry. * Browning Society (of London) : Browning 
 Studies ; Selected Papers of Members of the Browning Society, Edited 
 by Edward Berdoe. * Boston Brownincj Society : Selected Papers. 
 Brooke (S. A.), The Poetry of Browning. Burton (R.), Literary Likings : 
 Renaissance in Browning's Poetry. Carpexter (W. Boyd), The Reli- 
 gious Spirit in the Poets. * Chapman (J. J.), Emerson and Other Essays. 
 Church (R. W.), Dante and Otlier Essays : Sordello. Cooke (G. W.), 
 Poets and Problems. Curtis (G. W.), From the Easy Chair ; Robert 
 Browning in Florence. Darimesteter (Mary J.), Revue de Paris, October, 
 1898: Menage de Poetes. *Dowden (E.), Studies in Literature: Mr. 
 Tennyson and Mr. Browning ; Transcendental Movement in Literature. 
 DowDEN (E.), Transcripts and Studies : Mr. Browning's Sordello. Everett 
 (C. C), Essays Theological and Literary. Fawcett (C), Agnosticism and 
 Other Essays : The BroAvning Craze. FoR>rAN (H. F>.), Our Living Poets. 
 HuTTON (R. H.), Literary Essays. James (Henry), Essays in London and 
 Elsewhere. Jenkin (Fleming), Papers Literary, Scientific, etc. : The 
 Agamemnon and Trachiniae. * Lawton (W. C), The Classical Element 
 in BroAvning's Poetry. Mabie (H. W.), Essays in Literary Interpreta- 
 
\ 
 
 ROBERT BROWNING 567 
 
 tion. MiLSAXD (Joseph), Litterature anglaise et pliilosophie. Morley 
 (John), Studies in Literature : The Ring and the Book. Oliphaxt (Mar- 
 garet), Tlie Victorian Age of English Literature, Vol. I. Patkr (Walter), 
 Essays from the Guardian. Saintsbuky (George), Corrected Impressions. 
 
 * Saxtayaxa (George), Interpretations of Poetry and Religion : The 
 Poetry of Barbarism — Walt Whitman, Robert Browning. * Schelling (F. 
 E.), Two Essays on Robert Browning. * Stedman (E. C), Victorian Poets. 
 Stephen (Leslie), Studies of a Biographer, Vol. III. * Swixburxe, Intro- 
 duction to the Works of George Chapman, pp. xiv-xix (a splendid pas- 
 sage on the alleged obscurity of Browning). Thomson (James), Biographi- 
 cal and C-ritical Studies : Notes on the (Tcnius of Robert Browning ; The 
 Ring and the Book ; Browning's Pacchiarotto. Triggs (O. L.), Browning 
 and Whitman, A Study in Democracy. Vincent (L. H.), A Few Words 
 on Robert Browning. Woodberry (G. E.), Makers of Literature : On 
 Browning's Death. 
 
 Armstrong (R. A.), Faith and Doubt. Austin (A.), The Poetry of the 
 Period. Buchanan (R.), Master Spirits. Cheney (V.), The Golden 
 Guess. Courtney (W. L.), Studies New and Old. Dawson (W. J.), 
 Makers of IModern English ; Religion of Brownhig. Devey (J.), Com- 
 parative Estimate of Modern English Poets. Forster (J.), Four Great 
 Teachers : John Ruskin, Thomas Carlyle, Ralph Waldo Emerson, and 
 Robert Browning. Friswell (J. II.), Modern Men of Letters. Galton 
 (A.), LTrbana Scripta. Gould (E. P.), The Brownings and America. 
 Kernahan (Coulson), Wise Men and a Fool : One Aspect of Browning. 
 MacDonald (George), Imagination and Other Essays : Browning's 
 Christmas Eve. McCormick (W. S.), Three Lectures on English Liter- 
 ature : The Poetry of Robert Browning. Noel (R. B. W.), Essays on 
 Poetry and Poets. Sarrazin (G.), La Renaissance de la Poesie anglaise. 
 Sci'DUER (V. D.), Life of the Spirit in Modern English Poetry. Sharp 
 (Amy), Victorian Poets. Swanwkk (A.), Poets the Interpreters of their 
 Age. Walker (LI.), The Great Victorian Poets. 
 
 Tributes in Verse 
 
 * Landor, Robert Browning. * Gilper (R. W.), Five Books of Song : 
 Browning's Death. Field (M.), The Burial of Robert Browning. 
 
 * Carman (Bliss), Songs from Vagabondia : The Two Bobbies. * Carman 
 (Bliss), More Songs from Vagaljondia : In a Copy of Browning. 
 
 Bibliography 
 
 FuRNivALL (F. J.), A Bibliography of Robert Browning from 1833 to 
 1881. Anderson (J. P.), Bibliography of Browning, Appendix to Sharp's 
 Life of Browning. Learned (H. B.), A Hand List for the Student of 
 Robert Browning. Nkoll (W. M.), and Wise (T.), Literary Anecdotes 
 of the Nineteenth Century : Materials for a Bibliography of Robert 
 Browning. 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 SONGS FROM PARACELSUS 
 
 Heap cassia, sandal-buds and stripes 
 
 Of labdaiuun, and aloe-balls, 
 
 Smeared vvitli dull nard an Indian wipes 
 From out her hair : such balsam falls 
 Down sea-side mountain pedestals, 
 
 From tree-tops where tired winds are 
 fain, 
 
 Spent witli the vast and howling main. 
 
 To treasure half their island-gain. 
 
 And strew faint sweetness from some 
 old 
 
 Egyptian's fine worm-eaten shroud 
 Which breaks to dust when once un- 
 rolled ; 
 
 Or shredded perfume, like a cloud 
 From closet long to quiet vowed, 
 With mothed and dropping arras hung, 
 Mouldering her lute and books among, 
 As when a queen, long dead, was young. 
 
 Over the sea our galleys went, 
 With cleaving prows in order brave 
 To a speeding wind and a bounding 
 wave, 
 
 A gallant armament : 
 Each bark built out of a forest-tree 
 
 Left leafy and rough as first it grew. 
 And nailed all over tlie gaping sides, 
 Within and without, with black bull- 
 hides. 
 Seethed in fat and suppled in flame. 
 To bear tlie playful billows' game : 
 So, eacl\ good sliip was rude to see. 
 Rude and bare to tlie outward view, 
 
 But each upbore a stately tent 
 Where cedar jiales in scented row 
 Kept out tlie flakes of the dancing brine. 
 And an awning drooped the mast below, 
 In fold on fold of the purple fine. 
 
 That neither noontide nor starshine 
 Nor moonlight cold which makethmad. 
 
 Might pierce the regal tenement. 
 Wiien the sun dawned, oh, gay and glad 
 We set the sail and plied the oar ; 
 But when the night-wind blew like 
 
 breath. 
 For joy of one day's voyage more, 
 AVe sang together on the wide sea. 
 Like men at peace on a peaceful shore ; 
 Each sail was loosed to the wind so free. 
 Each helm made sure by tlie twiliglit 
 
 star. 
 And in a sleep as calm as death. 
 We, the voyagers from afar. 
 
 Lay stretched along, each weary crew 
 In a circle round its wondrous tent 
 Whence gleamed soft light and curled 
 
 rich scent, 
 And with light and perfume, music 
 
 too : 
 So the stars wheeled round, and the 
 
 darkness past. 
 And at morn we started beside the mast. 
 And still each ship was sailing fast. 
 
 Now, one morn, land appeared — a speck 
 Dim trembling betwixt sea and sky : 
 " Avoid it," cried our pilot, " check 
 
 The shout, restrain tlie eager eye ! " 
 But the heaving sea was black behind 
 For many a night and many a day. 
 And land, though but a rock, drew 
 
 nigh ; 
 So, we broke the cedar iiales away. 
 Let the purple awning flap in the wind. 
 
 And a statue bright was on every 
 deck ! 
 We shouted, every man of us. 
 And steered right into the harbor thus. 
 With pomp and pa3an glorious. 
 
 A hundred shapes of lucid stone ! 
 All day we built its slirine for each, 
 
 568 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 569 
 
 A shrine of rock for every one, 
 Nor paused till in the westering sun 
 
 We sat together on the beach 
 To sing because our task was done. 
 When lo ! what shouts and merry songs ! 
 What laughter all tlie distance stirs ! 
 A loaded raft with happy throngs 
 Of gentle islanders ! 
 
 " Our isles are just at hand," they 
 cried, 
 
 " Like cloudlets faint in even sleep- 
 ing. 
 Our temple-gates are opened wide, 
 
 Our olive-groves thick shade are keep- 
 ing 
 For tliese majestic forms" — they cried. 
 Oh, then we awoke with sudden start 
 From our deep dream, and knew, too 
 
 late, 
 How bare the rock, how desolate, 
 Which had received our precious 
 freight 
 
 Yet we called out — " Depart ! 
 Our gifts, once given, must Jiere abide. 
 
 Our work is done ; we have no lieart 
 To mar our work," — we cried. 1835. 
 
 PORPHYRIA'S LOVER 
 
 The rain set early in to-night, 
 
 The sullen wind was soon awake, 
 It tore the elm-tops down for spite. 
 
 And did its worst to vex the lake : 
 I listened with heart fit to break. 
 Wlien glided in Porpliyria ; straight 
 
 Slie shut the cold out and the storm. 
 And kneeled and made the cheerless 
 grate 
 
 Blaze up, and all the cottage warm ; 
 Which done, she rose, and from her 
 
 form 
 Withdrew the dripping cloak and 
 shawl. 
 
 And laid iier soiled gloves by, untied 
 Her hat and let the damp hair fall. 
 
 1 This is the earliest of Browning's g:reat series 
 of (Iraiiiatio poems in lyi'ic form. It was first 
 IM-iiiteil iu tlie Mdutlily Reiiository, 183G, with 
 Johiinness Aijrirold hi. Meditation ; was then 
 included in the Dramatic Lyrics (1843); and is 
 now classed among the Dramatic Romances. 
 
 Most of Browning's poems are simply dramatic 
 monologues, without stage directions, often 
 without even the name of the speaker. Tlie 
 reailer must remember that it is not Browning 
 who is speaking or tellitig the story : and must 
 first notice tvho is ipnikliifi, and under irliaf cir- 
 cnmstancfis. Once tliis is done, most of the al- 
 leged "obscurity" of Browning will be found to 
 have disappeared forever. 
 
 And, last, she sat down by my side 
 And called me. When no voice re- 
 plied. 
 She put my arm about her waist, 
 
 And made her smooth white shoulder 
 bare 
 And all her yellow hair displaced. 
 And, stooping, made my cheek lie 
 there. 
 And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair, 
 Murmuring how she loved me — she 
 Too weak, for all her heart's en- 
 deavor. 
 To set its struggling passion free 
 
 From pride, and vainer ties dissever, 
 And give herself to me forever. 
 But passion sometimes would prevail, 
 Nor could to-night's gay feast re- 
 strain 
 A sudden thought of one so pale 
 
 For love of her, and all in vain : 
 So, slie was come through wind and 
 
 rain. 
 Be sure I looked \ip at her eyes 
 
 Hapiiy and jnoud ; at last I knew 
 Porphyria worshipped me ; surprise 
 Made my heart swell, and still it 
 grew 
 While I debated what to do. 
 That moment she was mine, mine, 
 fair. 
 Perfectly pure and good : I found 
 A tiling to do, and all her hair 
 
 In one long yellow string I wound 
 Three times her little throat around. 
 And strangled her. No pain felt she ; 
 
 I am quite sure she felt no pain. 
 As a shut bud that holds a bee, 
 I warily oped her lids ; again 
 Ijaughed the blue e3^es without a stain. 
 And I untightened next the tress 
 About her neck ; her cheek once 
 more . 
 Blushed bright beneath my burning 
 kiss : 
 I propped her head up as before, 
 Only, this time my shoulder bore 
 Her head, which droops ui)()n it still : 
 
 The smiling ros.y little Uead, 
 So glad it has its utmost will. 
 
 That all it scorned at once is fled. 
 And I, its love, am gained instead ! 
 Porphyria's love : she guessed not how 
 
 Her darling one wish would be heard. 
 And thus we sit together now. 
 
 And all night long we have not 
 stirred. 
 And yet God has not said a word ! 
 
 1836. 
 
57° 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 PIPPA PASSES 
 A DRAMA 
 
 PERSONS 
 
 PiPPA 
 
 Ottima 
 
 Sebald 
 
 Foreign Students 
 
 Gottlieb 
 
 Schramm 
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 New Year's Day at Asolo in the Tre- 
 
 VISAN 
 
 A large mecni airy chamber. A yirl, Pippa, from 
 the silk-mills, springing out of bed. 
 
 Day! 
 
 Faster and more fast, 
 
 O'er night's brim, day boils at last : 
 
 Boils, pure gold, o'er the cloud-cup's 
 
 brim 
 AVhere spurting and suppressed it lay, 
 For not a froth-flake touched the rim 
 Of yonder gap in the solid gray 
 Of the eastern cloud, an hour away ; 
 But forth one wavelet, then another, 
 
 curled, 
 Till the whole sunrise, not to be sup- 
 pressed. 
 Rose, reddened , and its seething breast 
 Flickered in bounds, grew gold, tlien 
 overflowed the world. 
 
 Oh Day, if I squander a wavelet of thee, 
 A mite of my twelve-hours' treasure, 
 The least of thy gazes or glances, 
 ( Be thej'^ grants thou art bound to or gifts 
 
 above measure) 
 One of thy choices or one of thy chances, 
 (Be tliey tasks God imposed thee or 
 
 freaks at thy pleasure) 
 — My Day, if I squander such labor or 
 
 leisure. 
 Tlien shame fall on Asolo, mischief on 
 
 me ! 
 
 Tliy long blue solemn hours serenely 
 flowing, 
 
 Whence earth, we feel, gets steady help 
 and good — 
 
 Thy fitful sunsiiine-minutes, coming, 
 going. 
 
 As if earth turned from work in game- 
 some mood — 
 
 All shall be mine ! But thou must treat 
 me not 
 
 Jules 
 
 Phene 
 
 Austrian Police 
 
 Bluphocks 
 
 LuiGl and his mother 
 
 Poor Girls 
 
 MONSIGNOR and his attendants 
 
 As prosperous ones are treated, those 
 
 who live 
 At hand here, and enjoy tlie higher lot. 
 In readiness to take wiiattliou wilt give, 
 And free to let alone what thou re- 
 
 f usest ; 
 For, Day, my holiday, if thou ill-usest 
 Me, who am only Pippa, — old-year's sor- 
 row. 
 Cast off last night, will come again to- 
 morrow : 
 Whereas, if thou prove gentle, I shall 
 
 borrow 
 Sufficient strength of thee for new-year's 
 
 sorrow. 
 All otlier men and women that tliis 
 
 earth 
 Belongs to, who all days alike possess. 
 Make general plenty cure particular 
 
 dearth. 
 Get more joy one way, if another, less : 
 Thou art my single daj', God lends to 
 
 leaven 
 What were all earth else, witli a feel of 
 
 heaven, — 
 Sole light that helps me tlirough the 
 
 year, tliy sun's ! 
 Try now ! Take Asolo's Four Happiest 
 
 Ones — 
 And let thy morning rain on tliat superb 
 Great liaughty Ottima ; can rain disturb 
 Her Sebald's homage? All the while 
 
 thy rain 
 Beats fiercest on her shrub-house win- 
 dow pane 
 He will but press the closer, breathe 
 
 more warm 
 Against her cheek ; how should siie 
 
 mind the storm ? 
 And, morning past, if mid-day shed a 
 
 gloom 
 O'er Jules and Phene, — what care bride 
 
 and groom 
 SaA^e for their dpar selves? 'T is their 
 
 marriage day ; * 
 And wliile they leave church and go 
 
 home their way, 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 571 
 
 Hand clasping hand, within each breast 
 
 would be 
 Sunbeams and pleasant weather spite of 
 
 thee. 
 Tlien. for anotlier trial, obscure thy eve 
 With mist, — will Luigi and his mother 
 
 grieve — 
 The lady and her child, unmatched, for- 
 sooth. 
 She in her age, as Luigi in his j^outh, 
 For true content? The cheerful town, 
 
 warm, close 
 And safe, the sooner that thou art mo- 
 rose. 
 Receives them. And yet once again, 
 
 outbreak 
 In storm at night on Monsignor, they 
 
 make 
 Such stir about, — whom tliey expect 
 
 from Rome 
 To visit Asolo, his brothers' home. 
 And say here masses proper to release 
 A soul from pain, — what storm dares 
 
 hurt his peace ? 
 Calm would lie praj% with his own 
 
 thoughts to ward 
 Thy thunder off, nor want the angels' 
 
 guard. 
 But Pippa — just one such mischance 
 
 would spoil 
 Her day that lightens the next twelve- 
 month's toil 
 At wearisome silk-winding, coil on coil ! 
 
 And here T let time slip for naught ! 
 Aha, you fooUiardy sunbeam, cauglit 
 With a single splasli from my ewer ! 
 You that would mock the best pursuer. 
 Was my basin over-deep? 
 One splash of water ruins you asleep. 
 And up, up, fleet your brilliant bits 
 Wheeling and counter wheeling. 
 Reeling, broken beyond healing : 
 Now grow together on the ceiling ! 
 That will task your wits. 
 Whoever it was quenched fire first, 
 
 hoped to see 
 Morsel after morsel flee 
 As merrily, as giddily . . . 
 Meantime, what lights my sunbeam on. 
 Where settles by degrees the radiant 
 
 cripple ? 
 Oh, is it surely blown, my martagon ? 
 New-blown and ruddy as St. Agnes' 
 
 nipple. 
 Plump as the flesh-bunch on some Turk 
 
 bird's poll ! 
 Be siu-e if corals, branching 'neath the 
 
 ripple [roll 
 
 Of ocean, bud there, ^fairies watch un- 
 
 Such turban-flowers ; I say, such lamps 
 
 disperse 
 Thick red flame through that dusk green 
 
 universe ! 
 I am queen of thee, floweret ! 
 And each fleshy blossom 
 Preserve I not — (safer 
 Tlian leaves that embower it, 
 Or shells that embosom) 
 — From weevil and chafer? 
 Laugli througli my j)ane tlien ; solicit 
 
 the bee ; 
 Gibe him, be sui"e ; and, in midst of thy 
 
 glee. 
 Love thy queen, worship me ! 
 
 — Worship whom else ? For am I not, 
 
 this day, 
 Whate'er I please ? What shall 1 please 
 
 to-day ? 
 My moi'n, noon, eve and night — how 
 
 spend my day ? 
 To-morrow I must be Pipj^a who winds 
 
 silk. 
 The whole year round, to earn just bread 
 
 and milk : 
 But, this one day, I have leave to go. 
 And play out my fancy's fullest games ; 
 I may fancy all day — and it shall be so — 
 That I taste of the pleasures, am called 
 
 by the names 
 Of the Happiest Four in our Asolo ! 
 
 See ! Up the hillside yonder, through the 
 
 morning. 
 Some one shall love me, as tlie world 
 
 calls love : 
 I am no less than Ottima, take warning ! 
 The gardens, and the great stone house 
 
 above. 
 And other house for shrubs, all glass in 
 
 front, 
 Are mine ; where Sebald steals, as he is 
 
 wont. 
 To court me, while old Luca yet reposes : 
 And therefore, till the shrub-house door 
 
 uncloses, 
 I . . . what now ? — give abundant cause 
 
 for prate 
 About me — Ottima, I mean — of late. 
 Too bold, too confident she'll still face 
 
 down 
 The spitefullest of talkers in our town. 
 How we talk in the little town below ! 
 But love, love, love — there's better 
 
 love, I know ! 
 This foolish love was only day's first 
 
 ofl'er ; 
 I choose my next love to defy the scoffer : 
 
572 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 For do not our Bride and Bridegroom 
 sally 
 
 Out of Possagno church at noon ? 
 
 Their house looks over Orcana valley : 
 
 "Why should not I be the bride as soon 
 
 As Ottinia? For I saw, beside, 
 
 Arrive last night that little bride — 
 
 Saw, if you call it seeing her, one flash 
 
 Of the pale snow-pure cheek and black 
 bright tresses, 
 
 Blacker than all except the black eye- 
 lash ; 
 
 I wonder she contrives those lids no 
 dresses ! 
 
 — So strict was she, the veil 
 
 Should cover close her pale 
 
 Pure cheeks — a bride to look at and 
 scarce toucli, 
 
 Scarce touch, reuieaiber, Jules ! For are 
 not such 
 
 Used to be tended, flower-like, every 
 feature, 
 
 As if one's breath would fray the lily of 
 a creature ? 
 
 A soft and easy life these- ladies lead : 
 
 Whiteness in us were wonderful in- 
 deed . 
 
 Oh, save that brow its virgin dimness, 
 
 Keep that foot its lady primness, 
 
 Let those ankles never swerve 
 
 From their exquisite reserve, 
 
 Yet have to trip along the streets like nie, 
 
 All Imt naked to tlie knee ! 
 
 How will she ever grant her Jules a bliss 
 
 So startling as her real first infant kiss? 
 
 Oh, no — not envy, this ! 
 
 — Not envy, sure ! — for if you gave me 
 
 Leave to take or to refuse, 
 
 In earnest, do you think I'd choose 
 
 That sort of new love to enslave nie ? 
 
 Mine should have lapped me round from 
 the beginning ; 
 
 As little fear of losing it as winning : 
 
 Lovers grow cold, men learn .lo liate 
 their wives. 
 
 And only parents' love can last our lives. 
 
 At eve the Son and Motlier, gentle pair. 
 
 Commune inside our turret : what pre- 
 vents 
 
 My being Luigi ? While that mossy lair 
 
 Of lizards through the winter-time is 
 stirred 
 
 With each to each imparting sweet in- 
 tents 
 
 For this new-year, as brooding bird to 
 bird — 
 
 (For I observe of late, the evening walk 
 
 Of lAiigi and his motlier, alwaj s ends 
 
 Inside our ruined turret, where they talk. 
 Calmer than lovers, yet more kind than 
 
 friends) 
 — Let me be cared about, kept out of 
 
 liarni. 
 And schemed for, safe in love as with 
 
 a charm ; 
 Let me be Luigi ! If I t)nly knew 
 What was my mother's face — my father, 
 
 too! 
 Nay, if you come to that, best love of all 
 Is God's ; then why not have God's love 
 
 befall 
 Myself as, in tlie palace by the Dome, 
 Monsignor? — who to-night will bless the 
 
 home 
 Of his dead brother ; and God bless in 
 
 turn 
 That lieart which beats, those ej^es which 
 
 mildly burn 
 With love for all men ! I, to-night at 
 
 least. 
 Would be that holy and beloved priest. 
 
 Now wait ! — even I already seem to 
 
 share 
 In God's love : what does New-year's 
 
 hymn declare? 
 What other meaning do these verses 
 
 bear.? 
 
 All service ranks the same with God : 
 If 7101V. as formerly he trod 
 Paradise, his 2)rese»ce fills 
 Our earth, each only as God wills 
 Can work — God's puppets, best and 
 
 woi^tt, 
 Are toe ; there is no last nor first. 
 
 Say not "a small event!" Why 
 
 " small?" 
 Costs it more pain that this, ye call 
 A ''great event," shoidd come to 
 
 X)ass, 
 Tlian that ? Untioine me from the 
 
 mass 
 Of deeds which make up life, one deed 
 Power shall fall shoi-t in or exceed ! 
 
 And more of it, and more of it ! — oh yes — 
 I will pass each, and see their happiness. 
 And envy none^ — being just as great, no 
 
 doubt, 
 Useful to men, and dear to God as they I 
 A pretty tiling to care about 
 So miglitily, this single holiday ! 
 But let the sun shine ! Wherefore re- 
 pine ? 
 — With thee to lead me, O Day of mine, 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 573 
 
 Down ilie grass patli gray with dew, 
 Under the puie-wood, bhnd with boughs, 
 Wliere the swallow never flew 
 Nor yet cicala dared carouse — 
 No, dared carouse ! 
 
 [She enters the street. 
 
 I. MORNING 
 
 Up the Hillside, inside the Shrub-house. Luca's 
 Wife, Ottima, and her Paramour , the Gernuai 
 Sebald. 
 
 Sebald. [sings] Let the iratcJiing 
 lids wink ! 
 Day's ablaze with ei/cs, think ! 
 Deep into the night, drink ! 
 
 Ottima. Niglit? Such may be your 
 
 Rliin eland niglits, perhaps ; 
 But tliis blood-red beam through the 
 
 shutter's chink 
 — We call such light, the morning : lot 
 
 us see ! 
 Mind liow you grope your way, though ! 
 
 How these tall 
 Naked geraniums straggle ! Push the 
 
 lattice 
 Behind that frame ! — Nay, do I bid you ? 
 
 — Sebald, 
 It shakes tlie dust down on me ! Why, 
 
 of course 
 The slide-holt catches. Well, are you 
 
 content. 
 Or must I find you sometliing else to 
 
 spoil ? 
 Kiss and be friends, my Sebald ! Is 't 
 
 full morning ? 
 Oh, don't speak then ! 
 
 Seb. Ay, thus it used to be ! 
 
 Ever your house was, I remember, sliut 
 Till mid-day ; I observed that, as I 
 
 strolled 
 On mornings through the vale here ; 
 
 country girls 
 Were noisj^, washing garments in the 
 
 brook, 
 Hinds drove the slow 'white oxen up the 
 
 lulls : 
 But no, your house was mute, wcjuld 
 
 ope no eye ! 
 And wisely : j'ou were plotting one thing- 
 there. 
 Nature, anotlier outside. I looked up — 
 Rough white wood shutters, rusty iron 
 
 bars. 
 Silent as death, blind in a flood of light. 
 Oh, I remember ! — and the peasants 
 
 laughed 
 And said, " The old man sleeps with the 
 
 voung wife." 
 
 This house was his, this chair, this win- 
 dow — his. 
 Otti. Ah, the clear morning ! I can 
 see Saint Mark's ; 
 That black streak is the belfry. Stop : 
 
 Vicenza 
 Should lie . . . there's Padua, plain 
 
 enough, that blue ! 
 
 Look o'er my slioulder, follow my finger ! 
 
 Seb. Morning? 
 
 It seems to me a night with a smi added. 
 
 Where's dew, wliere's freshness? That 
 
 bruised phuit, I bruised 
 In getting tlirougli the lattice yestereve, 
 Droops as it did. See, here's my elbow's 
 
 mark 
 I" the dust o' the sill. 
 
 Otti. Oh, sliut tlie lattice, pray ! 
 
 Seb. Let me lean out. I cannot scent 
 blood liere. 
 Foul as tlie nujrn may be. 
 
 There, shut the world out ! 
 How do you feel now, Ottima ? There, 
 
 curse 
 Tlie world and all outside ! Let us throw 
 
 off 
 This mask : how do you bear yourself? 
 
 Let's out 
 With all of it ! 
 
 Otti. Best never speak of it. 
 
 Seb. Best speak again and vet again 
 of'it. 
 Till words cease to be more than words. 
 
 " His blood,"' 
 For instance — let those two words mean, 
 
 "His blood" 
 And nothing more. Notice, I '11 say 
 them now, "His l>lood."' 
 Otti. Assuredly if I repented 
 
 The deed— 
 
 Seb. Repent ? Who sliould repent, 
 or wliy? 
 Wliat puts that in your head? Did I 
 
 once say 
 That I repented ? 
 
 Otti. No ; I said the deed . . . 
 
 Seb. "The deed " and " the event "— 
 just now it was 
 "Our passion's fruit" — the devil take 
 
 such cant! 
 Say, once and always, Luca was a wittol, 
 I am his cut-throat, you are . . . 
 
 Otti. Here's the wine : 
 
 I brought it when we left the house 
 
 above, 
 And glasses too — wine of both sorts. 
 Black ? Wliite tlien ? 
 Seb. But am not I his cut-throat? 
 What are you ? 
 
574 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Otti. There trudges on his business 
 
 from the Duomo 
 Benet the Capuchin, with his brown 
 
 hood 
 And bare feet ; always in one place at 
 
 church, 
 Close under the stone wall by the south 
 
 entry. 
 I used to take liim for a brown cold 
 
 piece 
 Of the wall's self, as out of it he i"ose 
 To let me pass — at first, I say, I used : 
 Now, so has that dumb figure fastened 
 
 on me, 
 I rather should account the plastered 
 
 wall 
 A piece of him, so chilly does it strike. 
 This, Sebald ? 
 Seh. No, the white wine — the white 
 
 wine ! 
 Well, Ottima, I promised no new year 
 Should rise on us the ancient shameful 
 
 way; 
 Nor does it rise. Pour on ! To your 
 
 black eyes ! 
 Do you remember last damned New 
 
 Year's day ? 
 Otti. You brought those foreign 
 
 prints. We looked at them 
 Over the wine and fruit. I liad to 
 
 scheme 
 To get him from the fire. Nothing but 
 
 saying 
 His own set wants the proof-mark, 
 
 roused him up 
 To hunt them out. 
 
 Seh. 'Faith, he is not alive 
 
 To fondle you before my face. 
 
 Otti. Do you 
 
 Fondle me then ! Who means to take 
 
 your life 
 For that, my Sebald? 
 
 Seh. Hark you, Ottima ! 
 
 One thing to guard against. We'll not 
 
 jnake much 
 One of tlie other — that is, not make 
 
 more 
 Parade of warmth, childish officious 
 
 coil, 
 Than yesterday : as if, sweet, I supposed 
 Proof upon proof were needed now, now 
 
 first, 
 To show I love you — yes, still love you — 
 
 love you 
 In spite of Luca and what's come to him 
 — Sure sign we had him ever in our 
 
 thoughts, 
 White sneering old reproachful face and 
 
 all! 
 
 We '11 even quarrel, love, at times, as if 
 We still could lose each other, were not 
 
 tied 
 By this : conceive you ? 
 Otti. Love ! 
 
 Seh. Not tied so sure ! 
 
 Because though I was wrought upon, 
 
 have struck 
 His insolence back into him — am I 
 So surely yours ? — therefore forever 
 
 yours ? 
 Otti. Love, to be wise, (one counsel 
 
 pays another,) 
 Should we have — months ago, when first 
 
 we loved, 
 For instance that May morning we two 
 
 stole 
 Under the green ascent of sycamores^ — 
 If we had come upon a thing like that 
 Suddenly . . . 
 Seh. "A thing" — there again — " a 
 
 thing ! " 
 Otti. Then, Venus' body, had we 
 
 come upon 
 My husband Luca Gaddi's murdered 
 
 corpse 
 Within there, at liis couch-foot, covered 
 
 close — 
 Would you have pored upon it ? Why 
 
 persist 
 In poring now upon it ? For 't is liere 
 As much as there in the deserted liouse : 
 You cannot rid your eyes of it. For me. 
 Now lie is dead I hate him worse : I 
 
 hate . • . 
 Dare you stay here ? I would go back 
 
 and hold 
 His two dead hands, and say, " I hate 
 
 you worse, 
 Luca, than "... 
 Seh. Off, off — take your hands off 
 
 mine, 
 'T is the hot evening — off ! oh, morning 
 
 is it? 
 Otti. There's one thing must be done ; 
 
 you know what thing. 
 Come in and help to carry. We may 
 
 sleep [night. 
 
 Anywhere in the whole wide house to- , 
 Seh. What would come, think you, if 
 
 we let him lie 
 Just as he is ? Let him lie there until 
 The angels take him I He is turned by 
 
 this 
 Off from his face beside, as you will see. 
 Otti. This dusty pane might serve for 
 
 looking-glass. 
 Three, four — four gray hairs 1 Is it so 
 
 3'ou said 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 575 
 
 A plait of hair should wave across my 
 
 neck ? 
 No — this way. 
 
 Seb. Ottima, I would give your neck 
 Each splendid shoulder, both those 
 
 breasts of yours, 
 That this were undone ! Killing ! Kill 
 
 the world, 
 SoLuca lives again ! — ay, lives to sputter 
 His fulsome dotage on you — yes, and 
 
 feign 
 Surprise that I return at eve to sup, 
 Wlien all tlie morning I was loitering 
 
 here — 
 Bid me dispatch my business and begone. 
 I would . . . 
 Otti. See ! 
 
 Seb. No, I'll finish. Do you think 
 
 I fear to speak tlie bare truth once for 
 
 all? 
 All we have talked of, is, at bottom, fine 
 To suffer ; tliere's a recompense in guilt ; 
 One must be venturous and fortunate : 
 What is one young for, else ? In age 
 
 we '11 sigh 
 O'er the wild reckless wicked days flown 
 
 over ; 
 Still, we liave lived : the vice was in its 
 
 place. 
 But to have eaten Luca's bread, have 
 
 worn 
 His clothes, have felt his money swell 
 
 my purse — 
 Do lovers in romances sin that way ? 
 Why, I was starving when I used to call 
 And teach you music, starving while 
 
 you plucked me 
 These flowers to smell ! 
 
 Otti. My poor lost friend ! 
 
 Seb. He gave me 
 
 Life, nothing less : wliat if he did re- 
 
 pi'oach 
 My pei'fidy, and threaten, and do more — 
 Had he no right ? What was to wonder 
 
 at? 
 He sat by us at table quietly : 
 AVhy must j^ou lean across till our cheeks 
 
 touched ? 
 Could lie do less than make pretence to 
 
 strike ? 
 'Tis not the crime's sake — I'd commit 
 
 ten crimes 
 Greater, to have this crime wiped out, 
 
 undone ! 
 And you — O how feel you ? Feel you 
 
 for me ! 
 Otti. Well th.en, I love you better 
 
 now than ever, [you) — 
 
 And best (look at me while I speak to 
 
 Best for the crime ; nor do I grieve, in 
 
 truth. 
 This mask, this simulated ignorance, 
 Tills affectation of simplicity, 
 Falls off our crime ; this naked crime of 
 
 ours 
 May not now be looked over : look it 
 
 down ! 
 Great ? let it be great ; but the joys it 
 
 brought. 
 Pay they or no its price ? Come ; they 
 
 or it ! 
 Speak not ! The past, wouhi you give 
 
 up the past 
 Such as it is, pleasure and crime to- 
 gether ? 
 Give up that noon I owned my love for 
 
 you ? 
 Tlie garden's silence : even the single 
 
 bee 
 Persisting in his toil, suddenly stopped, 
 And where he hid you only could sur- 
 mise 
 By some campanula chalice set a-swing. 
 Who stammered — *' Yes, I love you ? " 
 
 Seb. And I drew 
 
 Back ; put far back your face with both 
 
 my hands 
 Lest you should grow too full of nie — 
 
 your face 
 So seemed athirst for my whole soul and 
 
 body ! 
 Otti. And when I ventured to receive 
 
 you here, 
 Made you steal hither in the mornings — 
 Seb. Wlien 
 
 I used to look up 'neath the shrub-house 
 
 here, 
 Till the red fire on its glazed windows 
 
 spread 
 To a yellow haze ? 
 
 Otti. Ah — my sign was, the sun 
 
 Inflamed the sere side of yon chestnut- 
 tree 
 Nipped by the first frost. 
 
 Seb. You would always laugh 
 
 At my wet boots : I had to stride through 
 
 grass 
 Over my ankles. 
 
 Otti. Then our crowning night ! 
 
 Seb. The July night ? 
 Otti. The day of it too, Sebald I 
 
 When heaven's pillars seemed o'erbowed 
 
 with heat. 
 Its black-blue canopy suffered descend 
 Close on us both, to weigh down each to 
 
 eacli. 
 And smother upall life except our life. 
 So lay we till the storm came. 
 
576 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Seh. How it came ! 
 
 Otti. Buried in woods we lay, you 
 recollect ; 
 Swift ran the searching tempest over- 
 head ; 
 And ever and anon some bright white 
 
 shaft 
 Burned through the pine-tree roof, liere 
 
 burned and there, 
 As if God's messenger through the close 
 
 wood screen 
 Plunged and replunged his weapon at a 
 
 venture, 
 Feeling for guilty tliee and me : then 
 
 broke 
 Tlie thunder like a whole sea overhead — 
 Seb. Yes ! 
 
 Otti. — While I stretched myself upon 
 you, hands 
 To hands, my mouth toyour hotmoutli, 
 
 and shook 
 All my locks loose, and covered you with 
 
 them — 
 You, Sebald, the same you ! 
 Seb. Slower, Ottima ! 
 
 Otti. And as we lay — 
 Seh. Less vehemently ! Love me ! 
 Forgive me ! Take not words, mere 
 
 words, to heart ! 
 Your breath is woi-se than wine. Breathe 
 
 slow, speak slow ! 
 Do not lean on me ! 
 
 Otti. Sebald. as we lay, 
 
 Rising and falling only with our pants, 
 Wlio said, " Let death come now ! ' T is 
 
 rjglit to die ! 
 Right to be punished ! Naught completes 
 
 sucli bliss 
 But woe ! " Who said that ? 
 
 Seb. How did we ever rise ? 
 
 Was 't that we slept? Why did it end ? 
 
 Otti. I felt you 
 
 Taper into a point the ruffled ends 
 
 Of my loose locks 'twixt both "your 
 
 liumid lips. 
 My hair is fallen now : knot it again ! 
 Seb. I kiss j^ou now, dear Ottima, 
 now and now ! 
 This way? Will you forgive me — be 
 
 once more 
 My great queen ? 
 
 Otti. Bind it thrice about my brow ; 
 Crown me j'our qvieen, your spirit's 
 
 arbitress. 
 Magnificent in sin. Say that ! 
 
 Seb. I crown you 
 
 My great white queen, mj^ spirit's arbi- 
 tress. 
 Magnificent . . . 
 
 [From without is heard ilie voice of Pippa 
 singing — 
 
 The 1/ears at the spring 
 And day a at the morn, ; 
 ]\Ioniing's at seven ; 
 The hilhide's dew-pearled ; 
 The lark's on the iving ; 
 Tlie snail's on tlie thorn: 
 God'.'i ill his heaven — 
 All's right-u-ith the tcorld! 
 
 [Pippa passes. 
 
 Seb. God's in his lieaven ! Do you liear 
 
 tliat ? Who spoke ? 
 You, you spoke ! 
 
 Otti. Oh— that little ragged girl ! 
 
 She must have rested on the step : we 
 
 give them 
 But this one holiday the wliole year 
 
 round 
 Did 3'ou ever see our silk-mills — their 
 
 inside? 
 There are ten silk-mills now belong to 
 
 you. 
 She stoo)>s to pick my double hearts- 
 ease . . . Sh ! 
 Slie does not hear : call you out louder 1 
 Seb. Leave me ! 
 
 Go, get your clothes on — dress those 
 
 shoulders ! 
 Otti. Sebald? 
 
 Seh. Wipe off that paint ! I hate you. 
 01 1 i. Miserable ! 
 
 Seb. My God, and she is emptied of it 
 
 now ! 
 Outright now ! — how miraculously gone 
 All of tlie grace — had she not strange 
 
 grace once ? 
 Why, tlie blank cheek hangs listless 
 
 as it likes, 
 No purpose holds the features up to- 
 
 getlier. 
 Only the cloven brow and puckered chin 
 Stay in their places : and tlie very hair, 
 Tliat seemed to liave a sort of life in it. 
 Drops, a dead web ! 
 
 Otti. Speak to me — not of me ! 
 
 Seb. — That round great full-orbed face, 
 
 wliere not an angle 
 Broke the delicious indolence — all 
 
 broken ! 
 Otti. Tome — not of me! Ungrateful, 
 
 perjured cheat ! 
 A coward too : but ingrate's worse than 
 
 all! 
 Beggar — my slave — a fawning, cringing 
 
 lie! 
 Leave me ! Betray me ! I can see your 
 
 drift ! 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 577 
 
 A lie tliat walks and eats and drinks ! 
 
 Seb. My God ! 
 
 Those morbid olive faultless shoulder- 
 blades — 
 I should have known there was no blood 
 
 beneatli ! 
 Otti. You hate me then ? You Iiate 
 
 nie then ? 
 Seb. To think 
 
 Slie would succeed in her absurd attempt. 
 And fascinate by sinning, show herself 
 Superior — guilt from its excess superior 
 To innocence ! That little peasant's voice 
 Has righted all again. Though I be lost, 
 I know which is the better, never fear, 
 Of vice or virtue, purity or lust, 
 Nature or trick ! I see wliat I have done, 
 Entirely now ! Oh I am proud to feel 
 Such torments — lettlie world take credit 
 
 thence — 
 I, having done my deed, pay too its 
 
 price ! 
 I hate, hate — curse you ! God's in liis 
 
 heaven ! 
 Otti. —'Me ! 
 
 Me ! no, no, Sebald, not yourself — kill 
 
 me ! 
 Mine is the whole crime. Do but kill 
 
 me — then 
 Yourself — then — presently — first hear 
 
 me speak ! 
 I alwaj's meant to kill myself — wait, 
 
 you! 
 Lean on my bi'east— not as a breast; 
 
 don't love me 
 Tlie more because you lean on me, my 
 
 own 
 Heart's Sebald ! There, there, both 
 
 deaths presently ! 
 Seb. My brain is drowned now — quite 
 
 drowned : all I feel 
 Is . . . is. at swift-recuiring intervals. 
 A hurry-down within me. as of waters 
 Loosened to smother up some gliastly 
 
 pit : 
 There they go — whirls from a black 
 
 fierj' sea ! 
 Otti. Not me —to him. O God, be 
 
 merciful ! 
 
 Talk by the way, while Pippa /.s passiny from the 
 hillsideto Orcana. Foreign Students of paint- 
 ing and sculpture, from Venice, assembled 
 opposite the house of Jules, a. young French 
 statuary, at Passagno. 
 
 1st Student. Attention ! My own post is 
 beneath this window, but the pomegranate 
 clump yonder will hide three or four of you 
 with a "little squeezing, and Schramm and 
 his pipe must lie flat in the balcony. Four, 
 
 37 
 
 five — who's a defaulter ? We want evei-y- 
 body, for Jules must not be suffered to 
 hurt his bride when the jest's found out. 
 
 2(7- Stud. All hei'e ! Only our poet's 
 away— never having much meant to be 
 present, moonstrike him ! The airs of that 
 fellow, that Giovacchino ! He was in vio- 
 lent love with himself, and had a fair pros- 
 pect of thriving in his suit, so unmolested 
 was it,— when suddenly a woman falls in 
 love with him, too ; and out of pure jeal- 
 ousy he takes himself off to Trieste, im- 
 mortal poem and all : whereto is this 
 prophetical epitaph appended already, as 
 Bluphocks assures me, — " Here a majn- 
 moth-poem lies, Fouled, to death hyhut- 
 tcrflics" His own fault, the simpleton ! 
 Instead of cramp couplets, each like a knife 
 in your entrails, he should write, says 
 Bluphocks, both classically and intelligibly. 
 — ^^sculaplus, (I n Epic. Catalogue of the 
 drugs: Hehe's Plaister—Otie strip Cools 
 your lip. Pho'hus^ eundsiftn — One bottle 
 Clears your throttle. Mercury's bolus — 
 One bo.v Cures . . . 
 
 3rt Stud. Subside, my fine fellow ! If the 
 marriage was over by ten o'clock, Jules will 
 certainly be here in a minute with his bride. 
 
 2d, Stud. Good !— only, so should the 
 poet's muse have been universally accept- 
 able, says Bluphocks, ct canibus nostris 
 . . . and Delia not better known to our 
 literary dogs than the boy Giovacchino ! 
 
 1st Stud. To the point, now. Where's 
 Gottlieb, the new-comer ? Oh,— listen, Gott- 
 lieb, to what has called down this piece of 
 friendly vengeance on Jules, of which we 
 now assemble to witness the winding-up. 
 We are all agreed, all in a tale, observe, 
 when Jules shall burst out on us in a fury 
 by and by ; I am spokesman — the verses 
 that are to undeceive Jules bear my name 
 of Lutwyche— but each professes himself 
 alike insulted by this strutting stone- 
 squarer, who came along from Paris to 
 Munich, and thence with a crowd of us to 
 Venice and Possagno here, but proceeds in 
 a day or two alone again — oh, alone indu- 
 bitably ! to Rome and Florence. He, for- 
 sooth, take up his portion with these disso- 
 lute, brutalized, heartless bunglers !^so he 
 was heard to call us all. Now, is Schramm 
 brutalized, I should like to know ? Am I 
 heartless ? 
 
 Gottlieb. Why, somewhat heartless; for, 
 suppose Jules a coxcomb as much as you 
 choose, still, for this mere coxcombry, you 
 will have brushed off— what do folks style 
 it?— the bloom of his life. It is too late to 
 alter ? These love-letters, now, you call 
 his — I can't laugh at them. 
 
 Uh, Stud. Because you never read the 
 sham letters of our inditing which. drew 
 forth these. 
 
 6ott. His discovery of the truth will be 
 frightful. 
 
578 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 4th Stud. That's the joke. But you 
 should have joined us at the beginning : 
 there's no doubt he loves the girl— loves a 
 model he might hire by the hour ! 
 
 Gott. See here! "He has been accus- 
 tomed," he v^'rites, "to have Canova's 
 women about him, in stone, and the world's 
 women beside him, in flesh; these being as 
 much below, as those above, his soul's as- 
 pii'ation; but now he is to have the reality." 
 There you laugh again ! I say, you wipe off 
 the very dew of his youth. 
 
 1st Stud. Schramm 1 (Take the pipe out 
 of his mouth, somebody!) Will Jules lose 
 the bloom of his youth ? 
 
 Schramm. Nothing worth keeping is 
 ever lost in this world: look at a blossom- 
 it drops presently, having done its service 
 and lasted its time; but fruits succeed, and 
 where would be the blossom's place could it 
 continue ? As well affirm that your eye is 
 no longer in your body, because its earliest 
 favorite, whatever it may have first loved 
 to look on, is dead and done with — as that 
 any affection is lost to the soul when its 
 first object, whatever happened first to sat- 
 isfy it, is superseded in due course. Keep 
 but ever looking, whether with the body's 
 eye or the mind's, and you will soon find 
 something to look on ! Has a man done 
 wondering at women ? — there follow men, 
 dead and alive, to wonder at. Has he done 
 wondering at men ? — there's God to wonder 
 at : and the faculty of wonder may be, at 
 the same time, old and tired enough with 
 respect to its first object, and yet young 
 and fresh sufficiently, so far as concerns its 
 novel one. Thus . . . 
 
 l.sf Stud. Put Schramm's pipe into his 
 mouth again ! There, you see ! Well, this 
 Jules ... a wretched fribble — oh, I 
 watched his disportings at Possagno, the 
 other day ! Canova's gallery — you know; 
 There he marches first resolvedly past 
 great works by the dozen without vouch- 
 safing an eye : all at once he stops full at 
 the Psiehe-fancinUa— Gunnot pass that old 
 acquaintance without a nod of encourage- 
 ment—" In your new place, beaiity ? Then 
 behave yourself as well here as at Munich 
 — I see you ! " Next he posts himself delib- 
 erately before the unfinished Pictd for half 
 an hour without moving, till up he starts 
 of a sudden, and thrusts his very nose into 
 — I say, into— the group; by which gesture 
 you are informed that precisely the sole 
 point he had not fully mastered in Canova's 
 practice was a certain method of using the 
 drill in the articulation of the knee-joint — 
 and that, likewise, has he mastered at 
 length ! Good-by, therefore, to poor Canova 
 — whose gallery no longer needs detain his 
 successor Jules, the predestinated novel 
 thinker in marble ! 
 
 5th Stud. Tell him about the women: go 
 on to the women 1 
 
 1st Stud. Why, on that matter he could 
 never be supercilious enough. How should 
 we be other (he said) than the poor devils, 
 you see, with those debasing habits we 
 cherish ! He was not to wallow in that 
 mire, at least ; he would wait, and love 
 only at the proper time, and meanwhile put 
 up with the Psichc-fancmlld. Now, I hap- 
 pened to hear of a young Greek— real 
 Greek girl at Malamocco : a true Islander, 
 do you see, with Alciphron's " hair like sea- 
 moss " — ■ Schramm knows ! — white and 
 quiet as an apparition, and fourteen years 
 old at farthest,— a daughter of Natalia, so 
 she swears — that hag Natalia, who helps us 
 to models at three lire an hour. We se- 
 lected this girl for the heroine of our jest. 
 So, first, Jules received a scented letter- 
 somebody had seen his Tydeus at the Acad- 
 emy, and my picture was nothing to it : a 
 profound admirer bade him persevere — 
 would make herself known to him ere long. 
 (Paolina, my little friend of the Fcnice, 
 transcribes divinely.) And in due time, the 
 mysterious correspondent gave certain 
 hints of her peculiar charms— the pale 
 cheeks, the black hair— whatever, in short, 
 had struck us in our Malamocco model ; we 
 retained her name, too— Phene, which is, 
 by interpretation, sea-eagle. Now, think of 
 Jules finding himself distinguished from 
 the herd of us by such a creature ! In his 
 very first answer he proposed marrying his 
 monitress: and fancy us over these letters, 
 two, three times a day, to receive and dis- 
 patch ! I concocted the main of it: relations 
 were in the way — secrecy must be observed 
 in fine, would he wed her on trust, and only 
 speak to her when they were indissolubly 
 united ? St— st— Here they come 1 
 
 ijth Stud. Both of them! Heaven's love, 
 speak softly, speak within yourselves! 
 
 5th Stud. Look at the bridgroom! Half 
 his hair in storm and half in calm, — patted 
 down over the left temple, — like a frothy 
 cup one blows on to cool it : and the same 
 old blouse that he murders the marble in. 
 
 2d Stud. Not a rich vest like yours, Han- 
 nibal Scratchy ! — rich, that your face may 
 the better set it off. 
 
 mh Stud. And the bride ! Yes, sure 
 enough, our Phene! Should you have 
 known her in her clothes ? How magnifi- 
 cently pale. 
 
 Gott. She does not also take it for ear- 
 nest, I hope ? 
 
 1st Stud. Oh, Natalia's concern, that is. 
 We settle with Natalia. 
 
 6th Stud. She does not speak— has evi- 
 dently let out no word. The only thing is, 
 will she equally remember the rest of her 
 lesson, and repeat correctly all those verses 
 which are to break the secret to Jules ? 
 
 Gott.- How he gazes on her ! Pity— pity! 
 
 1st Stud. They go in; now, silence! 
 You three, — not nearer the window, mind, 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 579 
 
 than that pomegranate; just where the 
 little girl, who a few minutes ago passed us 
 singing, is seated. 
 
 II. NOON 
 
 Over Orcana. The hoiise of Jules, who crosses 
 its threshold with Phene: she is silent, on 
 which Jules begins — 
 
 Do not die, Phene ! I am j'ours now, 
 
 you 
 Are mine now ; let fate reach me how 
 
 slie likes. 
 If you'll not die: so, never die! Sit 
 
 liere — 
 My work-room's single seat. I over- 
 lean 
 This length of hair and lastrous front ; 
 
 tliey turn 
 Like an entire flower upward : eyes, 
 
 lips, last 
 Your cliin — no, last j^our throat turns: 
 
 't is tlieir .scent 
 Pulls down my face upon you. Nay, 
 
 look ever 
 This one way till I change, grow you — 
 
 I could 
 Cliange into you, beloved ! 
 
 You by me. 
 And I by you ; this is your hand in mine. 
 And side by side we sit : all 's true. 
 
 Tliank God ! 
 I have .spoken : speak you ! 
 
 O my life to cojnc ! 
 My Tydeus must be carved that 's there 
 
 in clay : 
 Yet how be carved, with y(ju about the 
 
 room ? 
 Where must I place you ? Wlien I tliiiik 
 
 that once 
 This room-full of rough block-work 
 
 seemed my heaven 
 Williout you ! Shall I ever work again, 
 (ret fairly into my old ways again, 
 15id each conception stand while, trait 
 
 by trait. 
 My hand transfers its lineaments to 
 
 stone ? 
 Will my mere fancies live near jMtu, 
 
 their truth — 
 The live trutli, passing and repassing 
 
 me. 
 Sitting beside me ? 
 
 Now speak I 
 
 Only first. 
 See, all your letters ! Was 't not well 
 
 contrived ? 
 Their hiding-place is Psyche's robe ; she 
 
 keeps 
 
 Your letters next her skin : which drops 
 
 out foremost ? 
 Ah, — this that swam down like a first 
 
 moonbeam 
 Into my world ! 
 
 Again those eyes complete 
 Their melancholy survey, sweet and 
 
 slow, 
 Of all my room holds ; to return and 
 
 rest 
 On me, with pity, yet some wonder too : 
 As if God bade some spirit plague a 
 
 w^orld, f prise 
 
 A)id this were the one moment of sur- 
 And sorrow while she took her station, 
 
 ])ausing 
 O'er what she sees, finds good, and must 
 
 destroy ! 
 What gaze you at ? These ? Books, I 
 
 told you of ; 
 Let j'our first word to me rejoice them, 
 
 too : 
 This minion, a Coluthus, writ in red. 
 Bistre and azure by Bessarion's scribe — 
 Read this line ... no shame — Homer's 
 
 be the Greek 
 First breathed me from the lips of my 
 
 Greek girl ! 
 This Odyssey in coarse black vivid type 
 With faded yellow blossoms 'twixt page 
 
 and page. 
 To mark great places with due gratitude ; 
 " He said, and on Antinous directed 
 A bitter nhaft "... a flower blots out 
 
 the rest ! 
 Again upon your search? My statues. 
 
 then ! 
 — All, do not mind that — better that will 
 
 look 
 When cast in bi'onze — an Almaign Kai- 
 ser, that. 
 Swart-green and gold, with truncheon 
 
 based on hip. 
 Tliis, rather, turn to ! What, unrecog- 
 nized ? 
 I tiiought you would have seen that here 
 
 you sit 
 As I imagined you, — Hippolyta, 
 Naked upon her bright Numidian hoi'se. 
 Recall you this then ? " Carve in bold 
 
 relief " — 
 So you commanded — " carve, against I 
 
 come, 
 A Greek, in Athens, as our fashion was. 
 Feasting, bay-filleted and thunder-free, 
 Wiio rises 'neath the lifted myrtle- 
 branch. 
 ' Praise those who slew Hipparchus ! ' 
 
 cry the guests, 
 
58o 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 ' While o"er thy head the singer's myrtle 
 
 waves 
 As erst above our champion : stand up, 
 
 all ! ' " 
 See, I have labored to express your 
 
 thought. 
 Quite round, a cluster of mere liands 
 
 and arms 
 (Thrust in all senses, all ways, from all 
 
 sides, 
 Only consenting at the branch's end 
 Tliey strain toward) serves for frame to 
 
 a sole face. 
 The Praiser's, in the centre : who with 
 
 eyes 
 Sightless, so bend they back to light in- 
 side 
 His brain where visionary forms throng 
 
 up, 
 Sings, minding nottliat palpitating arch 
 Of hands and arms, nor the quick drip 
 
 of wine 
 From the drenched leaves o'erhead, nor 
 
 crowns cast off, 
 Violet and parsley crowns to trample 
 
 on — 
 Sings, pausing as the patron-ghosts ap- 
 prove. 
 Devoutly their unconquerable hymn. 
 But you must sav a '" well" totliat— say 
 
 " well ! " 
 Because you gaze — am I fantastic. 
 
 sweet ? 
 Gaze like my very life's-stuff, marl)le — 
 
 inarbly 
 Even tothe silence ! Why, before I found 
 Tiie real fiesli Phene, I inured myself 
 To see, througliout nil nature varied 
 
 stuff 
 For better nature's birth by means of 
 
 art : 
 With me. each substance tended to one 
 
 ft)rm 
 Of beauty — to the human archetype. 
 On every side occurred suggestive germs 
 Of tl)at — the tree, tlie flower— or take 
 
 the fruit, — 
 Some rosy shape, continuing tlie peach, 
 Curved bee^^'ise o'er its bough ; as rosy 
 
 limbs. 
 Depending, nestled in the leaves; and 
 
 just 
 From a cleft rose- peach the whole Dryad 
 
 sprang. 
 But of tlie stuffs one can be master of, 
 How I divinerl tlieir capabilities ! 
 From the soft-rinded smoothening facile 
 
 cli.ilk [brace. 
 
 That yields your outline to the air's em- 
 
 Half-softened by a halo's pearly gloom ; 
 Down to the crisp imperious steel, .so 
 
 sure 
 To cut its one confided thought clean out 
 Of all the world. But marble ! — neath 
 
 my tools 
 More pliable than jelly — as it were 
 Some clear primordial creature dug from 
 
 depths 
 In the earth's heart, where itself breeds 
 
 itself, 
 And whence all baser substance may be 
 
 worked ; 
 Refine it off to air, you may. — condense 
 
 it 
 Down to the diamond : — is not metal 
 
 there. 
 When o'er the sudden speck my Chisel 
 
 trips ? 
 — Not fiesh, as flake off flake I scale, ap- 
 proach , 
 Lay bai-e those bluish veins of blood 
 
 asleep ! 
 Lurks flame in no strange windings 
 
 where, surprised 
 By the swift implement sent home at 
 
 once, 
 Fluslies and glowings radiate and hover 
 About its track ? 
 
 Phene? wliat — why is this? 
 That whitening clieek, those still dilat- 
 ing eyes ! 
 Ah, you will die — I knew that you would 
 
 die ! 
 
 Phene hi'c/int), oit Jii.i havinij Utmj rmiaiitetl 
 silent. 
 
 Phene. Now the end "s coming ; to be 
 
 sure, it must 
 Have ended sometime ! Tush, wliyneed 
 
 I speak 
 Their foolish speech ? I cannot bring to 
 
 mind 
 One half of it. beside ; and do not care 
 For old Natalia now. nor any of them. 
 Oil, you — what are you? — if I do not try 
 To saj^ the words Natalia made me 
 
 learn, [self 
 
 To please your friends. — it is to keep mj- 
 Where your voice lifted me, by letting 
 
 that 
 Proceed : but can it ? Even you. per- 
 haps. 
 Cannot take up. now you have once let 
 
 fall. 
 The music's life, and me along with 
 
 tliat— 
 No, or you would ; We "11 sta3% then, 
 
 as we are : 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 581 
 
 Above the world. 
 
 You creature with the eyes ! 
 If I could look forever up to them, 
 As now you let me, — I believe, all sin. 
 All memory of wrong done, suffering 
 
 borne. 
 Would drop down, low and lower, to the 
 
 earth 
 Whence all that 's low comes, and there 
 
 touch and staj'' 
 — Never to overtake the I'est of me, 
 All that, unspotted, reaches up to you, 
 Drawn by those eyes ! What rises is 
 
 myself. 
 Not me the shame and suffering ; but 
 
 they sink. 
 Are left, I rise above them. Keep me 
 
 so. 
 Above the world ! 
 
 But you sink, for your eyes 
 Are altering — altered! Stay — "I love 
 
 you, love '".... 
 I could prevent it if I understood : 
 More of your words to me : was 't in the 
 
 tone 
 Or the words, your power ? 
 
 Or stay — I will repeat 
 Their speech, if that contents you ! 
 
 Ouh^ change 
 No more, and I shall find it presently 
 Far back here, in the brain 3'ourself 
 
 filled up. 
 Natalia threatened me that harm should 
 
 follow 
 Unless I spoke their lesson to the end. 
 But harm to me, I thought she meant, 
 
 not you. 
 Your friends, — Natalia said the}' wei'e 
 
 your friends 
 And meant you well, — because, I 
 
 doubted it, 
 Observing (what was very strange to 
 
 see) 
 On every face, so different in all else. 
 The same smile girls like me are used to 
 
 bear. 
 But never men, men cannot stoop so low; 
 Yet your friends, speaking of you, used 
 
 that smile. 
 That hateful smirk of boundless self- 
 conceit 
 Which seems to take possession of the 
 
 world 
 And make of God a tame confederate. 
 Purveyor to their appetites you 
 
 know ! 
 But still Natalia said they were your 
 
 friends, [the more. 
 
 And they assented though they smiled 
 
 And all came round me, — that thin Eng- 
 lishman 
 
 With light lank hair seemed leader of 
 the rest ; 
 
 He held a paper — " What we want," 
 said he. 
 
 Ending some explanation to his friends — ■ 
 
 " Is something slow, involved and mys- 
 tical. 
 
 To hold Jules long in doubt, yet take his 
 taste 
 
 And lure him on until, at innermost 
 
 Where he seeks sweetness' soul, he may 
 find— this! 
 
 — As in the apple's core, the noisome fly: 
 
 For insects on the rind are seen at once, 
 
 And brushed aside as soon, but this is 
 found 
 
 Only when on the lips or loathing 
 tongue." 
 
 And so he read what I have got by heart : 
 
 I '11 speak it, — " Do not die, love ! I am 
 yours ". . . . 
 
 N(j — is not that, or like that, part of 
 words 
 
 Yourself began by speaking ? Strange to 
 lose 
 
 What cost such pains to learn ! Is this 
 more rigjit ? 
 
 I am a painter who cannot paint ; 
 
 In my life, a devil rather than saint ; 
 
 In mij hrain, as poor a creature too : 
 
 No end to all I canuot do! 
 
 Yet do o)ie tiling at least I can — 
 
 Love a man or hate a man 
 
 Supremely : thus my love began. 
 
 Through the Valley of Love I ivent. 
 
 In the lovingest spot to abide. 
 
 And just on the verge where I pitched my 
 
 tent, 
 I found Hate divelling beside. 
 (Let the Bridegroom askwJiat the painter 
 
 meant. 
 Of his Bride, of the p)eerh'ss Bride !) 
 And further, 1 1 rarer sed Haters grove, 
 In the hatefullest nook to dwell ; 
 Btit lo, where I filing myself prone, 
 
 couched Love 
 Where the shadow threefold fell. 
 (The meaning — those black bride's-eyes 
 
 above. 
 Not a painter's lip should tell !) 
 
 " And here," said he, "Jules probably 
 
 will ask, 
 ' You have black eyes, Love, — you are, 
 
 sure enough, [deed 
 
 ]\Iy peerless bride, — then do you tell in- 
 
582 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 What needs some explanation ! What 
 
 means this ? ' " 
 — And I am to go on, without a vvoi'd — 
 
 So, I grew wise in Love and Hate, 
 From simple that I was of late. 
 Once, lohen I loved, I woidd enlace 
 Breast, eyelids, hands, feet, form and 
 
 face 
 Of her I loved, in one embrace — 
 As if by mere love I could love immense- 
 
 ly! 
 Once, ivheii I hated, I ivonld pluyige 
 3[y sword, and wipe ivitli the first lunge 
 My foe's whole life out like a sponge — 
 As if by mere hate Icoidd hate intensely ! 
 But now I am wiser, knoiv better the 
 
 fashion 
 How passion seeks aid from its opposite 
 
 passion : 
 A7id if I see cause to love more, hate 
 
 more 
 Tlian ever man loved, ever hated before — 
 And seek in the Valley of Love 
 The nest, or the nook in Hate's Grove 
 Wliere my soid may surely reach 
 The essence, naught less, of each, 
 The Hate of all Hates, the Love 
 Of all Loves, in the Valley or Groi'e, — 
 I find them the very ivarders 
 Each of the other^s borders. 
 Wlien. I love most. Love is disguised 
 In Hate ; and lohen Hate is surprised 
 Li Love, then I hate most: ask 
 How Love seniles through Hate's iron 
 
 casque. 
 Hate grins through Love's rose-braided 
 
 mask, — 
 And how, having hated thee, 
 I sought long and pain f idly 
 To reach thy heart, nor prick 
 Tlie skin but pierce to the quick — 
 Ask this, my Jules, and be answered 
 
 straight 
 By thy bride— how the iKiinler Lutwyche 
 
 can hate ! 
 
 Jules interposes. 
 
 Lutwyche ! Who else ? But all of 
 
 tliem, no doubt, 
 Hated me : they at Venice — presently 
 Their turn, however ! You I shall not 
 
 meet : 
 If I dreamed, saying this would wake 
 
 me. 
 
 Keep 
 What's here, the gold — we cannot meet 
 
 again, 
 
 Consider . and the money was but meant 
 For two j^eavs' travel, wliich is over now. 
 All chance or hope or care or need of it. 
 This — and what comes from selling these, 
 
 my casts 
 And books and medals, except . . . let 
 
 them go 
 Together, so the produce keeps you safe 
 Out of Natalia's clutclies ! If bj' chance 
 (For all's chance here) I .should survive 
 
 the gang 
 At Venice, root out all fifteen of them, 
 We might meet somewhere, since the 
 
 world is wide. 
 
 From trithout is heard the voice of Pifpa, siiitj- 
 ing~ 
 
 Give her but a least excuse to love me ! 
 
 \Mien — ivhere — 
 
 Ho2v — can this arin establish her above 
 
 me. 
 If fortune fixed her as my lady there, 
 iliere already, to eternally reprove me ? 
 (•' Hist!" — said Kate the Queen; 
 But '• Oh ! " cried the maiden, binding 
 
 her tresses, 
 " T is only a page that carols unseen. 
 Crumbling your hounds their messes ! ") 
 
 7s she ivronged ? — To the rescue of her 
 
 honor. 
 My heart ! 
 Is she poor 9 — Viliat costs it to be styled 
 
 a donor f 
 Merely an earth to cleave, a sea to part. 
 But that fortune should have thrust 
 
 all this upon her ! 
 {"■Nay, list ! " — bade Kate the Queen ; 
 And still cried the maiden, binding her 
 
 tresses, 
 " 'T is only a page that carols unseen, 
 Fitting your haicks their jesses ! ") 
 
 PIPPA pusses. 
 
 Jules resumes. 
 
 Wliut name was that the little girl sang 
 forth ? 
 
 Kate? The Cornaro, doubtless, who re- 
 nounced 
 
 The crown of Cyprus to be lady here 
 
 At Asolo, where still lier memorj^ staj's. 
 
 And peasants sing how once a certain 
 page 
 
 Pined for the grace of her so far above 
 
 His power of doing good to, " Kate the 
 Queen — 
 
 She never could be wronged, be poor," 
 he sighed, 
 
 " Need him to help her ! " 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 583 
 
 Yes, a bitter thing 
 To see our lady above all need of us ; 
 Yet so we look ere we will love ; not I, 
 But the world looks so. If whoever 
 
 loves 
 Must be, in some sort, god or worship- 
 per. 
 The blessing or the blest one, queen or 
 
 page, 
 Why should we always choose the page's 
 
 part ? 
 Here is a woman with utter need of 
 
 me, — 
 I find myself queen here, it seems ! 
 
 How strange ! 
 Look at the woman here with the new 
 
 soul. 
 Like my own Psyche, — fresh upon her 
 
 lips 
 Alit. the visionary butterfly, 
 Waiting my word to enter and make 
 
 bright, 
 Or flutter off and leave all blank as first. 
 This body had no soul before, but slept 
 Or stirred, was beauteous or ungainly, 
 
 free 
 From taint or foul with stain, as outward 
 
 things 
 Fastened their image on its passiveness : 
 Now it will wake, feel, live — or die again ! 
 Shall to produce form out of unshaped 
 
 stuff 
 Be Art — and further, to evoke a soul 
 From form be nothing ? Tiiis new soul is 
 
 mine ! 
 
 Now, to kill Lutwyche. what would that 
 
 do ? — save 
 A wretched dauber, men will hoot to 
 
 death 
 Without me, from their hooting. Oh, 
 
 to hear 
 God's voice plain as I heard it first, be- 
 fore 
 They broke in with their laughter ! I 
 
 heard them 
 Henceforth, not God. 
 
 To Ancona — Greece — some isle ! 
 I wanted silence only ; there is clay 
 Everywhere. One may do whate'er one 
 
 likes 
 In Art : the only thing is, to make sure 
 That one does like it — which takes pains 
 
 to know. 
 Scatter all this, my Phene — this mad 
 
 dream ! 
 Who, wliat is Lutwyche, what Natalia's 
 
 friends, [my own. 
 
 What the whole world except our love — 
 
 Own Phene ? But I told you, did I not, 
 Ere night we travel for your land — some 
 
 isle 
 With the sea's silence on it ? Stand aside — 
 I do but break these paltry models up 
 To begin Art afresh. Meet Lutwyche, 
 
 I— [him ? 
 
 And save him from my statue meeting 
 Some unsuspected isle in the far seas ! 
 Like a god going through his world, 
 
 there stands 
 One mountain for a moment in the dusk. 
 Whole brotherhoods of cedars on its 
 
 brow : 
 And you are ever by me while I gaze 
 — Are in my arms as now — as now — as 
 
 now ! 
 Some unsuspected isle in the far seas ! 
 Some unsuspected isle in far-off seas ! 
 
 Talk by the way, while Pippa is passing from Or- 
 cana to the Turret. Two or three of the Aus- 
 trian Police loitering tvith Bluphocks, an 
 English vagabond, just in view of the Turret. 
 
 Bluphocks. So, that is your Pippa, the 
 Uttle girl who passed us singing ? Well, 
 your Bishop's lutendanfs money shall be 
 honestly earned :— now, don't make me 
 that sour face because I bring the Bishop's 
 name into the business ; we know he can 
 have nothing to do with such horrors : we 
 know that he is a saint and all that a bishop 
 should be, who is a great man beside. Oh 
 ■were hut every worm a magqot, Every fty 
 a grig, Every hough a Christmas fagot, 
 Every tunc a jig ! in fact, I have abjured 
 all religions ; but the last I inclined to was 
 the Armenian : for I have travelled, do you 
 see, and at Koenigsberg, Prussia Improper 
 (so styled because there's a sort of bleak 
 hungry sun there), you might remark, over 
 a venerable house-porch, a certain Chaldee 
 inscription ; and brief as it is, a mere 
 glance at it used absolutely to change the 
 mood of every bearded passenger. In they 
 turned, one and all ; the young and light- 
 some, with no irreverent pause, the aged 
 and decrepit, with a sensible alaci'ity: 
 'twas the Grand Rabbi's abode, in short. 
 Struck with curiosity, I lost no time in 
 learningSyriac—( these are vowels, you dogs 
 — follow my stick's end in the mud— Cclar- 
 oit, Daril, Fcrio !} and one morning pre- 
 sented myself, spelling-book in hand, a, b, 
 c,— I picked it out letter by letter, and what 
 was the purport of this miraculous posy ? 
 Some cherished legend of the past, you'll 
 say — " Hoiv Moses Jtocuspocussccl Egypt's 
 land with fly and locrist,"— or '■'■How to 
 Jonah sounded harshish, Oct thee up and 
 go to Tarshish,'"~or " Hoiv the angel 
 meeting Balaam, Straiglit his ass returned 
 a. salaam." In nowise ! ^^ Shackahrack — 
 Boach — somebody or other— Isaach, Re- 
 
584 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 cei-ver, Pur-chaser and Ex-clum-gcr of— 
 Stolen Goods ! " So talk to me of the re- 
 ligion of a bishop ! I have renounced all 
 bishops save Bishop Beveridge !— mean to 
 live so— and die— ^4« some Greek dog-sage 
 dead and merry, Hellward hound in 
 Charon's wherry, With food for both 
 'Worlds, under and upper, Ltipine^seedand 
 Hecate, s supper. And never an obolns. . . 
 (though thanks to you, or this Intendant— 
 through you, or this Bishop through his In- 
 tendant— I possess a burning pocket-full of 
 zwanzigers) . . .Topay the Stygian Ferry ! 
 1st Policeman. There is the girl, then ; 
 go and deserve them the moment you have 
 pointed out to us Signor Luigi and his 
 mother. [To the rest.] I have been notic- 
 ing a house yonder, this long while : not a 
 shutter unclosed since morning ! 
 
 •2d. Pol. Old Luca Gaddi's, that owns the 
 silk-mills here : he dozes by the hour, wakes 
 up, sighs deeply, says he should like to be 
 Prince Metternich, and then dozes again, 
 after having bidden young Sebald, the 
 foreigner, set his wife to playing draughts. 
 Never molest such a household, they mean 
 well. 
 
 Blup. Only, cannot you tell me some- 
 thing of this little Pippa, I must have to do 
 with ? One could make something of that 
 name. Pippa— that is, short for Felippa— 
 rhyming to Panurge consults Hert rip- 
 pa— Believest thou King Agrippaf Some- 
 thing might be done with that name. 
 
 2d Pol. Put into rhyme that your head 
 and a ripe muskmelon would not be dear 
 at half a zivanziger ! Leave this fooling, 
 and look out ; the afternoon's over or nearly 
 so. 
 
 M Pol. Where in this passport of Signor 
 Luigi does our Principal instruct you to 
 watch him so narrowly y There ? What's 
 there beside a simple signature? (That 
 English fool's busv watching.) 
 
 2d Pol. Flourish all round— "Put all 
 possible obstacles in his way ; " oblong dot 
 at the end — " Detain him till further advices 
 reach you ;" scratch at bottom — " Send him 
 back on pretence of some informality in the 
 above ;'" ink-spirt on right hand side (which 
 is the case here) — "Arrest him at once." 
 Why and wherefore, I don't concern myself, 
 but my instructions amount to this : if 
 Signor Luigi leaves home to-night for 
 Vienna— well and good, the passport de- 
 posed with us for our visa, is really for his 
 own use, they have misinformed the Oflfice, 
 and he means well ; but let him stay over 
 to-night — there has been the pretence we 
 suspect, the accounts of his corresponding 
 and holding intelligence with the Carbonari 
 are correct, we arrest him at once, to-mor- 
 row comes Venice, and presently Spielberg. 
 Bluphocks makes the signal, sure enough ! 
 That is he, entering the turret with his 
 mother, no doubt. 
 
 III. EVENING 
 
 Inside tlie Turret on the Hill above Asolo. Luigi 
 a?id his Mother entering. 
 
 Mother. If there blew wind, you'd 
 hear a long sigh, easing 
 The vitniost heaviness of music's heart. 
 Luigi. Here in the archway? 
 Mother. Oh no, no — in farther, 
 
 Where the echo is made, on the ridge. 
 
 Luigi. Here surely, then. 
 
 How plain the tap of my heel as 1 leaped 
 
 up ! 
 Hark — "Lucius Junius!" The very 
 
 ghost of a voice 
 Whose body is caught and kept by . . . 
 
 what are those ? 
 Mere witliered wallflowers, waving over- 
 head ? 
 They seeni an elvish group with thin 
 
 bleached hair 
 That lean out of their topmost fortress — 
 
 look 
 And listen, mountain men, to what we 
 
 say. 
 Hand under cliin of eacli grave earthy 
 
 face. 
 Up and show faces all of you ! — " All of 
 
 you ! " 
 That 's the king dwarf with the scarlet 
 
 comb ; old Franz, 
 Come down and meet your fate ? Hark — 
 " Meet your fate ! " 
 Mother. Let him not meet it, my 
 Luigi — do not 
 Go to his City ! Putting crime aside, 
 Half of these ills of Italy are feigned : 
 Your Pellicos and writers for effect, 
 Write for effect. 
 
 Luigi. Hush ! Say A writes, and B. 
 Mother. These A's and B's write for 
 effect. I say. 
 Then, evil is in its nature loud, while 
 
 good 
 Is silent ; you liear each petty injury. 
 None of his virtues ; he is old beside. 
 Quiet and kind, and densely stupid. 
 
 Wliy 
 Do A and B kill not him themselves ? 
 
 Luigi. They teach 
 
 Others to kill him — me — and, if I fail. 
 Others to succeed ; now, if A tried and 
 
 failed, 
 I could not teach that : mine 's the lesser 
 
 task. 
 Mother, they visit night by night . . . 
 
 Mother. — You, Luigi ? 
 
 Ah, will you let me tell you what you 
 are ? 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 58s 
 
 Luigi. Why not ? Oh, the one thing 
 
 3'Oii fear to hint, 
 You may assure j^ourself I say and say 
 Ever to myself ! At times — nay, even 
 
 as now 
 We sit — I think my mind is toucli'd, 
 
 suspect 
 All is not sound : but is not knowing 
 
 that, 
 What constitutes one sane or otherwise ? 
 I know I am thus — so, all is right again. 
 I laugh at myself as through the town I 
 
 walk, 
 And see men merry as if no Italy 
 Were suffering : tlien I ponder — " I am 
 
 rich, 
 Young, healtliy ; wliy sliould this fact 
 
 trouble me, 
 More than it troubles these?"' But it 
 
 does trouble. 
 No, trouble 's a bad word : for as I walk 
 There's springing and melody and giddi- 
 ness. 
 And old quaint turns and passages of 
 
 my youth. 
 Dreams long forgotten, little in them- 
 selves. 
 Return to me — whatever may amuse me : 
 And earth seems in a truce with me, and 
 
 heaven 
 Accoi'ds with me, all things suspend 
 
 their strife, 
 Tlie very cicala lauglis " There goes he, 
 
 and there ! 
 Feast him, the time is short ; he is on 
 
 his way 
 For the world's sake : feast him this once, 
 
 our friend ! " 
 And in return ft)r all this. I can trip 
 Cheerfully up the scaffold-steps. I go 
 This evening, mother ! 
 
 Mother. But mistrust yourself — 
 
 Mistrust the judgment you pronounce 
 
 on him ! 
 Luigi. 01), there I feel — am sure that 
 
 I am right ! 
 Mother. Mistrust your judgment tiien, 
 
 of the mere means 
 To this wild enterprise : say, you are 
 
 right, — 
 How should one in your state e'er bring 
 
 to pass 
 What would require a cool head, a cool 
 
 heart. 
 And a calm hand ? You never will es- 
 cape. 
 Luigi. Escape? To even wish that, 
 
 would spoil all. 
 The dying is l)est part of it. -Too much 
 
 Have I enjoyed these fifteen years of 
 
 mine. 
 To leave myself excuse for longer life : 
 Was not life pressed down, running o'er 
 
 with joj'. 
 That I might finish with it ere my 
 
 fellows 
 Who, sparelier feasted, make a longer 
 
 stay? 
 I was put at the board-head, helped to 
 
 all 
 At first ; I rise up happy and content. 
 God must be glad one loves his world so 
 
 much. 
 I can give news of earth to all the dead 
 Who ask me : — last j'ear's sunsets, and 
 
 great stars 
 Which had a right to come first and see 
 
 ebb 
 The crimson wave that drifts the sun 
 
 away — 
 Those crescent moons with notched and 
 
 burning rims 
 That strengthened into sharp fire, and 
 
 there stood, 
 Impatient of the azure — and tliat day 
 In March, a double rainbow stopped the 
 
 storm — - 
 May's warm slow yellow moonlit summer 
 
 nights — 
 Gone are they, but I have them in my 
 
 soul ! 
 Mother. (He will not go !) 
 Luigi. You smile at me? 'T is true, — 
 Voluptuousness, grotesqueness, ghastli- 
 
 ness, 
 Envii-on my devotedness as quaintly 
 As round about some antique altar 
 
 wreathe 
 The rose festoons, goats' horns, and 
 
 oxen's skulls. 
 Mother. See now : you reach the city, 
 
 you must cross 
 His threshold — how ? 
 
 Luigi. Oh, that's if we conspired ! 
 
 Then would come pains in plenty, as 
 
 you guess — 
 But guess not how the qualities most fit 
 For such a?) office, qualities I have. 
 Would little stead me, otherwise eni- 
 
 ploj'ed. 
 Yet prove of rarest merit only here. 
 Every one knows for what his excellence 
 Will serve, but no one ever will consider 
 For what his worst defect might serve : 
 
 and yet 
 Have you not seen me range our coppice 
 
 yonder 
 In search of a distorted ash? — I find 
 
586 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 The wry spoilt branch a natural perfect 
 
 bow. 
 Fancy the thrice-sage, thrice-precau- 
 
 tioned man 
 Arriving at the palace on niy errand ! 
 No, no ! I have a handsome dress packed 
 
 up- 
 White satin here, to set off my black 
 
 hair ; 
 In I shall mai'ch — for you may watch 
 
 your life out 
 Behind thick walls, make friends tliere 
 
 to betray you ; 
 More than one man spoils everything. 
 
 March straight — 
 Only, no cluiusy knife to fumble for, 
 Take the great gate, and walk (not 
 
 saunter) on 
 Through guards and guards — I have re- 
 hearsed it all 
 Inside the turret here a hundred times. 
 Don't ask the way of whom you meet, 
 
 observe ! 
 But wliere they cluster thickliest is the 
 
 door 
 Of doors ; they'll let you pass — they'll 
 
 never blab 
 Each to tlie other, he knows not the 
 
 favorite, 
 Whence he is bound and what's his 
 
 business now. 
 Walk in — straight up to him ; you have 
 
 no knife : 
 Be prompt, how should he scream ? Tiien 
 
 out with you ! 
 Italy, Italy, my Italy ! 
 You're free, you're free ! Oh mother, I 
 
 could dream 
 They got about me — Andrea from his 
 
 exile, 
 Pier from his dungeon, Gualtier from 
 
 his grave ! 
 Mother. Well, you shall go. Yet seems 
 
 this patriotism 
 The easiest virtue for a selfish man 
 To acquire : he loves himself — and next, 
 
 the world — 
 If he must love beyond, — but naught 
 
 between : ["ay 
 
 As a short-sighted man sees naught niid- 
 His body and the sun above. But you 
 Are my adored Luigi, ever obedient 
 To my least wish, and running o'er with 
 
 love : 
 I could not call you cruel or unkind. 
 Once more, your ground for killing him ! 
 
 — then go ! 
 Luigi. Now do you try me, or make 
 
 sport of me ? 
 
 How first the Austrians got these prov- 
 inces . . . 
 
 (If that is all, I'll satisfy you soon) 
 
 — Never by conquest but by cunning, for 
 
 That treatj' whereby . . . 
 Mother. Well ! 
 
 Luigi. (Sure, he's arrived, 
 
 The tell-tale cuckoo : spring's his confi- 
 dant, 
 
 And he lets out her April purposes !) 
 
 Or . . . better go at once to modern 
 time. 
 
 He has . . . they have ... in fact, I un- 
 derstand 
 
 But can't restate the matter : that's my 
 boast : 
 
 Otliers could reason it out to you, and 
 prove 
 
 Things they have made me feel. 
 Mother. Why go to-night ? 
 
 Morn's for adventure. Jupiter is now 
 
 A morning-star. I cannot hear you, 
 Luigi ! 
 Luigi. " I am the bright and morning- 
 star," saith God — 
 
 And " to such an one I give the morning- 
 star." 
 
 The gift of the morning-star ! Have I 
 God's gift 
 
 Of the morning-star ! 
 Mother. Chiara will love to see 
 
 That Jupiter an evening-star next June. 
 Luigi. True, mother. Well for those 
 who live tlirough June ! 
 
 Great noontides, thunder-storms, all 
 glaring pomps 
 
 That triumph at the heels of June the 
 god 
 
 Leading his revel through our leafy 
 world. 
 
 Yes, Cliiara will be here. 
 Mother. In June : remember. 
 
 Yourself appointed that month for her 
 coming. 
 Luigi. Was that low noise the echo ? 
 Mother. TJie night wind. 
 
 She must be grown — with her blue eyes 
 upturned 
 
 As if life were one long and sweet sur- 
 prise : 
 
 In June she comes. 
 Luigi. We were to see together 
 
 The Titian at Treviso. There, again 1 
 
 [From ivithout is heard the voice of Pippa 
 singing— 
 
 A Iditg lived long ago, 
 
 Li the morning of the world, 
 
 When eartlb- was nigher heaven than now ; 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 587 
 
 And the king's locks curled. 
 
 Disparting o'er a forehead full 
 
 As the viilk-white space 'tvnxt horn and 
 
 horn 
 Of some sacrificial hull — 
 Only calm as a babe neio-bom : 
 For he ivas got to a sleepy mood. 
 So safe from all decrepitude. 
 Age witJi its bane, so sure gone by, 
 ( Tlie gods so loved him while he dreamed) 
 That, having lived thus long, there seemed 
 No need the king should ever die. 
 
 Luigi. No need that sort of king should 
 ever die ! 
 
 Among the rocks his city rvas : 
 Before his palace, in the sun, 
 He sat to see Ms people pass, 
 And judge them every one 
 From its threshold of smooth stone. 
 They haled him many a valley-thief 
 Caught in the sheep-pens, robber-chief 
 Swarthy and shameless, beggar-cheat, 
 Spy-prowler, or rough pirate found 
 On the sea-sand left aground ; 
 And sometimes clung about his feet. 
 With bleeding lip and burning cfieek, 
 A icoman, bitterest wrong to speak 
 Of one with sullen thickset brows : 
 And sometimes from the prison-house 
 The angry priests a pale wretch 
 
 brought. 
 Who through some chink had p»s//('d 
 
 and pressed 
 On knees and elbows, belly and breast, 
 Worm-like into the temple, — caught 
 He ivas by the very god, 
 HHio ever in the darkness strode 
 Backward and forward, keeping watch 
 O'er his brazen bowls, such rogues to 
 
 catch ! 
 These, all and- every one. 
 The king judged, sitting in the sun. 
 
 Luigi. That king should still judge, 
 sitting in the sun ! 
 
 His coimcillors, on left arid right. 
 Looked anxious ujj. — but no surprise 
 Disturbed the king's old smiling eyes 
 Where the very blue had turned to 
 
 white. 
 'T is said, a Python scared one day 
 The breathless city, till he came. 
 With forky tongue and eyes on flame, 
 Wliere the old king sat to judge alway ; 
 But ivhen he saio the siveepy hair 
 Girt with a crown of berries rare 
 Which the god will hardly give to ivear 
 
 To the maiden icho sjngeth, dancing 
 
 bare 
 Li the altar-smoke by the pine-torch 
 
 liglits. 
 At his u-ondrous forest rites, — 
 Seeing this he did not dare 
 Approach that threshold in the sun, 
 Assault the old king smiling there. 
 Such grace had kings tvhen the ivorld 
 
 began ! 
 
 PiPPA passes. 
 
 Luigi. And such grace have they, 
 now that tlie world ends ! 
 The Pytlion at the city, on the tlirone, 
 And brave men, God would crown for 
 
 slaying liini. 
 Lurk in by-corners lest tliey fall his 
 
 prey." 
 Are crowns yet to l)e won in this late 
 
 time 
 Wliich weakness makes me hesitate to 
 
 reach ? 
 "T is God's voice calls : how could I stay ? 
 
 Farewell ! 
 
 Talk by the ivay, ivhile Pippa is passing from the 
 Turret to the Bishop's Brother's House, close 
 to the Duomo S . Maria. Poor Girls sitting on 
 the ste2JS. 
 
 1st Girl. There goes a swallow to 
 Venice — the stout seafarer ! 
 Seeing those birds fly, makes one wish 
 
 for wings. 
 Let us all wish ; you, wish first ! 
 
 2d Girl. I ? This sunset 
 
 To finish, 
 
 'Sd Girl. That old — somebody I 
 
 know, 
 
 Grayer and older than my grandfather, 
 
 To give me the same treat he gave last 
 
 week — 
 Feeding me on his knee with fig- 
 peckers, 
 Lampreys and red Breganze-wine, and 
 
 mumbling 
 The while some folly about how well I 
 
 fare. 
 Let sit and eat my supper quietly : 
 Since had he not himself been late this 
 
 morning 
 Detained at — never mind wliere, — had 
 
 he not . . . 
 " Eh. baggage, had I not ! " — 
 2d Girl. How she can lie 1 
 
 3d Girl. Look there— by the nails ! 
 2d Girl. What makes your fingers 
 
 red ? 
 3d Girl. Dipping them into wine to 
 write bad words with 
 
588 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Oil tlie bright table : how he laughed ! 
 
 1st Crirl. My turn. 
 
 Spring 's come and summer 's coming. 
 
 I would wear 
 A long loose gown, down to the feet and 
 
 hands, 
 With plaits here, close about the throat, 
 
 all day ; 
 And all night lie, the cool long nights 
 
 in bed ; 
 And have new milk to drink, apples to 
 
 eat, 
 Deuzans and junetings, leather-coats . . . 
 
 all, I sliould say, 
 This is away in the fields — miles ! 
 
 'M Girl. Say at once 
 
 You "d be at home : she 'd always be at 
 
 home ! 
 Now conies the story of the farm among 
 The cherry orchards, and how April 
 
 snowed 
 White blossoms on her as she ran. 
 
 Why, fool. 
 They 've rubbed the chalk-mark out, 
 
 how tall you were. 
 Twisted your starling's neck, broken 
 
 his cage. 
 Made a dung-hill of vour garden ! 
 
 1st Girl. ' They destroy 
 
 M}^ garden since I left them ? well — 
 
 perhaps 
 I would have done so : so I hope thej^ 
 
 have ! 
 A fig-tree curled out of our cottage 
 
 wall ; 
 They called it mine, I have forgotten 
 
 why. 
 It must have been there long ere I was 
 
 born : 
 Cric—cric — I think I hear the wasps 
 
 o'erhead 
 Pricking the papers strung to flutter 
 
 there 
 And keep off birds in fruit-time — coarse 
 
 long pai)ers. 
 And tlie wasps eat them, prick them 
 
 through and througli. 
 'dd Girl. — How her mouth twitches ! 
 
 Where was I ? — before 
 She broke in with her wislies and long 
 
 gowns 
 And wasps — would I be such a fool ! — 
 
 Oh, here ! 
 This is my way : I answer eveiy one 
 Who asks me why I make so much of 
 
 him — 
 (If you say " you love him" — straight 
 
 " he '11 not be gulled ! ") 
 " He that seduced me when I was a girl 
 
 Thus high— had eyes like yours, or hair 
 
 like yours, 
 Brown, red, white," — as the case may 
 
 be : that pleases. 
 See how that beetle burnishes in the 
 
 path ! 
 There sparkles he along the dust : and 
 
 there — 
 Your journej^ to that maize tuft spoiled 
 
 at least ! 
 1st Girl. When I was young, they 
 
 said if you killed one 
 Of those sunshiny beetles, tliat his friend 
 Up there, would shine no more that day 
 
 nor next. 
 2d Girl. When you were young ? nor 
 
 are you young, that 's true. 
 How your plump arms, that M^ere, have 
 
 dropped away ! 
 Why, I can span them. Cecco beats 
 
 you still ? 
 No matter, so jou keeji your curious 
 
 luiir. [hair 
 
 I wis! I tliey 'd find a way to dye our 
 Yovir color — any lighter tint, indeed 
 Than black : tlie men say the}" are sick 
 
 of black. 
 Black eyes, black hair ! 
 
 ith. Girl. Sick of yours, like enough. 
 Do j'ou pretend you ever tasted lam- 
 preys 
 And ortolans? Giovita, of the palace. 
 Engaged (but there's no ti'ustiug him) 
 
 to slice me 
 Polenta with a knife that had cut up 
 An ortolan. 
 
 2d Girl. Why, there ! Is not that 
 
 Pippa 
 We are to talk to, under the window, — 
 
 quick ! — 
 AVhere the liglits are ? 
 1st Girl. That she ? No, or she would 
 
 sing. 
 For the Intendant said . . . 
 
 3d Girl. Oh, you sing first ! 
 
 Then, if she listens and comes close . . . 
 
 I "11 tell you,— 
 Sing that song the young English noble 
 
 made. 
 Who took you for the purest of the pure. 
 And meant to leave the world for you — 
 
 what fun ! 
 2d Girl. [Sings.] 
 
 You 'II love me yet ! — and I can tarry 
 Your love's x^rotracted groiving : 
 
 June reared that hunch of flowers you 
 carry. 
 From seeds of April's sowing. 
 
 Ml 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 589 
 
 I plant a heartfull uoic : some seed 
 
 At leoftf y'.s sure to strike. 
 And yield — what you 11 not x>luck indeed. 
 
 Not love, but, may be, like. 
 
 Yon 'II look at least on love's remains, 
 
 A grave's one violet : 
 Your look ? — that pays a thousand jxti us. 
 
 What 's death ? You 11 love me yet ! 
 
 Sd Girl. [To Pippa who approaches.] 
 Oh, you may come closer— we shall not eat 
 you ! Why, you seem the very person that 
 "the great rich handsome Englishman has 
 fallen so violently in love with. I '11 tell 
 you all about it. 
 
 IV. NIGHT 
 
 Inside the Palace by the Duomo. Monsignor, 
 dismissing his Attendants. 
 
 Monsignor. Thanks, friends, many 
 thanks ! I chiefly desire life now, that 1 
 may recompense every one of you. • Most I 
 know something of already. What, a re- 
 past prepared ? Bencdicto hcncdlcatur . . . 
 ugh, ugh ! Where was I ? Oh, as you were 
 remarking, Ugo, the weather is mild, very 
 unlike winter-weather : but I am a Sicilian, 
 you know, and shiver in your Julys here. 
 To be sure, when 't was full summer at 
 Messina, as we priests used to cross in pro- 
 cession the great square on Assumption 
 Day, you might see our thickest yellow 
 tfip^ers twist suddenly in two, each like a 
 falling star, or sink down on themselves in 
 a gore of wax. But go, my friends, but go ! 
 [To the Intendant.] Not you, Ugo ! \The 
 others leave the apartment.] I have long 
 wanted to converse with you, Ugo. 
 
 Intendiuit. Uguccio — 
 
 Man 'guccio Stefani, man ! of As- 
 
 coli, Pernio and Fossombruno ; — what I do 
 need instructing about, are these accounts 
 of your administration of my poor brother's 
 affairs. Ugh ! I shall never get through a 
 third part of your accounts ; take some of 
 these dainties before we attempt it, how- 
 ever. Are you bashful to that degree ? 
 For me, a crust and water suffice. 
 
 Intcn. Do you choose this especial night 
 to question me ? 
 
 Mon. This night, Ugo. You have man- 
 aged my late brother's affairs since the 
 death of our elder brother : fourteen years 
 and a month, all but three days. On the 
 Third of December, I And him . . . 
 
 Intcn. If you have so intimate an ac- 
 quaintance with your brother's affairs, you 
 will be tender of turning so far back : they 
 will hardly bear looking into, so far back.' 
 
 Mon. Ay, ay, ugh, ugh, — nothing but 
 disappointments here below ! I remarked 
 a considerable payment made to yourself 
 
 * on this Third of December. Talk of disap- 
 pointments ! There was a young fellow 
 here, Jules, a foreign sculptor I did my ut- 
 most to advance, that the Church might be 
 a gainer by us both : he was going on hope- 
 fully enough, and of a sudden he notifies to 
 me some marvellous change that has hap- 
 pened in his notions of Art. Here's his 
 letter, — " He never had a clearly conceived 
 Ideal within his brain till to-day. Yet 
 since his hand could manage a chisel, he has 
 practised expressing other men's Ideals ; 
 and, in the very perfection he has attained 
 to, he foresees an ultimate failure : his un- 
 conscious hand will pursue its prescribed 
 course of old years, and will reproduce with 
 a fatal expertness the ancient types, let the 
 novel one appear never so palpably to his 
 spirit. There is but one method of escape : 
 confiding the virgin type to as chaste a 
 hand, he will turn painter instead of sculp- 
 tor, and paint, not carve, its characteris- 
 tics," — strike out, I dare say, a school like 
 Correggio : how think you, Ugo ? 
 
 Intcn. Is Correggio a painter ? 
 
 Mon. Foolish Jules ! and yet, after all, 
 why foolish •' He may— probably will— fail 
 egregiously ; but if there should arise a 
 new painter, will it not be in some such 
 way, by a poet now, or a musician (spirits 
 who have conceived and perfected an Ideal 
 through some other channel), transferring 
 it to this, and escaping our conventional 
 roads by pure ignorance of them ; eh, Ugo ? 
 If you have no appetite, talk at least, Ugo ? 
 
 Intcn. Sir, I can submit no longer to 
 this course of yours. First, you select the 
 group of which I formed one,— next y(ju 
 thin it gradually, — always retaining me 
 Avith your smile, — and so do you proceed 
 till you have fairly got me alone witli you 
 between four stone walls. And now then y 
 Let this farce, this chatter end now : what 
 is it you want with me y 
 
 Mon. Ugo ! 
 
 Intcn.. From the instant you arrived, I 
 felt your smile on me as you questioned me 
 about this and the other article in those 
 papers — why your brother should have 
 given me this villa, that poderc, — and your 
 nod at the end meant, — what ? 
 
 3Ion. Possibly that I wished for no loud 
 talk here. If once j'ou set me coughing, 
 Ugo 1— 
 
 Intoi. I have your brother's hand and 
 seal to all I possess : now ask me what for ! 
 what service I did him — ask me ! 
 
 Mnn. 1 would better not: I should rip 
 up old disgraces, let out my poor brother's 
 weaknesses. By the way, Maffeo of Forli, 
 ('which, I forgot to observe, is your true 
 name, ) was the interdict ever taken off you 
 for robbing that church at Cesena ? 
 
 Intcn. No, nor needs be : for when I 
 murdered your brother's friend, Pasquale, 
 for him . . . 
 

 59° 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Man. Ah, he employed you hi that busi- 
 ness, did he ? Well, I must let you keep, 
 as j'ou say, this villa and that podcre, for 
 fear the world should find out my relations 
 were of so indifferent a stamp ? Maffeo. 
 my family is the oldest in Messina, and 
 century after century have my progenitors 
 gone on polluting themselves with every 
 wickedness under heaven : my own father 
 . . . rest his soul I— I have, I know, a chapel 
 to support that it may rest : my dear two 
 dead brothers were, — what you know toler- 
 ably well ; I, the youngest, might have 
 rivalled them in vice, if not in wealth: but 
 from my boyhood I came out from among 
 them, and so am not partaker of their 
 plagues. My glory springs from another 
 source; or if from this, by contrast only, — 
 for I, the bishop, am the brother of your 
 employers, Ugo. I hope to repair some of 
 their wrong, however; so far as my brother's 
 ill-gotten treasure reverts to me, I can stop 
 the consequences of his crime: and not one 
 srAdo shall escape me. Maffeo, the sword 
 we quiet men spurn away, you shrewd 
 knaves pick up and commit murders with; 
 what opportunities the virtuous forego, 
 the villanous seize. Because, to pleasure 
 myself apart from other considerations, my 
 food would be millet-cake, my dress sack- 
 cloth, and my couch straw,— am I there- 
 fore to let you, the off-scouring of the earth, 
 seduce the poor and ignorant by appro- 
 priating a pomp these will be sure to think 
 lessens the abominations so unaccountably 
 and exclusively associated with it? Must I 
 let villas and podcri go to you, a murderer 
 and thief, that you may beget by means of 
 them other murderers and thieves? No— 
 if my cough would but allow me to speak ! 
 
 hitcn. What am I to expect ? You are 
 going to punish me ? 
 
 Mo)i. Must punish you, Maffeo. I can- 
 not afford to cast away a chance. I have 
 whole centuries of sin to redeem, and only 
 a month or two of life to do it in. How 
 should I dare to say . , . 
 
 Tnten. "Forgive us our trespasses"? 
 
 Mon. My friend, it is because I avow 
 myself a very worm, sinful beyond mea- 
 sure, that 1 reject a line of conduct you 
 would applaud perhaps. Shall I proceed, 
 as it were, a-pardoning ?— I ?— who have no 
 symptom of reason to assume that aught 
 less than my strenuousest efforts will keep 
 myself out of mortal sin, much less keep 
 others out. No : I do trespass, but will not 
 double that by allowing you to trespass. 
 
 Intcn. And suppose the villas are not 
 your bi'other's to give, nor yours to take ? 
 Oh, you are hasty enough just now ! 
 
 Mon. 1, 2 — No 3 ! — ay, can you read the 
 substance of a letter. No ;s, I have received 
 from Rome ? It is precisely on tlie ground 
 there mentioned, of the suspicion I have 
 that a certain child of my late elder brother, 
 
 who would have succeeded to his estates, 
 was murdered in infancy by you, Maffeo, 
 at the instigation of my late younger 
 brother — that the Pontiff enjoins on me not 
 merely the bringing that Maffeo to condign 
 punishment, but the taking all pains, as 
 guardian of the infant's heritage for the 
 Church, to recover it parcel by parcel, how- 
 soever, whensoever, and wheresoever. 
 While you are now gnawing those fingers, 
 the police are engaged in sealing up your 
 papers, Maffeo, and the mei-e raising my 
 voice brings my people from the next room 
 to dispose of yourself. But I want you to 
 confess quietly, and save me raising my 
 voice. Why, man, do I not know the old 
 story ? The heir between the succeeding 
 heir, and this heir's ruffianly instrument, 
 and their complot's effect, and the life of 
 fear and bribes and ominous smiling si- 
 lence ? Did you throttle or stab my brother's 
 infant ? Come now ! 
 
 I)ttcn. So old a story, and tell it no bet- 
 ter ? When did such an instrument ever 
 produce such an effect ? Either the child 
 smiles in his face ; or, most likelj', he is not 
 fool enough to put himself in the employer's 
 power so thoroughly : the child is always 
 ready to produce— as you say — howsoever, 
 wheresover, and whensoever. 
 
 Mon. Liar ! 
 
 Intcn. Strike me ? Ah, so might a father 
 chastise ! I shall sleep soundly to-night at 
 least, though the gallows await me to-mor- 
 row ; for what a life did I lead ! Carlo of 
 Cesena reminds me of his connivance, 
 every time I pay his annuity ; which hap- 
 pens commonly thrice a year. If I remon- 
 strate, he will confess all to the good bishop 
 — you ! 
 
 3[on. I see through the trick, caitiff ! I 
 would you spoke truth for once. All shall 
 be sifted, however— seven times sifted. 
 
 Intcn. And how my absurd riches en- 
 cumbered me ! I dared not lay claim to 
 above half of my possessions. Let me l)ut 
 once unbosom myself, glorify Heaven, and 
 die ! 
 
 Sir, you are no brutal dastardly idiot like 
 your brother I frightened to death : let us 
 understand one another. Sir, I will make 
 away with her for you — the girl — here close 
 at hand ; not the stupid obvious kind of 
 killing ; do not speak — know nothing other 
 nor of me ! I see her every day — saw her 
 this morning : of course there is to be no 
 killing ; but at Rome the com-tesans perish 
 off every three years, and I can entice her 
 thither— have indeed begun operations al- 
 ready. There is a certain lusty blue-eyed 
 floriii-complexioned English knave, I and 
 the Police employ occasionally. You as- 
 sent, I perceive — no, that's not it — assent 
 I do not say— but you will let me convei-t 
 my present havings and holdings into cash, 
 and give me time to cross the Alps ? 'T is 
 
 I 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 591 
 
 but a little black-eyed pretty singing Fe- 
 llppa, gay silk-winding girl. I have kept 
 her out of harm's way up to this present ; 
 for I always intended to make your life a 
 plague to you with her. 'T is as well settled 
 once and forever. Some women I have 
 procured will pass Bluphocks, my hand- 
 some scoundrel, off for somebody ; and 
 once Pippa entangled ! — you conceive ? 
 Through her singing ? Is it a bargain ? 
 
 [From tvithout is heard the voice of Pippa 
 singing — 
 
 . Overhead the tree-tops meet. 
 
 Flowers and grass spring 'neath one's 
 
 feet ; 
 Tliere teas naught above me, naught 
 
 beloiv, 
 My childhood had not learned to know : 
 For, what are the voices of birds 
 — Ah, and of beasts, but icords, our 
 
 words. 
 Only so much more sweet f 
 The knowledge of that with my life be- 
 gun. 
 But I had so near made out the sun. 
 And counted your stars, the seven and 
 
 one. 
 Like the fingers of my hand : 
 Nay, I could all but understand 
 Wliei-efore through heaven tlie lohite 
 
 moon ranges; 
 And just tohen out of her soft fifty 
 
 changes 
 No unfamiliar face might over-look 
 
 me — 
 Suddenly Qod took me. 
 
 [Pippa passes. 
 
 Mon. [Sprinahuj up.] My people— one 
 and all— within there ! Gag this villain- 
 tie him hand and foot ! He dares ... I 
 know not half he dares — but remove him — 
 quick! Miserere mci, Dominc ! Quick, 
 I say ! 
 
 Pippa's Chamber again. She enters it. 
 
 The bee with his comb, 
 
 The mouse at her draj'', 
 
 The grub in his tomb. 
 
 While winter away ; 
 
 But the fire-fly and hedge-shrew and 
 
 lob- worm, I pray, 
 How fare they ? 
 Ha, ha, thanks for your counsel, my 
 
 Zanze ! 
 "Feast upon lampreys, quaff Bre- 
 
 ganze " — 
 The summer of life so easy to spend. 
 And care for to-morrow so soon put 
 
 away ! 
 
 But winter hastens at summer's end. 
 And fire-fly, hedge-shrew, lob-worm, 
 
 I pray, 
 How fare they ? 
 No bidding me then to . . . what did 
 
 Zanze say ? 
 " Pare your nails pearl wise, get your 
 
 small feet shoes 
 More like" . . . ( wliat said slie?)— "and 
 
 less like canoes ! " 
 How pert that girl was ! — would I be 
 
 those pert 
 Impudent staring women ! It had done 
 
 me. 
 However, surely no such mighty hurt 
 To learn his name who passed that jest 
 
 upon me : 
 No foreigner, that I can recollect, 
 Came, as siie says, a month since, to in- 
 spect 
 Our silk-mills — none with blue eyes and 
 
 thick rings 
 Of raw-silk-colored hair, at all events. 
 Well, if old Luca keep liis good intents, 
 We shall do better, see what next year 
 
 brings ! 
 I may buy shoes, my Zanze, not api:>ear 
 More destitute tlian you perhaps next 
 
 year ! 
 Blupli . . . something ! I had caught 
 
 the uncouth name 
 But for Monsignor's people's sudden 
 
 clatter 
 Above us — bound to spoil such idle 
 
 chatter 
 As ouis : it were indeed a serious matter 
 If silly talk like ours slioulil put to shame 
 The pious man, the man devoid of blame, 
 The ... ah but — all but. all the same, 
 No mere mortal has a right 
 To cany that exalted air ; 
 Best peojile are not angels quite : 
 While — not the worst of people's doings 
 
 scare [spare I 
 
 The devil ; so there's that proud look to 
 
 Which is mere counsel to myself, 
 
 mind ! for 
 I have just been the holy Monsignor : 
 And I was you, too, Luigi's gentle 
 
 mother. 
 And you too, Luigi ! — how that Luigi 
 
 started 
 Out of the turret — doubtlessly departed 
 On some good errand or another, 
 For he passed just now in a traveller's 
 
 trim. 
 And the sullen company that prowled 
 About his path, I noticed, scowled 
 As if they had lost a prey in him. 
 
59^ 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 And I was Jules the sculptoi''s bride, 
 
 And I was Ottima beside, 
 
 And now what am I ? — tired of fooling. 
 
 Day for folly, night for schooling ! 
 
 New year's day is over and spent. 
 
 Ill or well, I must be content. 
 
 Even my lily's asleep. I vow : 
 Wake up — here's a friend I've plucked 
 
 you ! 
 Call this flower a heart's-ease now ! 
 Sometliing rare, let me instruct you. 
 Is this, with petals triply swollen. 
 Tliree times spotted, thrice the pollen ; 
 While the leaves and parts that witness 
 Old proportions and their fitness. 
 Here remain unchanged, unmoved now ; 
 Call this pampered thing improved now ! 
 Suppose there's a king of the flowers 
 And a girl-show held in his bovvers — 
 " Look ye, buds, this growth of ours." 
 Says he. " Zanze from the Brenta, 
 I have made her gorge polenta 
 Till both cheeks are near as bouncing 
 As her . . . name tliere's no pronounc- 
 ing ! 
 See this heightened color too. 
 For she swilled Breganze wine 
 Till her nose turned deep carmine ; 
 'T was but white when wild she grew. 
 And only by this Zanze 's ej'es 
 Of which we could not change the size, 
 The magnitude of all acliieved 
 Otlierwise, may be perceived." 
 
 Oil what a drear dark close to my poor 
 day ! 
 
 How could that red sun drop in that 
 black cloud ? 
 
 Ah Pippa, morning's rule is moved away, 
 
 Dispensed with, tnever more to be al- 
 lowed ! 
 
 Day's turn is over, now arrives the 
 night's. 
 
 Oh lark, be day's apostle 
 
 To mavis, merle and throstle. 
 
 Bid them their betters jostle 
 
 From day and its delights ! 
 
 But at night, brother owlet, over the 
 woods. 
 
 Toll tlie world to thy chantry ; 
 
 Sing to the bats' sleek sisterhoods 
 
 Full complines with gallantr}^ : 
 
 Then, owls and bats, 
 
 Cowls and twats. 
 
 Monks and nuns, in a cloister's moods, 
 
 Adjourn to the oak-stump pantry ! 
 
 [After she tins begun to nndrexs herself. 
 
 Now, one thing I sliould like to really 
 know : 
 
 How near I ever might approach all 
 
 these 
 I only fancied being, this long day : 
 — Approacli, I mean, so as to toucli them, 
 
 so 
 As to . . . in some way . . . move them — 
 
 if you please. 
 Do good or evil to them somesliglit way. 
 For instance, if I wind 
 Silk to morrow, my silk may bind 
 
 [Sitting on the bedside 
 And border Ottima's cloak's hem. 
 Ah me, and my important part with 
 
 them . 
 This morning's hymn half pi'omised 
 
 when I rose ! 
 True in some sense or other, I .suppose. 
 
 [As she lies doini. 
 God bless nie ! I can pray no more to- 
 night. 
 No doubt, some way or other, hymns say 
 
 right. 
 
 ^4// service ranks the same with God — 
 With God. ichosejjiq'tpcfs, best and ivorst. 
 Are ice ;■ there is no last nor Urst. 
 
 [She sleeps. 
 
 1841. 
 
 J 
 
 CAVALIER TUNES 
 
 I. MARCHING .\LONG 
 
 Kentish Sir B^-ng stood for his King. 
 Bidding the crop-headed Parliament 
 
 swing: 
 And, pressing a troop unable to stoop 
 And see tlie rogues flourish and honest 
 
 folk droop. 
 Marched them along, fifty-score strong. 
 Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this 
 
 song. 
 
 God for King Charles ! Pyra and such 
 
 carles 
 To the Devil that jarompts 'em their 
 
 treasonous paries ! 
 Cavaliers, up ! Lips from the cup. 
 Hands from the pasty, nor bite take nor 
 
 sup 
 Till you 're— - 
 Chorus. — Marching along, fifty-score 
 strong, 
 Great-hearted gentlemen, 
 singing this song. 
 
 Hampden to hell, and his obsequies' 
 
 knell. 
 Serve Hazelrig, Fiennes. and young 
 
 Harrv as well ! 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 593 
 
 England, good cheer ! Rupert is near ! 
 Kentisli and loyalists, keep we not here, 
 Chorus. — JNIarching along, fifty-score 
 strong, 
 Great-hearted gentlemen, sing- 
 ing this song ? 
 
 Then, God for King Charles ! Pym and 
 
 his snarls 
 To the Devil that pricks on such pestilent 
 
 carles ! 
 Hold hy the right, you double your 
 
 might ; 
 So, onward to Nottingham, fresh for 
 the fight. 
 Chorus. — March we along, fifty-score 
 strong. 
 Great-hearted gentlemen, sing- 
 ing tliis song ! 
 
 ' II. GIVE A ROUSE 
 
 King Charles, and who '11 do him right 
 
 now '? 
 King Charles, and who 's ripe for fight 
 
 now ? 
 Give a i-ouse : here 's, in hell's despite 
 
 now. 
 King Charles ! 
 
 Who gave me the goods that went since ? 
 
 Who raised me the house that sank once ? 
 
 Who lielped me to gold I spent since ? 
 
 Wlio found me in wine you drank once? 
 
 Chorus. — King Charles, and who'll do 
 
 him right now ? 
 
 King Charles, and who 's ripe 
 
 for fight now ? 
 Give a rouse : here 's, in hell's 
 
 despite now. 
 King Charles ! 
 
 To whom used my boy George quaff else, 
 B3' the old fool's side that begot him ? 
 For whom did he cheer and laugh else. 
 While Noll's damned troopers shot him? 
 Chorus. — King Charles, and who'll do 
 him right now ? 
 King Charles, and who 's ripe 
 
 for fight now ? 
 Give a rovise : here 's, in hell's 
 
 despite now, 
 King Charles ! 
 
 4 
 
 III. boot and saddle 
 
 Boot, saddle, to horse and away ! 
 Rescue my castle before tlie hot day 
 Brightens to blue from its silvery gray. 
 Chorus. — Boot, sadille, to horse and 
 away ! 
 
 38 
 
 Ride past the suburbs, asleep as you'd 
 
 say ; 
 Many 's the friend there, will listen and 
 
 pray 
 '"God's luck to gallants that strike up 
 the lay — 
 Chorus. — Boot, saddle, to horse, and 
 away ! " 
 
 Forty miles off, like a roebuck at bay. 
 Flouts Castle Brancepeth the Round- 
 heads' array : 
 Who laughs, " Good fellows ere this, by 
 my fay. 
 Chorus. — Boot, saddle, to horse, and 
 away ! " 
 
 Who ? My wife Gertrude ; that, honest 
 
 and gay, 
 Laughs when vou talk of surrendering, 
 
 " Nay ! 
 I've better counsellors ; what counsel 
 they ? 
 Cho. — Boot, saddle, to horse, and 
 away ! " 1843. 
 
 THROUGH THE METIDJA TO ABD- 
 EL-KADR 
 
 As I ride, as I ride. 
 
 With a full heart for my guide, 
 
 So its tide rocks my side, 
 
 As I ride, as I ride. 
 
 That, as I were double-eyed. 
 
 He, in whom our Tribes confide, 
 
 Is descried, ways untried, 
 
 As I ride, as I ride. 
 
 As I ride, as I ride 
 
 To our Chief and his Allied, 
 
 Who dares chide nry heart's pride 
 
 As I ride, as I ride ? 
 
 Or are witnesses denied — 
 
 Through the desert waste and wide 
 
 Do I glide unespied 
 
 As I ride, as I ride? 
 
 As I ride, as I ride. 
 
 When an inner voice has cried, 
 
 The sands slide, nor abide 
 
 (As I ride, as I ride) 
 
 O'er each visioned homicide 
 
 That came vaunting (has he lied ?) 
 
 To reside — where he died. 
 
 As I ride, as I ride. 
 
 As I ride, as I ride. 
 
 Ne'er has spur my swift horse plied, 
 
 Yet his hide, streaked and pied. 
 
 / 
 
594 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 As I ride, as I ride, 
 
 Shows wliere sweat has sprung and dried, 
 
 — Zebra-footed, ostrich-thiglied — 
 
 How has vied stride with stride 
 
 As I ride, as I ride ! 
 
 As I ride, as I ride. 
 
 Could I loose what Fate has tied, 
 
 Ere I pried, she should hide 
 
 (As I ride, as I ride) 
 
 All tlmfs meant me — satisfied 
 
 Wlien tlie Prophet and the Bride 
 
 Stop veins I'd liave subside 
 
 As I ride, as I ride ! 1842. 
 
 CRISTINA 
 
 She should never have looked at me 
 
 If she meant I should not love her ! 
 There are plenty . . . men you call such, 
 
 I suppose . . . she may discover 
 All her soul to. if she pleases, 
 
 And yet leave much as she found 
 them : 
 But I'm not so, and she knew it 
 
 When she fixed me, glancing round 
 them. 
 
 What? To fix me thus meant nothing? 
 
 But I can't tell (there 's my weakness) 
 What her look said ! — no vile cant, sure. 
 
 About •' need to strew the bleakness 
 Of some lone shore witli its pearl-seed. 
 
 That the sea feels" — no "strange 
 yearning 
 That such souls have, most to lavish 
 
 Where there's chance of least return- 
 
 Oh, we're sunk enough here, God knows! 
 
 But not quite so .sunk that moments. 
 Sure though seldom, are denied us. 
 
 When the spirit's true endowments 
 Stand out plainly from its false ones, 
 
 And apprise it if pursuing 
 Or the rigiit way or the wrong way. 
 
 To its triumph or undoing. 
 
 There are flashes struck from midnights, 
 
 There are tire -flames noondays kindle, 
 Whereby piled-up honors perish, 
 
 Whereby swollen ambitions dwindle. 
 While just this or that poor impvilse. 
 
 Which for once had play unstified. 
 Seems the sole work of a lifetime, 
 
 That away the rest have trifled. 
 
 Doi^bt you if, in some such moment. 
 
 As slie fixed me, she felt clearly, 
 Ages past the soul existed, 
 
 Here an age 't is resting merely, 
 And hence fleets again for ages, 
 
 While the true end, sole and single. 
 It stops here for is, this love-way, 
 
 With some other soul to mingle ? 
 
 Else it loses what it lived for, 
 
 And eternally must lose it ; 
 Better ends may be in prospect, 
 
 Deeper blisses (if you clioose it). 
 But this life's end and this love-bliss 
 
 Have been lost here. Doubt you 
 whether 
 This she, feltTas, looking at me, 
 
 Mine and her souls rushed together? 
 
 Oh, observe ! Of course, next moment, 
 
 The world's honors in derision, 
 Trampled out tlie light forever : 
 
 Never fear but thei'e's provision 
 Of the devil's to quench knowledge 
 
 Lest we walk the earth in rapture ! 
 — Making those who catch God's secret 
 
 Just so much more prize their capture ! 
 
 Sucli am I ; the secret 's mine now ! 
 
 She has lost me, I have gained her ; 
 Her soul's mine : and thus, grown per- 
 fect, 
 
 I shall pass my life's remainder. 
 Life mil just hold out the proving 
 
 Botli our powers, alone and blended : 
 And then come the next life quickly ! 
 
 This world's use will have been ended. 
 
 1842. 
 
 INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP 
 
 You know, we French stormed Ratis- 
 bon : 
 
 A mile or so away, 
 On a little mound. Napoleon 
 
 Stood on our storming-day ; 
 With neck out-thrust, you fancy how, 
 
 Legs wide, arms locked behind, 
 As if to balance the prone brow 
 
 Oppressive with its juind. 
 
 Just as perhaps he mused " Mj' plans 
 
 That soar, to earth may fall. 
 Let once my army-leader Lannes 
 
 Waver at yonder wall," — 
 Out 'twixt the battery-smokes tliere 
 flew 
 
 A rider, bound on bound 
 Full-galloping ; nor bridle drew 
 
 Until he reached tiie mound. 
 
 Then off there flung in smiling joy, 
 And held himself erect 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 595 
 
 By just liis horse's mane, a boj^ : 
 
 You hardly could suspect — 
 (So tight he kept his lips compressed, 
 
 Scarce any blood came through) 
 You looked twice ere you saw his breast 
 
 Was all but shot in two. 
 
 "Well," cried he, " Emperor, by God's 
 grace 
 
 We 've got )^ou Ratisbon ! 
 The Marshal "s in the market-place. 
 
 And you '11 be there anon 
 To see your flag-bird flap his vans 
 
 Where I, to heart's desire, 
 Perched him ! " The chief's eye flashed ; 
 his plans 
 
 Soared up again like flre. 
 
 The chief's ej^e flashed ; but presently 
 
 Softened itself, as sheathes 
 A film the mother-eagle's eye 
 
 When her bruised eaglet breathes ; 
 "You're wounded!" ••Nay," the sol- 
 dier's pride 
 
 Touched to the quick, he said : 
 " I 'm killed. Sire ! " And his chief be- 
 side, 
 
 Smiling the boy fell dead. 1842. 
 
 MY LAST DUCHESS 
 
 FERRARA 
 
 That's my last Duchess painted on the 
 
 wall, 
 Looking as if she were alive. I call 
 That piece a w^onder, now : Fra Pan- 
 
 dolf's hands 
 Worked busily a day, and there she 
 
 stands. 
 Will 't please j^ou sit and look at lier ? I 
 
 said 
 "Fra Pandolf " by design, for never 
 
 read 
 Strangers like j^ou that pictured coun- 
 tenance. 
 The depth and passion of its earnest 
 
 glance, 
 But to myself they tui-ned (since none 
 
 puts by 
 The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) 
 And seemed as they would ask me, if 
 
 they durst, 
 How such a glance came there ; so, not 
 
 the first 
 Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 't 
 
 was not 
 Her husband's presence only, called that 
 
 spot 
 
 Of joy intotiie Duciiess' cheek : perhaps 
 Fra Pandolf chanced to say, '• Her man- 
 tle laps 
 Over my lady's wrist too nuich," or 
 
 •• Paint 
 Must never hope to reproduce the faint 
 Half-flush that dies along her throat : " 
 
 such stutt' 
 Was courtesy, she thought, and cause 
 
 enough 
 For calling up that spot of joy. She had 
 A heart — how shall I say? — too soon 
 
 made glad. 
 Too easily impressed : she liked whate'er 
 She looked on, and her looks went every- 
 where. 
 Sir, 't was all one ! My favor at her 
 
 breast, • 
 
 The dropping of the daylight in the 
 
 West, 
 The bough of cherries some officious 
 
 fool 
 Broke in the orchard for her, the wliite 
 
 mule 
 She rode with round the terrace — all and 
 
 each 
 Would draw from her alike the approv- 
 ing speech, 
 Or blush, at least. She thanked men, — 
 
 good ! but thanked 
 Somehow — I know not how — as if she 
 
 ranked 
 My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old 
 
 name . 
 
 With anybody's gift. / Who 'd stoop to 
 
 blame 
 This sort of trifling ? Even had you skill 
 In speech — (which I have not) — to make 
 
 your will 
 Quite clear to such an one, and say, 
 
 ' ' Just this 
 Or that in you disgusts me ; here you 
 
 miss. 
 Or there exceed the mark " — and if she 
 
 let 
 Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set 
 Her wits to j^ours, forsooth, and made 
 
 excuse, 
 — E'en then would be some stooping ; 
 
 and I choose 
 Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no 
 
 doubt. 
 Whene'er I passed her ; but who passed 
 
 without 
 Much the same smile? This grew ; I 
 
 gave commands ; 
 Tlien all smiles stopped together. There 
 
 she stands ['11 meet 
 
 As 'f alive. Will 't please you rise ? We 
 
59^ 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 The company below, then. I repeat, 
 Tlie Count your master's known munifi- 
 cence 
 Is ample u arrant that no just pretence 
 Of mine for dowry will be tlisallowed ; 
 Though his fair daughter's self, as I 
 
 avowed 
 At starting, is mj- object. Nay, we '11 go 
 Together down. sir. Notice Neptune, 
 
 tliougli. 
 Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity. 
 Whicli Clausof Innsbruck cast in bronze 
 forme! 1842. 
 
 IN A GONDOLA 
 He sings 
 
 I SEND my lieart up to tliee. all my iieart 
 
 In this my singing. 
 For the stars help me, and the sea bears 
 part ; 
 The very night is clinging 
 Closer to Venice' streets to leave one 
 space 
 Above me. whence thy face 
 May light my joyous heart to thee its 
 dwelling place. 
 
 She speaks 
 
 Say after me, and try to say 
 My very words, as if each word 
 Came from you of your own accord, 
 In your own voice, in your own way : 
 " This woman's heart and soul and brain 
 Are mine as much as this gold chain 
 She bids me wear; whicli" (say again) 
 " I choose to make by cherishing 
 A precious thing, or choose to fling 
 Over the boat-side, ring by ring." 
 And yet once more say ... no word 
 
 m( ne ! 
 Since words are onlj^ words. Give o'er ! 
 
 Unless you call me. all the same, 
 
 Familiarly by my pet name, 
 
 Which if the Tlu'ee should hear j'ou call, 
 
 And me reply to, would proclaim 
 
 At once our secret to them all. 
 
 Ask of me, too, command me, blame, — 
 
 Do, break down the partition-wall 
 
 'T wixt us, the daylight world beholds 
 
 Curtained in dusk and splendid folds ! 
 
 What's left but — all of me to take ? 
 
 I am the Three's : prevent them, slake 
 
 Your tliirst ! 'T is said, tlie Arab sage, 
 
 In practising with gems, can loose 
 
 Their subtle spirit in his cruce 
 
 And leave but ashes : so. sweet mage. 
 
 Leave them my ashes when thy use 
 Sucks out my soul, thy heritage ! 
 
 He sings 
 
 Past we glide, and past, and past ! 
 
 Whafs that poor Agnese doing 
 Where they make the shutters fast? 
 
 Gray Zanobi 's just a-wooing 
 To his couch the purchased bride : 
 
 Past we glide ! 
 
 Past we glide, and past, and past! 
 
 Why's the Pucci Palace flaring- 
 Like a beacon to the blast ? 
 
 Guests by hundreds, )iot one caring 
 If the dear host's neck were wried : 
 
 Past we glide ! 
 
 She sings 
 
 The moth's kiss, first ! 
 
 Kiss ine as if you made believe 
 
 You were not sure, this eve. 
 
 How my face, your flower, had piu'sed 
 
 Its petals up; .so, here and tliere 
 
 You brush it, till I grow awaie 
 
 Who wants nie, and wide ope I burst. 
 
 The bee's kiss, now ! 
 Kiss me as if you entered gay 
 My heart at some noonday. 
 A bud that dares not disallow 
 The claim, so all is renderetl up. 
 And passively its shattered cup 
 Over your head to sleep I bow. 
 
 He siiigs 
 
 What are we two ? 
 
 I am a Jew, 
 
 And carrj' thee, farther than friends 
 
 can pursue. 
 To a feast of our tribe ; 
 AVhere they need thee to bribe 
 The devil that blasts them unless he 
 
 imbibe 
 Thy . . . Scatter the vision forever ! 
 
 And now. 
 As of old, I am I, thou art thou ! 
 
 Say again, what we are? 
 
 Tiie sjirite of a star, 
 
 I lure thee above where the destinies bar 
 
 ]\Iy plumes their full i>lay 
 
 Till a ruddier ray 
 
 Than my pale one announce there is 
 
 withering away 
 Some . . . Scatter the vision forever! 
 
 And now. 
 As of old, I am I, thou art thou ! 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 597 
 
 He unifies 
 
 Oh, vvhicli were l)est, to rouin or rest? 
 The land's lai) or the water's breast ? 
 To sleep on yellow millet-sheaves, 
 Or swim in lucid shallows just 
 Eluding water-lily leaves. 
 Au inch from Death's black fingers, 
 
 tln'ust 
 To lock you, whom release he must : 
 Which life were best on Summer eves? 
 
 He S2ieaks. musing 
 
 Lie back ; could thought of mine im- 
 
 |)r<)ve you ? 
 From this shoulder let there spring 
 A wing : from this, another wing : 
 Wings, not legs and feet, shall move 
 
 you ! 
 Snt)w wliite must they spring, to blend 
 With your flesh, but I intend 
 Tliey shall deepen to the end, 
 Broader, into burning gold, 
 Till both wings crescent- wise enfold 
 Your perfect self, from 'neatli your feet 
 To o'er your head, where, lo. they meet 
 As if a million sword-blades hurled 
 Defiance from you to the world ! 
 
 Rescue me thou, the only real ! 
 And scare away this mad ideal 
 Tiiat came, nor motions to dejiart ! 
 Thanks ! N6w, stay ever as thou art ! 
 
 Still he muses 
 
 What if the Three should catch at last 
 Thy serenader? While there 's cast 
 Paul's cloak about my head, and fast 
 Gian pinions me. Himself has past 
 His stNdet through my back ; I reel ; 
 And ... is it thou I feel ? 
 
 Tliey trail me, these tln-ee godless knaves, 
 Past every church that saints and saves. 
 Nor stop till, where the cold sea raves 
 By Lido's wet accursed graves. 
 They scoop mine, roll me to its brink, 
 And ... on thy breast I sink ! 
 
 She replies, musing. 
 
 Dip your arm o'er the boat-side, elbow- 
 deep. 
 
 As I do : thus : were death so unlike 
 sleep. 
 
 Caught tliis way? Death 's to fear from 
 flame or steel. 
 
 Or poison doubtless ; but from water — 
 feel! 
 
 Go find the bottom ! Would jou stay 
 me ? There ! [grass 
 
 Now pluck a great blade of that ribbon- 
 To plait in where tiie foolish jewel was. 
 I flung away : since you have praised 
 
 my hair, 
 'T is proper to be choice in what 1 wear. 
 
 He speaks 
 
 Row home ? must we row home ? Too 
 
 surely 
 Know I where its front 's demurely 
 Over the Giudecca piled ; 
 Window just with window mating, 
 Door on door exactly waiting. 
 All 's the set face of a cliild : 
 But behind it. where 's a trace 
 Of the staidness and reserve. 
 And formal lines without a curve, 
 In the same child's i)laying-f;tce? 
 No two windows look one way 
 O'er the small sea-water thre;i,d 
 Below them. Ah, the autunm day 
 I, passing, saw you overhead ! 
 First, out a cloud of curtain blew. 
 Then a sweet cry, and last came you — 
 To catch your lory that must needs 
 Escape just then, of all times then. 
 To peck a tall plant's fleecy seeds. 
 And make me happiest of men. 
 I scarce could breathe to see you reach 
 So far back o'er tlie balcony 
 To catch him ere he climbed too high 
 Above you in the Smyrna peach. 
 That quick the round smooth cord of 
 
 gold. 
 Tills coiled hair on your head, unrolled, 
 Fell down jou like a gorgeous snake 
 The Roman girls were wont, of old. 
 When Rome tiiere was, for coolness' sake 
 To let lie curling o'er tlieir bosoms. 
 Dear lory, may his beak retain 
 Ever its delicate rose stain 
 As if the wounded lotus-blossoms 
 Had marked their thief to know again ! 
 
 Stay longer yet, for others' sake 
 Than mine ! What should your cham- 
 ber do ? 
 — With all-its rarities that ache 
 Li silence while day lasts, but wake 
 At night-time and their life renew. 
 Suspended just to pleasure you 
 Who brought against their will together 
 These objects, and. wliile day lasts, 
 
 weave 
 Aroinul them such a magic tether 
 That dumb they look : your harp, be- 
 lieve. 
 
598 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 With all the sensitive tight strings 
 Which dare not speak, now to itself 
 Breathes slumberously, as if some elf 
 
 Went in and out the chords, his wings 
 
 Make murmur wlieresoe'er the}- graze. 
 
 As an angel may, between the maze 
 
 Of midnight i)aiace-pillars, on 
 
 And on, to sow God's plagues, have gone 
 
 Tlnough guilty glorious Babylon. 
 
 And while sucli murmurs flow, the 
 
 nymph 
 Bends o'er the harp-top from her shell 
 As the dry limpet for the lympli 
 Come with a tune lie knows so well. 
 And how your statues' hearts must 
 
 swell ! 
 And how j-our pictures must descend 
 To see each other, friend with friend ! 
 Oh, could you take tliem by surprise, 
 You'd find Schidone's eager Duke 
 Doing the quaintest courtesies 
 To that prim saint by Haste-thee-Luke ! 
 And. deeper into her rock den, 
 Bold Castelfranco's Magdalen 
 You'd find retreated from the ken 
 Of that robe-l counsel-keeping Ser — 
 As if tlie Tizian thinks of her. 
 And is not. rather, gravely bent 
 On seeing for liimself what toys 
 Are tliese, his progeny invent. 
 What litter now the board employs 
 Whereon he signed a document 
 Tliat got him nmrdered ! Each enjoys 
 Its night so well, you cannot break 
 The si)ort up, so, indeed must make 
 More stay with me, for otliers' sake. 
 
 She sjyeaks 
 
 To-morrow, if a harp-string, say, 
 Is used to tie the jasmine back 
 That overfloods my room with sweets. 
 Contrive your Zorzi somehow meets 
 My Zanze ! If the ribbon's black. 
 Tlie Three are watching : keep away ! 
 
 Your gondola — let Zorzi wreathe 
 
 A mesh of water-weeds al)out 
 
 Its prow, as if lie unaware 
 
 Had struck some quay or bridge-foot 
 
 stair ! 
 That I may throw a paper out 
 As 3^ou and he go underneath. 
 
 There's Zanze's vigilant taper ; safe are 
 we. [me ? 
 
 Onlj' one minute more to-night with 
 Resume your past self of a month ago ! 
 Be you the bashful gallant, I will be 
 
 The lady with the colder breast than 
 
 snow. 
 Now bow you, as becomes, nor touch 
 
 my hand 
 ]\tore than I touch yours when I step to 
 
 land. 
 And say, " All thanks, Siora ! " — 
 
 Heart to heart 
 And lips to lips ! Yet once more, ere 
 
 we part, 
 Clasp me and make me thine, as mine 
 
 tliou art ! 
 
 [He is surprised, and stabbed. 
 It was ordained to be .so, sweet ! — and 
 
 best 
 Comes now, beneath thine eyes, upon 
 
 thy breast. 
 Still kiss me ! Care not for the cowards ! 
 
 Care 
 Only to put aside thy beauteous hair 
 My blood will hurt! The Three, I do 
 
 not scorn 
 To death. Ijecause they never lived : but I 
 Have lived indeed, and .so — (yet one 
 
 more kiss) — can die ! 1842 
 
 THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN 
 
 A child's story 
 
 (Written for, nvd inscribed to, W. M. 
 the Younger.) * 
 
 Hamelin Town 's in Brunswick, 
 
 By famous Hanover city ;. 
 Tlie rjver Weser, deep and wide. 
 Waslies its wall on tlie soutliern sid< 
 A pleasanter spot you never spied ; 
 
 But, wlien begins my dittv'. 
 
 Almost five hundred years ago, 
 To see the townsfolk suffer so 
 From vermin, was a pity. 
 
 Rats! 
 They fought the dogs and killed the cats, 
 
 And bit the babies in tlae cradles, 
 And ate tlie cheeses out of the vats. 
 
 And licked the .soup from the cooks' 
 own ladles. 
 Split open the kegs of salted sprats. 
 Made nests inside men's Sunday hats, 
 And even spoiled the women's chats 
 
 By drowning their speaking 
 
 With slirieking and squeaking 
 In fifty different sharps and flats. 
 
 > The son of William Macready, the famous 
 actor. 
 
 { 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 599 
 
 At last the people in a body 
 
 To the Town Hall came flonking : 
 " 'T is clear," cried they, " our Mayor 's 
 a noddy ; 
 And as for our Corporation — shocking 
 To think we buy gowns lined with 
 
 ermine 
 For dolts tliat can't or won't determine 
 Wliat 's best to rid us of our vermin ! 
 You hope, because j^ou 're old and obese, 
 To find in the furry civic robe ease ? 
 Rouse up, sirs ! Give your brains a rack- 
 ing 
 To find the remedy we 're lacking, 
 Or, sure as fate, we '11 send you pack- 
 ing ! " 
 At this the Mayor and Corporation 
 Quaked witli a mighty consternation. 
 
 An hour they sat in council ; 
 
 At length the Mayor broke silence : 
 " For a guilder I 'd my ermine gown 
 sell, 
 
 I wish I were a mile hence ! 
 It "s easj' to bid one rack one's brain — 
 I 'm sure my poor head aches again. 
 I 've scratched it so, and all in vain. 
 Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap ! " 
 Just as he said this, what should hap 
 At the chamber-door but a gentle tap ? 
 " Bless us," cried the Mayor, "what's 
 
 that ? " 
 (With the Corporation as he sat. 
 Looking little though wondrous fat ; 
 Nor brighter was liis eye, nor moister 
 Than a too-long-opened oyster. 
 Save wlien at noon his paunch grew 
 
 mutinous 
 For a plate of turtle green and glutinous) 
 " Only a scraping of shoes on the mat ? 
 An}-thing like the sound of a rat 
 Makes my heart go pit-a-pat ! " 
 
 " Come in ! " — the Mayor cried, looking 
 
 _ bigger : 
 And in did come the strangest figure ! 
 His queer long coat from heel to head 
 Was half of yellow and half of red. 
 And he himself was tall and thin. 
 With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin, 
 And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin. 
 No tuft on cheek nor beard on chin. 
 But lips where smiles went out and in ; 
 There was no guessing his kith and kin 
 And nobody could enough admire 
 
 Tlie tall man and his (piaint attire. 
 
 Quoth one : " It 's as my great-grand- 
 sire. 
 
 Starting up at tlie Trnini) of Doom's 
 tone. 
 
 Had walked this way from his painted 
 tombstone ! " 
 
 VI 
 
 He advanced to the council-table : 
 And, " Please your honors," said he, 
 
 " I 'm able. 
 By means of a secret charm, to draw 
 All creatures living beneath the sun, 
 That creep or swim or fly or run. 
 After me so as you never saw ! 
 And I chiefly use my charm 
 On creatures that do people harm. 
 The mole and toad and newt and viper ; 
 And people call me the Pied Piper." 
 (And here they noticed round his neck 
 A scarf of red and yellow stripe, 
 To match with his coat of the self-same 
 
 check ; 
 And at the scarf's end hung a pipe ; 
 And his fingers, they noticed, were ever 
 
 straying 
 As if impatient to be playing 
 Upon this pipe, as low it dangled 
 Over his vesture so old-fangled.) 
 " Yet," said he, '" poor piper as I am, 
 In Tartary I freed the Cham. 
 Last June, from his huge swarms of 
 
 gnats ; 
 I eased in Asia the Nizam 
 Of a monstrous brood of vampire-bats: 
 And as for what your brain bewilders, 
 If I can rid your town of rnts 
 Will 3'ou give mea thousand guilders ? " 
 "One? fifty thousand!" — was the ex- 
 clamation 
 Of the astonished Mayor and Corpora- 
 tion. 
 
 Into the street the Piper stepped. 
 
 Smiling first a little smile. 
 As if he knew what magic slept 
 
 In liis quiet pipe the while ; 
 Then, like a musical adept. 
 To blow the pipe his lii)s he wrinkled. 
 And green and blue his sharp eyes 
 
 twinkled. 
 Like a candle-flame where salt is 
 
 sprinkled ; 
 And ere tliree shrill notes the pipe 
 
 uttei-ed. 
 You heard as if an army muttered ; 
 And the muttering grew to a grumbling ; 
 
6oo 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 And the grumbling grew to a mighty 
 
 rumbling ; 
 And out of the houses the rats came 
 
 tumbling. 
 Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny 
 
 rats. 
 Brown rats, black rats, graj' rats, tawny 
 
 rats. 
 Grave old plodders, gay young f riskers, 
 
 Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, 
 Cocking tails and pricking wliiskers, 
 
 Families by tens and dozens. 
 Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives^ 
 Followed tlie Piper for their lives. 
 From street to street he piped advanc- 
 
 And step for step they followed dancing, 
 Until they came to the river Weser, 
 Wherein all plunged and perished ! 
 — Save one who. stout as Julius Caesar, 
 Swam across and lived to carry 
 (As he, tlie manuscript he cherished) 
 To Rat-land home his commentary : 
 Which was. " At the first shrill notes of 
 
 the pipe, 
 I heard a sound as of scraping tripe, 
 And putting apples, wondrous ripe, 
 Into a cider-press's gripe : 
 And a moving away of i^ickle-tub-boards. 
 And a leaving ajar of conserve-cup- 
 boards. 
 And a drawing the corks of train-oil- 
 flasks. 
 And a breaking tlie hoops of butter- 
 casks : 
 And it seemed as if a voice 
 (Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery 
 Is breathed) called out, ' Oh rats, re- 
 joice ! 
 The world is grown to one vast dry- 
 saltery ! 
 So munch on, crunch on, take your 
 
 nuncheon, 
 Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon ! ' 
 And just as a bulky sugar puncheon. 
 All ready staved, like a great sun shone 
 Glorious scarce an incli before me. 
 Just as methought it said, ' Come, bore 
 
 me ! ' 
 — I found the Weser rolling o'er me." 
 
 You should have heard the Hamelin 
 people 
 
 Ringing the bells till tliey rocked tlie 
 steeple. 
 
 "Go." cried the Mayor, "and get long- 
 poles, [holes ! 
 
 Poke out the nests and block up the 
 
 Consult witli carpenters and builders. 
 And leave in our town not even a trace 
 Of the rats ! " — when suddenly, up the 
 
 face 
 Of the Piper perked in the market-place, 
 Witli a. " First, if you please, my thou- 
 sand guilders ! " 
 
 A thousand guilders ! Tlie Mayor looked 
 
 blue ; 
 So did the Corporation too. 
 For council dinners made rare havoc 
 Witli Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, 
 
 Hock ; 
 And half the money would replenish 
 Their cellar's biggest b\itt\vith Rhenish. 
 To pay this sum to a wandering fellow 
 With a gypsy coat of red and 3'ellow ! 
 " Beside,"' quoth the Mayor with a 
 
 knowing wink, 
 "Our business was done at the river's 
 
 brink ; 
 We saw witli our eyes the vermin .sink. 
 And what 's dead can't come to life, I 
 
 think. 
 So. friend, we 're not the folks to shrink 
 From the duty of giving you something 
 
 for drink, 
 And a matter of money to put in your 
 
 poke ; 
 But as for the guilders, what we spoke 
 Of them, as you veiy well know, was in 
 
 joke. 
 Beside, our losses have made us thrifty. 
 A thousand guilders ! Come, take fifty ! " 
 
 The Piper's face fell, and he cried, 
 " No trifling ! I can't wait, beside ! 
 I 've promised to visit by dinner time 
 Bagdad, and accept the prime 
 Of the Head-Cook's pottage, all he 's 
 
 rich in. 
 For having left, in the Calipli's kitchen, 
 Of a nest of scorpions no survivor : 
 With liim I proved no bargain-driver. 
 With you, don't think I'll bate a stiver ! 
 And folks wlio put me in a passion 
 May find me pipe after another fashion." 
 
 XI 
 
 " How ? " cried the Mayor, " d'ye think 
 
 I brook 
 Being worse treated than a Cook? 
 Insulted by a lazy ribald 
 With idle pipe and vesture piebald ? 
 You threaten us, fellow ? Do your worst, 
 Blow j^our pipe there till you l)urst I " 
 
 I 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 6oi 
 
 Once more he stepped iuto the sti'eet, 
 
 And to his lips again 
 Laid his long pipe of smooth straight 
 
 cane ; 
 And ere he blew three notes (such 
 
 sweet 
 Soft notes as j^et musician's cunning 
 
 Never gave the enraptured air) 
 There was a rustling that seemed like a 
 
 bustling 
 Of merry crowds justling at pitching 
 
 and hustling ; 
 Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes 
 
 clattering. 
 Little hands clapping and little tongues 
 
 chattering, 
 And, like fowls in a farm-yard when 
 
 barley is scattering. 
 Out came the children running. 
 All the little boys and girls, 
 Witli rosy cheeks and flaxen curls. 
 And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls. 
 Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after 
 The wonderful music with shouting and 
 
 laughter. 
 
 The Mayor was dumb, and the Council 
 
 stood 
 As if they were changed into blocks of 
 
 wood. 
 Unable to move a step, or cry 
 To the children merrily skipping by, 
 — Could only follow with the eye 
 That joyous crowd at the Piper's back. 
 But how the Mayor was on tiie rack. 
 And the wretched Council's bosoms beat. 
 As the Piper turned from tlie High Street 
 To where the Weser rolled its waters 
 Right in the way of their sons and daugh- 
 ters ! 
 However, he turned from South to West, 
 And to Koppelberg Hill his steps ad- 
 dressed , 
 And after hini tliQ children pressed ; 
 Great was the joy in every breast. 
 " He never can cross tliat mighty top ! 
 He 's forced to let the piping drop, 
 And we shall see our children stop ! " 
 When, lo, as they reached the mountain- 
 side, 
 A wondrous portal opened wide. 
 As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed ; 
 And the Piper advanced and the cliildren 
 
 followed. 
 And when all were in to the very last. 
 The door in the mountain-side shut fast. 
 
 Did I say all ? No ! One was lame. 
 And could not dance the whole of the 
 
 way ; 
 And in after years if you would blame 
 His sadness, he was used to say. — 
 " It 's dull in our town since my play- 
 mates left ! 
 I can't forget that I'm bereft 
 Of all tiie pleasant sights they see. 
 Which the Piper also promised nie. 
 For he led us, he said, to a joyous land, 
 Joining the town and just at hand, 
 Where waters gushed and fruit-trees 
 
 grew 
 And flowers put forth a fairer hue, 
 And everything was strange and new ; 
 The sparrows were brighter than pea- 
 cocks here, 
 And their dogs outran our fallow deer, 
 And honey-bees had lost their stings. 
 And horses were born with eagles' 
 
 wings ; 
 And just as I became assured 
 My lame foot would be speedily cured, 
 The music stopped and I stood still. 
 And found myself outside the hill, 
 Left alone against my will. 
 To go now limping as before. 
 And never hear of that country more ! " 
 
 Alas, alas for Hamelin ! 
 
 There came into many a bui'gher's pate 
 
 A text which says that heaven's gate 
 
 Opes to the rich at as easy rate 
 As the needle's eye takes a camel in ! * 
 The Mayor sent East, West, North and 
 
 South, 
 To offer the Piper, by word of mouth. 
 
 Wherever it was men's lot to find him, 
 Silver and gold to his heart's content, 
 If he 'd only return the way he went, 
 
 And bring the children behind him. 
 But when they saw 't was a lost en- 
 deavor. 
 And Pii)er and dancers were gone for- 
 ever. 
 They made a decree that lawyers never 
 
 Should think their records dated duly 
 If, after the day of the month and year, 
 These words did not as well aj)pear. 
 " And so long after what hap]iened here 
 
 On the Twenty-second of July, 
 Thirteen hundred and seventy-six : " 
 And the better in memory to fix 
 Tlie place of the cliildren's last retreat, 
 They called it, tlie Pied Piper's Street — 
 Where any one playing on pipe or tabor 
 Was sure for the future to lose his labor. 
 
6o2 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Nor suffered they hostelry or tavern 
 To sliock with niirtli a street so 
 solemn ; 
 But opposite the place of. the cavern 
 They wrote the story on a column. 
 And on the great church-window painted 
 The same, to make tiie world acquainted 
 How their children were stolen away, 
 And there it stands to this very day. 
 And I must not omit to say 
 Tliat in Transylvania there 's a tribe 
 Of alien people who ascribe 
 Tlie outlandish ways and dress 
 On which their neighbors lay such stress. 
 To their fathers and mothers having 
 
 risen 
 Out of some subterraneous prison 
 Into wliicli they were trepanned 
 Long time ago in a miglity band 
 Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land, 
 But how or wh}^ they don't understand. 
 
 So, Willy, let me and you be wipers 
 Of scores out with all men — especially 
 
 pipers ! 
 And, whether they pipe us free from rats 
 
 or from mice. 
 If we've promised them aught, let us 
 
 keep our promise ! 1842. 
 
 RUDEL TO THE LADY OF TRIPOLI 
 
 I KNOW a Mount, the gracious Sun per- 
 ceives 
 
 First, when he visits, last, too, when he 
 leaves 
 
 The world ; and, vainly favored, it repays 
 
 The day-long glory of his steadfast gaze 
 
 By^ no change of its large calm front of 
 snow. 
 
 And underneath the Mount, a Flower I 
 know. 
 
 He cannot have perceived, that changes 
 ever 
 
 At his approach; and, in the lost en- 
 deavor 
 
 To live liis life, has parted, one by one. 
 
 With all a flower's true graces, for the 
 grace 
 
 Of being but a foolish mimic sun. 
 
 With ray-like florets round a disk-like 
 face. 
 
 Men nobly call by many a name the 
 Mount 
 
 As over many a land of tlieirs its large 
 
 Calm front of snow like a triumphal 
 targe 
 
 Is reared, and still with old names, fresh 
 
 names vie, 
 Eacli to its proper praise and own 
 
 account : 
 Men call the Flower the Sunflower, 
 
 sportively. 
 
 Oh. Angel of the East, one, one gold loot 
 Across the waters to this twilight nook, 
 — The far sad waters. Angel, to this 
 nook I 
 
 III 
 
 Dear Pilgrim, art thou for tlie East in- 
 deed ? 
 Go ! — saying ever as thou dost proceed, 
 Tiiat I. French Rudel, chot>se for my 
 
 device 
 A sunflower outspread like a sacrifice 
 Before its idol. See ! These inexpert 
 And hurried fingers could not fail to 
 
 hurt 
 The woven picture ; 't is a woman's skill 
 Indeed ; but nothing baffled me, so, ill 
 Or well, the work is finished. Say, men 
 
 feed 
 On songs I sing, and therefore bask the 
 
 bees 
 On my flower's breast as on a platform 
 
 broad : 
 But as tiie flower's concern is not for 
 
 these 
 But solely for the sun, so men applaud 
 In vain this Rudel. he not looking here 
 But to the East— the East ! Go, .sav this. 
 
 Pilgrim dear ! f842. 
 
 THERE'S A WOMAN LIKE A DEW- 
 DROP 
 
 [from a blot in the scutcheon] 
 
 There 's a woman like a dewdrop, she 's 
 so purer tlian the purest ; 
 
 And her noble heart 's the noblest, yes. 
 and her sure faith 's the surest : 
 
 And her eyes are dark and humid, like 
 the depth on depth of lustre 
 
 Hid i' the harebell, while her tresses, sun- 
 nier than the wild-grape cluster, 
 
 Gush in golden-tinted plenty down her 
 neck's rose-misted marble : 
 
 Then her voice's music . . . call it the 
 well's bubbling, the bird's warble ! 
 
 And this woman sa^'s, " My days were 
 sunless and my nights were moon- 
 less, 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 603 
 
 Parched the pleasant April herbage, and 
 the lark's heart's outbreak tune- 
 less, 
 
 If you loved me not ! " And I who — (ali, 
 for words of liame !) adore her, 
 
 Wlio am mad to lay my spirit prostrate 
 palpably before her — 
 
 I may enter at her portal soon, as now 
 her lattice takes me. 
 
 And by noontide as by midnight make 
 her mine, as hers she makes 
 me ! 1843. 
 
 THE LOST LEADER ' 
 
 Just for a handful of silver he left us. 
 
 Just for a riband to stick in his coat — 
 Found tl\e one gift of which fortune be- 
 reft us, 
 Lost all the others she lets us devote ; 
 They, with the gold to give, doled him 
 out silver, 
 So mucli was theirs who so little al- 
 lowed : 
 How all our copper had gone for liis 
 service ! 
 Rags — were they pur2)le, liis heart liad 
 been proud ! 
 
 1 Brovvnius atlinitted that in writing this poem 
 he had Wordswortli in mind, but insisted that he 
 did not mean it as an exact portrait of Words- 
 worth. Browning's mature judfrment on (he 
 matter is best expressed in his own words : •' I 
 did in my hasty youth presume to use tlie jrreat 
 and venerated personality of Wordsworth as a 
 sort of painter's model; one from which this oi- 
 the other particular feature may be sek'cled 
 an<l turned to account ; had 1 intended luorc 
 above all, such a boldness as portraying the en- 
 tire man, I should not have talked about 'hand- 
 fuls of silver and bits of ribbon.' These never 
 influenced the change of politics in the great 
 poet, whose defection, nevertheless, accom- 
 panied as it was by a regular face-about of Ids 
 special party, was to my juvenile apprehension, 
 and even mature consideration, an event to de- 
 plore." See also ]Mrs. Orr's Browning (Life and 
 Letters), I, 191. Compare Shelley's early Sonnet 
 
 TO WORDSWORTH 
 
 Poet of Nature, thou hast wept to know 
 That things depart wliich never may return : 
 Childhood and youth, friendship and love's first 
 
 glow. 
 Have tied like sweet dreams, leaving thee to 
 
 mourn. 
 These common woes I feel. One loss is mine 
 Which thou too feel'st, yet I alone deplore. 
 Thou wert as a lone star, whose light did shine 
 On some frail bark in winter's midnight roar : 
 Thou hast like to a rock-built refuge stood 
 Above the blind and battling multitude : 
 In honored poverty thy voice did weave 
 Songs consecrate to truth and liberty,— 
 Deserting these, thou leavest me to grieve. 
 Thus having been, that thou shouldst cease to 
 
 be. 1815. 1816. 
 
 We that had loved him so, followed him, 
 honored him. 
 Lived in his mild and magnificent 
 ey©: 
 Learned his great language, caught his 
 clear accents, 
 Made him our pattern to live and to 
 die ! 
 Shakespeare was of us, Jlilton was for 
 us. 
 Burns, Shelley, were with us, — they 
 watcli from their graves ! 
 He alone breaks from the van and the 
 freemen, 
 — He alone sinks to tiie rear and the 
 slaves ! 
 We shall marcli pi'ospering, — • not 
 through his presence ; 
 Songs may inspirit us^ — not from his 
 hre ; 
 Deeds will be done, — while he boasts his 
 quiescence. 
 Still bidding crouch whom tlie rest 
 bade aspire : 
 Blot out his name, tlien, record one lost 
 soul more. 
 One task more declined, one more 
 footpath untnxl. 
 One more devils'-triiimph and sorrow for 
 angels. 
 One wrong more to man, one more in- 
 sult to God ! 
 Life's night begins : let him never come 
 back to us ! 
 Tliere would be doubt, liesitation and 
 pain, 
 i\)rce(l jnaise on our part — tlie glimmer 
 of twilight. 
 Never glad confident morning again ! 
 Best fight on well, for we tauglit liiui — 
 strike gallantly. 
 Menace our heart ere we master his 
 own ; 
 Then let him receive the new knowledge 
 and wait us, 
 Pardoned in heaven, the first by the 
 throne ! 184.5. 
 
 HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD ^ 
 NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX 1 
 
 I SPRANG to the stirrup, and Joris, and 
 
 he ; 
 I galloped, Dirck gallojied, we galloped 
 
 all three ; 
 
 • This galloping ballad, which lias no historical 
 foundation, was written at sea, off Cape St. 
 Vincent. See Mrs. Orr's Browning, I, 144-45. 
 
6o4 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 " Good .speed ! " cried the watch, as the 
 gatebolts undrew ; 
 
 " Sjjeed ! '* echoed the wall to us gallop- 
 ing through : 
 
 Behind shut the postern, the lights sank 
 to rest, 
 
 And into tlie niidniglit we galloped 
 abreast. 
 
 Not a word to each otlier ; we kept the 
 
 great jmce 
 Neck by neck, stride by stride-, never 
 
 changing our place ; 
 I turned in my saddle and made its 
 
 girths tight. 
 Tiien shortened each stirruj:), and set tlie 
 
 pique rig] it, 
 Rebuckled tlie cheek-strap, (chained 
 
 .slacker the bit. 
 Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit. 
 
 "T was moonset at starting ; but while 
 
 we <lrew near 
 Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight 
 
 dawned clear ; 
 At Boom, a great yellow star came out 
 
 to see ; 
 At Diiffeld, 't was morning as plain as 
 
 could be : 
 And from Mecheln church-steeple we 
 
 heard the half-chime. 
 So Joris broke silence with, " Yet there 
 
 is time ! " 
 
 At Aershot, np leaped of a sudden the 
 
 sun. 
 And against him the cattle stood black 
 
 every one, [ing past. 
 
 To stare through the mist at us gallop- 
 And I saw my stout galloper Roland at 
 
 last. 
 With resolute shoulders, each butting 
 
 away 
 Tlie haze, as some bluff river headland 
 
 its spray : 
 
 And his low head and crest, just one 
 
 sharp ear bent back 
 For my voice, and the other pricked out 
 
 on his track ; 
 And one eye's black intelligence, — ever 
 
 that glance 
 O'er its wliite edge at me, liis own 
 
 master, askance ! 
 And the thick heavy spume-flakes wliich 
 
 aye and anon [ing on. 
 
 His fierce lips sliook upwards in gallop- 
 By Has.selr. Dirck groaned ; and cried 
 
 Joris, '■ Sta}' sjiur I 
 
 Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault "s 
 
 not in her. 
 We '11 remember at Aix " — foronelieard 
 
 the quick wheeze 
 Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and 
 
 staggering knees, 
 And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the 
 
 tiank, 
 As down on her haunches she shuddered 
 
 and sank. 
 
 So, we were left galloping, Joris and I, 
 Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in 
 
 the sky ; [l^^ugb. 
 
 The broad sun above laughed a pitiless 
 'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright 
 
 stubble like chaff ; 
 Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang 
 
 white. 
 And "(xallop,'" gasped Joris, " for Aix is 
 
 in sight ! "' 
 
 " How they "11 greet us ! " — and all in a 
 moment liis roan 
 
 Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as 
 a stone ; 
 
 And there was my Roland to bear the 
 whole weiglit 
 
 Of the news whicli alone could save Aix 
 from lier fate. 
 
 With his nostrils like pits full of blood to 
 the brim. 
 
 And with circles of red for his eye- 
 sockets' rim. 
 
 Tlien I cast loose nw butfcoat, each hol- 
 ster let fall. 
 
 Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt 
 and all, [his ear. 
 
 Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted 
 
 Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse 
 without peer ; 
 
 Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, 
 any noise, bad or good, 
 
 Till at length into Aix Roland galloped 
 and stood. 
 
 And all I remember is — friends flocking 
 round 
 
 As I sat with his head 'twixt mj' knees 
 on the ground : 
 
 And no voice but was praising this Rol- 
 and of mine, 
 
 As I poured down his throat our last 
 measure of wine, 
 
 Wliich (tlie burgesses voted by common 
 consent) 
 
 Was no more than his due wlio brought 
 good news from Ghent. 
 
 1SJ8. 1845. 
 
/ 
 
 ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 605 
 
 / EARTH'S IMMORTALITIES 
 
 FAME 
 
 See, as the prettiest graves will do in 
 
 time, 
 Our poet's wants tlie freshness of its 
 
 prime ; 
 Spite of the sexton's browsing horse, the 
 
 sods 
 llave struggled through its binding osier 
 
 rods ; 
 Headstone and half-sunk footstone lean 
 
 awry. 
 Wanting the brick-work promised by- 
 
 and-by ; 
 How the minute gray lichens, plate o'er 
 
 plate, 
 Have softened down the ci*isp-cut name 
 
 and date ! 
 
 So, the year 's done with ! 
 
 {Love nie furevev !) 
 All March begun with, 
 
 April's endeavor ; 
 May-wreaths that bound me 
 
 June needs must sever ; 
 Now snows fall lound me. 
 
 Quenching June's fever — 
 
 {Love me forever ! ) 
 
 1845. 
 
 MEETING AT NIGHT 
 
 The gray sea and the long black land : 
 And the yellow half-moon large and low ; 
 And the startled little waves that leap 
 In fiery ringlets from their sleep. 
 As I gain the cove with pushing prow. 
 And quench its speed i' the slushy sand. 
 
 Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach ; 
 Three fields to cross till a farm appears ; 
 A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch 
 And blue spurt of a lighted match, 
 And a voice less loud, through its joys 
 
 and fears, 
 Than the two heartsbeating each to each ! 
 
 1845. 
 
 PARTING AT MORNING 
 
 Round the cape of a sudden came the sea. 
 And the sun looked over the mountain's 
 
 rim : 
 And straight was a path of gold for him, 
 And the need of a world of men for me. 
 
 1845. 
 
 SONG 
 
 Nay but you, who do not love her. 
 Is she not pure gold, my mistress? 
 
 Holds earth aught — speak truth — above 
 her ? 
 Auglit like this tress, see, and this tress, 
 
 And this last fairest tress of all. 
 
 So fair, see, ere I let it fall? 
 
 Because you spend your lives in praising ; 
 To praise, you search the wide world 
 over : 
 Then why not witness, calmly gazing. 
 If earth holds aught — speak truth — 
 above her ? 
 Above this tress, and this, I touch 
 But cannot praise, I love so much ! 
 
 1845. 
 
 HOME-THOUGHTS, FRO:\I ABROAD 
 
 Oh, to be in England 
 
 Now tliat April 's there. 
 
 And whoever wakes in England 
 
 Sees, some morning, unaware. 
 
 That the lowest bouglis and the brush- 
 wood sheaf 
 
 Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf. 
 
 While the chaffinch sings on the orchard 
 bough 
 
 In England — now ! 
 
 And after April, when May follows. 
 
 And tlie wliitetlu-oat builds, and all the 
 swallows ! 
 
 Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in 
 the hedge 
 
 Leans to the field and scatters on the 
 clover 
 
 Blossoms and dewdrops — at the bent 
 
 spray's edge- 
 That 's the wise thrush ; he sings each 
 song twice over. 
 
 Lest you should think he never could re- 
 capture 
 
 The first fine careless rapture ! 
 
 And though the fields look rough witii 
 hoary dew. 
 
 All will be gay when noontide wakes 
 anew 
 
 The buttercups, the little children's 
 dower 
 
 — Far brighter than this gaudy melon- 
 flower ! 1845. 
 
 HOME-THOUGHTS, FROM THE SEA 
 
 Nobly, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the 
 Northwest died awav ; 
 
 ^ 
 
 i 
 
6o6 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 I 
 
 Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reek- 
 ing into Cadiz Bay ; 
 
 Bluisli 'mid the burning water, full in 
 face Trafalgar lay ; 
 
 In the dimmest Northeast distance 
 dawned Gibraltar grand and gray ; 
 
 " Here and here did England help me : 
 how can I help England?" — say, 
 
 Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to 
 
 God to praise and pray. 
 While Jove's planet rises vonder, silent 
 /Over Africa. ' 1838. 1845. 
 
 ^ 
 
 TIME'S REVENGES 
 
 I 'VE a Friend, over the sea ; 
 
 I like him, but he loves me. 
 
 It all grew out of the books I write ; 
 
 Tliey find such favor in liis sight 
 
 Tliat he slaughters you with savage looks 
 
 Because you don't admire my books. 
 
 He does himself tliough,- — and if some 
 
 vein 
 Were to snap to-night in this heavy 
 
 brain, 
 To-morrow month, if I lived to try. 
 Round should I just turn quietly, 
 Or out of tlie bedclothes stretch my hand 
 Till I found him, come from his foreign 
 
 land 
 To be my nurse in this poor place, 
 And make my broth and waali my face 
 And liglit my fire and. all the while, 
 Bear with his old good-humored smile 
 Tliat I told him " Better have kept away 
 Tlian come and kill me, niglitand day. 
 With, worse than fever throbs and 
 
 shoots, 
 The creaking of his clumsy boots." 
 I am as sure that this he would do. 
 As that Saint Paul's is striking two. 
 And I think I rather . . woe is me ! 
 
 — Yes, rather should see him than not 
 
 see. 
 If lifting a hand could seat him there 
 Before me in the empty chair 
 To-night, when my head aches indeed. 
 And I can neither think nor read. 
 Nor make tliese j^urple fingers liold 
 Tlie pen ; this garret's freezing cold ! 
 
 And I've a Lady — there he wakes, 
 Tlie laughing fiend and prince of snakes 
 Within me, at her name, to pray 
 Fate send some creature in the way 
 Of my love for her, to be down-torn, 
 Ui)tlirust ami outward-borne, 
 
 So I might prove myself that sea 
 Of passion wliich I needs must be ! 
 Call my tliouglits false and my fancies 
 
 quaint 
 And my style infirm and its figures faint. 
 All the critics say, and more blame yet. 
 And not one angry word you get. 
 But, please you, wonder I would put 
 My cheek beneath that lady's foot 
 Rather than trample under mine 
 The laurels of the Florentine, 
 And you shall see how the devil spends 
 A fire God gave for other ends ! 
 I tell you, I ride up and down 
 This garret, crowned with love's best 
 
 crown. 
 And feasted with love's perfect feast, 
 To think I kill for her, at lea.st. 
 Body and soul and peace and fame, 
 Alike youth's end and manhood's aim, 
 ■ — So is my spirit, as flesh with sin, 
 Filled full, eaten out and in 
 With the face of her, the eyes of her. 
 The lips, the little chin, the stir 
 Of shadow round lier mouth ; and she 
 — I '11 tell j^ou — calmly would decree 
 Tiiat I should roast at a slow fire, 
 If that would compass her desire 
 And make her one whom they invite 
 To the famous ball to-mori-ow night. 
 
 There may be heaven ; there must be 
 
 hell ; 
 Meantime, there is our earth here — 
 
 well! 1845. 
 
 THE ITALIAN IN ENGLAND i-^ 
 
 That second time they liunted me 
 From hill to plain, from siiore to sea. 
 And Austria, hounding far and wide 
 Her blood-hounds through the country- 
 side, 
 Breathed hot and instant on my trace, — 
 I made six days a hiding-place 
 Of that dry green old aqueduct 
 Where I and Charles, when boys, have 
 
 plucked 
 Tlie fire-flies from the roof above, 
 Briglit creeping through the moss they 
 
 love : 
 — How long it seems since Charles was 
 
 lost! 
 Six days the soldiers crossed and crossed 
 Tlie country in iny very sight ; 
 And when that peril ceased at night. 
 The sky bi'oke out in red dismay 
 With signal fires ; well, there I lay 
 Close covered o'er in my recess, 
 
 I 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 607 
 
 Up to the neck in ferns and cress, 
 Thinking on Metternicli our friend, 
 And Cliarles's miserable end, 
 And much beside, two days ; the third, 
 Hunger o'ercame me when I lieard 
 The peasants from the village go 
 To work among the maize ; you know, 
 With us in Lombardy, tiiey bring 
 Provisions packed on mules, a string 
 With little bells that cheer their task, 
 And casks, and boughs on every cask 
 To keep the sun's heat from tlie wine ; 
 These I let pass in jingling line. 
 And, close on them, dear noisy crew, 
 The peasants from the village, too ; 
 For at the very rear would troop 
 Their wives and sisters in a group 
 To help, I knew. Wlien these had 
 
 passed, 
 I threw my glove to strike the last, 
 Taking the chance : she did not start. 
 Much less cry out, but stooped apart. 
 One instant rapidly glanced round, 
 And saw me beckon from tlie ground ; 
 A wild bush grows and liides my crypt : 
 She picked my glove up while she 
 
 stripped 
 A branch off, then rejoined the rest 
 With that ; my glove lay in her breast. 
 Then I drew breath: they disappeared: 
 It was for Italy I feareil. 
 
 An hour, and she returned alone 
 Exactly where my glove was tlirown. 
 Meanwhile came many thoughts ; on me 
 Rested the hopes of Italy ; 
 I had devised a certain tale 
 Which, when 't was told her, could not 
 
 fail 
 Persuade a peasant of its truth ; 
 I meant to call a freak of youth 
 This hiding, and give hopes of pay, 
 And no temptation to betray. 
 But when I saw that woman's face, 
 Its calm simplicity of grace. 
 Our Italy's own attitude 
 In which she walked thus far, and stood, 
 Planting each naked foot so firm. 
 To crush the snake and spare tlie worm — 
 At first sight of her eyes, I said, 
 " I am that man upon whose head 
 They fix the price, because I hate 
 The Austrians over us : the State 
 Will give you gold — oh, gold so much ! — 
 If you betray me to their clutch. 
 And be your death, for aught I know. 
 If once they find you saved their foe. 
 Now, you must bring me food and drink. 
 And also paper, pen and ink. 
 
 And carry safe what I shall write 
 
 To Padua, which you'll reach at night 
 
 Before the duomo shuts ; go in, 
 
 And wait till Tenebra^ begin ; 
 
 Walk to the third confessional. 
 
 Between the pillar and the wall, 
 
 And kneeling whisper, Whence comes 
 
 peace 9 
 Say it a second time, then cease ; 
 And if the voice inside returns. 
 From Christ and Freedom. ; what concerns 
 The cause of Peace .s*— for answer, slip 
 My letter where you placed your lip ; 
 Then come back happy we have done 
 Our mother service — I. the son. 
 As you the daughter of our land ! " 
 
 Three mornings more, she took her 
 stand 
 In the same place, with the same eyes : 
 I was no surer of sunrise 
 Than of her coming. We conferred 
 Of her own prospects, and I heard 
 She had a lover — stout and tall. 
 She said— then let her eyelids fall, 
 " He could do much "—as if some doubt 
 Entered her heart,— then, passing out, 
 " She could not speak for others, who 
 Had other thoughts ; herself she knew : " 
 And so she brought me diink and food. 
 After four days, tlie scouts pursued 
 Another path ; at last arrived 
 The help my Pad nan friends contrived 
 To furnish me : she brought the news. 
 For the first time I could not choose 
 But kiss her hand, and lay my own 
 Upon her head— "This faith was shown 
 To Italy, our mother ; she 
 Uses my hand and blesses thee." 
 She followed down to the sea-shore ; 
 I left and never saw her more. 
 
 How very long since I have thought 
 Concerning— mvich less wished for— 
 
 aught 
 Beside the good of Italy, 
 For which I live and mean to die ! 
 I never was'in love ; and since 
 Charles proved false, what shall now 
 
 convince 
 My inmost heart I have a friend? 
 However, if I pleased to s])end 
 Real wishes on myself— say, three — 
 I know at least what one should be. 
 I would grasp Metternicdi until 
 I felt his red wet throat distil 
 In blood through these two hands. And 
 
 next 
 —Nor much for that an^ I perplexed— 
 
6o8 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Charles, perjured traitor, for his part. 
 Should die slow of a broken heart 
 Under his new employers.' Last 
 — Ah, there, what should I wish ? For 
 
 fast 
 Do I grow old and out of strength. 
 If I resolved to seek at length 
 My father's house again, liow scared 
 They all would look, and unprepared ! 
 My brothers live in Austria's pay 
 — Disowned me long ago, men say ; 
 And all my early mates who used 
 To praise me so — perhaps induced 
 More than one early step of mine — 
 Are turning wise : while some opine 
 " Freedom grows licence,"' some suspect 
 " Haste breeds delay," and recollect 
 They always said, such premature 
 Beginnings never could endure ! 
 So, with a sullen " All's for best," 
 The land seems settling to its rest. 
 I think then, I should wish to stand 
 Tills evening in that dear, lost land, 
 Over the sea the thousand miles. 
 And know if yet that woman smiles 
 With the calm smile ; some little farm 
 She lives in there, no doubt : what harm 
 If I sat on the door-side bench, 
 And, while her spindle made a trench 
 Fantastically in the dust, 
 Inquired of all her fortunes — just 
 Her children's ages and their names. 
 And what may be the husband's aims 
 For each of them. I'd talk this out. 
 And sit there, for an hour about, 
 Then kiss lier hand once more, and lay 
 Mine on her head, and go my way. 
 
 So much for idle wishing — how 
 It steals the time ! To business now. 
 
 1845. 
 
 yS PICTOR IGNOTUS 
 
 FLORENCE, 15 — 
 
 I COULD have painted pictures like that 
 youtli's 
 Ye praise so. How my soul springs 
 up ! No bar 
 Stayed me — ah, thought which saddens 
 while it soothes ! 
 — Never did fate forbid me, star by 
 star. 
 To outburst on your night with all my 
 gift 
 Of fires from God : nor would my flesh 
 have shrunk 
 From seconding mv soul, with eves up- 
 lift 
 
 And wide to heaven, or, straight like 
 thunder, sunk 
 To the centre, of an instant ; or around 
 Turned calmly and inqui.sitive, to scan 
 The license and the limit, space and 
 bound, 
 Allowed to truth made visible in man. 
 And, like that youth ye praise so, all I 
 saw. 
 Over the canvas could my hand have 
 flung, 
 Each face obedient to its passion's law, 
 Each passion clear jiroclaimed with- 
 out a tongue ; 
 Whether Hope rose at once in all the 
 blood, 
 A-tiptoe for the blessing of embrace. 
 Or Rapture drooped the eyes, as when 
 her brood 
 Pull down the nesting dove's heart to 
 its place ; 
 Or Confidence lit swift the forehead up, 
 And locked tlie mouth fast, like a 
 castle braved, — 
 O human faces, hath it si)ilt, my cup ? 
 What did ye give me that I have not 
 saved ? 
 Nor will I say I have not dreamed (how 
 well!) 
 Of going — I, in each new picture, — 
 forth. 
 As, making new hearts beat and bosoms 
 swell. 
 To Pope or Kaiser, East, West, Soutli. 
 or North, 
 Bound for the calmly satisfied great 
 State, 
 Or glad aspiring little burgh, it went. 
 Flowers cast vipon the car which bore 
 tlie freight, 
 Through old streets named afresh from 
 the event, 
 Till it reached home, where learned age 
 should greet 
 My face, and youth, the star not j^et 
 distinct 
 Above his hair, lie learning at my feet ! — 
 Oh, thus to live, I and my picture, 
 linked 
 With love about, and praise, till life 
 should end. 
 And tiien not go to heaven, but linger 
 liere. 
 Here on my earth, earth's every man 
 my friend, — 
 The thought grew frightful. "t was so 
 wildly dear ! 
 But a voice clianged it. Glimpses of 
 such sights 
 
 I 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 •J' 
 
 609 
 
 Have scared nie, like the revels 
 through a door 
 Of some strange house of idols at its 
 rites ! 
 This world seemed not the world it 
 was before : 
 Mixed with my loving trusting ones, 
 tliere trooped 
 . . . Wlio summoned those cold faces 
 that begun 
 To press on me and judge me? Though 
 I stooped 
 Shrinking, as from the soldiery a 
 nun, 
 Tliey drew me forth, and spite of me. . . 
 enough ! 
 These buy and sell our pictures, take 
 and give, 
 Count them for garniture and household- 
 stuff. 
 And where they live needs must our 
 pictures live 
 And see their faces, listen to their 
 prate, 
 Partakers of their daily pettiness, 
 Discussed of, — "This I love, or this I 
 hate, 
 This likes me more, and this affects 
 me less ! " 
 Wherefore I chose my portion. If at 
 whiles 
 My heart sinks, as monotonous I paint 
 Tiiese endless cloisters and eternal aisles 
 With the same series. Virgin, Babe 
 and Saint, 
 AVith the same cold calm beautiful 
 regard, — 
 At least no merchant traffics in my 
 heart ; 
 Tlie sanctuary's gloom at least shall 
 ward 
 Vain tongues from where my pictures 
 stand apart : 
 Only prayer breaks the silence of the 
 shrine 
 While, blackening in the daily candle- 
 smoke, 
 Tliey moulder on the damp wall's 
 travertine, 
 ' Mid echoes the light footstep never 
 woke. 
 So, die my pictures I surely, gently 
 
 die! 
 ' , O youth, men praise so, — holds their 
 / / praise its worth ? 
 
 '/Blown harshly, keeps the trump its 
 golden cry ? 
 Tastes sweet the water with such 
 specks of earth ? 1845. 
 
 39 
 
 THE BISHOP ORDERS HIS TOMB 
 AT SAINT PRAXED'S CHURCH. 
 
 ROME, 15— 
 
 Vanity, saith the preacher, vanity 4 
 Draw round my bed : is Anselm keep- 
 ing back? 
 Nephews — sons mine ... ah God, I 
 
 know not ? Well — 
 She, men would have to be your mother 
 
 once, 
 Old Gandolf envied me, so fair she was ! 
 What 's done is done, and she is dead 
 
 beside. 
 Dead long ago, and I am Bishop since. 
 And as she died so must we die our- 
 selves. 
 And tlience ye niay perceive tlie world 
 
 's a dream. 
 Life, how and what is it ? As liere I lie 
 III this state-chamber, dying by degrees, 
 Hours and long hours in tlie dead night, 
 
 I ask 
 " Do I live, am I dead?" Peace, peace 
 
 seems all. 
 Saint Praxed's ever was the cliurch for 
 
 peace ; 
 And so, about this tomb of mine. I 
 
 fought 
 With tooth aiul nail to save my niche, 
 
 ye know : 
 — Old Gandolf cozened me, despite my 
 
 care ; 
 Shrewd was that snatch from out the 
 
 corner South 
 He graced his carrion with, God curse 
 
 the same ! 
 Yet still niy niche is not so cramped but 
 
 thetice 
 One sees the pulpit o' the epistle-side, 
 And sojnewhat of the choir, those silent 
 
 seats. 
 And up into the very dome where live 
 The angels, and a sunbeam 's sure to 
 
 lurk : 
 And I shall fill my slab of basalt tliere. 
 And 'neath my tabernacle take my i-est. 
 With those nine columns round me, 
 
 two and two, 
 The odd one at my feet where Anselm 
 
 stands : 
 Peach-blossom marlile all, the rare, the 
 
 ripe 
 As fresh poured red wine of a mighty 
 
 pulse 
 — Old Gandolf with his paltry onion- 
 stone, [peach, 
 Put me where I may look at him ! True 
 
6io 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Rosy and flawless : how I earned tlie 
 
 prize ! 
 Draw close : that conflagration of my 
 
 churcli 
 — What then? So much was saved if 
 
 aught were missed ! 
 My sons, ye would not be my death ? 
 
 Go dig 
 The white-grape vineyard where the oil- 
 press stood, 
 Drop water gently till the surface sink, 
 Arid if ye find . . . Ah God, I know 
 
 not, I ! . . . 
 Bedded in store of rotten fig-leaves soft, 
 And corded up in a tiglit olive-frail, 
 Some lump, ah God, of lajiis lazuli, 
 Big as a Jew's head cut off at the nape, 
 Blue as a vein o'er the Madonna's breast 
 Sons, all have I bequeathed you, villas, 
 
 all. 
 That brave Frascati villa with its batli. 
 So, let the blue lump poise between my 
 
 knees. 
 Like God the Fatlier's globe on both his 
 
 hands 
 Ye worship in the Jesu Cliurch so gay. 
 For Gandolf shall not ciioose but see and 
 
 burst ! 
 Swift as a weaver's shuttle fleet our 
 
 years : 
 Man goetli to the grave, and where is 
 
 he? 
 Did I say basalt for jiiy slab, sons ? 
 
 Black— 
 'T was ever antique-black I meant ! How 
 
 else 
 Shall ye contrast my frieze to come 
 
 beneath ? 
 The bas-relief in bronze ye promised me. 
 Those Pans and Nymphs ye wot of, and 
 
 perchance 
 Some tripod, thyrsus, with a vase or so, 
 Tlie Savi(jur at his sermon on the mount, 
 Saint Praxed in a glory, and one Pan 
 Ready to twitch the Nymph's last gar- 
 ment ofl^. 
 And Moses with the tables . . . but I 
 
 know 
 Ye mark me not ! What do they whisper 
 
 thee. 
 Child of my bowels, Anselm ? All, ye 
 
 hope 
 To revel down my villas while I gasp 
 Bricked o'er with beggar's mouldy tra- 
 
 verti ne 
 Which Gandolf from liis tomb-top 
 
 chuckles at ! 
 Nay, boys, ye love me — all of jasper, 
 
 then ! 
 
 'T is jasper ye stand pledged to, lest I 
 grieve 
 
 My bath must needs be left behind, 
 alas ! 
 
 One block, pure green as a pistachio- 
 nut. 
 
 There 's plenty jasper somewhere in the 
 world — 
 
 And have I not Saint Praxed's ear to 
 pray 
 
 Horses for j^e, and brown Greek manu- 
 scripts. 
 
 And mistresses with great smooth niar- 
 bly limbs? 
 
 — That 's if ye carve my epitaph aright. 
 
 Choice Latin, picked phrase, Tully's 
 every word. 
 
 No gaudy ware like Gandolf's second 
 line — 
 
 Tully, my masters ? Ulpian serves his 
 need ! 
 
 And then how I shall lie through cen- 
 turies. 
 
 And hear the blessed mutter of the mass. 
 
 And see God made and eaten all day 
 long. 
 
 And feel the steady candle-flame, and 
 taste , 
 
 Good strong thick stupefying incense- 
 smoke ! 
 
 For as I lie liere, hours of the dead night. 
 
 Dying in state and by such slow degrees, 
 
 I fold my arms as if they clasped a 
 crook. 
 
 And stretch my feet forth straight as 
 stone can point. 
 
 And let the bedclothes, for a mortcloth, 
 drop 
 
 Into great laps and folds of sculi^tor's- 
 work : 
 
 And as yon tapers dwindle, and strange 
 thoughts 
 
 Grow, with a certain humming in my 
 ears, 
 
 About the life before I lived this life, 
 
 And this life too, popes, cardinals and 
 priests. 
 
 Saint Praxed at his sermon on the mount, 
 
 Your tall pale mother with her talking 
 eyes. 
 
 And new-found agate urns as fresh as 
 day, 
 
 And marble's language, Latin pure, dis- 
 creet, 
 
 — Aha, ELUCESCEBAT quoth our friend ? 
 
 No Tully, said I, Ulpian at the best ! 
 
 Evil and brief hatli been my pilgrimage. 
 
 All lapis, all, sons ! Else I give the Pope 
 
 My villas ! Will ye ever eat my heart ? 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 6ii 
 
 Ever y-t)iir eyes were as a lizard's quick, 
 They glitter like your mother's tor my 
 
 soul. 
 Or ye would heighteu my impoverished 
 
 frieze, [vase 
 
 Piece out its starved design, and fill my 
 With grapes, and add a visor and a Term, 
 And to the tripod ye would tie a lynx 
 That in his struggle throws the thyrsus 
 
 down. 
 To comfort me on my entablature 
 Whereon I am to lie till I must ask 
 "Do I live, am I dead?" There, leave 
 
 me, there ! 
 For ye have stabbed me with ingratitude 
 To death — ye wish it — God, ye wish it ! 
 
 Stone — 
 Gritstone, a-crumble ! Clammy squares 
 
 which sweat [through— 
 
 As if the coi'pse they keep were oozing 
 And no more lapis to delight the world ! 
 Well, go ! I bless ye. Fewer tapers there, 
 Bvit in a row : and, going, turn your backs 
 — Ay, like departing altar-ministrants, 
 And leave me in my church, the church 
 
 for peace. 
 That I may watch at leisure if he leers — 
 OKI Gandolf — at me, from Jiis onion- 
 stone. 
 As still he envied me, so fair she was ! i 
 y 1845. 
 
 I SAUL 
 
 I 
 Said Abner, "At last thou art come! 
 
 Ere I tell, ere thou speak, 
 Kiss my cheek, wish me well ! " Then I 
 
 wished it, and did kiss his cheek. 
 And he : " Since the King, O my friend, 
 
 for thy countenance sent, 
 Neither drunken nor eaten have we ; 
 
 nor until from his tent 
 
 1 " I know no other piece of modern English, 
 prose or poetry, in which there is so much told, 
 iis in these lines, of the Renaissance spirit, — its 
 worldliness, inconsistency, pride, hypocrisy, ig- 
 norance of Itself, love of art, of luxury, and of 
 good Latin. It is nearly all that I said of the 
 central Renaissance in thirty pages of the Stones 
 of Venice, put into as many lines. Browning's 
 being also the antecedent work. The worst of 
 it is that this kind of concentrated writing needs 
 so much solution before the reader can fairly 
 get the good of it. that people's patience fails 
 them, and they give the thing up as insoluble; 
 though, truly, it ought to be to the current of 
 common thought like Saladin's talisman, dipped 
 in clear water, not soluble altogether, but mak- 
 ing the element medicinal." (Rtixkhi.) Otlier 
 aspects of the Renaissance spirit, finer but 
 equally true, are expressed, with similar concen- 
 tration, in Old Pictures in Florence, Piotor Igno- 
 tus, Andrea del Sarto, The Grammarian's Fune- 
 ral, etc. etc. 
 
 Tliou return with the joyful assurance 
 the King liveth yet, 
 
 Shall our lip with the honey be bright, 
 with the water be wet. 
 
 For out of the black mid-tent's silence, 
 a space of three days. 
 
 Not a sound hath escaped to thy ser- 
 vants, of prayer nor of praise. 
 
 To betoken that Saul and the Spirit have 
 ended their strife. 
 
 And that, faint in his triumph, the mon- 
 arch sinks back upon life. 
 
 "Yet now my heart leaps, O beloved! 
 God's ciiild witii his dew 
 
 On tliy gracious gold hair, and those 
 lilies still living and blue 
 
 Just broken to twine round thy harp- 
 strings, as if no wild heat 
 
 Were now raging to torture the desert ! " 
 
 Then I. as was meet. 
 
 Knelt down to the God of my fathers, 
 and rose on mj' feet. 
 
 And ran o'er the sand burnt to powder. 
 The tent was un looped ; 
 
 I pulled vip the spear that obstructed, 
 and under I stooped ; 
 
 Hands and knees on tiie slippery grass- 
 patch, all withered and gone. 
 
 That extends to the second enclosure, I 
 groped my way on 
 
 Till I felt where the foldskirts fly open. 
 Then once more I prayed, 
 
 And opened the foldskirts and entei-ed, 
 and was not afraid 
 
 But spoke, " Here is David, thy ser- 
 vant ! " And no voice re])lied. 
 
 At the first I saw naught but the black- 
 ness : but soon I descried 
 
 A something more black than tlie black- 
 ness — the vast, the upright 
 
 Main prop which sustains the pavilion : 
 and slow into sight 
 
 Grew a figure against it, gigantic and 
 blackest of all. 
 
 Then a sunbeam, that burst through the 
 tent-roof, showed Saul. 
 
 He stood as erect as that tent-prop, both 
 arms stretched out wide 
 
 On the great cross-suppoi-t in the cen- 
 tre, that goes to eacli side ; 
 
 He relaxed not a muscle, but hvuig there 
 as, caught in his pangs 
 
6l2 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 And waiting his change, the king-ser- 
 pent all heavily hangs, 
 
 Far away fioni his kind, in the pine, 
 till deliverance come 
 
 With the spring-time, — so agonized Saul, 
 drear and stark, blind and dumb. 
 
 Then I tuned ray harp, — took off the 
 
 lilies we twine round its chords 
 Lest they snap 'neath the stress of the 
 
 noontide — tlKjse sunbeams like swords! 
 And I first played the tune all our sheep 
 
 know, as, one after one, 
 So docile they come to the pen-door till 
 
 folding be done. 
 They are white and untorn by the 
 
 bushes, for lo, they have fed 
 Where the long grasses stifle the water 
 
 within the stream's bed ; 
 And' now one after one seeks itsjodging, 
 
 as star follows star 
 Into eve and tlie blue far above us, — so 
 
 blue and so far ! 
 
 — Then the tune for which quails on the 
 cornland will each leave his mate 
 
 To fly after the player ; then, what 
 makes the crickets elate 
 
 Till for boldness they fight one another ; 
 and then, what has weight 
 
 To set the quick jerboa a-musing out- 
 side his sand house — 
 
 There are none sucli as he for a wonder, 
 half bird and half mouse ! 
 
 God made all the creatures and gave 
 them our love and our fear. 
 
 To give sign, we and they are his chil- 
 dren, one family here. 
 
 Then I played the help-tune of our reap- 
 ers, their wine-song, when hand 
 
 Grasps at hand, eye lights eye in good 
 friendship, and great hearts expand 
 
 And grow one in the sense of this world's 
 life. — And then, the last song 
 
 When the dead man is praised on his 
 journej'— " Bear, bear him along, 
 
 With his few faults shut up like dead 
 flowerets ! Are balm seeds not here 
 
 To console us? The land has none left 
 such as he on the bier. 
 
 Oh, would we might keep thee, my 
 brother !■" — And then, the glad chant 
 
 Of the marriage, — first go the young 
 maidens, next, she whom we vaunt 
 
 As the beauty, the pride of our dwell- 
 ing. — And then, the great march 
 
 Wherein man runs to man to assist him 
 and buttress an arch 
 
 Naught can break ; who shall harm them, 
 our friends? Then, the chorus intoned 
 
 As the Levites go up to the altar in glory 
 enthroned. 
 
 But I stopped here : for here in the dark- 
 ness. Saul groaned. 
 
 VIII 
 
 And I paused, held my breath in such 
 silence, and listened apart ; 
 
 And the tent shook, for mighty Saul 
 shuddei"ed : and sparkles 'gan dart 
 
 From the jewels that woke in his tur- 
 ban, at once, with a start. 
 
 All its lordly male-sapphires, and rubies 
 courageous at heart. 
 
 So the head : but the body still moved 
 not, still hung there erect. 
 
 And I bent once again to my playing, 
 pursued it unchecked. 
 
 As I sang : — 
 
 " Oh, cnu' manhood's prime vigor! 
 
 No spirit feels waste. 
 Not a nmscle is .stopped in its playing 
 
 nor sinew unbraced. 
 Oh, the wild joys of living ! the leaping 
 
 from rock up to rock, 
 The strong rending of boughs from tlie 
 
 fire-tree, the cool silver shock 
 Of the plunge in a pool's living water, 
 
 the hunt of the bear, 
 And tlie sultriness showing the lion is 
 
 couched in his lair. 
 And the meal, the rich dates yellowed 
 
 over with gold dust divine. 
 And the locust-flesh steeped in the 
 
 pitcher, the full draught of wine, 
 And the sleep in tlie dried river-channel 
 
 where bulrushes tell 
 That the water was wont to go war- 
 bling so softly and well. 
 How good is man's life, the mere living ! 
 
 liow fit to employ 
 All the heart and the soul and the senses 
 
 forever in joy ! 
 Hast thou loved the white locks of thy 
 
 father, wliose sword thou didst guard 
 When he trusted thee forth with the 
 
 armies, for glorious reward ? 
 Didst thou see the thin hands of thy 
 
 mother, held uj? as men sung 
 The low song of the nearly-departed, and 
 
 hear her faint tongue 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 613 
 
 Joining in vvliile it could to the witness, 
 
 " Let one more attest, 
 I have lived, seen God's hand through a 
 
 lifetime, and all was for best ? " 
 Tlien they sung througli their tears in 
 
 strong triunipli, not much, but the rest. 
 And thy brothers, the help and tlie con- 
 test, the working whence grew 
 Such result as, from seething grape- 
 bundles, the spirit strained true : 
 And the friends of thy boyliood — that 
 
 boyliood of wonder and hope. 
 Present promise and wealth of the future 
 
 beyond the eye's scope, — 
 Till lo, thou art grown to a monarcli : a 
 
 people is thine ; 
 And all gifts, which the world offers 
 
 singly, on one head combine ! 
 On one head, all the beauty and strength, 
 
 love and rage (like the throe 
 That, a-work in the rock, helps its labor 
 
 and lets the gold go) 
 High ambition and deeds which surpass 
 
 it, fame crowning them, — all 
 Brought to blaze on the head of one 
 
 creature — King Saul ! " 
 
 And lo, witli that leap of my spirit, — 
 heart, hand, liarp and voice. 
 
 Each lifting Saul's name out of sorrow, 
 eacli bidding rejoice 
 
 Saul's fame in the light it was made for 
 — as when, dare I say. 
 
 The Lord's army, in rapture of service, 
 strains through its array, 
 
 AtkI upsoareth the cherubim-chariot — 
 '• Saul ! " cried I, and stopped, 
 
 And waited the thing that should follow. 
 Then Saul, who hung propped 
 
 By the tent's cross-support in the centre. 
 was struck by his name. 
 
 Have ye seen wlien Spring's arrowy 
 summons goes riglit to the aim. 
 
 And some mountain, the last to with- 
 stand her, tliat held (he alone. 
 
 While the vale laughed in freedom and 
 flowers) on a broad bust of stone 
 
 A year's snow bound about for a breast- 
 plate, — leaves grasp of the sheet ? 
 
 Fold on fold all at once it crowds thun- 
 derously down to his feet. 
 
 And tliere fronts you, stark, black, but 
 alive yet, your mountain of old, 
 
 AVith his rents, the successive bequeatli- 
 ing <.)f ages untold — 
 
 Yea, each harm got in tigliting your 
 battles, each furrow and scar 
 
 Of his head thrust 'twixt you and the 
 
 tempest — all hail, there they are ! 
 — Now again to be softened with ver- 
 dure, again hold the nest 
 Of the dove, tempt tlie goat and its 
 
 young to the green on his crest 
 For their food in the ardors of summer. 
 
 One long shudder thrilled 
 All the tent till the very air tingled, 
 
 tlien sank and was stilled 
 At the King's self left standing before 
 
 me. released and aware. 
 What was gone, wluit remained ? All 
 
 to traverse 'twixt hope and despair. 
 Death was past, life not come : so he 
 
 waited. Awhile liis right hand 
 Held tlie brow, helped tlie eyes left too 
 
 vacant forthwith to remand 
 To their place what new objects should 
 
 enter : 't was Saul as before. 
 I looked up and dared gaze at those eyes, 
 
 nor was hurt any more 
 Than by slow pallid sunsets in autumn, 
 
 ye watch from the shore. 
 At their sad level gaze o'er the ocean — 
 
 a sun's slow decline 
 Over hills which, resolved in stern 
 
 silence, o'erlap and entwine 
 Base witli base to knit strength more 
 
 intensely : so, arm folded arm 
 O'er the chest whose slow heavings sub- 
 sided. 
 
 XI 
 
 What spell or what charm, 
 
 (For awhile there was trouble within 
 me), what next should I urge 
 
 To sustain him where song had restored 
 liim ? — Song filled to the verge 
 
 Ilis cup with the wine of this life, press- 
 ing all that it yields 
 
 Of mere fruitage, the strength and the 
 beauty : beyond, on what fields, 
 
 Grlean a vintage more i^otent and perfect 
 to brighten the eye 
 
 And bring blood to the lip, and com- 
 mend them tlie cup they put by ? 
 ■He saith, "It is good ; " still he drinks 
 not : he lets me praise life. 
 
 Gives assent, yet would die for his own 
 part. 
 
 XII 
 
 Then fancies grew rife 
 Which had come long ago on the pas- 
 ture, when round me the sheep 
 Fed in silence — above, the one eagle 
 
 wheeled slow as in sleep ; 
 And I lay in my hollow and mused on 
 the world that might lie 
 
6i4 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 'Neatli his ken, thougli I saw but the 
 strip "twixt the hill and the sky : 
 
 And I laughed^" Since my days are 
 ordained to be passed with my flocks, 
 
 Let me people at least, with raiy fancies, 
 the plains and the rocks. 
 
 Dream the life I am never to mix witli, 
 and image tlie show 
 
 Of mankind as they live in those fash- 
 ions I hardly shall know ! 
 
 Schemes of life, its best rules and right 
 uses, the courage tliat gains. 
 
 And the prudence that kee^^s what men 
 strive for." And now these old trains 
 
 Of vague thouglit came again ; I grew 
 surer ; so, once more the string 
 
 Of my harp made response to my spirit, 
 as thus — 
 
 XIII 
 
 "Yea, my King," 
 I began — '• thou dost well in rejecting 
 
 mere comforts that spring 
 From the mere mortal life held in com- 
 mon by man and by brute : 
 In our flesh grows the branch of this 
 
 life, in our soul it bears fruit. 
 Thou hast marked the slow rise of the 
 
 tree, — how its stem trembled first 
 Till it passed the kid's lip, the stag's 
 
 antler ; then safely outburst 
 The fan-branches all round ; and thou 
 
 mindest when these too, in turn, 
 Broke a-bloom and tlie palm-tree seemed 
 
 perfect : yet more was to learn, 
 E'en the good tliat comes in with tlie 
 
 palm-fruit. Our dates shall we slight. 
 When their juice brings a cure for all 
 
 sorrow? or care for the plight 
 Of the palm's self whose slow growth 
 
 produced them ? Not so ! stem and 
 
 branch 
 Shall decay, nor be known in their place, 
 
 while the palm-wine shall stanch 
 Every wound of man's spirit in winter. 
 
 I pour thee such wine, 
 Leave the flesh to the fate it was fit for ! 
 
 the spirit be thine ! 
 By the spirit, when age shall o'ercome 
 
 thee, thou still slialt enjoy 
 More indeed, tlian at first when incon- 
 
 scious, the life of a boy. 
 Crush that life, and behold its wine run- 
 ning ! Each deed thou hast done 
 Dies, revives, goes to work in the world ! 
 
 until e'en as the sun 
 Looking down on the earth, though 
 
 clouds spoil him, though tempests 
 effa,ce. 
 
 Can find nothing his own deed produced 
 
 not, must everywhere trace 
 The results of his past summer-prime, — 
 
 so, each ray of thy will, 
 Everj"^ flasii of thy passion and prowess, 
 
 long over, shall thrill 
 Thy whole people, the countless, with 
 
 ardor, till they too give forth 
 A like cheer to their sons, who in turn, 
 
 fill the South and the North 
 With the radiance thy deed was the 
 
 germ of. Carouse in the past ! 
 But the license of age has its limit ; tliou 
 
 diest at last : 
 As the lion when age dims his eyeball, 
 
 the rose at her height. 
 So with man — so his power and his 
 
 beaut}'^ forever take flight. 
 No ! Again a long draugiit of my soul- 
 wine ! Look forth o'er the years ! 
 Thou hast done now with eyes for the 
 
 actual ; begin with the seer's ! 
 Is Saul dead? In the depth of the vale 
 
 make his tomb — bid arise 
 A gray mountain of marble heaped four- 
 square, till, built to the .skies, 
 Let it mark where the great First King 
 
 slumbers : whose fame would ye know ? 
 Up above see the rock's naked face, 
 
 where the record shall go 
 In great cliaracters cut by the scribe, — 
 
 Such was Saul, so he did ; 
 With the sages directing the work, by 
 
 the populace chid, — 
 For not half, they'll affirm, is comprised 
 
 there! Whicli fault to amend. 
 In the grove with his kind grows tlie 
 
 cedar, whereon they shall spend 
 (See, in tablets 't is level before them) 
 
 tlieir praise, and record 
 With the gold of the graver, Saul's stoiy, 
 
 — the stateman's great word 
 Side by side with the i)oet's sweet com- 
 ment. The river 's a-wave 
 With smooth paper-reeds grazing each 
 
 other when prophet-winds rave : 
 So the pen gives unborn generations their 
 
 due and their part 
 In thy being ! Then, first of the mighty, 
 
 thank God that thou art ! " 
 
 And behold while I sang . . . but O 
 Thou wiio didst grant me that day, 
 
 And before it not seldom hast granted 
 thy help to essay. 
 
 Carry on and complete an adventure, — 
 my shield and my sword 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 615 
 
 In that act where my soul was thy ser- 
 vant, thy word was my word, — 
 Still be with me, who then at the summit 
 
 of human endeavor 
 And scaling the highest, man's thought 
 
 could, gazed hopeless as ever 
 On the new stretch of heaven above me 
 
 — till, mighty to save. 
 Just one lift of thy hand cleared that 
 
 distance — God's throne from man's 
 
 grave ! 
 Let me tell out my tale to its ending — 
 
 my voice to my heart 
 Which can scare dare believe in what 
 
 marvels last night I took part. 
 As this morning I gather the fragments, 
 
 alone with my sheep. 
 And still fear lest the terrible glory 
 
 evanish like sleep ! 
 For I wake in the gray dewy covert, 
 
 while Hebron ujiheaves 
 The dawn struggling witli night on his 
 
 shoulder, and Kidron retrieves 
 Slow the damage of yesterday's sunshine. 
 
 I say then, — my song 
 
 While I sang thus, assuring the monarch, 
 and ever more strong 
 
 Made a proffer of good to console him — 
 he slowly resumed 
 
 His old motions and habitudes ingly. 
 The right hand replumed 
 
 His black locks to their wonted compos- 
 ure, adjusted the swathes 
 
 Of liis turban, and see — the huge sweat 
 that his countenance batlies, 
 
 He wipes off with the robe ; and he girds 
 now his loins as of yore. 
 
 And feels slow for the armlets of price, 
 with the clasp set before. 
 
 He is Saul, ye remember in glory, — ere 
 error had bent 
 
 The broad brow from the daily com- 
 munion ; and still, thougli much spent 
 
 Be the life and the bearing that front 
 you, the same, God did choose. 
 
 To receive what a man may waste, 
 desecrate, never quite lose. 
 
 So sank he along by the tent-prop till, 
 stayed by the pile 
 
 Of his armor and war-cloak and gar- 
 ments, lie leaned there awhile. 
 
 And sat out my singing, — one arm round 
 the tent-prop, to raise 
 
 His bent head, and the otlier hung .slack 
 — till I touched on the praise 
 
 I foresaw from all men in all time, to the 
 man patient there ; 
 
 And thus ended, the harp falling for- 
 ward. Tlien first I was 'ware 
 
 That he sat, as I say, with my head just 
 above liis vast knees 
 
 Which were thrust out on eacli side 
 around me, like oak roots wliich please 
 
 To encircle a lamb when it slumbers. 
 I looked up to know 
 
 If the best I could do had brought solace ; 
 he spoke not, but slow 
 
 Lifted up the hand slack at his side, till 
 he laid it with care 
 
 Soft and grave, but in mild settled will, 
 on my brow : througli my hair 
 
 The large fingers were pushed, and he 
 bent back my head, with kind power — 
 
 All my face back, intent to peruse it, as 
 men do a flower. 
 
 Thus held he me there with his great 
 ej^es that scrutinized mine — 
 
 And oh. all my heart how it loved him ! 
 but where was the sign ? 
 
 I yearned — " Could I help thee, my 
 father, inventing a bliss, 
 
 I would add, to that life of the past, both 
 the future and this ; 
 
 I would give thee new life altogether, as 
 good, ages hence, 
 
 As this moment, — had love but the war- 
 rant, love's heart to dispense ! " 
 
 Then the truth came upon me. No harp 
 more — no song more ! outbroke — 
 
 " I have gone the whole round of crea- 
 tion : I saw and I spoke : 
 
 I, a work of God's hand for that purpose, 
 received in my brain 
 
 And pronounced on the rest of his hand- 
 work — returned him again 
 
 His creation's approval or censure : I 
 spoke as I saw ; 
 
 I report, as a man may of God's work — 
 all's love, yet all's law. 
 
 Now I lay down the judgeship he lent 
 me. Each faculty tasked 
 
 To perceive him, has gained an abyss, 
 where a dewdrop was asked. 
 
 Have I knowledge? confounded it 
 shrivels at Wisdom laid bare. 
 
 Have I forethought ? how purblind, how 
 blank to the Infinite Care ! 
 
 Do I task any faculty highest, to image 
 success ? 
 
 I but open my eyes, — and perfection, 
 no more and no less, 
 
6i6 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 In the kind I imagined, full-fronts me, 
 
 and God is seen God 
 In the star, in the stone, in the flesh, in 
 
 the soul and the clod. 
 And thus looking within and around me, 
 
 I ever renew 
 (With that stoop of the soul which in 
 
 bending upraises it too) 
 The submission of man's nothing-perfect 
 
 to God's all-complete. 
 As by each new obeisance in spirit, I 
 
 climb to his feet. 
 Yet with all this abounding experience, 
 
 this deity known, 
 I shall dare to discover some province, 
 
 some gift of my own. 
 There's a faculty pleasant to exercise, 
 
 hard to hoodwink. 
 I am fain to keep still in abeyance, (I 
 
 laugh as 1 think) 
 Lest, insisting to claim and parade in it, 
 
 wot ye, I w^orst 
 E'en the Giver in one gift. — Behold, I 
 
 could love if I durst ! 
 But I sink the pretension as fearing a 
 
 man maj' o'ertake 
 God's own speed in the one way of love : 
 
 I abstain for love's sake. 
 — What, my soul ? see thus far and 
 
 no farther ? when doors great and 
 
 small, 
 Nine-and-ninety flew ope at our touch, 
 
 should the hundredth appall ? 
 In the least things have faitli, yet dis- 
 trust in the greatest of all ? 
 Do I find love so full in my nature, God's 
 
 ultimate gift, 
 That I doubt his own love can com- 
 pete with it? Here, the parts shift ? 
 Here, the creatvire surpass the Creator, — 
 
 the end, what Began ? 
 Would I fain in my impotent yearning 
 
 do all for this man. 
 And dare doubt he alone shall not help 
 
 him, who j'et alone can? 
 Would it ever have entered my mind, 
 
 the bare will, much less power. 
 To bestow on this Saul wiiat I sang of, 
 
 the marvellous dower 
 Of the life he was gifted and filled with ? 
 
 to make such a soul. 
 Such a body, and then such an earth 
 
 for insphering the wliole? 
 And doth it not enter my mind (as my 
 
 warm tears attest) 
 These good tilings being given, to go on, 
 
 and give one more, the best ? 
 Ay. to save and redeem and restore him, 
 
 maintain at the height 
 
 This perfection, — succeed with life's 
 day-spring, death's minute of night ? 
 
 Interpose at the difficult minute, snatch 
 Saul the mistake, 
 
 Saul the failure, the ruin he seems now, 
 — and bid him awake 
 
 From the dieam, the probation, the pre- 
 lude, to find himself set 
 
 Clear and safe in new light and new life, 
 —a new harmony yet 
 
 To be run, and continued, and ended — 
 wlio knows ? — or endure ! 
 
 The man taught enough by life's dream, 
 of the rest to make sure ; 
 
 By tiie pain-throb, triumphantly win- 
 ning intensified bliss. 
 
 And the next world's reward and repose, 
 by the struggles in this. 
 
 xvni 
 
 "I believe it! 'T is thou, God, that 
 
 givest, 't is I wOao receive : 
 In the first is the last, in thy will is my 
 
 power to believe. 
 All 's one gift : thou canst grant it more- 
 over, as prompt to my prayer 
 As I breathe out this breath, as I open 
 
 these arms to the air. 
 From thy will streanr the worlds, life 
 
 and nature, tli}^ dread Sabaoth : 
 I will?— the mere atoms despise nie ! 
 
 Why am I not loth 
 To look that, even that in the face too? 
 
 Why is it I dare 
 Think but lightly of such impuissance ? 
 
 AVliat stops my despair ? 
 This ; — 't is not what man Does which 
 
 exalts liini, but wJiat man Would do ! 
 See the King — I w^ould help him but can- 
 not, the wishes fall through. 
 Could I wrestle to raise him from sorrow, 
 
 grow poor to enrich. 
 To fill up his life, starve my own out, I 
 
 would — knowing wiiich, 
 I know that my service is perfect. Oh, 
 
 sjieak through me now ! 
 Would I suffer for him that I love ? 
 
 ■So wouldst thou — so wilt thou ! 
 So shall crown thee the topmost, ineffa- 
 
 blest, uttermost crown — 
 And thy love fill infinitude wholly, nor 
 
 leave up nor dow^n 
 One spot for the creature to stand in ! It 
 
 is by no breath, 
 Turn of eye, w^ave of hand, that salva- 
 tion joins issue with death ! 
 As thy Love is discovered almighty, 
 
 almighty be proved 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 617 
 
 Tliy power, that exists with and for it, 
 
 of being Beloved ! 
 He who did most, shall bear most ; the 
 
 strongest shall stand the most weak. 
 'T is the weakness in strength, that I cry 
 
 for ! my fiesli, that I seek 
 In the Godhead ! I seek and I find it. O 
 
 Saul, it shall be 
 A Face like my face that receives thee ; 
 
 a Man like to me, 
 Thoii shalt love and be loved by, for- 
 ever : a Hand like this hand 
 Shall throw open tlie gates of new life 
 
 to thee ! See the Christ stand ! " 
 
 XIX 
 
 I know not too well how I found m}"- way 
 
 home in tlie night. 
 There were witnesses, cohorts about me, 
 
 to left and to right. 
 Angels, powers, t!ie unuttered, unseen, 
 
 the alive, the aware : 
 I repressed, I got through them as 
 
 hardly, as strugglingly tliere, 
 As a runner beset by the populace 
 
 famished for netvs — 
 Life or death. The whole earth was 
 
 awakened, liell loosed witli her crews ; 
 And the stars of night beat witli emo- 
 tion, and tingled and sliot 
 Out in fire the strong pain of pent knowl- 
 edge : but I fainted not. 
 For the Hand still impelled me at once 
 
 and supported, suppressed 
 All the tumult, and quenclied it with 
 
 quiet, and holy behest. 
 Till the rapture was shut in itself, and 
 
 the earth .sank to rest. 
 Anon at the dawn, all that trouble had 
 
 withered from earth — 
 Not so much, but I saw it die out in the 
 
 day's tender birth ; 
 In the gathered intensity brought to the 
 
 gray of the hills ; 
 In the shuddering forests' held breath ; 
 
 in the sudden wind-thrills ; 
 In the startled wild beasts that bore off, 
 
 eacli with eye sidling still 
 Though averted with wonder and dread ; 
 
 in the birds stiff and chill 
 That roseheavilj', as I approached tliem, 
 
 made stupid wnth awe : 
 E'en the serpent that slid away silent, — 
 
 he felt the new law. 
 The same stared in the white humid 
 
 faces upturned by the flowers ; 
 The same worked in the Iieart of the 
 
 cedar and moved the vine-bowers : 
 
 And the little brooks witnessing mur- 
 mured, persistent and low, 
 
 With their obstinate, ail Init hushed 
 voices — " E"en so, it is so ! " 
 
 1845. 185.5.1 
 
 A WOMAN'S LAST WORD 
 
 Let's contend no more, Love, 
 
 Strive nor weep : 
 All be as before. Love, 
 
 — Only sleep ! 
 
 What so wild as words are ? 
 
 I ;uid thou 
 In debate, as birds are, 
 
 Hawk on bough ! 
 
 See the creature stalking 
 
 While we speak ! 
 Husli and hide the talking, 
 
 Cheek on cheek ! 
 
 Wluit so false as truth is, 
 
 'False to thee? 
 Where the serpent's tooth is 
 
 Shun the tree — 
 
 Where the apple reddens 
 
 Nevei" pry — 
 Lest we lose our Edens, 
 
 Eve and I. 
 
 Be a god and hold me 
 
 With a charm ! 
 Be a man and fold me 
 
 With thine arm ! 
 
 Teach mo, only teach. Love ! 
 
 As I ought 
 I will speak thy speech, Love, 
 
 Think thy thought — 
 
 Meet, if thou require it. 
 
 Both demands. 
 Laying flesh and spirit 
 
 In thy hands. 
 
 That sliall be to-morrow, 
 
 Not to-night. 
 I must bury sorrow 
 
 Out of sight : 
 
 — TMust a little weep. Love, 
 
 (Foolish me !) 
 And so fall asleep, Love, 
 
 Loved by thee. 1855. 
 
 1 The first part of the poem, up to Section X. 
 u ;is published in Dramntic Rninances and Lt/rics, 
 IS45; the complete poem, in Jtfed- and Women, 
 
 1855, 
 
6i8 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 EVELYN HOPE 
 
 Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead ! 
 
 Sit and watcli by her side an hour. 
 That is her book -shelf, this her bed ; 
 She plucked that piece of geranium- 
 flower, 
 Beginning to die too, in the glass ; 
 
 Little has yet been changed, I think : 
 The shutters are shut, no light may 
 
 pass 
 Save two long rays through the hinge's 
 chink. 
 
 Sixteen years old when she died ! 
 
 Perhaps she liad scarcely heard my 
 name ; 
 It was not her time to love ; beside. 
 
 Her life liad many a hope and aim, 
 Duties enough and little cares, 
 
 And now was quiet, now astir. 
 Till God's hand beckoned unawares, — 
 
 And the sweet white brow is all of 
 her. 
 
 Is it too late then, Evelyn Hope ? 
 
 What, your soul was pure and true. 
 The good stars met in your horoscope, 
 
 Made you of spirit, fire and dew — • 
 And, just because I was tlu-ice as old 
 And our paths in the world diverged 
 so wide, 
 Each was naught to each, must I be 
 
 told? 
 We were fellow mortals, naught be- 
 side ? 
 
 No, indeed ! for God above 
 
 Is great to grant, as mighty to make. 
 And creates the love to reward the 
 love : 
 I claim you still, for my own love's 
 sake ! 
 Delayed it may be for more lives yet, 
 Through worlds I shall traverse, not a 
 few : 
 Much is to learn, mucli to forget 
 
 Ere the time be come for taking you. 
 
 But the time w^ill come — at last it will, 
 When, Evelyn Hope, what meant (I 
 shall say) 
 In the lower earth, in the years long 
 still. 
 That body and soul so pure and gay ? 
 Why your hair was amber, I shall di- 
 vine. 
 And your mouth of your ow^n gera- 
 nium's red — 
 
 And what you would do witli me, in 
 fine. 
 In the new^ life come in the old life's 
 
 stead . 
 
 I have lived (I shall say) so much since 
 then. 
 Given up myself so many times, 
 Gained me the gains of various men. 
 Ransacked the ages, spoiled the 
 climes ; 
 Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full 
 scope, 
 Either I missed or itself missed me : 
 And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope ! 
 What is the issue ?• Let us see ! 
 
 I loved you, Evelyn, all the while ! 
 
 My heart seemed f^iU as it could hold; 
 There was place and to spare for the 
 frank young smile, 
 And the red young mouth, and the 
 hair's young gold. • 
 So, hush, — I wuU give you this leaf to 
 keep : 
 See, I shut it inside tlie sweet cold 
 hand ! 
 There, tliat is our secret : go to sleep ! 
 You will wake, and remember, and 
 understand. 1855. 
 
 LOVE AMONG THE RUINS ^ 
 
 Where the quiet-colored end of evening 
 smiles 
 
 Miles and miles 
 On the solitary pastures where our sheep 
 
 Half-asleep 
 Tinkle homeward through the twilight, 
 sti'ay or stop 
 As they crop — 
 Was tlie site once of a city great and 
 gay, 
 
 (So they say) 
 Of our country's very capital, its prince 
 
 Ages since 
 Held liis court in, gathered councils, 
 wielding far 
 Peace or war. 
 
 Now, — the country does not even boast 
 a tree. 
 
 As you see. 
 To distinguish slopes of verdure, certain 
 rills 
 From the hills 
 Intersect and give a name to, (else they 
 run 
 
 Into one,) 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 619 
 
 Where the domed and daring palace 
 shot its spires 
 Up like fires 
 O'er the hundred-gated circuit of a wall 
 
 Bounding all, 
 Made of marble, men might march on 
 nor be pressed, 
 Twelve abreast. 
 
 And such plenty and perfection, see, of 
 grass 
 Never was ! 
 Such a carpet as, this summer-time, o'er- 
 spreads 
 
 And embeds 
 Eveiy vestige of the .city, guessed alone, 
 
 Stock or stone — 
 Where a multitude of men breatlied joy 
 and woe . 
 
 Long ago : 
 Lust of glory pricked their hearts up, 
 dread of shame 
 Stri^jk tliem tame ; 
 And that glory and that shame alike, 
 the gold 
 
 Bought and sold. 
 
 Now, — the single little turret that re- 
 mains 
 On the plains. 
 By the caper overrooted, by the gourd 
 
 Overscored, 
 While the patching houseleek's head of 
 blossom winks 
 Through the chinks — 
 Marks the basement whence a tower in 
 ancient time 
 Sprang sublime. 
 And a burning ring, all round, the 
 chariots traced 
 As they raced. 
 And the monarch and his minions and 
 his dames 
 Viewed the games. 
 
 And I know, while thus the quiet-col- 
 ored eve 
 
 Smiles to leave 
 To their folding, all our many-tinkling 
 fleece 
 In such peace. 
 And the slopes and rills in undistin- 
 guished gray 
 Melt away — 
 That a girl with eager eyes and yellow 
 hair 
 Waits me there 
 In the turret whence the charioteers 
 caught soul 
 For the goal, 
 
 When the king looked, where she looks 
 now, breathless, dumb 
 Till I come. 
 
 But he looked upon the city, every side, 
 
 Far and wide. 
 All the mountains topped with temples, 
 all the grades 
 Colonnades, 
 All the causeys, bridges, aqueducts, — 
 and then. 
 All the men ! 
 When I do come, she will speak not. she 
 will stand. 
 Either hand 
 On my shoulder, give her eyes the first 
 embrace 
 Of my face, 
 Ere we rush, ere we extinguish sight and 
 speech 
 Each on each. 
 
 In one year they sent a million fighters 
 forth 
 South and North, 
 And they built their gods a brazen pillar 
 high 
 As the sky. 
 Yet reserved a thousand chariots in full 
 force — 
 
 Gold, of course. 
 Oh heart ! oh blood that freezes, blood 
 that burns ! 
 Earth's returns 
 For wliole centuries of folly, noise and 
 sin ! 
 
 Shut them in , 
 With their triumphs and their glories 
 and the rest ! 
 
 Love is best. 1855. 
 
 y 
 
 UP AT A VILLA— DOWN IN THE -^ 
 CITY 
 
 (as distinguished by an ITALIAN person 
 OF QUALITY) 
 
 Had I but plenty of money, money 
 
 enough and to spare, 
 The house for me no doubt, were a 
 
 house in the city -square ; 
 Ah, such a life, such a life, as one leads 
 
 at the window there ! 
 
 Something to see, by Bacchus, some- 
 
 tliing to hear, at least ! 
 There, the whole day long, one's life is a 
 
 perfect feast ; 
 Whil^up at a villa one lives, I maintain 
 
 it, no more than a beast. 
 
620 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Well now, look at oui' villa ! stuck like 
 
 the horn of a bull 
 Just on a mountain-edge as bare as the 
 
 creature's skull, 
 Save a mere shag of a bush with hardly 
 
 a leaf to pull ! 
 — I scratch my own, sometimes, to see 
 
 if the hair's turned wool. 
 
 But the city, oh the city — the square 
 
 with the houses ! Why, 
 They are stone-faced, white as a curd, 
 
 there's something to take the eye ! 
 Houses in four straight lines, not a single 
 
 front awry ; 
 You watch who crosses and gossips, who 
 
 saunters, who hurries by ; 
 Green blinds, as a matter of course, to 
 
 draw when the sun gets higli ; 
 And the shops with fanciful signs which 
 
 are painted properly. 
 
 What of a villa ? Though winter be over 
 
 in March by rights, 
 'T is May perhaps ei"e the snow shall 
 
 have withered well off the heights : 
 You 've the brown ploughed land liefoi'e, 
 
 where the oxen steam and wheeze. 
 And the hills over-smoked behind bj^ the 
 
 faint gray olive-trees. 
 
 Is it better in May, I ask you ? You've 
 
 suminer all at once ; 
 In a day he leaps complete with a few 
 
 strong April suns. 
 'Mid the sharp short emerald wheat, 
 
 scarce risen three fingers well. 
 The wild tulip, at end of its tube, blows 
 
 out its great red bell 
 Like a thin clear bubble of blood, for the 
 
 children to pick and sell. 
 
 Is it ever hot in the square ? There 's a 
 
 fountain to spout and splash ! 
 In the shade it sings and springs : in the 
 
 shine such foambows flash 
 On the horses with curling fisli-tails, 
 
 that prance and paddle and pash 
 Round the lady atop in her conch — fifty 
 
 gazers do not abash, 
 Though all that she wears is some weeds 
 
 round her waist in a sort of sash. 
 
 All the year long at the villa, nothing to 
 
 see though you linger. 
 Except yon cypress that points like 
 
 death's lean lifted forefinger. 
 Some think fireflies pretty, wheit they 
 
 mix i' the corn and mingle, 
 
 Or thrid the stinking hemp till the stalks 
 
 of it seem a-tingle. 
 Late August or early September, the 
 
 stunning cicala is shrill. 
 And the bees keep their tiresome whine 
 
 round the resinous firs on the hill. 
 Enough of the seasons, — I sjmre you the 
 
 months of the fever and chill. 
 
 Ere you open your eyes in the city, the 
 
 blessed church-bells begin : 
 No sooner the bells leave off than the 
 
 diligence rattles in : 
 You get the pick of tlie news, and it 
 
 costs 3'ou never a pin. 
 By and by there's the travelling doctor 
 
 gives pills, lets blood, draws teeth ; 
 Or the Pulcinello-trumpet breaks up the 
 
 market beneath. 
 At the post-office such a scene-picture — 
 
 the new play, piping hot ! 
 And a notice how, only this morning, 
 
 three liberal thieves were shot. 
 Above it, behold the Archbishop's most 
 
 fatherly of rebukes. 
 And beneath, with his crown and his 
 
 lion, some little new law of the 
 
 Duke's ! 
 Or a sonnet with flowery marge, to the 
 
 Reverend Don So-and-so, 
 Wlio is Dante, Boccaccio, Petrarca, Saint 
 
 Jerome, and Cicero. 
 " And moreover," (the sonnet goes 
 
 rhyming,) " the skirts of Saint Paul 
 
 has reached. 
 Having preached us tliose six Lent- 
 lectures more unctuous tiian ever he 
 
 preached." 
 Noon strikes, — here sweeps the proces- 
 sion ! our Lady borne smiling and 
 
 smart 
 With a pink gauze gown all spangles, 
 
 and seven swords stuck in her heart ! 
 Bang-ichang-iohang goes the drum, 
 
 tootle-fe-tuotle the fife ; 
 No keeping one's haunches still : it's the 
 
 greatest pleasure in life. 
 
 But bless you. ifs dear — it 's dear! 
 
 fowls, wine, at double the rate. 
 They have clapped a new tax upon salt, 
 
 and what oil pays passing the gate 
 It's a horror to think of. And so, the 
 
 villa for me, not the city ! 
 
 Beggars can scarcely be choosers : but 
 
 still — ah, the pity, the pity ! 
 Look, two and two go the piiests, then 
 
 the monks with cowls and sandals. 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 621 
 
 And the penitents dressed in white 
 
 shirts, a-holding tlie yellow cundles ; 
 One, he carries a flag up straight, and 
 
 another across with handles, 
 And the Duke's guard brings up tlie rear, 
 
 for the better prevention of scandals : 
 Bang-ichaiig-wliang goea the drum, tootle- 
 
 te-tootle the fife. 
 Oil, a day in the city-square, there is no 
 
 such pleasure in life ! 1855. 
 
 J 
 
 A TOCCATA OF GALUPPFS 
 
 Oh Galuppi, Baldassare, this is very sad 
 
 to find ! 
 I can hardly misconceive 3'ou ; it would 
 
 prove me deaf and blind ; 
 But althovigh I take your meaning, 'tis 
 
 with sucii a heavy mind ! 
 
 Here y©u come with your old music, and 
 here 's all the good it brings. 
 
 What, tliey lived once thus at Venice 
 where the merchants were the kings. 
 
 Where St. Mark's is. where the Doges 
 vised to wed the sea with rings ? 
 
 Ay, because the sea 's the street there ; 
 
 and 't is arched by . . . what you call 
 . . . Shylock's bridge with houses on it, 
 
 where tliej^ kept tlie carnival : 
 I was never out of England-T;it.'s as if I 
 
 saw it all. 
 
 Did young people take their pleasure 
 when the sea was warm in Mjiy? 
 
 Balls and masks begun at midnight, 
 burning ever to mid-day. 
 
 When they made up fresh adventures 
 for the morrow, do you say ? 
 
 Was a lady such a lady, cheeks so round 
 
 and lips so red, — 
 On her neck the small face buoyant, 
 
 like a bell-flower on its bed. 
 O'er the breast's superb abundance where 
 
 a man might base his head ? 
 
 Well, and it was .graceful of them — 
 they 'd break talk off and afford 
 
 — She, to bite lier mask's black velvet^ 
 he, to finger on his sword, 
 
 Wliile you sat and played Toccatas, 
 stately at the clavichord ? 
 
 What? Those lesser thirds so plaintive, 
 sixths diminished, sigh on sigh. 
 
 Told them something? Those suspen- 
 sions, those solutions — '• Must we 
 die ? " 
 
 Those commiserating sevenths — •' Life 
 might last ! we can but try ! " 
 
 "Were you happy?"- — "Yes." — "And 
 
 are you still as happy ? " — " Yes. And 
 
 you ? " 
 — "Then, more kisses!" — " Did J stop 
 
 them, when a million seemed so 
 
 few?" 
 Hark, the dominant's persistence till it 
 
 must be answered to ! 
 
 So, an octave struck the answer. Oh, 
 
 they praised you, I dare say ! 
 " Brave Galuppi ! that was music ! good 
 
 alike at grave and gay ! 
 I can always leave off talking when I 
 
 hear a master play ! " 
 
 Then they left you for their pleasure : 
 
 till ill due time, one by one. 
 Some with lives that came to nothing, 
 
 some with deeds as well undone, 
 Death stepped tacitly and took them 
 
 where they never see the sun. 
 
 But when I sit down to reason, think to 
 
 take my stand nor swerve. 
 While I triumph o'er a secret wrung 
 
 from nature's close reserve. 
 In you come with your cold music till I 
 
 creep through every nerve. 
 
 Yes, 5'ou, like a ghostly cricket, creak- 
 ing where a house was burned : 
 
 " Dust and ashes, dead and dttne with, 
 Venice spent what Venice earned. 
 
 The soul, doubtless, is immortal — wliere 
 a soul can be discerned. 
 
 " Yours for instance : j^ouknow physics, 
 
 something of geology. 
 Mathematics are your pastime ; souls 
 
 shall rise in their degree ; 
 Butterflies may dread extinction,. — ' 
 
 you '11 not die, it cannot be f 
 
 " As for Venice and her people, merely 
 
 born to bloom and drop, 
 Here ou earth they bore their fruitage, 
 
 mirth and folly were the crop : 
 What of soul was left, I wonder, when 
 
 the kissing had to stop ? 
 
 "Dust and ashes!" So you creak it, 
 
 and I want the heart to scold. 
 Dear dead women, with siicli hair, too 
 
 — what's become of all the gold / 
 
 Used to hang and brush tlieir bosoms? 
 
 I feel chilly and grown old. 1855. 
 
622 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 J> OLD PICTURES IN FLORENCE 
 
 The morn when first it thunders in 
 March. 
 The eel in the pond gives a leap, they 
 say : 
 As I leaned and looked over the aloed 
 arch 
 Of the villa-gate this warna March day, 
 No flash snapped, no dumb thunder rolled 
 In the valley beneath where, white 
 and wide 
 And washed by the morning water gold, 
 Florence lay out on the mountain-side. 
 
 River and bridge and street and square 
 
 Lay mine, as much at my beck and call' 
 Through the live translucent bath of air' 
 
 As the sights in a magic crystal ball. 
 And of all I saw and of all 1 praised. 
 
 The most to praise and the best to see. 
 Was the startling bell-tower Giotto 
 raised : 
 
 But why did it more than startle me ? 
 
 Giotto, how, with that soul of yours. 
 Could you play me false who loved you 
 so? 
 Some slights if a certain heart endures 
 Yet it feels, I would havey our fellows 
 know ! 
 I' faith, I perceive not wliy I should care 
 To break a silence that suits them best. 
 But the thing grows somewliat hard to 
 bear 
 When I find a Giotto join the rest. 
 
 On the arch where olives overhead 
 
 Print the blue sky with twig and leaf, 
 (That sharp-curled leaf which they 
 never shed) 
 ' Twixt the aloes, I used to lean in chief. 
 And mark through the winter after- 
 noons, 
 By a gift God gi-ants me now and then, 
 In tiie mild decline of those suns like 
 moons, 
 Who walked in Florence, besides her 
 men. 
 
 They might cliirp and chaffer, come and 
 go 
 For pleasure or profit, her men alive — 
 My business was hardly with them, I 
 trow, 
 But with empty cells of the human 
 hive ; 
 — With tlie cliapter-room, the cloister- 
 porch, 
 
 The church's apsis, aisle or nave, 
 Its crypt, one fingers along with a torch, 
 Its face set full for tiie sun to shave. 
 
 Wherever a fresco peels and drops. 
 Wherever an outline weakens and 
 wanes 
 Till tlie latest life in the painting stops, 
 Stands One whom each fainter pulse- 
 tick pains : 
 One, wishful eacii scrap should clutch 
 the brick, 
 Each tinge not wholly escape the 
 plaster, 
 — A lion who dies of an ass's kick. 
 The wronged great soul of an ancient 
 Master. 
 
 For oh, tins world and the wrong it does I 
 They are safe in heaven with their 
 backs to it. 
 The Michaels and Rafaels, you hum and 
 buzz 
 Round the works of, vou of the little 
 wit ! 
 Do their eyes contract to the earth's old 
 
 scope, 
 Now tliat tliey see God face to face. 
 And have all attained to be poets, I hope ? 
 'T is their holiday now, in any case. 
 
 Mucli they reck of your praise and j-ou ! 
 
 But the wronged great souls — can they 
 
 be quit 
 
 Of a world where their work is all to do. 
 
 Where j'ou style them, you of the little 
 
 wit, 
 Old Master Tins and Early the Other, 
 Not dreaming that Old and New are 
 fellows : 
 A younger succeeds to an elder brother, 
 Da Vincis derive in good time from 
 Dellos. 
 
 And here where your praise might yield 
 returns. 
 And a handsome word or two give 
 help, 
 Here, after your kind, the mastiff girns 
 
 And the puppy pack of poodles yelp. 
 What, not a word for Stefano thei'e, 
 
 Of brow once prominent and starry. 
 Called Nature's Ape, and the world's 
 despair 
 For his peerless painting? (See Vasari.) 
 
 There stands the. Master. Study, my 
 friends, 
 What a man's work comes to ! So he 
 plans it, 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 623 
 
 Performs it, perfects it, makes amends 
 For the toiling and moiling, and then, 
 sic transit! 
 Happier the tluifty blind-folk labor, 
 With upturned eye while tlie hand is 
 busy, 
 Not sidling a glance at the coin of their 
 neighbor ! 
 'T is looking downward that makes one 
 dizzy. 
 
 " If you knew their work you would deal 
 your dole." 
 May I take upon me to instruct you ? 
 When Greek Art ran and reached the 
 goal, 
 Thus much had the world to boast in 
 fructn — 
 Tlie Truth of Man. as by God first spoken, 
 
 Wliich the actual generations garble, 
 Was re-uttered, and Soul (wliich Limbs 
 betoken) 
 And Limbs (Soul informs) made new 
 in marble. 
 
 So you saw yourself as you wished you 
 were. 
 As you might have been, as you can- 
 not be ; 
 Earth here, rebuked by Olympus there : 
 And grew content in yovir poor degree 
 With your little power, by those statues' 
 godhead. 
 And your little scope, by their eyes' 
 full sway. 
 And your little grace, by their grace 
 embodied 
 And your little date, by their forms 
 that stay. 
 
 You would fain be kinglier, say, than I 
 am ? 
 Even so, yovi will not sit like Theseus, 
 You would prove a model ? The Son of 
 - Priam, 
 Has yet tlie advantage in arms' and 
 knees' use. 
 You're wioth — can you .slay your snake 
 like Apollo ? 
 You're grieved— still Niobe 's tlie 
 grander ! 
 You live — there's the Racers' frieze to 
 follow : 
 You die — there's the dying Alexander. 
 
 So, testing your weakness by their 
 .strength. 
 Your meagre charms by their rounded 
 beauty, 
 
 Measured by Art in your breadth and 
 length, 
 You learned — to submit is a mortal's 
 duty. 
 — When 1 say "you" 'tis the common 
 soul. 
 The collective, I mean : the race of 
 Man 
 Tlmt receives life in parts to live in a 
 whole, 
 And grow here according to God's 
 clear jjlan. 
 
 Growth came when, looking your last 
 on them all, 
 You turned your eyes inwardly one 
 fine day 
 And cried with a start — What if we so 
 small 
 Be greater and grander the while than 
 they ? 
 Are they perfect of lineament, perfect of 
 stature ? 
 In both, of such lower types are we 
 Precisely because of our wider nature ; 
 For time, theirs — ours, for eternity. 
 
 To-day's brief passion limits their range ; 
 It seethes with the morrow for us and 
 more. 
 They are perfect — how else ? they shall 
 never change : 
 We are faulty — why not ? we have 
 time in store. 
 The Artificer's hand is not arrested 
 With us ; we are rough-hewn, nowise 
 polished : 
 They stand for our copy, and once, in- 
 vested 
 With all they can teach, we shall see 
 them abolished. 
 
 "T is a life-long toil till our lump be 
 leaven — 
 Tlie better ! What's come to perfec- 
 tion perishes. 
 Things learned on earth, we shall practise 
 in heaven : 
 Works done least rapidly. Art mo.st 
 cherishes. 
 Tliyself shalt afford the example, Giotto ! 
 Tliy one work, not to decrease or dim- 
 inish. 
 Done at a stroke, was just (was it not ?) 
 "O!" 
 Thy great Campanile is still to finish. 
 
 Is it true that we are now, and shall be 
 
 hereafter, 
 
62A 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 But what and where depend on Ufe's 
 minute ? 
 Hails heavenly cheer or infernal laughter 
 Our first step out of the gulf or in it ? 
 Shall Man, such step within his endeavor, 
 Man's face, have no moi'e play and 
 action 
 Than joy whicli is crj'stallized forever, 
 Or grief, an eternal petrifaction ? 
 
 On which I conclude, tliat the early 
 painters, 
 To cries of " Greek Art and what more 
 wish you ? " — 
 Replied, " To become now self-ac- 
 qnainters. 
 And paint man, man, whatever the 
 issue ! 
 Make new hopes sliine tlirough the flesh 
 the J' fray, 
 New fears aggrandize the rags and 
 tatters : 
 To bring the invisible full into play! 
 Let tlie visible go to the dogs — wliat 
 matters ? " 
 
 Give these, I exhort you, their guerdon 
 and glory 
 For daring so much, before they well 
 did it. 
 The first of the new, in our race's story. 
 Beats tlie last of the old ; 't is no idle 
 quiddit. 
 The w^orthies began a revolution. 
 
 Which if on earth you intend to ac- 
 knowledge, 
 Why, honor them now ! (ends mj- allo- 
 cution) 
 Nor confer your degree wdien the folk 
 leave college. 
 
 There "s a fancy some lean to and others 
 liate— 
 That, when this life is ended, begins 
 New work for the soul in anotlier state, 
 Wlieru it strives and gets weary, loses 
 and wins : 
 Where tlie strong and the weak, this 
 world's congeries. 
 Repeat in large what they practised in 
 small, 
 Througli life after life in unlimited 
 series ; 
 Only tlie scale 's to be changed, that 's 
 "all. 
 
 Yet I hardly know. When a soul lias 
 seen 
 B}'^ the means of Evil that Good is best. 
 
 And, thi'ough earth and its noise, what 
 is heaven's serene, — 
 AVhen our faith in the same has stood 
 the test — 
 Why the child grown man, you burn the 
 rod , 
 The uses of labor are surely done ; 
 There remaineth a rest for the people of 
 God: 
 And I have had troubles enough, for 
 one. 
 
 But at any rate I have loved the season 
 
 Of Art's spring-birth so dim and dewy ; 
 My sculptor is Nicolo the Pisan, 
 
 JMy painter — who but Cimabue? 
 Nor ever was man of them all indeed. 
 
 From these to Ghiberti and Ghirian- 
 dajo, 
 Could say that he missed m^' critic-meed. 
 
 So, now to my special grievance — 
 heigh-ho ! 
 
 Their ghosts still stand, as I said before. 
 Watching each fresco flaked and 
 rasped. 
 Blocked up. knocked out, or white- 
 washed o'er : 
 — No getting again what the church 
 has grasped ! 
 The works on the wall must take their 
 chance ; 
 " AVorks never conceded to England's 
 thick clime ! " 
 (I hope they prefer their inheritance 
 Of a bucketful of Italian quick-lime. ) 
 
 When they go at length, with such a 
 shaking 
 Of heads o'er the old delusion, sadly 
 Each master his way through the black 
 streets taking. 
 Where many a lost work breathes 
 though badly — 
 Why don't they bethink them of who has 
 merited ? 
 Why not reveal, while their pictures 
 dree 
 Such doom, how a captive might be out- 
 ferreted ? 
 Why is it they never remember me ? 
 
 Not that I expect the great Bigordi, 
 Nor Sandro to hear me, chivalric, belli- 
 cose ; 
 Nor the wronged Lippino j and not a 
 woi'd I 
 Say of a sci'ap of Fra Angelico's : 
 But are you too fine, Taddeo Gaddi, 
 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 625 
 
 To grant me a taste of your intonaco, 
 Some Jerome that seeks the heaven with 
 a sad eye ? 
 Not a churlish saint, Lorenzo Monaco ? 
 
 Could not the ghost with the close red 
 cap. 
 My Pollajolo, the twice a craftsman, 
 Save me a sample, give me the hap 
 Of a muscular Christ that shows the 
 draughtsman ? 
 No Virgin by him the somewhat petty, 
 Of finical touch and tempera crumbly — 
 Could not Alesso Baldovinetti 
 
 Contribute so much, I ask him 
 liumbly ? 
 
 Margheritone of Arezzo, 
 
 Willi the grave-clothes garb and 
 swaddling barret, 
 (Why purse up uxouth and beak in a pet 
 so. 
 You bald old saturnine poll-clawed 
 parrot ?) 
 Not a poor glimmering Crucifixion, 
 Where in the foreground kneels the 
 donor ? 
 If such remain, as is my conviction, 
 The lioarding it does you but little 
 honor. 
 
 They pass ; for them the i^anels may 
 thrill, 
 Tlie tempera grow alive and tinglish ; 
 Their pictures are left to the mercies 
 still 
 Of dealers and stealers, Jews and the 
 English, 
 Who, seeing mere money's worth in their 
 prize. 
 Will sell it to somebody calm as Zeno 
 At naked High Art, and in ecstasies 
 Before some clay-cold vile Carlino ! 
 
 No matter for these ! But Giotto, you. 
 
 Have you allowed, as the town-tongues 
 babble it, — 
 Oh, never ! it shall not be counted true — 
 
 That a certain precious little tablet 
 Which Buonarrotti eyed like a lover — 
 
 Was buried so long in oblivion's womb 
 And, left for another than I to discover. 
 
 Turns up at last ! and to whom ? — to 
 whom ? 
 
 I, that have haunted the dim San 
 Spirito, 
 (Or was it rather the Ognissanti ?) 
 Patient on altar-step planting a weary 
 toe! 
 40 
 
 Nay, I shall have it yet ! Detnr amanti ! 
 My Koh-i-noor — or (if that 's a plati- 
 tude) 
 Jewel of Giamschid, the Persian Sofi's 
 eye ; 
 So. in anticipative gratitude. 
 
 What if I take up my hope and pro- 
 phesy ? 
 
 AVhen the hour grows ripe, and a certain 
 dotard 
 Is pitched, no parcel that needs invoic- 
 ing, 
 To the worse side of the Mont St. Gothard, 
 
 We shall begin by way of rejoicing ; 
 None of that shooting the sky (blank 
 cartridge), 
 Nor a civic guard, all plumes and 
 lacquer. 
 Hunting Radetzky's soul like a partridge 
 Over Morello with squib and cracker. 
 
 This time we 11 shoot better game and 
 bag 'em hot — 
 No mere display at the stone of Dante 
 But a kind of sober Witaiiagemot 
 
 (Ex : " Casa Guidi, " qnod videos atite) 
 Shall ponder, once Freedom restored to 
 Florence, 
 How Art may return that departed 
 with her. 
 Go, hated house, go each trace of the 
 Loraine's, 
 And bring us the davs of Orgagna 
 hither ! 
 
 How we shall prologuize, how we snail 
 perorate. 
 Utter fit things upon art and history, 
 Feel truth at blood-heat and falsehood at 
 zei'o rate. 
 Make of the want of the age no 
 mystery ; 
 Contrast the fructuous and sterile eras. 
 Show — monarchy ever its uncouth cub 
 licks 
 Out of tlie bear's shape into Chimsera's, 
 While Pure Art's birth is still the 
 republic's. 
 
 Then one shall propose in a speech (curt 
 Tuscan, 
 Expurgate and sober, with scarcely an 
 " issimo,") 
 To end now our half-told tale of Cam- 
 buscan. 
 And turn the bell-tower's alt to 
 altissimo : 
 And fine as the beak of a young beccaccia 
 The Campanile, the Duomo's fit ally, 
 
626 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Shall soar up in g;old full fifty braccia. 
 Completing Florence, as Florence 
 Italy. 
 
 Shall I be alive that morning the scaffold 
 Is broken away, and the long-pent fire. 
 Like the golden hope of the world, un- 
 baffled 
 Springs from its sleep, and vipgoes the 
 spire 
 While " God and the People" plain for 
 its motto. 
 Thence the new tricolor flaps at the 
 sky ? 
 At least to foresee that glory of Giotto 
 And Florence together, the first am I ! 
 
 1855. 
 
 "DE GUSTIBUS— " 
 
 Your ghost will walk, you lover of trees, 
 
 (If our loves remain) 
 
 In an English lane. 
 By a cornfield-side a-flutter with poppies. 
 Hark, those two in the hazel coppice — 
 A boy and a girl, if the good fates please. 
 
 Making love, say, — 
 
 The hai>pier they ! 
 Draw yourself up from the light of the 
 
 moon. 
 And let them pass, as they will too soon. 
 
 With the beanflowers' boon. 
 
 And the blackbird's tune. 
 
 And Maj', and June ! 
 
 ' What I love best in all the world 
 Is a castle, precipice-encurled, 
 
 , In a gash of the wind-grieved Apennine. 
 Or look for me, old fellow of mine, 
 (If I get my head from out the mouth 
 O' the grave, and loose my spirit's bands. 
 And come again to tlie land of lands) — 
 In a sea-side house to the farther South, 
 Where the baked cicala dies of drouth. 
 And one sharp tree — 't is a cypress — 
 
 stands 
 By the many hundred j^ears red-rusted. 
 Rough iron-spiked, ripe fruit-o'ercrusted. 
 My sentinel to guard the sands 
 To the water's edge. For, what expands 
 Before the house, but tlie great opaque 
 Blue breadth of sea without a break ? 
 While, in the house, forever crumbles 
 Some fragment of the frescoed walls. 
 From blisters where a scorpion sprawls. 
 A girl bare-footed brings, and tumbles 
 Down on the pavement, green-flesh me- 
 lons. 
 And says tliere 's news to-day — the king 
 
 Was shot at. toucl)ed in the liver-wing, 
 Goes with his Bourbon arm in a sling , 
 — She hopes they have not caught the 
 
 felons. 
 Italy, my Italy ! 
 
 Queen Mary's saying serves for me — 
 ( When fortune's malice 
 Lost her, Calais) 
 Open my heart and you will see 
 Graved inside of it, '' Italy." 
 Such lovers old are I and slie : 
 So it alwavs was, so sh.all ever be ! 
 
 1855. 
 
 MY STAR 
 
 All that I know 
 
 Of a certain star 
 Is, it can throw 
 
 (Like the angled spar) 
 Now a dart of red. 
 
 Now a dart of blue ; 
 Till m\^ friends have said 
 They would fain see. too, 
 .^Iv star that dartles tlie red and the 
 
 blue ! 
 Then it stops like a bird ; like a flower, 
 hangs furled : 
 They must solace themselves with the 
 Saturn above it. 
 What matter to me if their star is a 
 world ? 
 Mine has'opened its soul to me ; there- 
 fore I love it. 1855. 
 
 ANY AVIFE TO ANY HUSBAND 
 
 My love, this is the bitterest, that thou — 
 Who art all truth, and who dost love me 
 
 now 
 As thine ej'es say, as thy voice breaks 
 
 to say — 
 Shouldst love so truly, and couldst love 
 
 me still 
 A whole long life through, had but love 
 
 its will. 
 Would death that leads me from thee 
 
 brook delay; — 
 
 I have but to be by thee, and thy hand 
 
 AVill never let mine go, nor heart with- 
 stand 
 The beating of my heart to reach its 
 place. 
 
 When shall I look for thee and feel thee 
 gone ? 
 
 When cry for the old comfort and find 
 none ? 
 Never, I know ! Tiiy soul is in thy face. 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 627 
 
 Oh, I should fade— "t is willed so ! Miglit 
 I save, 
 
 (iladly I would, whatever beauty gave 
 Joy to thy sense, for that was pre- 
 cious too. 
 
 It is not to be granted. But the soul 
 
 Wlience tlie love comes, all ravage 
 leaves tliat whole ; 
 Vainly the flesli fades ; soul makes all 
 tilings new. 
 
 It would not be Ijecause my eye grew 
 
 dim 
 Tliou couldst not find the love there, 
 
 tiianks to Him 
 Who never is dishonored in the spark 
 He gave us from liis fire of tires and 
 
 bade 
 Remember whence it sprang, nor be 
 
 afraid 
 While that burns on, though all the 
 
 rest grow dark. 
 
 So, how tliou wouldst be perfect, white 
 and clean 
 
 Outside as inside, soul and soul's de- 
 mesne 
 Alike, this body given to show it by ! 
 
 Oh, tliree-parts through the worst of 
 lifes abyss, 
 
 Wiiat plaudits from tlienext world after 
 this. 
 Couldst thou repeat a stroke and gain 
 the sky ! — 
 
 And is it not the bitterer to think 
 Tliat disengage our iiands and thou wilt 
 siidv 
 Although thy love was love in very 
 deed V 
 I know that nature ! Pass a festive day, 
 Tliou dost not throw its relic-flower away 
 Nor bid its music's loitering echo 
 speed. 
 
 Thou let'st the strangers glove lie wdiere 
 
 it fell ; 
 If old things remain old things all is 
 
 well. 
 For thou art grateful as Ijecomes man 
 
 best : 
 And hadst thou only heard me play one 
 
 tune. 
 Or viewed me from a window, not so 
 
 soon 
 With thee would such things fade as 
 
 with the rest. 
 
 I seem to see ! AVe meet and part ; 't is 
 brief ; 
 
 The book I opened keeps a folded leaf. 
 The very cliair I sat on, breaks tlie 
 rank ; 
 That is a portrait of me on the wall — 
 Three lines, my face coines at so slight a 
 call : 
 And for all tliis, one little hour to 
 thank ! 
 
 But now, because the hour through years 
 
 was fixed. 
 Because our inmost beings met and 
 
 mixed, 
 Because thou once hast loved me — wilt 
 
 thou dare 
 Say to thy .soul and Who may list beside, 
 '■ Tlierefore she is immortally my bride ; 
 Uiiance cannot change my love, nor 
 
 time impair. 
 
 " So, what if in the dusk of life that's 
 
 left, 
 I, a tired traveller of my sun bereft. 
 Look from my path when, mimicking 
 
 the same. 
 The firefly glimpses past jne, come and 
 
 gone ? 
 — Where was it till the sunset? Where 
 
 anon 
 It wall be at the sunrise ! What 's to 
 
 blame ? " 
 
 Is it so helpful to thee? Canst thou 
 
 take 
 The mimic up, nor, for the true thing's 
 
 sake, 
 Put gently by such efforts at a beam ? 
 Is the remainder of tlie w-ay so long. 
 Thou need'st the little solace, thou the 
 
 strong ? 
 Watch out thy watch, let weak ones 
 
 doze and dream ! 
 
 Ah, but the fresher faces ! " Is it true," 
 Thou 'It ask, " some eyes are beautiful 
 
 and new ? 
 Some hair, — how can one choose but 
 
 grasp such wealth ? 
 And if a man would press his lips to lips 
 Fresh as the wilding hedge-rose-cup 
 
 there slips 
 The dew drop out of, must it be by 
 
 stealth ? 
 
 " It cannot change the love still kept 
 
 for Her, 
 More than if such a picture I prefer 
 Passing a day with, to a room's bare 
 
 side : 
 
628 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Tlie painted form takes nothing she 
 
 possessed. 
 Yet, while the Titian's Venus lies at rest, 
 A man looks. Once more, what is 
 
 there to chide ? " 
 
 So must I see, from where I sit and 
 
 watch , 
 My own self sell myself, my hand attacli 
 Its warrant to the very thefts from 
 
 me — 
 Thy singleness of soul tliat made me 
 
 proud. 
 Thy purity of heart I loved aloud, 
 Thy man's-truth I was bold to bid God 
 
 see ! 
 
 Love so, then, if thou wilt ! Give all 
 
 thou canst 
 Away to the new faces — disentranced, 
 (Say it and think it) obdurate no 
 
 more ; 
 Re-issue looks and words from the old 
 
 mint, 
 Pass them afresh, no matter whose the 
 
 print 
 Image and superscription once they 
 
 bore ! 
 
 Re-coin thyself and give it them to 
 
 spend, — 
 It all comes to the same thing at the 
 
 end. 
 Since mine thou wast, mine art and 
 
 mine shalt be, 
 Faithful or faitliless, sealing up the sum 
 Or lavish of my treasure, thou must 
 
 come 
 Back to the heart's place here I keep 
 
 for thee ! 
 
 Only, why should it be with stain at all? 
 
 Why must I, 'twixt the leaves of cor- 
 onal. 
 Put any kiss of pardon on thy brow ? 
 
 Why need the other women know so 
 mvich, 
 
 And talk together, " Such the look and 
 such 
 The smile he used to love with, then as 
 now ! " 
 
 Might I die last and show thee ! Should 
 
 I find 
 Such hardship in the few years left 
 
 behind, 
 If free to take and light my lamp, and 
 
 go 
 Into thy tomb, and shut the door and sit. 
 
 Seeing thy face on those four sides of it 
 The better that they are so blank, I 
 know ! 
 
 Why, time was what I wanted, to turn 
 
 o'er 
 Within my mind each look, get more 
 
 and more 
 By heart each word, too much to learn 
 
 at first : 
 And join thee all the fitter for the pause 
 'Neath the low doorway's lintel. That 
 
 were cause 
 For lingering, though thou calledst, 
 
 if I dvu-st ! ■ 
 
 And j^et thou art the nobler of us two : 
 What dare I dream of, that thou canst 
 not do, 
 Outstripping my ten small steps with 
 one stride ? 
 I "11 say then, here's a trial and a task — 
 Is it to bear? — if easy, I "11 not ask : 
 Though love fail, I can trust on in tliy 
 pride. 
 
 Pride? — when those eyes forestall the 
 
 life behind 
 The death I have to go through ! — when 
 
 I find, 
 Now that I want thy "help most, all 
 
 of thee ! 
 What did I fear ? Thy love shall hold 
 
 me fast 
 Until the little minute's sleep is past 
 And I wake saved. — And yet it will 
 
 not be ! 1855. 
 
 TWO IN THE CAMPAGNA 
 
 I WONDER do you feel to-day 
 
 As I have felt since, hand in hand, 
 
 We sat down on the grass, to stray 
 In spirit better through the land, 
 
 Tills morn of Rome and May ? 
 
 For me, I touched a thought, I know. 
 Has tantalized me many times, 
 
 (Like turns of thread the sjDiders throw 
 Mocking across our path) for rhymes 
 
 To catch at and let go. 
 
 Help me to hold it ! First it left 
 The yellowing fennel, run to seed 
 
 There, branching from the brickwork's 
 cleft, 
 Some old tomb's ruin ; yonder weed 
 
 Took up the floating weft. 
 
 I 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 629 
 
 Where one small orange cup amassed 
 Five beetles — blind and green they 
 grope 
 
 Among the honey-meal : and last. 
 Everywhere on tlie grassy slope 
 
 I traced it. Hold it fast ! 
 
 Tlie champaign witli its endless fleece 
 Of feathery grasses everywhere ! 
 
 Silence and passion, joy and peace, 
 An everlasting wash of air — 
 
 Rome's ghost since her decease. 
 
 Such life here, through such lengths of 
 hours, 
 
 Such miracles performed in play, 
 Such primal naked forms of flowers. 
 
 Such letting nature have her way. 
 While heaven looks from its towers ! 
 
 How say you? Let us, O my dove. 
 Let us be unashamed of soul. 
 
 As earth lies bare to heaven above ! 
 How is it under our control 
 
 To love or not to love ? 
 
 I would that you were all to me. 
 You that are just so much, no more. 
 
 Nor yours nor mine, nor slave nor free ! 
 Where does tlie fault lie ? What the 
 core 
 
 O' the wound, since wound must l)e ? 
 
 I would I could adopt your will. 
 See with your eyes, and set uia^ heart 
 
 Beating by yours, and drink mj' fill 
 At your soul's springs, — your part my 
 part 
 
 In life, for good and ill. 
 
 No. I 3^earn upward, touch you close. 
 
 Then stand away. I kiss your cheek . 
 Catch your soul's warmth, — I pluck the 
 rose 
 And love it more than tongue can 
 speak — 
 Then the good minute goes. 
 
 Already how am I so far 
 
 Out of that minute ? Must I go 
 
 Still like the thistle-ball, no bar, 
 Onward, whenever light winds blow, 
 
 Fixed by no friendly star ? 
 
 Just when I seemed about to learn ! 
 
 Where is the thread now ? Off again I 
 The old trick ! Only I discern — 
 
 Infinite passion, and the pain 
 Of finite hearts that yearn. 1855. 
 
 MISCONCEPTIONS 
 
 This is a spray the Bird clung to. 
 
 ^Making it blossom with pleasure. 
 
 Ere the high tree-top she sprung to, 
 
 Fit for her nest and her treasure. 
 
 Oil. what a hope beyond measure 
 
 Was the poor spray's, which the flying 
 
 feet hung to, — 
 So to be singled out, built in, and sung 
 to! 
 
 This is a heart the Queen leaned on, 
 
 Thrilled in a minute erratic. 
 Ere the true bosom she bent on. 
 Meet for love's regal dalmatic. 
 Oh, what a fancy ecstatic 
 Was the poor heart's, ere the wanderer 
 
 went on — 
 Love to be saved for it, proffered to, 
 spent on ! 1855. 
 
 ONE WAY OF LOVE 
 
 All June I bound the rose in sheaves. 
 Now. rose by rose, I strip the leaves 
 And strew them where Pauline may 
 
 pass. 
 Slie will not turn aside ? Alas ! 
 Let them lie. Suppose they die ? 
 The chance was they might take her eye. 
 
 How many a month I strove to suit 
 These stubborn fingers to the lute ! 
 To-day I venture all I know. 
 She will not hear my nuisic ? So ! 
 Break the string : fold music's wing : 
 Suppose Pauline had bade me sing ! 
 
 "Sly whole life long I learned to love. 
 
 This hour my utmost art I prove 
 
 And speak mv passion — heaven or 
 
 hell? 
 Siie will not not give me heaven ? 'T is 
 
 well ! 
 Lose who may — I still can say, 
 Those who win heaven, blest are they ! 
 
 1855. 
 
 ANOTHER WAY OF LOVE 
 
 June was not over 
 Though past the full, 
 
 And the best of her roses 
 Had yet to blow, 
 When a man I know 
 
 (But shall not discover, 
 Since ears are dull. 
 
 And time discloses) 
 
630 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Turned him and said with a man"s true 
 
 air, 
 Half sighing a smile in a yawn, as 't 
 
 were. — 
 '' If I tire of your June, will she greatly 
 
 care ? " 
 
 Well, dear, in-doors with you ! 
 
 True ! serene deadness 
 Tries a man's temper. 
 Whafs in the blossoni 
 June wears on her bosom ? 
 Can it clear scores with you ? 
 Sweetness and redness, 
 Eailcin semper ! 
 (to. let jnecare lor it greatly or slightly ! 
 If June mend her bower now. your hand 
 
 left unsiglitly 
 By plucking the roses, — my June will do 
 rightly. 
 
 And after, for ]);istime. 
 If June be refulgent 
 With flowers in (completeness, 
 All petals, no prickles, 
 Delicious as trickles 
 Of wine poured at mass-time, — 
 And clioose One indulgent 
 To redness and sweetness : 
 Or if, witli experience of man and of 
 
 spider, 
 June use my June-lightning, the strong 
 
 insect-ridder. 
 And sto|» tlie fresh film-work. — why, 
 June will consider. 1855. 
 
 RESPECTABILITY 
 
 Dear, had the world in its caprice 
 
 Deigned to proclaim '• I know you 
 both, 
 
 Have recognized your plighted troth. 
 Am si)onsor for you : live in peace ! '" — 
 How many precious months and years 
 
 Of youth had passed, that speed so 
 fast. 
 
 Before we found it out at last, 
 The world, and what it fears! 
 
 How much of priceless life were spent 
 With men that ever\' virtue decks. 
 And women models of their sex, 
 
 Society's true ornament, — 
 
 Ere we dared wander, nights like this, 
 Through wind and rain, and watch the 
 
 Seine. 
 And feel the Boulevard break again 
 
 To warmth and light and bliss ! 
 
 I know ! the world proscribes not love ; 
 
 Allows my finger to caress 
 
 Your li[)s' contour and downiness. 
 Provided it supply a glove. 
 The world's good word ! — the Institute ! 
 
 Guizot receives Montalembert ! 
 
 Ell ? Down tlie court three lampions 
 flare : 
 Put forward your best foot ! 1855. 
 
 LOVE IN A LIFE 
 
 Room after room, 
 
 I hunt tlie house through 
 
 We inliabit togetlier. 
 
 Heart, fear nothing, for, heart, thou 
 shalt lind lier — 
 
 Next time, lierself ! — not the trouble be- 
 hind iier 
 
 Left in the curtain, tiie couch's perfume! 
 
 As she brushed it. the (•ornice-wreath 
 blossomed anew : 
 
 Yon looking-glass gleamed at the wave 
 of lier feather. 
 
 Yet the day wears. 
 
 And door succeeds door ; 
 
 I try the fresh fortune — 
 
 Range the wide liouse from the wing to 
 
 the center. 
 Still tlie same ciiance ! she goes out as I 
 
 enter. 
 Spend my whole day in the quest. — who 
 
 cares ? 
 But 't is twilight, you see, — with such 
 
 suites to explore. 
 Such closets to searcli, such alcoves to 
 
 importune ! 1855. 
 
 LIFE IN A LOVE 
 
 Escape me ? 
 Never — 
 Beloved ! 
 While I am I. and you are you. 
 
 So long as the world contains us both, 
 INIe the loving and you the loth. 
 While the one eludes, must the other 
 
 pursue. 
 My life is a fault at last. I fear : 
 
 It seems too much like a fate, indeed ! 
 Tliough I do my best I shall scarce 
 succeed. 
 But wliat if I fail of my purpose here ? 
 It is but to keep the nerves at .strain, 
 
 To dry one's eyes and laugh at a fall. 
 And baffled, get up and begin again, — 
 So the chase takes up one's life, that's 
 all. 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 631 
 
 While, look but once from your farthest 
 bound 
 At nie so deep in the dust and dark. 
 No sooner the old hope goes to ground 
 Than a new one, straight to the self- 
 same mark, 
 I shape me — 
 Ever 
 Removed ! 1855. 
 
 IN THREE DAYS 
 
 So. I shall see her in three days 
 And just one night, but nights are short, 
 Then two long hours, and that is morn. 
 See how I come, unchanged, unworn ! 
 Feel, where my life broke off from thine, 
 How fresh the splinters keep and fine, — 
 Only a touch and we combine ! 
 
 Too long, this time of year, the days ! 
 But nights, at least the nights are sliort. 
 As night shows where her one moon is, 
 A handVbreadth of pure light and bliss, 
 So life's night gives my lady birth 
 And my eyes hold her ! What is worth 
 The rest of heaven, the rest of earth ? 
 
 O loaded curls, release your store 
 Of warmth and scent, as once before 
 The tingling hair did, lights and darks 
 Outbreaking into fairy sjiarks. 
 When under curl and curl I pried 
 After the warmth and scent inside. 
 Through lights and darks how mani- 
 fold— 
 The dark inspired, the light controlled ! 
 As early Art embrowns the gold. 
 
 What great fear, should one say, " Three 
 
 days 
 That change the world might change as 
 
 well 
 Your fortune ; and if joy delays. 
 Be happy that no worse befell I " 
 What small fear, if anotlier says, 
 "Three days and one short night beside 
 May throw no shadow on your ways ; 
 But years must teem with change un- 
 tried , 
 With chance not easily defied, 
 With an end somewhere undescried." 
 No fear ! — or if a fear be born 
 This minute, it dies out in scorn. 
 Fear ? I shall see her in three days 
 And one night, now the niglitsare short. 
 Then just two hovirs. and that is morn. 
 
 1855. 
 
 THE GUARDIAN- ANGEL vj^ 
 
 A PICTURE AT FANO 
 
 Dear and great Angel, wouldst thou 
 only leave 
 That child, when thou hast done with 
 him, for me ! 
 Let me sit all the day here, that when eve 
 Shall find performed tiiy special minis- 
 try, 
 Ami time come for departure, thou, sus- 
 pending. 
 Thy flight, maj^'st see another child for 
 tending, 
 Another still, to quiet and retrieve. 
 
 Tlien I shall feel thee step one step, no 
 more. 
 From where thou standest now, to 
 where I gaze, 
 — And suddenly my head is covered o'er 
 AVith those wings, white above the 
 child who ])rays 
 Now on that tomb — and I shall feel thee 
 
 guarding 
 Me, out of all the world ; for me, discard- 
 ing 
 Yon heaven thy home, that waits and 
 opes its door. 
 
 I would not look up thither past thy 
 head 
 Because the door opes, like that child, 
 I know. 
 For I should have thy gracious face in- 
 stead , 
 Thou bird of God ! And wilt thou 
 bend me low 
 Like him, and lay, like his, my hands 
 
 together. 
 And lift thenr up to pray, and gently 
 tether 
 Me, as thy lamb there, with thy gar- 
 ment's spread? 
 
 If this was ever granted, I would rest 
 My head beneath thine, while thy 
 healing hands 
 Close-covered both my eyes beside thy 
 breast. 
 Pressing the brain, which too much 
 thought expands. 
 Back to its proper size again, and smooth- 
 ing 
 Distortion down till every nerve had 
 soothing. 
 And all lay quiet, happy and sup- 
 pressed. 
 
632 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 How soon all vvorklly wrong would be 
 repaired ! 
 I think how I should view the earth 
 and skies 
 And sea, when once again nij^ brow was 
 bared 
 After thy healing, with such different 
 eyes. 
 
 world, as God has made it ! All is 
 
 beauty : 
 And knowing this, is love, and love is 
 duty. 
 What furtlier may be sought for or 
 declared ? 
 
 Guercino drew this angel I saw teach 
 (Alfred, dear friend !) — that little child 
 to pray. 
 Holding the little hands up, each to each 
 Pressed gently, — with his own head 
 turned away 
 Over the earth where so much lay before 
 
 hini 
 Of work to do. tliough heaven was open- 
 ing o'er him. 
 And he was left at Fano by the beach. 
 
 We were at Fano, and three times we 
 went 
 To sit and see him in his chapel there. 
 And drink his beauty to our soul's con- 
 tent 
 — My angel with me too : and since I 
 care 
 For dear Guercino's fame (to which in 
 
 power 
 And glory comes this picture for a 
 dower, [cent) — 
 
 Fraught with a pathos so magnifi- 
 
 And since he did not work thus earnestly 
 At all times, and has else endured 
 some wrong — 
 
 1 took one thought his picture struck 
 
 from me, 
 And spread it out, translating it to 
 song. 
 My love is here. Where are you, dear 
 
 old friend ? 
 How rolls the Wairoa at your world's 
 far end? 
 This is Ancona, yonder is the sea. 
 
 1855. 
 
 MEMORABILIA 
 
 Ah. did you once see Shelley plain. 
 And did lie stop and speak to you, 
 
 And did you speak to him again ? 
 How sti'ange it seeins and new ! 
 
 But you were living before that, 
 And also you are living after ; 
 
 And tiie memory I started at — 
 My starting moves your laughter ! 
 
 I crossed a moor, with a name of its own 
 And a certain use in the world no 
 doubt. 
 
 Yet a hand's-breadth of it shines alone 
 'Mid the blank miles round about : 
 
 For there I picked up on the heather 
 And there I put inside my breast 
 
 A moulted featlier, an eagle-feather ! 
 Well, I forget the rest. 1855. 
 
 2 POPULARITY 
 
 Stand still, true poet that 3'ou are ! 
 
 I know 3'ou ; let me tr^- and draw you, 
 Some night j^ou "U fail us : when afar 
 
 You rise, remember one man saw you, 
 Knew j^ou, and named a star ! 
 
 My star, God's glow-worm! Wli}^ extend 
 That loving hand of his wliicli leads 
 you, 
 Yet locks you safe from end to end 
 Of this dark world, unless he needs 
 J'ou, 
 Just saves your light to spend ? 
 
 His clenched hand sliall unclose at last, 
 I know, and let out all the beauty : 
 
 My poet holds the future last. 
 Accepts the coming ages' duty, 
 
 Their present for this past. 
 
 Tliat day the earth's feast-master's brow 
 Shall clear, to God tlie clialice raising ; 
 
 •' Others give best at first, but thou 
 Forever set'st our table i)raising, 
 
 Keep'st the good wine till now ! " 
 
 Meantime. I '11 draw you as you stand, 
 Witli few or none to watch and 
 wonder : 
 
 I 'II say — a fisher, on the sand 
 
 By Tyre the old, with ocean-plunder, 
 
 A netful, brought to land. 
 
 Who has not heard how Tyrian shells 
 Enclosed the blue, that dye of dyes 
 
 Whereof one drop worked miracles, 
 And colored like Astarte's eyes 
 
 Raw silk the merchant sells ? 
 
 And each bystander of them all 
 Could criticise, and quote tradition 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 ^33 
 
 How (leptlis of blue sublimed some pall 
 — To get which, pricked a king's am- 
 bition ; 
 Worth sceptre, crown and ball. 
 
 Yet there 's the dye, in that rough inesli. 
 
 The sea has only just o'er-\\-lnspered I 
 Live whelks, each lip's beard dripping- 
 fresh. 
 
 As if they still the water's lisp heard 
 Through foam the rock-weeds tliresh. 
 
 Enough to furnish Solomon 
 
 Such hangings for his cedar-house. 
 
 That, when gold-robed he took the 
 throne 
 In that abyss of blue, the Spovise 
 
 Might swear his presence shone. 
 
 Most like the centre-spike of gold 
 Which burns deep in the bluebell's 
 womb 
 
 What time, with ardors manifold. 
 The bee goes singing to her groom. 
 
 Drunken and overbold. 
 
 Mere conches ! not fit for war]) or woof I 
 Till cunning come to jiound and 
 squeeze 
 
 And clarify, — refine to proof 
 The liquor filtered by degrees, 
 
 While the world stands aloof. 
 
 And there 's the extract, flasked and 
 fine. 
 And priced and sala,l)le at last ! 
 And Hobbs. Nobbs, Stokes and Nokes 
 combine 
 To ])aint the future from the i)ast. 
 Put blue into their line. 
 
 Hobbs hints blue, — straight he turtle 
 
 eats : 
 ■ Nobbs prints blue, — claret crowns his 
 
 cup : 
 Nokes outdares Stokes in azure feats. - 
 Both gorge. Who fisiied the niurex 
 up? 
 What porridge had John Keats ? i 
 
 1855. 
 
 / 
 
 THE PATRIOT 
 
 AN OLD STORY 
 
 It was roses, roses, all the way, 
 With mj'rtle mixed in my path like 
 mad : 
 
 * See Chesterton's Life of Browning, pp. 154-iJ. 
 
 The house-roofs seemed to heave and 
 sway. 
 The church-spires flamed, such flags 
 they had, 
 A year ago on this very day. 
 
 The air broke into a mist with bells, 
 The old walls rocked with the crowd 
 and cries. 
 Had I said, '"Good folk, mere noise re- 
 pels — 
 But give me your sun from yonder 
 skies ! " 
 They had answered, ''And afterward, 
 what else ?" 
 
 Alack, it was I who leaped at the sun 
 To give it my loving friends to keep ! 
 
 Naught man could do, have I left un- 
 done : 
 And you see my harvest, what I reap 
 
 This very day, now a year is run. 
 
 There's nobody on the house-tops now — 
 Just a palsied few at tiie windows set ; 
 
 For the best of the sight is, all allow. 
 At the Sliambles' Gate — or, Vietteryet, 
 
 By the very scaffold's foot, I trow. 
 
 I go in the rain, and, more than needs, 
 A rope cuts both my wrists beliind ; 
 
 And I think, b}' the feel, my forehead 
 bleeds. 
 For they fling, whoever has a mind, 
 
 Stones at me for my year's misdeeds. 
 
 Tims I entered, and thus I go ! 
 
 In triumphs, people have dropped 
 down dead. 
 "Paid by the world, what dost thou owe 
 Me?" — God might question; now in- 
 stead , 
 "T is God shall repay : I am safer so. 
 
 1855. 
 
 A LIGHT WOMAN 
 
 So far as our story approaches the end, 
 Wliich do you pity the most of us 
 three ? — 
 
 My friend, or the mistress of my frienil 
 With her wanton eyes, or me ? 
 
 My friend was already too good to lose. 
 And seemed in the way of improve- 
 ment yet. 
 When she crossed his path with her 
 hunting-noose. 
 And over him drew her net. 
 
634 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 When I saAv him tangled in her toils, 
 A shame, said I, if she adds just him 
 
 To her nine-and-ninet}' other spoils, 
 The hundredth for a whim ! 
 
 And before my friend be wholly hers, 
 How easy to prove to him, I said, 
 
 An eagle's the game her pride prefers, 
 Though she snaps at a wren instead ! 
 
 So, I gave her eyes my own eyes to take, 
 My hand sought hers as in earnest 
 need, 
 
 And round she turned for my noble sake, 
 And gave me herself indeed. 
 
 The eagle am I, with my fame in the 
 world. 
 
 The wren is he, with his maiden face. 
 — You look away and y ova- lip is curled ? 
 
 Patience, a moment's space ! 
 
 For see. my friend goes shaking and 
 white ; 
 He eyes me as the basilisk : 
 I have turned, it appears, his day to 
 night. 
 Eclipsing his sun's disk. 
 
 And I did it, he thinks, as a verj- thief : 
 " Though I love her — that, he compre- 
 hends — 
 One should master one's passions, (love, 
 in chief) 
 And be loyal to one's friends I '' 
 
 And she, — she lies in my hand as tame 
 As a pear late basking over a wall ; 
 
 Just a touch to try and off it came ; 
 'T is mine, — can I let it fall ? 
 
 With no mind to eat it, that 's the worst ! 
 Were it thrown in the road, would the 
 case assist ? 
 'T was quenching a dozen blue-flies' 
 thirst 
 AVhen I gave its stalk a twist. 
 
 And I. — what I seem to my friend, you 
 see : 
 What I soon shall seem to his love, 
 you guess : 
 What I seem to myself, do you ask of 
 nie ? 
 No hero, I confess. 
 
 'T is an awkward thing to play with 
 souls. 
 And matter enough to save one's own : 
 
 Yet think of my friend, and the burning 
 coals 
 He played with for bits of stone ! 
 
 One likes to show the truth for the 
 truth ; 
 That the woman was light is verj"^ 
 true : 
 But suppose she says,— Never mind that 
 youth, 
 What wrong have I done to you? 
 
 Well, anyhow, here the story stays, 
 
 80 far at least as I understand ; 
 And, Robert Browning, you writer <^f 
 plays. 
 Here 's a subject made to vour hand I 
 
 1855. 
 
 THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER 
 
 I SAii> — Then dearest, since 't is so. 
 Since now at length my fate I know, 
 Since nothing all my love avails. 
 Since all, my life seemed meant for, 
 
 fails. 
 Since this was written and needs must 
 
 be — 
 My whole heart rises up to bless 
 Yoiu" name in pride and thankfulness ! 
 Take back the hope you gave, — I claim 
 Only a memory of the same. 
 — And this beside, if j-ou will not blame. 
 Your leave for one more last ride with 
 
 me. 
 
 ^ly mistress bent that brow of hers ; 
 Those deep dark eyes where priile de- 
 murs 
 When pity would be softening through. 
 Fixed me a breathing-while or two 
 With life or death in the balance : 
 right ! 
 The blood replenished me again ; 
 My last thought was at least not vain : 
 I and my mistress, side by side 
 Shall be together, breathe and ride, 
 So, one daj^ more am I deified. 
 
 Who knows but the world ma}' end 
 to-night ? 
 
 Hush ! if 5'ou saw some western cloud 
 All billowy-bosomed, over-bowed 
 By many benedictions — sun's 
 And moon's and evening-star's at once — 
 And so, you, looking and loving best. 
 Conscious grew, your passion drew 
 Cloud, sunset, moonrise, star-shine too, 
 Down on you, near and yet more near, 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 635 
 
 Till flesh must fade for heaven was 
 
 here ! — 
 Thus leant she and lingered — joy and 
 
 fear ! 
 Thus lay* she a moment on my breast. 
 
 Then we began to ride. My soul 
 Smoothed itself out, a long-cramped 
 
 scroll 
 Fresliening and fluttering in the wind. 
 Past hopes already lay behind. 
 
 Wliat need to strive with a life awrj^ ? 
 Had I said that, had I done this 'i 
 80 might I gain, so miglit I miss. 
 Might she have loved me? just as well 
 She might have hated, who can tell ! 
 Where had I been now if the worst be- 
 fell? 
 
 And liere we are riding, she and I. 
 
 Fail I alone, in words and deeds? 
 Why, all men strive, and who succeeds? 
 We rode ; it seemed, my spirit flew, 
 Saw other regions, t-ities new, 
 
 As the world rushed by on either side. 
 T thought, — All labor, yet no less 
 Bear ui) beneath their unsuccess. 
 Look at tile end of work, conti'ast 
 The petty done, tiie undone vast, 
 This present of theirs with the hopeful 
 
 past ! 
 I hoped she would love me ; here we 
 
 ride. 
 
 What hand and brain went ever paired? 
 What heart alike conceived and dared ? 
 What act proved all its thought liatl 
 
 been ? 
 What will but felt the fleshly screen ? 
 We ride and I see her bosom heave. 
 There's many a crown for us who can 
 
 reach. 
 Ten lines, a statesman's life in each ! 
 The flag stuck on a heaii of bones, 
 A soldier's doing ! what atones? 
 They scratch his name on the Abbey- 
 stones. 
 My riding is better, by their leave. 
 
 What does it all mean, poet? Well. 
 Your bi'ains beat into rhythm, you tell 
 What we felt only ; you expressed 
 You hold tilings beautiful the best, 
 And place them in rhyme so, side by 
 side. 
 'Tis something, nay 't is much: but then. 
 Have you yourself wliat's best for men ? 
 Are you — poor, sick, old ere your time — 
 Nearer one whit your own sublime 
 
 Than we who never have turned a 
 rhyme ? 
 Sing, riding's a joy. For me, I ride. 
 
 And you, great sculptor — so, you gave 
 A score of years to Art, her slave, 
 And that's your Venus, whence we turn 
 To yonder girl that fords the burn ! 
 
 You acquiesce, and shall I repine ? 
 What, man of music, you grown gray 
 With notes and nothing else to say. 
 Is this your sole praise from a friend, 
 ■' Greatly his opera's strains intend. 
 But in music we know how fashions 
 end ! " 
 
 I gave my youth ; but we ritle, in tine. 
 
 Who knows what's fit for us? Had fate 
 Proposed bliss here should sublimate 
 My being — had I signed the bond — ■ 
 Still one nuist lead .some life be^'ond, 
 
 Have a bliss to die with, dim-descried. 
 This foot once planted on the goal. 
 This gloiy-garland round my soul, 
 Could I descry such ? Try ;ind test ! 
 I sink back shuddering from the quest. 
 Earth being so good, would heaven 
 seem best? 
 
 Now, heaven and she are beyond this 
 ride. 
 
 And yet — she has not spoke so long ! 
 What if heaven be that, fair and strong 
 At life's best, with our ej'es upturned 
 Whither life's flower is first discerned, 
 
 We, fixed so, ever shouM so al)ide? 
 What if we still ride on. we two. 
 With life forever old yet new. 
 Changed not in kind but in degree, 
 The instant made eternity, — 
 And heaven just prove that I and she 
 
 Ride, ride together, forever ride "'' 
 
 1855. 
 
 A GRAMMARIAN'S FUNERAL 
 
 SHORTLY Ap-TER THE REVIVAL OF LEARN- 
 ING IX EUROPE 
 
 Let us begin and carry up this corpse. 
 
 Singing together. 
 Leave we tiie common crofts, the vulgar 
 thorpes 
 
 Each in its tether 
 Sleeping safe on the bosom of the plain, 
 
 Cared-for till cock-crow : 
 Look out if yonder be not day again 
 
 Rimming the rock-row ! 
 That's the appropriate country ; there, 
 man's thought, 
 
636 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Riirer, intenser. 
 Self-gathered for an outbreak, as it 
 ought, 
 Chafes in tlie censer. 
 Leave we the unlettered plain its herd 
 and crop ; 
 Seek we sepulture 
 On a tall mountain, eitied to the top. 
 
 Crowded witli culture ! 
 All the peaks soar, but one the rest ex- 
 cels ; 
 Clouds ovei'come it ; 
 No ! yondei' sparkle is the citadel's 
 
 Circling its summit. 
 Thither our patli lies ; wind we up the 
 heights ; 
 Wait ye the warning? 
 Our low life was the level's and the 
 night's ; 
 He 's for the morning. 
 Step to a tune, square chests, erect eac-li 
 head , 
 'Ware the beholders ! 
 This is our master, famous, calm and 
 dead, 
 Borne on our shoulders. 
 
 Sleep, GroY> and herd! sleep, darkling 
 thorpe and croft, 
 Safe from tli'e weather I 
 He, whom w^e convoy to his grave aloft, 
 
 Singing togetlier. 
 He was a man born with tli}" fac^e and 
 throat, 
 Lyric Apollo ! 
 Long he lived nameless : how sliould 
 Spring take note 
 Winter would follow ? 
 Till lo. tlie little touch, and youth was 
 gone ! 
 Cramped and diminished, 
 Moaned he. " New measures, other feet 
 anon ! 
 My dance is finished '? " 
 No. that 's the world's way : (keep the 
 nio»intain-side. 
 Make for the city I) 
 He knewtlie signal, and stepped on with 
 pride 
 Over men's pitj' : 
 Left play for work, and grappled with 
 the world 
 Bent on escaping : 
 " What's in the scroll," quoth he, " tliou 
 keepest furled ? 
 Show me tlieir shaping, 
 Theirs who most studied man, tlie bard 
 and sage, — 
 Give ! " — So, he gowned him, 
 
 Straight got by heart that book to its 
 last page : 
 Learned, we found him. 
 Yea, but we found him bald too, eyes 
 like lead, • 
 
 Accents uncertain : 
 *' Time to taste life," another would have 
 said, 
 " Up with the curtain ! '' 
 This man said rather, " Actual life comes / 
 
 next?__ ~- ' 
 
 ■Patiencea moment ! 
 Grant I have mastered learning's crabbed 
 text. 
 Still there's the comment. 
 Let me know all ! Prate not of most or 
 least. 
 Painful or easy ! 
 Even to the crumbs I'd fain eat ujj the 
 feast. 
 Ay, nor feel queasy." 
 Oil, such a life as he resolved to live. 
 
 When he had learned it. 
 When he had gathered all books had to 
 give ! 
 Sooner, he spurned it. \ \ 
 
 Image the whole, then execute the ^ ' 
 parts — 
 Fancy the fabric 
 yuite, ere you build, ere steel strike fire J j 
 from quartz, // 
 
 Ere mortar dab brick ! 
 
 (Here's the town-gate readied : there's 
 tiie market-place 
 G;il)ing before us.) 
 Yea, this in him was the peculiar grace 
 
 (Hearten our chorus !) 
 That before living Jie'd learn how ti) 
 live — 
 No end to learning : 
 Earn the means first — God surelj' will 
 contrive 
 Use for our earning. 
 Others mistrust and say, '"But time 
 escapes : 
 Live now or never ! " 
 He said, '• What's time? Leave Now for 
 dogs and apes ! 
 Man has Forever." 
 Back to his book then : deeper drooped 
 his head : 
 Calculus racked him : 
 Leaden before, his eyes grew dross of 
 lead : 
 Tussis attacked liim. 
 " Now. master, take a little rest ! " — not 
 he ! 
 (Caution redoubled, 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 637 
 
 Step two abreast, the waj' winds nar- 
 rowly !) 
 
 Not a whit troubled. 
 Back to his studies, fresher than at first. 
 
 Fierce as a dragon 
 He (soul-hydroptic with a sacred thirst) 
 
 Sucked at the flaj;on. 
 Oil, if we draw a circle premature, 
 
 Heedless of far gain, 
 Greedy for quick returns of profit, sure 
 
 Bad is our bargain ! 
 Was it not great ? did not he throw on 
 God, 
 
 (He loves the burthen) — 
 God's task to make the heavenly period 
 
 Perfect the earthen ? 
 Did 7iot he magnify the mind, show clear 
 
 Just what it ail meant ? 
 He would not discount life, as fools do 
 here, 
 
 Paid by instalment. 
 He ventured neck or nothing — heaven's 
 success 
 
 Found, or eai"th's failure : 
 "Wilt thou trust death or not? "He 
 answered '• Yes ! 
 
 Hence with life's pale lure ! "' 
 That low man seeks a little tiling to do. 
 
 Sees it and does it : 
 Tliis high man, with a great thing to 
 pursue, 
 
 Dies ere he knows it. 
 That low man goes on adding one to one. 
 
 His hundred's soon liit : 
 This liigh man, aiming at a million, 
 
 Misses an unit. 
 That, has the world here — should he need 
 the next. 
 
 Let the world mind him ! 
 This, throws himself on God, and unper- 
 plexed 
 
 Seeking shall find him. 
 So, with the throttling hands of death 
 at strife 
 
 Gi'ound he at grammar ; 
 Still, through the rattle, parts of speech 
 were rife : 
 
 While he could stammer 
 He settled Hoti's business — let it be ! — 
 
 Properly based Oun — 
 Gave us the doctrine of the enclitic De, 
 
 Dead from the waist down. 
 Well, here's the platform, here's the 
 proper place : 
 
 Hail to your purlieus. 
 All ye highfliers of the feathered race. 
 
 Swallows and curlews ! [low 
 
 Here's the top-peak ; the multitude be- 
 
 Live, for thev can, there : 
 
 This man decided not to Live but Know — 
 
 Bury this man there ? 
 Here — here's his place, where meteors 
 shoot, clouds form. 
 Lightnings are loosened. 
 Stars come and go ' Let joy break with 
 the storm. 
 Peace let the dew send ! 
 Lofty designs must close in like effects : 
 
 Loftily lying. 
 Leave him— still loftier than the world 
 suspects. 
 Living and dying. 1855. 
 
 THE STATUE AND THE BUST 
 
 There's a palace in Florence, the world 
 
 knows well. 
 And a statue watches it from the square. 
 And this storv of both do our townsmen 
 
 tell. 
 
 Ages ago, a lady there. 
 At the farthest window facing the East 
 Asked. "Who rides by with the roval 
 air ! " 
 
 The bridesmaids' prattle around lier 
 
 ceased ; 
 She leaned forth, one on either hand : 
 They saw how the blush of the bride in- 
 creased — 
 
 They felt by its beats her heart expand — 
 As one at each ear and both in a breath 
 Whispered, •' The Great-Duke Ferdi- 
 nand." 
 
 That selfsame instant, underneath, 
 The Duke rode past in his idle .way. 
 Empty and fine like a swordless sheath. 
 
 Gay he rode, with a friend as gay. 
 
 Till he threw his head back — "Who is 
 
 she?" 
 — " A bride the Riccardi brings home 
 
 to-day." 
 
 Hair in heaps lay heavily 
 Over a pale brow spirit-pure — 
 Carved like the heart of the coal-black 
 tree. 
 
 Crisped like a war steed's encoliu-e — 
 And vainly sought to dissemble her eyes 
 Of the blackest black our eyes endure. 
 
 And lo, a blade for a knight's emprise 
 Filled the fine empty slieath of a man, — 
 The Duke grew straightway brave and 
 wise. 
 
638 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 He looked at her as a lover can ; 
 
 Slie looked ;it him, as one who awakes : 
 
 The past was a sleep, and her life began. 
 
 Now, love so ordered for both their 
 
 sakes, 
 A feast was held tliat selfsame night 
 In the pile which the mighty shadow 
 
 makes. 
 
 (For Via Larga is three-parts light, 
 But the palace overshadows one, 
 Because of a crime, which m;iy God re- 
 quite I 
 
 To Florence and God the wrong was 
 
 done. 
 Through the first rei")ublic's murder there 
 By Cosimo and his cursed son.) 
 
 The Duke ( with the statue's face in the 
 
 square) 
 Turned in the midst of his multitude 
 At the bright approach of the bridal 
 
 pair. 
 
 Face to face the lovers stood 
 A single minute and no more 
 While the bridegroom bent as a man sub- 
 dued — 
 
 Bowed till his bonnet brushed the floor — 
 For the Duke on the lady a kiss con- 
 ferred, 
 As the courtly custom was of yore. 
 
 In a minute can lovers exchange a word ? 
 If a word did pass, which I do not think. 
 Only one out of a thousand heard. 
 
 That was the bridegroom. At day's 
 
 brink 
 He and his bride were alone at last 
 In a bed chamber by a taper's blink. 
 
 Calmly he said that her lot was cast. 
 That the door she had passed was shut 
 
 on her 
 Till the final catafalk repassed. 
 
 The world meanwhile, its noise and stir. 
 Through a certain window facing the 
 
 East 
 She could watch like a convent's chroni- 
 cler. 
 
 Since passing the door might lead to a 
 feast. 
 
 And a feast inight lead to so much be- 
 side. 
 
 He, of many evils, chose the least. 
 
 '• Freely I choose too," said the bride — 
 '■ Your window and its world sufifice," 
 Replied the tongue, while the heart 
 replied — 
 
 "If I spend the night with that devil 
 
 twice. 
 May his window serve as my loop of hell 
 AVhence a damned soul looks on para- 
 dise ! 
 
 " I fly to tlie Duke wlio lovqs me well, 
 Sit by Ins side and laugh at sorrow 
 Ere I count another ave-bell. 
 
 " 'T is only tlie coat of a i^age to borrow, 
 And tie n\y hair in a horse-boy's trim. 
 And I save my soul — but not to-mor- 
 row — " 
 
 (She checked herself and her eye grew 
 
 dim) 
 " Jly father tarries to bless my state : 
 I must keep it one day more for him. 
 
 " Is one day more so long to wait ? 
 Moreover the Duke rides past, I know ; 
 We shall see each other, sure as fate." 
 
 She turned on her side and slept. Just 
 
 so! 
 So we resolve on a thing and slee[) : 
 So did the lady, ages ago. 
 
 That night the Duke said, " Dear or 
 
 cheap 
 As the cost of this cup of bliss may 
 
 prove 
 To body or soul, I will drain it deep." . 
 
 And on the moriow, bold with love, 
 He beckoned the bridegroom (close on 
 
 call, 
 As his duty bade, by the Duke's alcove) 
 
 And smiled " 'T was a very funeral. 
 Your lady will tiiink, this feast of 
 
 ours, — 
 A shame to efface whate'er befall ! 
 
 " AVhat if we break from the Arno bow- 
 ers. 
 
 And try if Petraja, cool and green. 
 
 Cvire last night's faults with this morn- 
 ing's flowers?" 
 
 The bridegroom, not a thought to be 
 
 seen 
 On his stead}' brow and quiet moutii. 
 Said, " Too much favor for me so mean ! 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 639 
 
 '• But alas ! my lady leaves the South ; 
 Each wind that comes from tlie Apen- 
 
 nine 
 Is a menace to her tender youth : 
 
 " Nor a way exists, the wise opine, 
 If she quits her palace twice tliis year, 
 To avert the flower of life's decline. ' 
 
 Quoth the Duke, " A sage and a kindly 
 
 fear. 
 Moreover Petraja is cold this spring : 
 Be our feast to-Jiiglit as usual here ! '" 
 
 And then to liimself — " Which night 
 
 shall bring 
 Thy bride to her lover's embraces, fool — 
 Or I am the fool, ;ind thou art the king ! 
 
 " Yet my passion must wait anight, nor 
 
 cool — 
 For to-night the Envoy arrives from 
 
 France 
 Whose heart I unlock witli thyself, mj' 
 
 tool. 
 
 "I need tliee still and niiglit miss per- 
 chance. 
 To-day is not wliolly lost, beside, 
 Witli its liope of my lady's countenance : 
 
 " For I ride — what should I do but ride ? 
 
 And passing her palace, if I list. 
 
 May glance at its window — well betide ! "' 
 
 So said, so done : nor the lady missed 
 One ray that broke from the ardent 
 
 brow, 
 Nor a curl of tlie lips where the spirit 
 
 kissed. 
 
 Be sure that each renewed the a'ow, 
 No morrow's sun should arise and set 
 And leave them then as it left tliem 
 now. 
 
 But next day passed, and next day yet. 
 With still fresh cause to wait one day 
 
 more 
 Ere each leaped over the parapet. 
 
 And still, as love's brief morning wore. 
 With a gentle start, half smile, half sigli. 
 They found love not as it seemed before. 
 
 They thought it would work infallibly. 
 But not in despite of heaven and earth : 
 The rose would blow when the storm 
 passed by. 
 
 Meantime they could profit in winter's 
 
 dearth 
 By store of fruits that supplant the rose : 
 The world and its ways have a certain 
 
 worth : 
 
 And to press a point while these oppose 
 
 Were simple policy ; better wait : 
 
 We lose no friends and we gain no foes. 
 
 Meantime, worse fates than a lover's 
 
 fate. 
 Who daily may ride and pass and look 
 Where his lady wati^lies behind tlie 
 
 grate ! 
 
 And she — she watched the square like a 
 
 book 
 Holding one picture and only one, 
 Which daily to find she undertook : 
 
 When the picture was I'eached the book 
 
 was done. 
 And she turned from the picture at 
 
 night to scheme 
 Of tearing it out for herself next sun. 
 
 So weeks grew months, years ; gleam by 
 
 gleam 
 Tlie glory dropped from tlieir youth and 
 
 love. 
 And botli perceived they had dreamed a 
 
 dream ; 
 
 Which hovered as dreams do, still 
 
 above : 
 But who can take a dream for a truth ? 
 Oh, hide our eyes from the next remove ! 
 
 One day as the lady saw her youth 
 Depart, and the silver thread that 
 
 streaked 
 Her hair, and, worn by the serpent's 
 
 tooth, 
 
 The brow so puckered, the chin so 
 
 peaked,— 
 And wondered who the woman was. 
 Hollow-eyed and haggard-cheeked. 
 
 Fronting lier silent in the glass — 
 '■ Summon here," slie suddenly said, 
 •' Before the rest of my old self pass, 
 
 " Him, the Carver, a hand to aid, 
 Wlio fashions the clay no love will 
 
 cliange. 
 And fixes a beauty never to fade. 
 
640 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 '■ Let Robbia's crai't so apt ami strange 
 Arrest the remains of 3'oung ami fair, 
 And rivet them wliiletlie seasons range. 
 
 " Make me a face on tlie window there, 
 Waiting as ever, nmte the wliile, 
 My love to pass below in the square ! 
 
 " And let me think that it may beguile 
 Dreary days whicli tlie dead must spend 
 Down in their darkness under the aisle, 
 
 " To sajs ' What matters it at the end ? 
 I did no more while my heart was warm 
 Than does that image, my pale-faced 
 friend.' 
 
 " Where is the use of the lip's red 
 
 charm, 
 The heaven of liair, the pride of the 
 
 brow. 
 And the blood tliat blues tlie inside 
 
 arm — 
 
 " Unle.ss we turn, as the soul knows liow, 
 The earthly gift to an end divine? 
 A lady of clay is as good, I trow." 
 
 Bnt long ere Robbia's cornice, fine. 
 With flowers and fruits wliich leaves en- 
 lace. 
 Was set where now is the empty slirine — 
 
 (And, leaning out of a briglit blue space. 
 As a ghost might lean from a chink of 
 
 sky, 
 The passionate pale lady's face- 
 Eying ever, with earnest eye 
 And quick-turned neck at its breathless 
 
 stretch. 
 Some one who ever is passing by — ) 
 
 The dvike had sighed like the simplest 
 wretch 
 
 In Florence, "Youth — my dream es- 
 capes ! 
 
 Will its record stay ? " And he bade 
 them fetch 
 
 Some subtle moulder of brazen shapes — 
 " Can the soul, the will, die out of a 
 
 man 
 Ere his body find the grave that gapes ? 
 
 " John of Douay shall effect my plan, 
 Set me on liorseback here aloft. 
 Alive, as the crafty sculptor can, 
 
 "In the very square I have cro.ssed so 
 
 oft: 
 That men may admire, when future suns 
 Shall touch the eyes to a purpose soft, 
 
 •' While the mouth and the brow stay 
 
 brave in bronze — 
 Admire and .say, ' When he was alive 
 How he would take his pleasuie once ! ' 
 
 '■ And it shall go liard but I contrive 
 To listen the while, and huigli in my 
 
 tomb 
 At idleness which aspires to strive." 
 
 So ! While these wait tlie trump of 
 
 doom. 
 How do their spirits pass, I wonder. 
 Nights and days in the narrow room ? 
 
 Still, I suppose, they sit and i^onder 
 What a gift life was. ages ago, 
 Six steps out of the cha]iel j'onder. 
 
 Only they .see not God. I know, 
 
 Nor all that chivalry of his, 
 
 The soldier-saints who, row on row, 
 
 Burn upward each to liis point of bli.ss — 
 Since, the end of life being manifest. 
 He liad burned his way through the 
 world to this. 
 
 I hear you reproach, " But delay was 
 
 best. 
 For their end was a crime." — Oh, a crime 
 
 will do 
 As well, I reply, to serve foi- a test, 
 
 As a virtue golden through and through, 
 Sufficient to vindicate itself 
 And prove its worth at a moment's 
 view ! 
 
 Must a game be played for the sake of 
 
 pelf ? 
 Where a button goes, 't were an e]iigram 
 To offer the stamp of the very Guelj)!!. 
 
 The true has no value beyond the sham ; 
 As well the counter as coin, I submit, 
 Wlien your table's a hat. and your prize, 
 a dram. 
 
 Stake your counter as boldly every whit. 
 Venture as warily, use the same skill. 
 Do your best, whether winning or losing 
 it, 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 641 
 
 If you choose to play ! — is my principle. 
 Let a man contend to the uttermost 
 For his life's set prize, be it what it will ! 
 
 Tlie counter our lovers staked was lost 
 .As surely as if it were lawful coin : 
 And the sin I impute to each frustrate 
 ghost 
 
 Is — the unlit lamp and the ungirt loin, 
 Tliough the end in sight was a vice, I 
 
 say. 
 You of the virtue (we issue join) 
 How strive you ? De te, fabula ! 
 
 1855. 
 
 " CHILDE ROLAND TO THE DARK 
 TOWER CAME" 
 
 See Kdgar's song in Lear. 
 
 My first thought was, he lied in every 
 woi'd. 
 That hoary cripple, with malicious eye 
 Askance to watch tlie working of his 
 lie 
 On mine, and mouth scarce able to afford 
 Suppression of the glee, that pursed and 
 scored 
 Its edge, at one more victim gained 
 thereby. 
 
 What else should he be set for, with his 
 staff ? 
 What, save to waylay with his lies, 
 
 ensnare 
 All travellers who might find him 
 posted there. 
 And ask the road? I guessed what 
 
 skull-like laugh 
 Would break, what crutch 'gin write 
 my epitaph 
 For pastime in the dusty thorough- 
 fare, 
 
 If at his counsel I should turn aside 
 Into that ominous tract which, all 
 
 agree. 
 Hides the Dark Tower. Yet acquies- 
 cingly 
 I did turn as he pointed : neitlier pride 
 Nor hope rekindling at the end descried. 
 So much as gladness that some end 
 might be. 
 
 For, what with my whole world-wide 
 wandering. 
 What with my search drawn out 
 
 through years, my hope 
 Dwindled into a ghost not fit to cope 
 
 41 
 
 With that obstreperous joy success y 
 
 would bring, — 
 I hardly tried now to rebuke the spring 
 My heart made, finding failure in its 
 
 scope. 
 
 As when a sick man very near to death 
 Seems dead indeed, and feels begin 
 
 and end 
 The tears, and takes the farewell of each 
 
 friend. 
 And hears one bid the other go, draw 
 
 breath 
 Freelier outside, ("since all is o'er," he 
 
 saith, 
 " And the blow fallen no grieving can 
 
 amend ; ") 
 
 While some discuss if near the other 
 graves 
 Be room enough for this, and when a 
 
 day 
 Suits best for carrying the corpse away, 
 With care about the banners, scarves 
 
 and staves : 
 And still the man hears all, and only 
 craves 
 He may not shame such tender love 
 and stay. 
 
 Thus, I had so long suffered in this quest. 
 Heard failure prophesied so oft, been 
 
 writ 
 So many times among "The Band " — 
 to wit. 
 The knights who to the Dark Tower's 
 
 search addressed 
 Their steps — that just to fail as they, 
 seemed best. 
 And all the doubt was now — should I 
 befit? 
 
 So, quiet as despair, I turned from him. 
 That hateful cripple, out of his high- 
 way 
 Into the path he pointed. All the day 
 Had been a dreary one at best, and dim 
 Was settling to its close, yet shot one 
 grim 
 Red leer to see the plain catch its 
 estray. 
 
 For mark ! no sooner was I fairlj" found 
 Pledged to the plain, after a pace or 
 
 two. 
 Than, pausing to throw backward a 
 last view 
 O'er the safe road, 't was gone ; gray 
 plain all round : 
 
 P*t^iuA^ rn-^ 
 
 -* '^f <> ^^^»<i»gfc/ 
 
 Ji 
 
642 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Nothing but plain to the hoiizf)n's bound. 
 I might go on ; naught else remained 
 to do. 
 
 So, on I went. I think I never saw 
 Such starved ignoble nature ; nothing 
 
 throve : 
 For flowers — as well expect a cedar 
 grove ! 
 But cockle, spurge, according to tlieir 
 
 law 
 Might propagate their kind, with none 
 to awe, 
 You 'd think : a burr had been a treas- 
 ure trove. 
 
 No ! penury, inertness and grimace. 
 In some strange sort, were tlie land's 
 
 poi'tion. "See 
 Or shut your ej^es," said Nature peev- 
 ishly, 
 " It nothing skills : I cannot help my 
 
 case : 
 'T is the Last Judgment's fire must cure 
 this place. 
 Calcine its clods and set my prisoners 
 free." 
 
 If there pushed any ragged thistle-stalk 
 Above its mates, tlie head was chop- 
 ped ; tlie bents 
 Were jealous else. Wliat made those 
 holes and rents 
 In the dock's harsli swarth leaves, 
 
 bi'uised as to balk 
 All hope of greenness ? 't is a brute 
 must walk 
 Pashing their life out, with a brute's 
 intents. 
 
 As for tlie grass, it grew as scant as hair 
 In leprosy ; thin dry blades pricked 
 
 the mud 
 Which underneath looked kneaded up 
 with blood. 
 One stiff blind horse, his every bone a- 
 
 stare. 
 Stood stupefied, however he came there : 
 Thrust out past service from the 
 devil's stud ! 
 
 Alive? he might be dead for aught I 
 know, 
 With that red gaunt andcolloped neck 
 
 a-strain. 
 And shut eyes underneath the rusty 
 mane ; 
 Seldom went such grotesqueness with 
 such woe ; 
 
 I never saw a brute I hated so ; 
 
 He must be wicked to deserve such 
 pain. 
 
 I shut my ej'es and turned them on my 
 heart. 
 As a man calls for wine before he 
 
 fights, 
 I asked one draught of earlier, happier 
 sights, 
 Ere fitly I could hope to play my part. 
 Think first, fight afterwards — the sol- 
 dier's art : 
 One taste of the old time sets all to 
 rights. 
 
 Not it ! I fancied Cuthbert's reddening 
 face 
 Beneath its garniture of curly gold, 
 bear fellow, till I almost felt him fold 
 An arm in mine to fix me to the place, 
 Tliat way he used. Alas, one night's 
 disgrace ! 
 Out went my heart's new fire and left 
 it cold. 
 
 Giles then, the soul of honoi- — there he 
 stands 
 Frank as ten years ago when knighted 
 
 first. 
 What honest man should dare (he 
 said) he durst. 
 Good — but the scene shifts — faugh ! 
 
 what hangman hands 
 Pin to his breast a parchment? His 
 own bands 
 Read it. Poor traitor, spit upon and 
 curst ! 
 
 Better this present than a past like that ; 
 Back therefore to my darkening path 
 
 again 
 
 No sound, no sight as far as eye could 
 strain. 
 Will the night send a howlet or a bat ? 
 I asked : when something on the dismal 
 flat 
 Came to arrest my thoughts and 
 change their train. 
 
 A sudden little river crossed my path 
 As unexpected as a serpent comes. 
 No sluggish tide congenial to the 
 glooms ; 
 This, as it frothed by, might have been a 
 
 bath 
 For the fiend's glowing hoof — to see the 
 wrath 
 Of its black eddy bespate with flakes 
 and spumes. 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 643 
 
 So petty, yet so spiteful ! All along, 
 Low scrubby alders kneeled down 
 
 over it ; 
 Drenched willows flung them liead- 
 long in a fit 
 Of mute despair, a suicidal throng : 
 Tlie river which liad done them all tlie 
 wrong, 
 Whate'er that was, rolled by, deterred 
 no whit. 
 
 Whicli, while I forded, — good saints, 
 how I feared 
 To set my foot upon a dead man's 
 
 clieek, 
 Each step, or feel the spear I thrust to 
 seek 
 For hollows, tangled in his hair or beard ! 
 — It may have been a water-rat I speared , 
 But, ugh, it sounded like a baby's 
 shriek. 
 
 Glad was I wlien I reached tiie other 
 bank. 
 Now for a better country. Vain 
 
 presage ! 
 Who were the strngglers, what war 
 did tlie.y wage, 
 Wliose savage trample tluis could ])ad 
 
 tlie dank 
 Soil to a plash? Toads in a poisoned 
 tank, 
 Or wild cats in a red-hot iron cage — ■ 
 
 The fight must so have seemed in that 
 fell cirque. 
 Wliat penned them there, with all (lie 
 
 plain to choose ? 
 No footprint leading to that liorrid 
 mews. 
 None oiit of it. Mad brewage set to 
 
 work 
 Tlieir brains, no doubt, like galley- 
 slaves the Turk 
 Pits for liis pastime. Christians against 
 Jews. 
 
 And more than that — a furlong on — 
 why, there ! 
 What bad use was that engine for, 
 
 that wheel, 
 
 Or brake, not wheel — that harrow fit 
 
 to reel [air 
 
 Men's bodies out like silk ? with all the 
 
 Of Tophet's tool, on earth left unaware. 
 
 Or brought to sharpen its rusty teeth 
 
 of steel. 
 
 Then came a bit of stubbed ground, 
 once a wood, 
 
 Next a marsh, it would seem, and now 
 
 mere earth 
 Desperate and done with : (so a fool 
 finds mirth, 
 Makes a tiling and then mars it, till his 
 
 mood 
 Changes and off he goes !) within a rood — 
 Bog, clay and rubble, sand and stark 
 black dearth. 
 
 Now blotclies rankling, colored gay and 
 grim. 
 Now patclies where some leanness of 
 
 the soil's 
 Broke into moss or substances like 
 boils ; 
 Then came some palsied oak, a cleft in 
 
 liim 
 Like a distorted mouth that splits its rim 
 Gaping at death, and dies while it 
 recoils. 
 
 And just as far as ever from the end ! 
 Naught in the distance but the even- 
 ing, naught 
 To point my footstep further ! At 
 the tliought. 
 A great black bird, Apollyon's bosom- 
 friend. 
 
 Sailed past, nor beat his wide wing 
 dragon-penned 
 Tliat brushed my cap — perchance the 
 guide I sought. 
 
 For, looking up, aware I somehow gi-ew, \ 
 
 ' Spite of the dusk, the plain had given ' 
 
 place / 
 
 All round to mountains — with such / 
 
 name to grace 
 
 Mere ugly heights and heaps now stolen 
 
 in view. 
 How thus they had surprised me, — 
 solve it, you ! 
 How to get from them was no clearer 
 case. 
 
 Yet half I seemed to recognize some 
 trick 
 Of mischief happened to me, God 
 
 knows when — 
 
 In a bad dream perhaps. Here ended, 
 
 then, [nick 
 
 Progress this way. When, in the very 
 
 Of giving up, one time more, came a 
 
 click [the den ! 
 
 As when a trap shuts — you're inside 
 
 Burningly it came on me all at once, 
 This was the place ! those two hills on 
 the right, * 
 
644 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Crouched like two bulls locked horn 
 in horn in fight ; 
 Wliile to the left, a tall scalped mountain 
 / ... Dunce, 
 
 / Dotard, a-dozing at the very nonce, 
 / After a life spent training for the 
 
 [ sight ! 
 
 Wliat in the midst lay but the Tower 
 itself ? 
 The round squat turret, blind as the 
 
 fool's lieart, 
 Built of brown stone, without a coun- 
 terpart 
 In the whole world. The tempest's 
 
 mocking elf 
 Points to the shipman thus the unseen 
 shelf 
 He strikes on, only when the timbers 
 start. 
 
 Not see ? because of night perhaps ? — 
 why, day 
 Came back again for that ! before it 
 
 left 
 The dying sunset kindled through a 
 cleft : 
 The hills, like giants at a hunting, lay. 
 Chin upon hand, to see the game at 
 bay,— 
 " Now stab and end the ci'eature — to 
 the heft ! " 
 
 Not hear ? when noise was everywhere ! 
 it tolled 
 Increasing like a bell. Names in my 
 
 ears. 
 Of all the lost adventurers my peers, — 
 How such a one was strong, and such 
 
 was bold, 
 And sucli was fortunate, yet each of old 
 Lost, lost! one moment knelled the 
 woe of years. 
 
 There they stood, ranged along the hill- 
 sides, met 
 To view the last of me, a living frame 
 For one more picture ! in a sheet of 
 flame 
 I saw them and I knew them all. And 
 
 yet 
 Dauntless the slug-horn to mj' lips I set, 
 And blew: '' CJiilde Roland to the 
 DarTc Toiver came." 1855. 
 
 v3 PRA LIPPO LIPPI 
 
 I AM poor brother Lipjjo, by your leave ! 
 You need not clap your torches to my 
 face. 
 
 Zooks, what 's to blame? you tliink you 
 
 see a monk ! 
 What, 't is past midnight, and you go 
 
 the rounds. 
 And here you catch me at an allej''s end 
 Where sportive ladies leave their doors 
 
 ajar? 
 The Carmine 's my cloister : hunt it up. 
 Do, — harry out, if you must show your 
 
 zeal. 
 Whatever rat, there, haps on his wrong 
 
 hole, 
 And nip each softling of a wee white 
 
 mouse, 
 Weke, weke, that 's crept to keep him 
 
 company ! 
 Aha, you know your betters ! Then, 
 
 you '11 take 
 Your hand away that 's fiddling on my 
 
 throat, 
 And please to know me likewise. Who 
 
 am I ? 
 Why, one, sir, who is lodging with a 
 
 friend 
 Three streets off — he 's a certain . . . how 
 
 d' ye call ? 
 Master — a . . . Cosimo of the Medici. 
 I' the house that caps the corner. Boli ! 
 
 you were best ! 
 Remember and tell me, the day you 're 
 
 hanged, 
 How you affected such a gullet's-gripe ! 
 But you, sir, it concerns you that your 
 
 knaves 
 Pick up a manner nor discredit you : 
 Zooks, are we pilchards, that they sweep 
 
 the streets 
 And count fair prize what conies into 
 
 their net ? 
 He 's Judas to a tittle, that man is ! 
 Just such a face ! Why, sir, you make 
 
 amends. 
 Lord, I 'm not angry ! Bid your hang- 
 dogs go 
 Drink out this quarter-florin to the 
 
 health 
 Of the munificent House that harbors 
 
 me 
 (And many more beside, lads! more 
 
 beside !) 
 And all 's come square again. I 'd like 
 
 liis face — 
 His, elbowing on his comrade in this 
 
 door 
 With the pike and lantern, — for the 
 
 slave that holds 
 Jolm Baptist's head a-dangle by the hair 
 With one hand (" Look you, now," as 
 who should say) 
 
 \ 
 
 \^ 
 
 N, 
 
 6 
 
 V 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 645 
 
 And his weapon in the other, yet un- 
 
 vviped ! 
 It 's not your chance to have a bit of 
 
 chalk, 
 A wood-coal or the like ? or you should 
 
 see ! 
 Yes, I 'm the painter, since you style nie 
 
 so. 
 \yhat, brother Lippo's doings, up and 
 
 down 
 You know them and they take you ? 
 
 like enougli ! 
 I saw tlie proper twinkle in your eye — 
 "Tell you, I liked your looks at very first. 
 Let 's sit and set things straight now, 
 
 hip to haunch. 
 Here 's spring come, and the nights one 
 
 makes up bands 
 To roam the town and sing our carnival. 
 And I 've been three weeks shut within 
 
 my mew, 
 A-painting for the great man, saints and 
 
 saints 
 And saints again. I could not paint all 
 
 niglit — 
 Ouf ! I leaned out of window for fresli 
 
 air. 
 There came a hurry of feet and little 
 
 feet, 
 A sweep of lute strings, laughs, and 
 
 wliifts of song, — 
 Flower o' tlie broom. 
 Take away love, and our earth, is a tomb! 
 Flower o' the quince, 
 I let Lisa go, and what good in life since ? 
 Flower o' the thyme — and so on. Round 
 
 they went. 
 Scarce had they turned the corner wlien 
 
 a titter 
 Like the skipping of rabbits by moon- 
 light, — three slim shapes, 
 And a face that looked up . . . zooks, sir, 
 
 flesh and blood, 
 That 's all I "m made of ! Into shreds it 
 
 went, 
 Curtain and counterpane and coverlet. 
 All the bed-furniture — a dozen knots. 
 There was a ladder ! Down I let myself. 
 Hands and feet, scrambling somehow, 
 
 and so dropped. 
 And after them. I came up with the 
 
 fun 
 Hard by Saint Laurence, hail fellow, 
 
 well met,- — 
 Flotver o' the rose. 
 If Fve been merry, what matter who 
 
 knoivs ? 
 And so as I was stealing back again 
 To get to bed and have a bit of sleep 
 
 Ere I rise up to-morrow and go work 
 On Jerome knocking at his poor old 
 
 breast 
 With his great round stone to subdue 
 
 the flesh. 
 You snap me of the sudden. Ah, I see ! 
 Thougli your eye twinkles still, you shake 
 
 your head — 
 Mine 's shaved — a monk, you say — the 
 
 sting 's in that ! 
 If Master Cosimo announced himself. 
 Mum "s the word naturally ; but a monk ! 
 Come, what am I a beast for ? tell us, 
 
 now ! 
 I was a baby when my mother died 
 And fatlier died and left me in the street. 
 I starved tliere, God knows how, a year 
 
 or two 
 On fig-skins, melon-parings, rinds and 
 
 sliucks. 
 Refuse and rubbish. One fine frosty 
 
 day, 
 My stomach being empty as your hat, 
 Tlie wind doubled me up and down I 
 
 went. 
 Old Aunt Lapaccia trussed me with one 
 
 hand, 
 (Its fellow was a stinger as I knew) 
 And so aloTig the wall, over the bridge. 
 By the straight cut to the convent. Six 
 
 words there. 
 While I stood numching mj' first bread 
 
 that month : 
 " So, boy, you're minded," quoth the 
 
 good fat father, 
 Wiping liis own mouth, 't was refection- 
 time, — 
 " To quit tliis very miserable world ? 
 Will you renounce" . . . "the mouth- 
 ful of bread ? " thought I ; 
 By no means ! Brief, they made a monk 
 
 of me ; 
 I did renounce the world, its pride and 
 
 greed , 
 Palace, farm, villa, shop, and banking- 
 house. 
 Trash, such as these poor devils of 
 
 Medici 
 Have given their hearts to — all at eight 
 
 years old. 
 Well, sir, I found in time, you may be 
 
 sure, 
 'T was not for nothing — the good bellyful. 
 The warm serge and the rope that goes 
 
 all round. 
 And day-long blessed idleness beside ! 
 ' ' Let 's see what the urchin 's fit for " 
 
 — that came next. 
 Not overmuch their wnv. I niust confess. 
 
646 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Such a to-do ! They tried nie witli their 
 
 books ; 
 Lord, they'd have taught me Latin in 
 
 pure waste ! 
 Flower o' the clove. 
 All the Latin I construe is " anio,^' I 
 
 love ! 
 But, mind you, when a boy starves in 
 
 the streets 
 Eight years together, as my fortune was, 
 Watching folk's faces to know who will 
 
 fling 
 The bit of half-stripped grape- bunch he 
 
 desires, 
 And who will curse or kick him for his 
 
 pains, — 
 Which gentleman processional and fine. 
 Holding a candle to tlie Sacrament, 
 Will wink and let him lift a plate and 
 
 catch 
 The droppings of the wax to sell again. 
 Or holla for the Eight and have him 
 
 whipped, — 
 How say I ? — nay, which dog bites, 
 
 which lets drop 
 His bone fi'om the heap of oflfal in the 
 
 street, — 
 Why, soul and sense of him grow sharp 
 
 alike. 
 He leai'ns the look of things, and none 
 
 the less 
 For admonition from the Jumger-pinch. 
 I had a store of such remarks, be sure. 
 Which, after I found leisure, turned to 
 
 use. 
 I drew men's faces on my copy-books. 
 Scrawled them within the antiphonary's 
 
 marge, 
 Joined legs and arms to the long music- 
 notes. 
 Found eyes and nose and cliin for A's 
 
 and Bs, 
 And made a string of pictures of tlie 
 
 world 
 Betwixt the ins and outs of verb and 
 
 noun , 
 On the wall, the bench, the door. Tlie 
 
 monks looked black. 
 "Nay," quoth tlie Prior, "turn him 
 
 out. d' ye say ? 
 In no wise. Lose a crow and catch a 
 
 lark. 
 What if at last we get our man of parts. 
 We Carmelites, like tliose Camaldolese 
 And Preaching Friars, to do our church 
 
 up fine 
 And put the front on it that ought to 
 
 be!" 
 And liereupon he bade me daub away. 
 
 Thank jou ! my head being crammed, 
 
 tlie walls a blank. 
 Never was such prompt disemburdening. 
 First, everj' sort of monk, the black and 
 
 wliite, 
 I drew them, fat and lean : then, folk 
 
 at chiu-ch. 
 From good old gossips waiting to confess 
 Their cribs of barrel-droppings, candle- 
 ends, — 
 To the. breathless fellow at the altar-foot, 
 Fresh from liis murder, safe and sitting 
 
 there 
 Witii the little children round him in a 
 
 row 
 Of admiration, half for his beard and 
 
 half 
 For tliat white anger of his victim's son 
 Sliaking a fist at him with one fierce 
 
 arm. 
 Signing himself with the other because 
 
 of Christ 
 (Whose sad face on the cross sees only 
 
 this 
 After the passion of a thousand years) 
 Till some poor girl, her apron o'er her 
 
 head, 
 (Which tiie intense eyes looked througli) 
 
 came at eve 
 On tiptoe, said a word, dropped in a loaf. 
 Her i:)air of earrings and a buncli of 
 
 flowers 
 (Tlie brute took growling), prayed, and 
 
 so was gone. 
 I painted all, then cried " 'T is ;isk and 
 
 liave ; 
 Choose, for more 's readj^ ! " — laid the 
 
 ladder flat. 
 And showed my covered bit of cloister- 
 wall, 
 Tlie monks closed in a circle and praisetl 
 
 loud 
 Till checked, taught wliat to see and not 
 
 to see. 
 Being simple bodies. — •' That's the very 
 
 man ! 
 Look at the boy who stoops to pat the 
 
 dog ! 
 That woman 's like the Prior's niece who / 
 
 comes y i 
 
 To care aboiit his asthma : it 's tlie life ! ". '' 
 But there my triumph's straw-fire flared 
 
 and funked ; 
 Their betters took their turn to see and 
 
 say : 
 The Prior and the learned pulled a face 
 And stopped all that in no time. ' ' How ? 
 
 what's here ? |us all ! 
 
 Quite from the mark of painting, bless 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 647 
 
 Faces, arms, legs, and bodies like the 
 
 true 
 As much as pea and pea ! it 's devil's- 
 
 game ! 
 Your business is not to catch men with 
 
 show, 
 With homage to the perishable clay, 
 But lift them over it, ignore it all. 
 Make them forget there 's such a thing 
 
 as flesh. 
 Your business is to paint the souls of 
 
 men — 
 Man's sovil, and it 's a fire, smoke . . . 
 
 no, it 's not . . . 
 It 's vapor done up like a new-born 
 
 babe — 
 (In that shape when you die it leaves 
 
 your mouth) 
 It 's . . . well, wl\at matters talking, 
 
 it 's the soul ! 
 Give us no more of body than shows 
 
 soul ! 
 Here 's Giotto, with his Saint a-praising 
 
 God, 
 That sets us praising, — why not stop 
 
 with him ? 
 Why put all thoughts of praise out of 
 
 our head 
 With wonder at lines, colors, and what 
 
 not? 
 Paint the soul, never mind the legs and 
 
 arms ! 
 Rub all out, try at it a second time. 
 Oh, that white smallish female witli the 
 
 breasts, 
 She 's just my niece . . . Herodias, I 
 
 would say, — 
 Who went and danced and got men's 
 
 heads cut off ! 
 Have it all out ! " Now, is this sense, I 
 
 ask ? 
 A fine wa}' to paint soul, by painting 
 
 body 
 So ill, the eye can't stop there, must go 
 
 further 
 And can't fare worse ! Tims, yellow 
 
 does for wliite 
 When what you put for yellow 's simply 
 
 black. 
 And an J' sort of meaning looks intense 
 When all beside itself means and looks 
 
 naught. 
 Why can't a painter lift each foot in 
 
 turn. 
 Left foot and right foot, go a double 
 
 step. 
 Make his flesh liker and his soul more 
 
 like, [face, 
 
 Both in their order ? Take the prettiest 
 
 The Prior's niece . . . patron-saint — is 
 
 it so pretty 
 You can't discover if it means hope, 
 
 fear. 
 Sorrow or joy ? won't beauty go with 
 
 these ? 
 Suppose I 've made her eyes all right 
 
 and blue. 
 Can't I take breath and try to add life's 
 
 flash. 
 And then add soul and heighten them 
 
 three-fold? 
 Or say there 's beauty with no soul at 
 
 all— 
 (I never saw it — put the case the same — ) 
 If you get simple beauty and naught else. 
 You get about the best thing God in- 
 vents : 
 That 's somewhat : and you '11 find the 
 
 soul you have missed. 
 Within yourself, when you return him 
 
 thanks. 
 " Rub all out ! " Well, well, there 'smy 
 
 life, in short. 
 And so the thing lias gone on ever since. 
 I 'm grown a man no doubt, I 've broken 
 
 bounds : 
 You should not take a fellow eight years 
 
 old 
 And make him swear to never kiss the 
 
 girls. 
 I 'm my own master, paint now as I 
 
 please — 
 Having a friend, you see, in the Corner- 
 house ! 
 Lord, it 's fast holding by the rings in 
 
 front — 
 Those great rings serve more purposes 
 
 than just 
 To plant a flag in. or tie up a horse ! 
 And yet the old schooling sticks, the old 
 
 grave eyes 
 Are peeping o'er my shoulder as I work. 
 The heads shake still — " It "s art's de- 
 cline, my son ! 
 You 're not of the true painters, great 
 
 and old ; 
 Brother Angelico 's the man, you '11 find ; 
 Brother Lorenzo stands his single peer : 
 Fag on at flesh, you '11 never make the 
 
 third ! " 
 Flower o' the pine. 
 You keep your mistr . . . vianners, and 
 
 I'll stick to mine! 
 I 'm not the third, then : bless us, they 
 
 must know ! 
 Don't you think they 're the likeliest to 
 
 know, [my rage, 
 
 They with their Latin ? So, I swallow 
 
648 
 
 BRITISH* POETS 
 
 Clench my teeth, suck my lips in tight. 
 
 and paint 
 To please them — sometimes do and some- 
 times don't ; 
 For, doing most, there 's pretty sure to 
 
 come 
 A turn, some warm eve finds me at my 
 
 saints — 
 A laugh, a cry, the business of the 
 
 world — 
 (Floiver o' the Peach, 
 Death for us all, and his oivn life for 
 
 each!) 
 And my whole soul revolves, the cup 
 
 runs over. 
 The world and life 's too big to pass for 
 
 a dream. 
 And I do these wild things in sheer 
 
 despite. 
 And play the fooleries you catch me at, 
 In pure rage ! The old mill-horse, out 
 
 at grass 
 After hard years, throws up his stiff 
 
 heels so. 
 Although the miller does not preach to 
 
 him 
 The only good of grass is to make cliaff . 
 What would men have ? Do they like 
 
 grass or no — 
 May they or may n't they ? all I want 's 
 
 the thing 
 Settled forever one way. As it is. 
 You tell too many lies and hurt your- 
 self : 
 You don't like what you only like too 
 
 much. 
 You do like what, if given you at your 
 
 word , 
 You find abundantly detestable. 
 For me, I think I speak as I was taught ; 
 I always see the garden and God there 
 A-making man's wife : and, my lesson 
 
 learned, 
 The value and significance of flesh, 
 I can't unlearn ten minutes afterwards. 
 
 You understand me : I 'm a beast, I 
 
 know. 
 But see, now — why, I see as certainly 
 As that the morning-star 's about to 
 
 shine, . . ' 
 
 What will liap some day. We "ve a 
 
 youngster here 
 Comes to our convent, studies wliat I do, 
 Slouches and stares ' and lets no atom 
 
 drop : 
 His name is Guidi — he "11 not mind tlie 
 
 monks — [talk — 
 
 They .call him Hulking Tom, lie lets them 
 
 He picks my practice up — he '11 paint 
 
 apace. 
 I hope so— though I never live so long. 
 I know wliat's sure to follow. You be 
 
 judge ! 
 You speak no Latin more than I, belike; 
 However, you 're my man, you 've seen 
 
 tlie world 
 — The beauty and the wonder and the 
 
 power. 
 The shapes of things, their colors, liglits 
 
 and shades. 
 Changes, surprises, — and God made it 
 
 all! 
 — For what ? Do you feel thankful, ay 
 
 or no. 
 For this fair town's face, yonder rivers 
 
 line, 
 The mountain round itand the sky above, 
 Much more the figures of man, woman, 
 
 child, 
 These are the frame to? What 's it all 
 
 about ? 
 To be passed over, despised ? or dwelt 
 
 upon. 
 Wondered at ? oh, this last of course ! — 
 
 you say. \ --^ 
 
 But why not do as well as say, — paint \ 
 
 these 
 JustJisHlrey are, careless what comes of / 
 
 A^t^ - ' ' 
 
 God's works — paint any one, and count 'j 
 
 it crime 
 To let a truth slip. Don't object, "His 
 
 works / 
 
 Are here already : nature is complete : / 
 Suppose you reproduce her — (which you 
 
 can't) 
 There 's no advantage ! you must beat 
 
 her, tlien." 
 For, don't you mark ? we 're made so 
 
 that we love 
 First when we see them painted, things 
 
 we liave passed 
 Perhaps a hundred times nor cared to 
 
 see ; 
 And so they are better, painted — better 
 
 to us. 
 Which is the same thing. Art was 
 
 given for that ; 
 God uses us to help each other so. 
 Lending our minds out. Have you no- 
 ticed, now. 
 Your cullion's hanging face ? A bit of 
 
 chalk. 
 And trust me but you should, though! 
 
 How mtich more. 
 If I drew higlier things with the same 
 
 trutli ! 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 649 
 
 That were to take the Priors pulpit- 
 
 plaoe, 
 Interpret God to all of you ! Oh, oh, 
 It makes me mad to see what men shall 
 
 do 
 And we in our graves ! Tliis world 's 
 
 no blot for us. 
 Nor blank ; it means intensely, and 
 
 means good : 
 To find its meaning is my meat and 
 
 drink. 
 " Ay, but you don't so instigate to 
 
 prayer ! " 
 Strikes in the Prior : " when your mean- 
 ing 's plain 
 It does not say to folk — -remember 
 
 matins, 
 Or, mind you fast next Friday ! " Why, 
 
 for this 
 What need of art at all ? A skull and 
 
 bones, 
 Two bits of stick nailed crosswise, or, 
 
 what 's best, 
 A bell to chime the hour with, does as 
 
 well. 
 I painted a Saint Laurence six months 
 
 since 
 At Prato, splashed the fresco in fine 
 
 style : 
 " How looks my painting, now the scaf- 
 fold 's down ? " 
 I ask a brother : " Hugely," he returns — 
 " Already not one phiz of your three 
 
 slaves 
 Who turn the Deacon off his toasted 
 
 side, 
 But 's sci'atched and prodded to our 
 
 heart's content. 
 The pious people liave so eased their own 
 With coming to say prayers there in a 
 
 rage : 
 We get on fast to see the bricks beneath. 
 Expect another job this time next year, 
 For pit}' and religion grow i' the 
 
 crowd — 
 Your painting serves its purpose ! " 
 
 Hang the fools ! 
 
 — That is — you '11 not mistake an idle 
 
 word 
 Spoke in a huff by a poor monk, God 
 
 w^ot, 
 Tasting the air this spicy night which 
 
 turns 
 The unaccustomed head like Chianti 
 
 wine ! 
 Oh, the church knt)ws ! don't niisreport 
 
 me, now ! 
 It 's natural a poor monk out of boimds 
 
 Should have his apt word to excuse 
 
 himself : 
 And harken how I plot to make 
 
 amends. 
 I liave bethought me : I shall paint a 
 
 piece 
 . . . There 's for you ! Give me six 
 
 months, then go, see 
 Something in Sant' Ambrogio's ! Bless 
 
 the nuns ! 
 They want a cast o' my office. I shall 
 
 paint 
 God in the midst, Madonna and her babe, 
 Ringed by a bowery, flowery angel- 
 brood. 
 Lilies and vestments and white faces, 
 
 sweet 
 As puff on puff of grated orris-root 
 When ladies crowd to Chui'ch at mid- 
 summer. 
 And then i' the fi'ont, of course a saint 
 
 or two — 
 Saint John, because he saves the Flo- 
 rentines, 
 Saint Ambrose, wlio puts down in black 
 
 and wliite 
 The convent's friends and gives them a 
 
 long day. 
 And Job, I must have him there past 
 
 mistake. 
 The man of Uz (and Us without the z. 
 Painters who need his patience). Well, 
 
 all these 
 Secured at their devotion, up shall come 
 Out of a corner when you least expect, 
 As one by a dark stair into a great light, 
 Music and talking, who but Lippo ! 
 
 I !— 
 Mazed, motionless, and moonstruck — 
 
 I 'm the man ! 
 Back I shrink — what is this I see and 
 
 hear ? 
 I, caught up with my monk's-things by 
 
 mistake, 
 My old serge gown and rope tliat goes 
 
 all-round, 
 I, in this presence, this pure company ! 
 Where 's a hole, where 's a corner for 
 
 escape ? 
 Then steps a sweet angelic slip of a thing 
 Forward, puts out a soft palm — " Not so 
 
 fast ! " 
 — Addresses the celestial presence, 
 
 " nay— - 
 He made you and devised you, after all. 
 Though he 's none of you ! Could Saint 
 
 John tliere draw-- 
 His camel-liair make up a painting- 
 brush {• 
 
650 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 We come to brother Lippo for all that, 
 Iste perfecit opus ! " So, all smile — 
 I shuffle sideways with my blushing face 
 Under the cover of a hundred wings 
 Thrown like a spread of kirtles when 
 
 you "re gay 
 And play Jiot cockles, all the doors being 
 
 shut, 
 Till, wholly unexpected, in there pops 
 The hothead husband ! Thus I scuttle 
 
 off 
 To some safe bench behind, not letting 
 
 go 
 The palm of her, the little lily thing 
 That spoke the good word for me in the 
 
 nick, 
 Like the Prior's niece . . . Saint Lucy, 
 
 I wovild say. 
 And so all 's saved for me, and for the 
 
 church 
 A pretty picture gained. Go, six months 
 
 hence ! 
 Your hand, sir, and good-by : no lights. 
 
 no lights ! 
 The street 's huslied, and I know my 
 
 own way back, 
 Don't fear me ! There 's tlie gray be- 
 ginning. Zooks ! ly."),). 
 
 ^ ANDREA DEL SARTO 
 
 CALLED " THE FAULTLESS PAINTER " 
 
 But do not let us quarrel any more, 
 No, my Lucrezia ; bear witli me for 
 
 once : 
 Sit down and all shall happen as you 
 
 wish. 
 You turn your face, but does it bring 
 
 your heart ? 
 I'll work then for your friend's friend, 
 
 never fear. 
 Treat his own subject after his own way. 
 Fix his own time, accept too his own 
 
 price. 
 And shut tlie mone}^ into this small hand 
 When next it takes mine. Will it ? 
 
 tenderly ? 
 Oh, I'll content him, — but to-morrow. 
 
 Love ! 
 I often am much wearier than you think, 
 This evening more tlian usual, and it 
 
 seems 
 As if — forgive now — should you let me 
 
 sit 
 Here by the window with your hand in 
 
 mine 
 And look a half-hour fortli on Fiesole, 
 Both of one mind, as married people use, 
 
 Quietly, quietly the evening through, 
 I might get up to-morrow to my work 
 Cheerful and fresh as ever. Let us trj'. 
 To-morrow, how you sliall be glad for 
 
 this ! 
 Your soft hand is a woman of itself. 
 And mine the man's bared breast she 
 
 curls inside. 
 Don't count tlie time lost, neither ; you 
 
 must serve 
 For each of the five pictures we require : 
 It saves a model. So ! keep looking so — 
 M\^ serpentining beauty, rounds on 
 
 rounds ! 
 — How could you ever jirick those per- 
 fect ears. 
 Even to put the pearl there ! oh, so 
 
 sweet — 
 My face, my moon, my everybody's 
 
 moon , 
 Which ever\'body looks on and calls his, 
 And, I suppose, is looked on by in turn, 
 While she looks — no one's : very dear, 
 
 no less. 
 You smile ? why, there 's my picture 
 
 ready made. 
 There 's what we painters call our har- 
 mony ! 
 A common grayness silvers everything, — 
 All in a twilight, you and I alike 
 — You, at tlie point of jour first pride in 
 
 me 
 (Tliat 's gone you know), — but I, at 
 
 every point ; 
 My youth, my hope, my art, being all 
 
 toned down 
 To yonder sober pleasant Fiesole. 
 There 'sthe bell clinking from the chapel- 
 top ; 
 Tliat length of convent-wall across the 
 
 way 
 Holds the trees safer, huddled more in- 
 side ; 
 The last monk leaves the garden ; days 
 
 decrease, 
 And autumn grows, autumn in every- 
 
 tiiing. 
 Eh ? the whole seems to fall into a shape 
 As if I saw alike my work and self 
 And all that I was born to be and do, 
 A twilight-piece. Love, we are in God's 
 
 hand. 
 How strange now looks the life he makes 
 
 us lead ; 
 So free we seem, so fettered fast we are ! 
 I feel he laid the fetter : let it lie I 
 Tliis chamber for example — turn your 
 head — [stand 
 
 All that 's behind us ! You don't under- 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 651 
 
 Nor care to uiulerstaud about 1113" art, 
 But you cau hear at least when people 
 
 speak : 
 And tliat cartoon, the second from the 
 
 door 
 — It is the thing, Love ! so such things 
 
 should be — 
 Behold Madonna ! — ^I am bold to say. 
 I can do with my pencil what I know. 
 What I see, what at bottom of my heart 
 I wish for, if I ever wish so deep — 
 Do easily, too — when I say, perfectly, 
 I do not boast, perhaps : yourself are 
 
 Who listened to the Legate's talk last 
 
 week, 
 And just as much they used to say in 
 
 France. 
 At any rate 't is easj^, all of it ! 
 No sketciies first, no studies, that 's long 
 
 past : 
 I do wliat man}' dream of all their lives, 
 — Dream ? strive to do, and agonize to 
 
 do. 
 And fail in doing. I could count twenty 
 
 such 
 On twice your fingers, and not leave this 
 
 town, 
 Who strive — you don't know how tlie 
 
 others strive 
 To paint a little thing like that you 
 
 smeared 
 Carelessly passing with your robes 
 
 afloat, — 
 Yet do much less, so much less, Some- 
 one says, 
 (I know his name, no matter) — so much 
 
 less ! 
 Well, less is more, Lucrezia : I am 
 
 judged. 
 There burns a ti'uer light of God in them. 
 In their vexed beating stuffed and 
 
 stopped-up brain. 
 Heart, or wliate'er else, than goes on to 
 
 prompt 
 This low-pulsed forthright craftsman's 
 
 hand of mine. 
 Their works drop groundward, but them- 
 selves, I know. 
 Reach many a time a heaven that 'sshut 
 
 to me, 
 Enter and take their place there sure 
 
 enough. 
 Though they come back and cannot tell 
 
 the world. 
 ]\ry works are nearer heaven, but I sit 
 
 here. 
 The sudden blood of these men ! at a 
 
 word — 
 
 Praise them, it boils, or blame them, it 
 
 boils too. 
 I, painting from myself and to myself, 
 Know what I do, am unmoved by men's 
 
 blame 
 Or their praise either. Somebody re- 
 marks 
 INIorello's ovitline there is wrongly traced. 
 His hue mistaken ; what of that ? or 
 
 else. 
 Rightly traced and well ordered ; what 
 
 of that? 
 Speak as they please, what does the 
 
 mountain care? 
 Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his 
 
 grasp, 
 Or what 's a heaven for? All is silver- 
 gray 
 Placid and perfect with my art : the 
 
 worse ! 
 I know both what I want and what might 
 
 gain. 
 And j'et how profitless to know, to sigh 
 "Had I been two, another and myself. 
 Our head would ha\'e o'erlooked the 
 
 world ! " No doubt. 
 Yonder 's a work now, of that famous 
 
 youth 
 Tli£ Urbinate who died five years ago. 
 ("T is copied. George Vasari sent it me.) 
 Well. I can fancy how lie did it all. 
 Pouring his soul, with kings and popes 
 
 to see, 
 Reaching, that heaven might so replenish 
 
 him, 
 Above and through his art — for it gives 
 
 way ; 
 That arm is wrongly put — and there 
 
 again — 
 A fault to pardon in the drawing's lines. 
 Its body, so to speak : its soul is right, 
 He means right — that, a child ma}^ un- 
 derstand. 
 Still, what an arm ! and I could alter it : 
 But all the play, the insight and the 
 
 stretch — 
 Out of me, out of me ! And wherefore 
 
 out ? 
 Had you enjoined them on me, given 
 
 me soul. 
 We might have risen to Rafael, I and 
 
 you! 
 Nay, Love, you did give all I asked, I 
 
 think — 
 More than I merit, yes. by many times. 
 But had j'ou— oh, with the same perfect 
 
 brow. 
 And perfect eyes, and moretlian perfect 
 
 mouth, 
 
65^ 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 And the low voice my soul hears, as a 
 
 bird 
 The fowler's pipe, and follows to the 
 
 snai'e — 
 Had you, with these the same, but 
 
 brought a mind ! 
 Some women do so. Had tlie moutli 
 
 there urged 
 " God and the glory ! never care for gain, 
 The present by tlie future, wJiat is that? 
 Live for fame, side by side with Agnolo ! 
 Rafael is waiting : up to God, all three I " 
 I might have done it for you. So it 
 
 seems : 
 Perhaps not. All is as God overrules. 
 Beside, incentives come from the soul's 
 
 self; 
 The rest avail not. Why do I need you ? 
 What wife had Rafael, or has Agnolo ? 
 In this world, who can do a thing, will 
 
 not ; 
 And who would do it, cannot, I perceive : 
 Yet the will 's somewhat — somewliat, 
 
 too, the power— 
 And thus we half-men struggle. At tlie 
 
 end, 
 God, I conclude, compensates, punishes. 
 'T is safer for me, if the award be strict. 
 That I am something underrated here. 
 Poor this long while, despised, to speak 
 
 the truth. 
 I dared not, do you know, leave home 
 
 all day. 
 For fear of chancing on the Paris lords. 
 The best is when they pass and look 
 
 aside ; 
 But they speak sometimes ; I must bear 
 
 it all. 
 Well may they speak ! That Francis, 
 
 that first time. 
 And that long festal year at Fontaine- 
 
 bleau ! 
 I surel}'^ then could sometimes leave the 
 
 ground. 
 Put on the glory, Rafael's daily wear. 
 In that humane great monarch's golden 
 
 look, — 
 One finger in his beard or twisted curl 
 Over his mouth's good mark that made 
 
 the smile. 
 One arm about my shoulder, round my 
 
 neck. 
 The jingle of his gold chain in my ear, 
 I painting proudly with his breath on 
 
 rae, 
 All his court round him, seeing with his 
 
 eyes. 
 Such frank French eyes, and such a fire 
 
 of souls 
 
 Profuse, my hand kept plying by those 
 
 hearts, — 
 And, best of all, this, this, this face be- 
 yond. 
 This in the background, waiting on my 
 
 work, 
 To crown the issue with a last reward ! 
 A good time, was it not, my kingly days ? 
 And had you not grown restless . . . but 
 
 I know — 
 'T is done and past ; "t was right, mj^ 
 
 instinct said ; 
 Too live the life grew, golden and not 
 
 gi-ay, 
 And I 'm the weak-ejed bat no sun 
 
 should tempt 
 Out of the grange whose four walls 
 
 make his world. 
 How could it end in any other way ? 
 You called me, and I came home to your 
 
 heart. 
 The triumph was — to reach and staj- 
 
 there ; since 
 I reached it ere the triumph, what is lost ? 
 Let my hands frame your face in your 
 
 hair's gold. 
 You beautiful Lucrezia that are mine ! 
 " Rafael did this. Andrea painted that : 
 The Roman's is tlie better when you pray. 
 But still the other's Virgin was his 
 
 wife "— 
 Men will excuse me. I am glad to judge 
 Both pictures in your presence ; clearer 
 
 grows 
 My better fortune, I resolve to think. 
 For, do you know, Lucrezia, as God lives, 
 Said one day Agnolo, his very self. 
 To Rafael ... I have known it all these 
 
 years ... 
 (When the young man was flaming out 
 
 his thoughts 
 Upon a palace-wall for Rome to see. 
 Too lifted up in heart because of it) 
 " Friend, there 's a certain sorry little 
 
 scrub 
 Goes up and down our Florence, none 
 
 cares how, 
 Who, were he set to plan and execute 
 As yovi are, pricked on by your popes 
 
 and kings. 
 Would bring the sweat into that brow 
 
 of yours ! " 
 To Rafael's ! — And indeed the arm is 
 
 wrong. 
 I hardly dare . . . yet, only yovi to see, 
 Give the chalk here — quick, thus the 
 
 line should go ! 
 Ay, but the soul! he's Rafael! rub it 
 
 out! 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 653 
 
 Still, all I care for, if he spoke the truth, 
 (VVhathe? why, who but Michel Agnolo? 
 Do you forget already words lilce tiiose ?) 
 If really there was such a chance, so 
 
 lost,— 
 Is, wlvether you 're — not grateful — but 
 
 more pleased. 
 Well, let me think so. And you smile 
 
 indeed ! 
 This hour has been an hour ! Another 
 
 smile ? 
 If you would sit thus by me every night 
 I should work better, do you compre- 
 hend ? 
 I mean that I should earn more, give 
 
 you more. 
 See, it is settled dusk now ; there 's a 
 
 star ; 
 Morello 's gone, the watch-lights show 
 
 the wall. 
 The cue-owls speak the name we call 
 
 them by. 
 Come from the window, love, — come in, 
 
 at last, 
 Inside the melancholy little house 
 We built to be so gay with. God is just. 
 King Francis may forgive me : oft at 
 
 nights 
 When I look up from painting, eyes tired 
 
 out, 
 The walls become illumined, bi-ick from 
 
 brick 
 Distinct, instead of mortar, fierce bright 
 
 gold. 
 That gold of his I did cement them with ! 
 Let us but love each other. Must you go ? 
 That Cousin liere again? he waits out- 
 side ? 
 Must see you — you, and not with me ? 
 
 Those loans? 
 More gaming debts to pay ? you smiled 
 
 for that ? 
 Well, let smiles buy me ! have you more 
 
 to spend ? 
 While hand and eye and something of a 
 
 heart 
 Are left me, work 's my ware, and 
 
 what 's it wortli ? 
 I '11 pay my fancy. Only let me sit 
 Tlie gray remainder of the evening out. 
 Idle, you call it, and muse perfectly 
 How I could paint, were I but back in 
 
 France, 
 One picture, just one more — the Virgin's 
 
 face. 
 Not yours this time ! I want you at raj' 
 
 side 
 To hear tliem — tliat is, Michel Agnolo — 
 Judge all I do and tell you of its worth. 
 
 Will you? To-morrow, satisfy your 
 
 friend. 
 I take the subjects for his corridor, 
 Finish the portrait out of hand — there, 
 
 there. 
 And throw him in another thing or two 
 If he demurs ; tlie whole should prove 
 
 enough 
 To pay for this same Cousin's freak. 
 
 Beside. 
 What's better and what's all I care 
 
 about, 
 Get you the thirteen soudi for the ruff ! 
 Love, does that please you ? Ah, but 
 
 what does he. 
 The Cousin ! what does he to please you 
 
 more ? 
 
 I am grown peaceful as old age to- 
 
 niglit. 
 I regret little, I would change still less. 
 Since tliere my jjast life lies, why alter 
 
 it? 
 Tlie very wrong to Francis ! — it is true 
 I took his coin, was tempted and com- 
 plied. 
 And built this house and sinned, and all 
 
 is said. 
 My father and my mother died of want. 
 Well, had I riches of my own ? 3'ou see 
 How one gets rich ! Let each one bear 
 
 his lot. 
 They were born poor, lived poor, and 
 
 poor they died ; 
 And I have labored somewhat in my 
 
 time 
 And not been paid profusely. Some 
 
 good son 
 Paint my two liundred pictures — let him 
 
 try ! 
 No doubt, there's something strikes a 
 
 balance. Yes. 
 You loved me quite enougli, it seems 
 
 to-night. 
 This must suffice me here. Wliat would 
 
 one have ? 
 In heaven, perliaps, new chances, one 
 
 more chance — 
 Four great walls in the New Jerusalem, 
 dieted on each side by tlie angel's reed. 
 For Leonard. Rafael, Agnolo and me 
 To cover — the three first without a-wife. 
 While I have mine ! So — still they 
 
 overcome 
 Because there's still Lucrezia, — as I 
 
 choose. 
 
 Again the Cousin's whistle ! Go, my 
 Love. 1855. 
 
654 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 ONE WORD MORE.i 
 
 ,^ TO E. B. B. 
 
 London, September, 1855. 
 I 
 
 There they are, my fifty men and 
 
 women 
 Naming me the fifty poems finished ! 
 Tiike them. Love, the book and me 
 
 together : 
 Where the iieart lies, let the brain lie 
 
 also. 
 
 II 
 
 Rafael made a century of sonnets, 
 Made and wrote them in a certain 
 
 volume 
 Dinted witli the silver-pointed pencil 
 Else he only used to draw- Madonnas : 
 These, the worhl miglit view — but one, 
 
 the volume. 
 W^iio that one, you ask ? Your heart 
 
 instructs you. 
 Did she live and love it all her lifetime ? 
 Did she drop, Ins lady of the sonnets. 
 Die, and let it drop beside lier pillow 
 Where it lay in place of Rafael's glory, 
 Rafael's cheek so duteous and so loving. 
 Cheek, the world was wont to hail a 
 
 painter's, 
 Rafael's cheek, her love had turned a 
 
 poet's ? 
 
 Ill 
 
 You and I would rather read that 
 
 volume, 
 (Taken to his beating bosom by it) 
 Lean and list tlie bosom-beats of Rafael, 
 Would we not ? than wonder at Madon- 
 nas — 
 Her, San Sisto names, and Her, Foligno, 
 Her, that visits Florence in a vision. 
 Her, that's left with lilies in the Louvre — 
 Seen by us and all the world in circle. 
 
 IV 
 
 You and I will never read that volume. 
 Guido Reni. like his own eye's apple 
 Guarded long the treasure-book and 
 
 loved it. 
 Guido Reni dying, all Bologna 
 Cried, and the world cried too, " Ours, 
 
 the treasure ! " 
 Suddenly, as rare things will, it vanished. 
 
 1 The last poem of the Collection Men and 
 Women, two volumes, published in 1855, and 
 containinfic a large part of Browning's greatest 
 work. Here, for once. Browning speaks in his 
 own person. 
 
 Dante once prepared to jjaint an angel:' 
 Whom to please? You whisper " Bea- 
 trice." 
 While he mused and traced it and re- 
 traced it, 
 (Perad venture with a pen corroded 
 Still bv drops of that hot ink he dipped 
 
 for, 
 When, his left-hand i' the hair o' the 
 
 wicked. 
 Back he held the brow and pricked its 
 
 stigma. 
 Bit into the live man's flesh for parch- 
 ment, 
 Loosed him, laughed to see the writing 
 
 rankle, 
 Let the wretch go festering through 
 
 Florence) — 
 Dante, who loved well because he hated. 
 Hated wickedness that hinders loving, 
 Dante standing, studying his angel. — 
 In there broke the folk of his Inferno. 
 Says he — "Certain people of import- 
 ance " 
 (Such he gave liis daily dreadful line to) 
 "Entered and would seize, forsooth, the 
 
 poet. ■' 
 Says the poet — " Then I stopped my 
 painting." 
 
 You and I wovild rather see that angel. 
 Painted by the tenderness of Dante, 
 Would we not.'' — than read a fresh 
 Inferno. 
 
 You and I will never see tliat picture. 
 While he mused on love and Beatrice, 
 While lie softened o'er his outlined angel. 
 In they broke, those " people of import- 
 ance : " 
 We and Bice bear the loss forever. 
 
 VIII 
 
 What of Rafael's sonnets, Dante's pic- 
 ture? 
 This: no artist lives and loves, that longs 
 
 not 
 Once, and only once, and for one only, 
 (Ah, the prize!) to find his love a lan- 
 guage 
 Fit and fair and simple and sufficient — 
 Using nature that's an art to others. 
 Not, this one time, art that's turned his 
 
 nature. 
 Ay, of all the artists living, loving, 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 655 
 
 None but would forego his proper 
 
 dowry, — 
 Does he paint ? he fain would write a 
 
 poem , — 
 Does he write? he fain would paint a 
 
 picture, 
 Put to proof art alien to the artist's, 
 Once, and only once, and for one oidy. 
 So to be the man and leave the artist, 
 Gain the man's joy, miss the artist's 
 
 sorrow. 
 
 IX 
 
 Wherefore ? Heaven's gift takes earth's 
 
 abatement ! 
 He who smites the rock and spreads the 
 
 water. 
 Bidding drink and live a crowd beneath 
 
 him. 
 Even he, the minute makes immortal, 
 Proves, perchance, but mortal in the 
 
 minute. 
 Desecrates, belike, the deed in doing. 
 While he smites, how can he but I'e 
 
 member, 
 So he smote before, in such a peril. 
 When they stood and mocked-^"' Shall 
 
 smiting help us ? " 
 When the}"^ drank and sneered — "A 
 
 stroke is easj' ! " 
 When they wiped their mouths and went 
 
 their journey, 
 Throwing him for thanks — " But drouglit 
 
 was pleasant." 
 Thus old memories mar the actual 
 
 triumph ; 
 Thus the doing savors of disrelish ; 
 Thus^achievement lacks a gracious some- 
 what ; 
 O'er-importuned brows becloud the 
 
 mandate. 
 Carelessness or consciousness — the ges- 
 ture. 
 For he bears an ancient wrong about him. 
 Sees and knows again those plialanxed 
 
 faces. 
 Hears, yet one time more, the 'customed 
 
 pi'elude — 
 " How shouldst thou, of all men, smite, 
 
 and save us?" 
 Guesses what is like to prove the sequel — 
 " Egypt's flesh-pots — nay, the drought 
 
 was better." 
 
 Oh, tlie crowd must have emphatic 
 warrant ! 
 
 Theirs, the Sinai-forehead's cloven bril- 
 liance. 
 
 Riglit-arm's rod-sweep, tongue's imperial 
 
 fiat. 
 Never dares the man put oft" the prophet. 
 
 Did he love one face fiom out the 
 
 thousands, 
 (Were she Jethro's daughter, white and 
 
 wifely, 
 Were slie but the Ethiopian bondslave.) 
 He would envy yon dumb patient camel. 
 Keeping a reserve of scanty water 
 jMeant to save his own life in the desert ; 
 Ready in the desert to deliver 
 (Kneeling down to let his breast be 
 
 opened ) 
 Hoard and life together for his mistress. 
 
 I sliall never, in the years remaining. 
 Paint you pictures, no, nor carve you 
 
 statues. 
 Make you music that should all-express 
 
 me ; 
 So it seems : I stand on my attainment. 
 This of verse alone, one life allows me ; 
 Verse and nothing else have I to give you. 
 Other heights in other lives, God willing : 
 All the gifts from all the heights, your 
 
 own. Love ! 
 
 Yet a semblance of resource avails us — 
 Shade so finely touclie<l. love's sense must 
 
 seize it. 
 Take these lines, look lovingly and 
 
 nearly. 
 Lines I write the first time and the last 
 
 time. 
 He who works in fresco, steals a hair- 
 brush, 
 Cvu'bs tlie liberal hand, subservient 
 
 proudly, 
 Cramps his spirit, crowds its all in little, 
 IMakes a strange art of an art familiar. 
 Fills his lady's missal-marge with 
 
 flowerets. 
 He wiio blows through bronze, may 
 
 breathe through silver. 
 Fitly serenade a slumbrous princess. 
 He who writes, may write for once as I 
 
 do. 
 
 XIV 
 
 Love, you saw me gather men . and 
 
 women, 
 Live or dead or fashioned by my fancy. 
 Enter each and all, and vise their service. 
 
656 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Speak from every mouth, — the speech, a 
 
 poem. 
 Hardly shall I tell my joys and soi'rows, 
 Hope and fears, belief and disbelieving : 
 I am mine and j^ours — the rest be all 
 
 men's, 
 Karshish, Cleon, Norbert, and the fifty. 
 Let me sj^eak this once in my true per- 
 son. 
 Not as Lippo, Roland, or Andrea, 
 Though the fruit of speech be just this 
 
 sentence : 
 Pray you, look on these my men and 
 
 women, 
 Take and keep my fifty poems finished ; 
 Where my heart lies, let my brain lie 
 
 also ! 
 Poor the speech ; be how I speak, for all 
 
 things. 
 
 XV 
 
 Not but that you know me ! Lo, the 
 
 moon's self ! 
 Here in London, yonder late in Florence, 
 Still we find her face, the thrice-trans- 
 figured. 
 Curving on a sky imbrued with color, 
 Drifted over Fiesole by twilight. 
 Came she, our new crescent of a hair's- 
 
 breadth. 
 Full she flared it, lamping Samminiato, 
 Rounder 'twixt the cypresses and 
 
 rounder. 
 Perfect till the nightingales applauded. 
 Now, apiece of her old self, impoverished. 
 Hard to greet, she traverses the house- 
 roofs. 
 Hurries with unhandsome thrift of silver, 
 (xoes dispiritedly, glad to finish. 
 
 What, there's nothing in the moon note- 
 worthy ? 
 Nay : for if that moon could love a mortal, 
 Use, to charm him ^so to fit a fancy), 
 All her magic ("t is the old sweet mythos), 
 Siie would turn a new side to her mortal, 
 Side unseen of herdsman, huntsman, 
 
 steersman — 
 Blank to Zoroaster on his terrace. 
 Blind to Galileo on his tvirret. 
 Dumb to Homer, dumb to Keats — him, 
 
 even ! 
 Think, the wonder of the moonstruck 
 
 •mortal — 
 When she turns round, comes again in 
 
 heaven, 
 Opens out anew for worse or better ! 
 
 Proves she like some portent of an ic^e- 
 
 berg 
 Swimming full upon the ship it founders. 
 Hungry with huge teeth of splintered 
 
 crystals ? 
 Proves she as the paved work of a sap- 
 phire 
 Seen by Moses when he climbed the 
 
 mountain ? 
 Moses, Aaron, Nadab and Abihu 
 Climbed and saw the ver}^ God. the 
 
 Highest, 
 Stand upon the paved work of a sapphire. 
 Like the bodied heaven in his clearness 
 Shone the stone, the sapphire of that 
 
 paved work, 
 When they ate and drank and saw God 
 
 also ! 
 
 What were seen ? None knows, none 
 
 ever shall know. 
 Onl}' this is sure— the sight were other, 
 Not the moon's same side, born late in 
 
 Florence, 
 Dying now impoverished here in London. 
 God be thanked, the meanest of his 
 
 creatures 
 Boasts two soul-sides, one to face the 
 
 world with, 
 One to show a woman when he loves her ! 
 
 This I say of me, but tliink of you. Love ! 
 This to you — yourself my moon of poets ! 
 Ail, but that 's the world's side, there 's 
 
 the wonder. 
 Thus they see you, praise you, think 
 
 they know you ! 
 There, in turn I stand with them and 
 
 praise you — 
 Out of my own self, I dare to phrase it. 
 But the best is when I glide from out 
 
 them. 
 Cross a step or two of dubious twilight. 
 Come out on the other side, tlie novel 
 Silent silver lights and darks undreamed 
 
 of. 
 Where I hush and bless myself with 
 
 silence. ' 
 
 Oh, their Rafael of the dear Madonnas, 
 Oh. their Dante of the dread Inferno. 
 Wrote one song — and in my brain I sing 
 
 it. 
 Drew one angel — borne, see, on my 
 
 bosom ! 
 
 R. B. 1855. 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 657 
 
 1/ BEN KARSHOOK'S WISDOM 
 
 " Would a man 'scape the rod ? " 
 Rabbi Ben Karsliook saith, 
 
 " See that he tmn to God 
 
 The day before his death." 
 
 " Ay. could a niaii inquire 
 
 When it sliall come ! " I say. 
 The Rabbi's eye shoots fire^ 
 " Then let liini turn to-daj"- ! " 
 
 Quoth a young Sadducee : 
 
 •' Reader of many rolls. 
 Is it so certain we 
 
 Have, as they tell us, souls?" 
 
 " Son, there is no reply ! " 
 
 Tlie Rablji bit his beard : 
 " Certain, a soul liave / — 
 
 We may have none,'' he sneered. 
 
 Tluis Karshook, the Hiram's-Hanimer, 
 The Right-hand Temple-column, 
 
 Tauglit babes in grace their grammar. 
 And struck tlie simple, solemn. 
 
 1856. 
 
 AMONG THE ROCKS 
 
 Oh, good gigantic smile o' the brown old 
 
 earth. 
 This autumn morning ! How he sets 
 
 his bones 
 To bask i' the sun, and thrusts out knees 
 
 and feet 
 For the ripple to run over in its 
 
 mirth ; 
 Listening the while, where on the heap 
 
 of stones 
 The wliite breast of the sea-lark twitters 
 
 sweet. 
 
 That is the doctrine, simple, ancient, 
 true ; 
 Such is life's trial, as old earth smiles 
 and knows. 
 If you loved only what were worth your 
 
 love. 
 Love were clear gain, and wholly well 
 for you : 
 Make the low nature better by your 
 throes ! 
 Give earth yourself, go up for gain 
 above!" 1864. 
 
 42 
 
 ABT VOGLER 
 
 (after he has been extemporizing 
 upon the musical instrument of his 
 invention) 
 
 Would that the structure brave, the 
 manifold music I build. 
 Bidding my organ obej', calling its 
 keys to their work. 
 Claiming each slave of the sound, at a 
 touch, as when Solomon willed 
 Armies of angels that soar, legions of 
 demons that lurk, 
 Man, brute, reptile, fly, — alien of end 
 and of aim. 
 Adverse, each from the other heaven- 
 high, hell-deep removed,— 
 Should rush into siglit at once as he 
 named tlie ineffable Name, 
 And pile liiin a palace straight, to pleas- 
 ure the ]n-incess he loved ! 
 
 Would it inight tarry like his. the beau- 
 tiful building of mine. 
 This which my keys in a crowd 
 pressed and importuned to raise ! 
 Ah, one and all, how they helped, would 
 dispart now and now combine. 
 Zealous to hasten the work, heighten 
 their master his praise ! 
 And one would bury his brow with a 
 blind plunge down to hell, 
 Burrou- awhile and build, broad on 
 the roots of things. 
 Then up again swim into sight, having 
 based me my palace well. 
 Founded it. fearless of flame, flat on 
 the nether springs. 
 
 And another would mount and march, 
 like the excellent minion he was. 
 Ay, another and yet another, one 
 crowd but with many a crest. 
 Raising my rampired walls of gold as 
 transparent as glass. 
 Eager to do and die, yield each his 
 place to the rest : 
 For higher still and higher (as a runner 
 tips with fire. 
 When a great illumination surprises a 
 festal night — 
 Outlined round and round Rome's dome 
 from space to spire) 
 Up, the pinnacled glory reached, and 
 the pride of my soul was in sight. 
 
 In sight ? Not half ! for it seemed, it 
 was certain, to match man's birth. 
 
658 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Nature in turn conceived, obeying an 
 impulse as I ; 
 And the emulous heaven yearned down, 
 made effort to reach the earth. 
 As the earth had done her best, in my 
 passion, to scale the sky : 
 Novel splendors burst forth, grew fami- 
 liar and dwelt with mine, 
 Not a point nor peak but found and 
 fixed its wandering star ; 
 Meteor-moons, balls of blaze : and thej' 
 did not pale nor pine, 
 For earth had attained to heaven, 
 there was no more near nor far. 
 
 Nay more ; for there wanted not who 
 
 walked in the glare and glow, 
 Presences plain in the place ; or, fresh 
 
 from the Protoplast, 
 Furnished for ages to come, when a 
 
 kindlier wind should blow. 
 Lured now to begin and live, in a 
 
 house to their liking at last ; 
 Or else the wonderful Dead who have 
 
 passed through the body and gone. 
 But were back once more to breathe 
 
 in an old world worth their new : 
 What never had been, was now ; what 
 
 was, as it shall be anon ; 
 And what is, — shall I say, matched both ? 
 
 for I was made perfect too. 
 
 All through my keys that gave their 
 sounds to a wish of my soul. 
 All through my soul that praised as its 
 wish flowed visibly fortli. 
 All through music and me! For think, 
 had I painted the whole. 
 Why, there it had stood, to see, nor 
 tlie process so womler-worth : 
 Had 1 written tlie same, made verse — 
 still, effect proceeds from cause, 
 Ye know why the forms are fair, ye 
 Iiear how the tale is told ; 
 It is all triumphant art, but art in obed- 
 ience to laws, 
 Painter and poet are proud in the 
 artist-list enrolled : — 
 
 But here is the finger of God, a flash of 
 
 the will that can. 
 Existent behind all laws, that made 
 
 them and, lo. they are ! 
 And I know not if, save in this, such 
 
 gift be allowed to mau, 
 That out of three sounds he frame, not 
 
 a fourth sound, but a star. 
 Consider it well : each tone of our scale 
 
 in itself is naught : 
 
 It is everywhere in the world — loud, 
 
 soft, and all is said : 
 Give it to me to use ! I mix it with two 
 
 in my thought : 
 And there ! Ye have heard and seen : 
 
 consider and bow the head ! 
 
 Well, it is gone at last, the palace of 
 music I reared ; 
 Gone ! and the good tears start, the 
 praises that come too slow ; 
 For one is assured at first, one scarce can 
 say that he feared, 
 Tliat he even gave it a thought, the 
 gone thing was to go. 
 Never to be again I But many more of 
 the kind 
 As good, na}', better, perchance : is 
 this your comfort to me ? 
 To me. who must be saved because I 
 cling with my mind 
 To the same, same self, same love, same 
 God : ay, what was, siiall be. 
 
 Therefore to whom turn I but to thee, 
 the ineffable Name ? 
 Builder and maker, thou, of houses 
 not nuide with hands ! 
 What, have fear of change from thee 
 wlio art ever the same ? 
 Doubt that thy power can fill the 
 heart that thy power expands ? 
 There shall never "be one lost good ! What 
 was, shall live as before ; 
 Tlie evil is null, is naught, is silence 
 implying sound ; 
 What was good shall be good, with, for 
 evil, so much good more ; 
 On the earth the broken arcs ; in the 
 heaven a perfect round. 
 
 All we have willed or hoped or dreamed 
 of good shall exist ; 
 Not its semblance, but itself ; no 
 beauty, nor good, nor power 
 Whose voice has gone forth, but each 
 survives for the melodi.st 
 Wlien eternity affirms the conception 
 of an hour, 
 Thehigli that proved too high, the heroic 
 for earth too hard. 
 The passion that left the ground to 
 lose itself in the sky. 
 Are music sent up to God by the lover 
 and the bard : 
 Enough that he heard it once : we 
 shall hear it by and by. 
 
 And what is our failure here but a tri- 
 umph's evidence 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 659 
 
 For tlie fulness of the days ? Have 
 we withered or agonized? 
 Why else was tlie pause prolonged but 
 "tiiat singing niiglit issue thence? 
 Wliy rushed tlie discords in. but that 
 harmony should be prized ? 
 Sorrow is hard to bear, and doubt is 
 slow to clear, 
 Eacli sufferer says his say, his scheme 
 of tlie weal and woe : 
 But God has a few of us wlioni lie whis- 
 pers in tlie ear ; 
 Tlie rest may reason and welcome ; 't is 
 we musicians know. 
 
 Well, it is earth with me ; silence re- 
 sumes her reign : 
 I will be patient and proud, and soberly 
 acquiesce. 
 Give me the keys. I feel for the com- 
 mon chord again. 
 Sliding by semitones till I sink to the 
 minor, — yes. 
 And I blunt it into a ninth, and I stand 
 on alien ground, 
 Surveying awhile the heiglits I rolled 
 from into the deep ; 
 Which, hark, I have dared and done, 
 for iny resting-place is found. 
 The C Major of this life : so, now I will 
 , try to sleep. 1864. 
 
 *) RABBI BEN EZRA 
 
 Grow old along with me ! 
 
 The best is yet to be, 
 
 Tiie last of life, for which the first was 
 
 made : 
 Our times are in his hand 
 Who saith, •' A whole I })]anned. 
 Youth shows but half ; trust God : see 
 
 all, nor be afraid ! " 
 
 Not that, amassing flowers, 
 Youth sighed, "•Whicli rose make ours. 
 Which lilv leave and then as best re- 
 call ? '' 
 Not that, admiring stars. 
 It yearned, '' Nor Jove, nor Mars ; 
 Mine be some figured flame which 
 blends, transcends them all ! " 
 
 Not for such hopes and feai's 
 Annulling youth's brief years. 
 Do I remonstrate : folly wide the mark ! 
 Rather I prize the doubt 
 Low kinds exist without, 
 Finished and finite clods, untroubled by 
 a spark. 
 
 Poor vaunt of life indeed. 
 Were man but formed to feetl 
 On joy, to solely seek and find a feast : 
 Such feasting ended, then 
 As sure an end to men : 
 Irks care the crop-full bird? Frets 
 doubt the maw-crammed beast? 
 
 Rejoice we are allied 
 To that which doth provide 
 And not partake, effect and not receive ! 
 A spark disturbs our clod : 
 Nearer we hold of God 
 Who gives, than of his tribes that take, 
 I must believe. 
 
 Then, welcome each rebuff 
 
 That turns earth's smoothness rough. 
 
 Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand 
 
 but go ! 
 Be our joys three-parts jiain ! 
 Strive, and hold cheap the strain ; 
 Learn, nor account the pang ; dare, 
 
 never grudge the throe ! 
 
 For thence, — a paradox 
 Which comforts while it mocks, — 
 Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail : 
 What I aspired to be. 
 And was not. comforts me : 
 A brute I might have been, but would 
 not sink i' the scale. 
 
 What is he but a brute 
 
 Whose flesh has soul to suit. 
 
 Whose spirit works lest arms and legs 
 
 want play ? 
 To man. propose tliis test — 
 Thy body at its best. 
 How far can that project thy soul on its 
 
 lone way ? 
 
 Yet gifts should prove their use : 
 
 I own the Past profuse 
 
 Of power each side, perfection every 
 
 turn : 
 Eyes, ears took in theii; dole, 
 Brain treasured up the whole ; 
 Should not the heart beat once '• How 
 
 good to live and learn "? 
 
 Not once beat '"Praise be thine ! 
 
 I see the whole design, 
 
 I, who saw power, see now Love perfect 
 
 too : 
 Perfect I call thy plan : 
 Thanks that I was a man ! 
 Maker, remake, complete,— I trust what 
 
 thou shalt do ! " 
 
66o 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 For pleasant is this flesli ; 
 Our soul, in its rose-niesh 
 Pulled ever to the eartli. still yearns for 
 
 rest : 
 Would we some prize might hold 
 To match those manifold 
 Possessions of the brute, — gain most, as 
 
 we did best ! 
 
 Let us not always say. 
 
 " Spite of this flesh to-day 
 
 I strove, madeliead. gained ground upon 
 
 the wliole ! " 
 As the bird wings and sings. 
 Let us cry, " AH good tilings 
 Are ours, nor soul lielpsflesli more, now. 
 
 than flesh helps soul ! " 
 
 Therefore I summon age 
 
 To grant youth's heritage. 
 
 Life's struggle having so far reached its 
 
 term : 
 Thence shall I pass, approved 
 A man, for aye removed 
 From the developed brute ; a God thougli 
 
 in tlie germ. 
 
 And I shall thereupon 
 
 Take rest, ere I be gone 
 
 Once more on my adventure brave and 
 
 new : 
 Fearless and unperplexed. 
 When I wage battle iiext. 
 What weapons to select, what armor to 
 
 indue. 
 
 Youth ended. I sliall try 
 My gain or loss thei'eby ; 
 Leave the fire ashes, what survives is 
 
 gold : 
 And I shall weigh the same. 
 Give life its praise or blame : 
 Young, all lay in dispute ; I shall know, 
 
 being old. 
 
 For note, when evening shuts, 
 
 A certain moment cuts 
 
 The deed off, calls the glory from the 
 
 gray : 
 A whisper from the west 
 Shoots — " Add this to the rest, 
 Take it and try its worth : here dies an- 
 
 otlier day." 
 
 So, still within this life. 
 
 Though lifted o'er its strife. 
 
 Let me discern, compare, pronounce at 
 
 last, 
 " This rage was right i' the main. 
 
 That acquiescence vain : 
 Tlie Future I mav face now I have proved 
 the Past."' 
 
 For more is not reserved 
 To man. with soul just nerved 
 To act to-morrow what he learns to-day : 
 Here, work enough to watch 
 Tlie Master work, and catch 
 Hints of the proper craft, tricks of the 
 tool's true play. 
 
 As it was better, youth 
 
 Should strive, through acts uncouth. 
 
 Toward making, than repose on aught 
 
 found made : 
 So. better, age. exempt 
 From strife, should know, than tempt 
 Farther. Thou waitedst age : wait death 
 
 nor be afraid ! 
 
 Enough now. if the Right 
 
 And Good and Infinite 
 
 Be named here, as thou callest thy hand 
 
 thine own. 
 With knowledge absolute, 
 Subject to no dispute 
 From fools that crowded youth, nor let 
 
 thee feel alone. 
 
 Be there, for once and all. 
 Severed great minds from small. 
 Announced to each his station in the 
 
 Past ! 
 Was I, the world arraigned. 
 Were they, my soul disdained. 
 Right? Let age .speak the trutli and 
 
 give us peace at last ! 
 
 Now, who shall arbitrate ? 
 
 Ten men love what I hate. 
 
 Shun what I follow, slight what I re- 
 ceive ; 
 
 Ten. who in ears and eyes 
 
 Match me ; we all surmise. 
 
 They this thing, audi that : whom shall 
 my soul believe ? 
 
 Not on the vulgar mass 
 
 Called " work." must sentence pass. 
 
 Tilings done, that took the eye and had 
 
 the price ; 
 O'er wliich, from level stand. 
 The low world laid its hand. 
 Found straightway to its mind, could 
 
 value in a trice : 
 
 But all. the world's coarse thumb 
 And finger failed to plumb. 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 66 1 
 
 So passed in making up the main ac- 
 count : 
 
 All instincts immature, 
 
 All purposes unsure. 
 
 That weished not as his work, yet 
 swelled the man's amount : 
 
 Thouglits hardly to be packed 
 
 Into a narrow act. 
 
 Fancies tliat broke through language 
 
 and escaped ; 
 All I could never be, 
 All, men ignored in me, 
 This, I was wortii to God, whose wheel 
 
 the pitcher shaped. 
 
 Ay, note that Potter's wheel, 
 
 That metaphor ! and feel 
 
 Why time spins fast, why passive lies 
 
 our clay, — 
 Thou, to whom fools propound. 
 When the wine makes its round, 
 "Since life fleets, all is change; the 
 
 Past gone, seize to-day ! " 
 
 Fool : AH that is, at all. 
 
 Lasts ever, past recall ; 
 
 Eaith clianges, but thy soul and God 
 
 stand sure : 
 What entered into tiiee. 
 That was, is, and shall be : 
 Time's vvlieel runs ba,ck or stops : Potter 
 
 and c!lay endure. 
 
 He fixed thee 'mid this dance 
 
 Of plastic circumstance, 
 
 Tills Present, thou, forsooth, would fain 
 
 arrest : 
 Machinery just meant 
 To give thy soul its bent, 
 Try tliee and turn thee forth, sufficiently 
 
 impressed. 
 
 What though the earlier grooves, 
 
 Which ran tlie laughing loves 
 
 Around thy base, no longer pause and 
 
 press ? 
 What though, about thy rim, 
 Skull-things in order grim 
 Grow out. in graver mood, obey tiie 
 
 sterner stress? 
 
 Look not thou down but up ! 
 
 To vises of a cup. 
 
 The festal board, lamp's flash and trum- 
 pet's peal. 
 
 The new wine's foaming flow, 
 
 The master's lips aglow ! 
 
 Thou, heaven's consummate cup, what 
 needst thou with earth's wheel ? 
 
 But T need, now as then, 
 
 Thee. God, who mouldest men ; 
 
 And since, not even while the whirl was 
 
 worst, 
 Did I — to the wheel of life 
 With shapes and colors rife. 
 Bound dizzily — mistake my end, to 
 
 slake th}^ thirst : 
 
 So, take and use thy work : 
 
 Amend what flaws may lurk, 
 
 What strain o' the stuff, what warpings 
 
 past the aim ! 
 My times be in thy hand ! 
 Perfect the cup as planned I 
 Let age approve of youth, and death 
 
 complete the same ! 1864, 
 
 CALIBAN UPON SETEBOS ; / 
 
 OR, NATURAL THEOLOGY IN THE ISLAND 
 
 " Thoti thoushtest that I was al.together such 
 an one as thyself."' 
 
 ['Will sprawl, now that the heat of day 
 
 is best. 
 Plat on his belly in the pit's much mire. 
 With elbows wide, fists clenched to pi'op 
 
 his chin. 
 And. while he kicks both feet in the cool 
 
 slnsli, 
 And feels about his spine small eft-things 
 
 course. 
 Run in and out each arm, and make 
 
 him laugh : [plant. 
 
 And while aboA'e his head a pompion- 
 ( 'oating the cave-top as a brow its eye. 
 Creeps down to touch and tickle hair and 
 
 beard. 
 And now a flower droits with a bee inside. 
 And now a fruit to snap at, catch and 
 
 crunch, — 
 He looks out o'er yon .sea which sun- 
 beams cross 
 And recross till they weave a spider-web, 
 (Meshes of fire, some great fish breaks 
 
 at times,) [please. 
 
 And talks to his own self, howe'er he 
 Touching that other, whom his dam 
 
 called God. 
 Because to talk about Him. vexes — ha. 
 Could He but know ! and time to vex is 
 
 now, 
 When talk is safer than in winter-time. 
 Moreover Prosper and Miranda sleep 
 In confidence he drudges at their task, 
 And it is good to cheat the pair, and gibe. 
 Letting the rank tongue blossom into 
 
 speech.] 
 
662 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Setebos, Setebos, and Setebos ! 
 'Thinketh, He dwelletli i" the cold o' the 
 moon. 
 
 'Thinketh He made it, with tlie sun to 
 match, 
 
 But not the stars ; the stars came other- 
 wise ; 
 
 Only made clouds, winds, meteors, such 
 as that : 
 
 Also this isle, what lives and grows 
 thereon, 
 
 And snaky sea which rounds and ends 
 the same. 
 
 'Thinketh, it came of being ill at ease : 
 He hated that He cannot change His 
 
 cold, 
 Nor cure its ache. ' Hath spied an icy 
 
 fish 
 That longed to ' scape the rock-stream 
 
 where slie lived. 
 And thaw herself within tlie lukewarm 
 
 brine 
 O' the lazy sea her stream thrusts far 
 
 amid, 
 A crystal spike 'twixt two warm walls 
 
 of wave ; 
 Only, she ever sickened, found repulse 
 At the other kind of water, not her life, 
 (Green-dense and dim-delicious, bred o' 
 
 tlje sun,) 
 Flounced back from bliss she was not 
 
 born to breathe. 
 And in her old bounds buried her despair. 
 Hating and loving warmth alike : so He. 
 
 'Thinketh, He made thereat the sun, 
 
 this isle, 
 Trees and tlie fowlshere, beastand creep- 
 ing thing. 
 Yon otter, sleek-wet, black, lithe as a 
 
 leech ; 
 Yon auk, one fire-eye in a ball of foam, 
 That floats and feeds ; a certain badger 
 
 brown 
 He hath watched hunt with tliat slant 
 
 whitewedge eye 
 By moonlight ; and tlie pie with the long 
 
 tongue 
 That pricks deep into oakwarts for a 
 
 worm , 
 And says a plain word when she finds 
 
 her prize, [selves 
 
 But will not eat the ants ; the ants them- 
 That build a wall of seeds and settled 
 
 stalks 
 About their hole — He made all these 
 
 and more, 
 
 Made all we see. and us, in .spite : how 
 
 else? 
 He could not, Himself, make a second 
 
 self 
 To be His mate ; as well have made 
 
 Himself : 
 He would not make what He mislikes 
 
 or slights, 
 An eyesore to Him, oi" not worth His 
 
 pains : 
 But did, in envy, listlessness or sport, 
 Make what Himself would fain, in a 
 
 manner, be — 
 Weaker in most points, stronger in a few, 
 Worthy, and yet mere playthings all 
 
 the wliile, 
 Tilings He admires and mocks too, — that 
 
 is it. 
 Becaixse, so brave, so better though they 
 
 be, 
 It nothing skills if He begin to plague. 
 Look now, T melt a gourd-fruit into masii. 
 Add honeycomb and pods, I have per- 
 ceived. 
 Which bite like finches when they bill 
 
 and kiss, — 
 Then, wlien froth rises bladdery, drink 
 
 up all, 
 Quick, quick, till maggots scamper 
 
 through my brain ; 
 Last, throw me on my back i' the seeded 
 
 thyme, 
 And wanton, wishing I were born a bird. 
 Put case, unable to be what I wish. 
 I yet could make a live bird out of clay : 
 Would not I take clay, pinch iny Caliban 
 Able to fl}'? — for, there, see, he liatli 
 
 wings. 
 And great comb like the hoopoe's to 
 
 admire, 
 And tliere, a sting to do his foes offence, 
 Tliere, and I will that he begin to live, 
 Fly to yon rock-top, nip me off the liorns 
 Of grigs liigli up that make tlie merry din 
 Saucy through their veined wings, and 
 
 mind me not. 
 In which feat, if his leg snapped, brittle 
 
 clay, 
 And he lay stupid-like, — why I should 
 
 laugh ; 
 And if he, spying me should fall to weep 
 Beseech me to be good, repair his wrong, 
 Bid his poor leg smart less or grow 
 
 again, — 
 Well, as the chance were this might 
 
 take or else 
 Not take my fancy : I might hear his cry 
 And give the manikin three sound legs 
 
 for one. 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 66^ 
 
 Or pluck the other off, leave him like an 
 
 And lessoned he was mine and merely 
 
 clay. 
 Were this no pleasure lying in the 
 
 thyme, 
 Drinking the mash, with brain become 
 
 alive 
 Making and marring clay at will ? So 
 
 He. 
 
 'Thinketh such shows nor right nor 
 
 wrong in Him, 
 Nor kind nor cruel : He is strong and 
 
 Lord. 
 ' Am strong myself compared to yonder 
 
 crabs 
 Tliat march now from the mountain to 
 
 the sea ; 
 ' Let twenty pass and stone the twenty- 
 first. 
 Loving not, hating not, just clioosing so. 
 ' Say, tlie first straggler that boasts purple 
 
 spots 
 Shall join the file, one j^incer twisted off ; 
 'Say this bruised fellow shall receive a 
 
 worm , 
 And two worms he whose nippers end 
 
 in red ; 
 As it likes me each time I do : so He. 
 
 Well then, 'supposeth He is good i' the 
 
 main. 
 Placable if His mind and ways were 
 
 guessed, 
 But rougher than His handiwork, be 
 
 sure ! 
 Oh. He hath made things worthier than 
 
 Hiniself, 
 And envieth tliat, so helped, such things 
 
 do more 
 Than He who made them ! What con- 
 soles but tliis ? 
 That they, unless through Him, do 
 
 nauglit at all. 
 And must submit : what other use in 
 
 things? 
 'Hath cut a pipe of pithless elder-joint 
 That, blown through, gives exact tlie 
 
 scream o' the jay 
 When from her wing you twitch the 
 
 featiiers blue : 
 Sound this, and little birds that hate the 
 
 jay 
 Flock within stone's throw, glad their 
 
 foe is hurt : 
 Put case such pipe could prattle and 
 
 boast forsooth, [tiling, 
 
 " I catch the birds, I am the crafty 
 
 I make tlie cry my maker cannot make 
 With his great round mouth ; he must 
 
 blow through mine ! " 
 Would not I smash it with my foot ? So 
 
 He. 
 
 But wherefore rough, why cold and ill 
 
 at ease ? 
 Aha, that is a question ! Ask, for that, 
 What knows, — the something over Sete- 
 
 bos 
 That made Him, or He, may be, found 
 
 and fought, 
 Worsted, drove off and did to nothing, 
 
 perchance. 
 There may be something quiet o'er His 
 
 head. 
 Out of His reach, that feels nor joy nor 
 
 grief, 
 Since both derive from weakness in 
 
 some way. 
 I joy because the quails come ; would 
 
 not joy 
 Could I bring quails here wjien I have a 
 
 mind : 
 This Quiet, all it hath a mind to, doth. 
 'Esteemeth stars the outposts of its 
 
 couch, 
 But never spends much thought nor care 
 
 that way. 
 It may look up, work up, the worse for 
 
 those 
 It works on ! 'Caretli but for Setebos 
 Tlie many-handed as a cuttle-fish. 
 Who, making Himself feared through 
 
 wliat He does, 
 Looks up, first, and perceives he cannot 
 
 soar 
 To what is quiet and hatli happy life ; 
 Next looks down here, and out of very 
 
 spite 
 Makes this a bauble-world to ape yon 
 
 real. 
 These good things to match those as hips 
 
 do grapes. 
 'Tis solace making baubles, ay, and 
 
 sport. 
 Himself peeped late, eyed Prosper at his 
 
 books 
 Careless and lofty, lord now of the isle : 
 Vexed, 'stitched a book of broad leaves, 
 
 arrow-shaped. 
 Wrote thereon, he knows what, prodi- 
 gious words ; 
 Has peeled a wand and called it by a 
 
 name ; 
 Weareth at whiles for an enchanter's 
 
 robe 
 The eyed skin of a supple oncelot ; 
 
664 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 And hath an ounce sleeker than young- 
 ling mole, 
 
 A four-legged serpent he makes cower 
 and couch, 
 
 Now snarl, now hold its breatli and 
 mind his eye, 
 
 And saith she is Miranda and my wife : 
 •'Keeps for his Ariel a tall pouch-bill 
 crane 
 
 He bids go wade for fish and straight 
 disgorge ; 
 
 Also a sea-beast, lumpish, which he 
 snared, 
 
 Blinded tlie eyes of and brought some- 
 wliat tame, 
 
 And split its toe-webs, and now pens tlie 
 drudge 
 
 In a hole o' the rock, and calls him Cali- 
 ban ; 
 
 A bitter lieart that bides its time and 
 bites. 
 
 "Plays thus at being Prosper in a way. 
 
 Taketh his mirth with make-believes: so 
 He. 
 
 His dam held that the Quiet made all 
 
 things 
 Whicli Setebos vexed only : 'holds not 
 
 so. 
 Who made them weak, meant weakness 
 
 He might vex. 
 Had He meant otlier, while His hand 
 
 was in, 
 Why not make horny eyes no thorn 
 
 could prick. 
 Or plate my scalp with bone against 
 
 the snow, 
 Or overscale my flesh 'neatli joint and 
 
 joint 
 Like an ore's armor? Ay, — so spoil His 
 
 sport ! 
 He is the One now : only He doth all. 
 
 'Saith, He may like, perchance, what 
 
 profits him. 
 Ay, himself loves what does him good ; 
 
 but why? 
 'Gets good no otherwise. This blinded 
 
 beast 
 Loves whoso places flesh-meat on liis 
 
 nose, 
 But, had he eyes, would w\ant no help, 
 
 but hate 
 Or love, just as it liked him : he hatli 
 
 eyes. 
 Also it pleases Setebos to work. 
 Use all His hands, and exercise much 
 
 craft, [worked. 
 
 By no means for the love of what is 
 
 'Tasteth himself, no finer good i' the 
 
 world 
 When all goes right, in this safe summer- 
 time, 
 And he wants little, hungers, aches not 
 
 much. 
 Than trying wliat to do with wit and 
 
 strength. 
 'Falls to make something : 'piled yon 
 
 pile of turfs, 
 And squared and .stuck there squares of 
 
 soft white chalk, 
 And, with a fish-tooth, scratched a moon 
 
 on each. 
 And .set up endwise certain spikes of 
 
 tree, 
 And crowned the whole with a sloth's 
 
 skviU a-top. 
 Found (lead i' the wocjds, too hard for 
 
 one to kill. 
 No use at all i' the work, for work's sole 
 
 .sake ; 
 'Shall some day knock it down again: so 
 
 He. 
 
 "Saith He is terrible : watch His feats in 
 
 proof ! 
 One hurricane will spoil six good 
 
 months' hope. 
 He hath a spite again.st me, t hat I know. 
 Just as He favors Prosper, wlio knows 
 
 why ? 
 So it is, all the same, as well I find. 
 'Wove wattles half the winter, fenced 
 
 them firm 
 With stone and stake to stop she- 
 tortoises 
 Crawling to lay their eggs here : well, 
 
 one wave. 
 Feeling the foot of Him upon its neck. 
 Gaped as a snake does, lolled out its 
 
 large tongue, 
 And licked the whole labor flat : so 
 
 much for spite. 
 
 'Saw a ball flame down late (yonder it 
 
 lies) 
 Where half an liour before, I slept i' the 
 
 shade : 
 Often they scatter sparkles : there is 
 
 force I 
 'Dug up a newt He inay liave envied 
 
 once 
 .\nd turned to stone, shut up in.side a 
 
 stone. 
 Please .Him and hinder this? — What 
 
 Prosper does ? 
 Aha, if He would tell me how ! Not He ! 
 There is the sport : discover how or die ! 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 665 
 
 All need not die, for of the things o' the 
 
 isle 
 Some flee afar, some dive, some run up 
 
 trees ; 
 Those at His mercy, — why they please 
 
 Him most 
 When . . . when . . . well, never try 
 
 the same way twice I 
 Repeat what act has pleased, He may 
 
 grow wroth. 
 You must not know His ways, and play 
 
 Him off. 
 Sure of the issue. Doth the like him- 
 self : 
 'Spareth a squirrel that it nothing fears 
 But steals the nut from underneath my 
 
 thumb. 
 And when I threat, bites stoutly in de- 
 fence : 
 'Spareth an urchin that contrariwise. 
 Curls up into a ball, pretending death 
 For fright at my a[)proach : the two ways 
 
 please. 
 But what would move my choler moie 
 
 than this. 
 That either creature counted on its life 
 To-morrow and next day and all days to 
 
 come. 
 Saying, forsooth, in the inmost of its 
 
 heart, 
 " Because lie did so yesterday with me, 
 And otherwise with such another brute. 
 So must he do henceforth and always." — 
 
 Ay? 
 Would teach the reasoning couple what 
 
 •' must" means ! 
 'Doth as lie likes, or wherefore Lord ? 
 
 So He. 
 
 'Conceiveth all things will continue thus, 
 And we shall have to live in fear of Him 
 So long as He lives, keeps his strength : 
 
 no change, 
 If He have done His best, make no new 
 
 world 
 To please Him more, so leave off watch- 
 ing this, — 
 If He surprise not even the Quiet's self 
 Some strange day, — or, suppose, grow 
 
 into it 
 As grubs grow butterflies : else, here we 
 are, [all. 
 
 And there is He, and nowhere help at 
 
 'Believeth with the life, the pain shall 
 
 stop. 
 His dam iield different, that after death 
 He both plagued enemies and feasted 
 
 friends : 
 
 Idly ! He doth His worst in this our 
 
 life. 
 Giving just respite lest we die through 
 
 pain, 
 Saving last pain for worst, — with which, 
 
 an end. 
 Meanwhile, the best way to escape His 
 
 ire 
 Is, not to seem too happy. 'Sees, him- 
 self, 
 Yonder two flies, with purple films and 
 
 pink. 
 Bask on the pompion-bell above : kills 
 
 both. 
 'Sees two black painful beetles roll their 
 
 ball 
 On head and tail as if to save their lives : 
 Moves them the stick away they strive 
 
 to clear. 
 
 Even so.' would have him misconceive, 
 
 suppose 
 This Caliban strives hard and ails no less, 
 And always, above all else, envies Him ; 
 Wherefore he mainly dances on dark 
 
 nights. 
 Moans in the sun, gets under holes to 
 
 laugh, 
 And never speaks his mind save housed 
 
 as now : 
 Outside, 'groans, curses. If He cavight 
 
 me here, 
 O'erheard this speech, and asked " What 
 
 chucklest at ? " 
 'Wovild, to appease Him, cut a finger off. 
 Or of my three kid yearlings bvirn the 
 
 best. 
 Or let the toothsome apples rot on tree, 
 Or push my tame beast for the ore to 
 
 taste : 
 While myself lit a fire, and made a song 
 And sung it, " What I Jutte, he consecrate. 
 To celebrate Tliee and Thy state, no mate 
 Fur TJiee ; loliat see for envy in ]}oor 
 
 me ?" 
 Hoijing the while, since evils sometimes 
 
 mend, 
 Warts rub away and sores are cured with 
 
 slime, 
 That .some strange day, will either the 
 
 Quiet catch 
 And conquer Setebos. or likelier He 
 Decrepit may doze, doze, as good as die. 
 
 [What, what ? A curtain o'er the world 
 
 at once ! 
 Crickets stop hissing ; not a bird — or, 
 
 yes. 
 
666 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 There scuds His raven that has told Him 
 
 all! 
 It was fool's plaj% this prattling ! Ha ! 
 
 The wind 
 Shoulders the pillared dust, death's house 
 
 o' the move, 
 And fast invading fires begin ! White 
 
 blaze — • 
 A tree's head snaps — and there, there, 
 
 there, there, there. 
 His thunder follows ! Fool to gibe at 
 
 Him! 
 Lo ! 'Lietli flat and lovetli Setebos ! 
 'Maketh his teeth meet through liis upper 
 
 lip. . [month 
 
 Will let those quails fly. will not eat tliis 
 One little mess of wlielks, so he may 
 
 'scajje !] 1864. 
 
 CONFESSIONS 
 
 What is lie buzzing in my ears? 
 
 " Now that I come to die, 
 Do I view the world as a vale of tears ? " 
 
 Ah, reverend sir, not I ! 
 
 What I viewed there once, what I view 
 again 
 
 Wliere the phj'sic bottles stand 
 On the table's edge, — is a suburb lane. 
 
 With a wall to my bedside hand. 
 
 That lane sloped, much as the bottles do, 
 From a house you could descry 
 
 O'er the garden-wall ; is the curtain blue 
 Or green to a liealthy eye ? 
 
 To mine, it serves for the old June 
 weather 
 Blue above lane and wall ; 
 And that farthest bottle labelled 
 "Ether" 
 Is the house o'ertopping all. 
 
 At a terrace, somewhere near the 
 stopper. 
 
 There watched for me, one June, 
 A girl : I know, sir, it 's improper, 
 
 My poor mind 's out of tune. 
 
 Only, there was a way . . . you crept 
 
 Close by the side, to dodge 
 Eyes in the house, two eyes except : 
 
 They styled their house " The Lodge." 
 
 AVhat right had a lounger up their lane ? 
 
 But, by creeping very close. 
 With the good wall's lielp, — their eyes 
 miglit strain 
 
 And stretch themselves to Oes, 
 
 Yet never catcli lier and me together, 
 
 As she left the attic, tliere, 
 B}^ the rim of the bottle labelled 
 " Ether." 
 
 And stole from stair to stair, 
 
 And stood by the rose-wreathed gate. 
 Alas, 
 
 We loved, sir — used to meet : 
 How sad and bad and mad it was — 
 
 But, then, how it was sweet ! 1864. 
 
 YOUTH AND ART 
 
 It once might have been, once only : 
 We lodged in a street together, 
 
 You, a sparrow on the house top lonely. 
 I, a lone she-bird of his feather. 
 
 Your trade was with sticks and clay. 
 You tliumbed, thrust, patted and 
 polished, 
 
 Then laughed "They will see some day 
 Smith made, and Gibson demolished." 
 
 My business was song, song, song ; 
 
 I chirped, cheeped, trilled and twit- 
 tered, 
 " Kate Brown's on the boards ere long. 
 
 And Grisi's existence embittered ! " 
 
 I earned no more by a warble 
 Than you by a sketch in plaster : 
 
 You wanted a piece of marble, 
 I needed a music-master. 
 
 We studied hard in our styles, 
 
 Chip])ed each at a crust like Hindoos, 
 
 For air, looked out on the tiles. 
 For fun, watched each other's win- 
 dows. 
 
 You lounged, like a boy of the South, 
 Cap and blouse — nay, a bit of beard 
 too : 
 
 Or you got it, rubbing your mouth 
 With fingers the clay adhered to. 
 
 And I — soon managed to find 
 
 W^eak points in the flower- fence facing, 
 Was forced to put up a blind 
 
 And be safe in my corset-lacing. 
 
 No harm ! It was not my fault 
 
 If you never turned your eye's tail up 
 
 As I sliook upon E in alt., 
 Or ran the chromatic scale up : 
 
 For spring bade the sparrows pair. 
 And the boys and girls gave guesses, 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 667 
 
 And stalls in our street looked rare 
 Witli bulrush and watercresses. 
 
 Why did not you pinch a flower 
 In a pellet of clay and fling it ? 
 
 Why did not I put a power 
 
 Of thanks in a look, or sing it ? 
 
 I did look, sharp as a lynx, 
 
 (And yet the memory rankles,) 
 
 Wlien models arrived, some minx 
 
 Tripj^ed up-stairs, she and her ankles. 
 
 But T think I gave you as good ! 
 
 '• That foreign fellow, — wliocan know 
 How slie pays, in a playful mood. 
 
 For his tuning her that piano V " 
 
 Could you say so, and never say, 
 
 " Suppose we join hands and fortunes. 
 
 And I fetch her from over tlie way, 
 Her, piano, and long tunes and short 
 tunes ? " 
 
 No, no : you would not be rash, 
 Nor 1 rasher and something over : 
 
 You've to settle yet Gibson's hash, 
 And Grisi yet lives in clover. 
 
 But you meet the Prince at the Board, 
 I'm queen myself at bals-pare, 
 
 I 've married a rich old lord. 
 
 And you 're dubbed knight and an 
 R. A. 
 
 Each life unfulfilled, you see ; 
 
 It liangs still, patchy and scrappy : 
 We liave not sighed deej), lauglied free. 
 
 Starved, feasted, despaired, — been 
 happy. 
 
 And nobody calls j'ou a dunce, 
 And people suppose me clever : 
 
 Til is could but liave liappened once, 
 And we missed it, lost it forever. 
 
 1864. 
 
 V 
 
 A FACE 
 
 If one could have that little head of hers 
 Painted upon a background of pale gold, 
 Sucli as the Tuscan's earlj^ art prefers ! 
 No shade encroaching on the matchless 
 
 mould 
 Of tiiose two lips, which should be open- 
 ing soft 
 In the pure profile : not as when she 
 
 laughs, 
 For that spoils all : but rather as if aloft 
 Yon liyacinth, she loves so, leaned its 
 staff's 
 
 Burden of honey-colored buds to kiss 
 And capture 'twixt the lii^s apart for 
 
 this. 
 Tlien her lithe neck, three fingers might 
 
 surround, 
 How it should waver on the pale gold 
 
 ground 
 Up to the fruit-shaped, perfect chin it 
 
 lifts ! 
 I know, Correggio loves to mass, in rifts 
 Of lieaven, his angel faces, orb on orb 
 Breaking its outline, burning shades 
 
 absorb : 
 But these are only massed there, I should 
 
 think, 
 Waiting to see some wonder momently 
 Grow out, stand full, fade slow against 
 
 the sky 
 (That 's the pale ground you 'd see tliis 
 
 sweet face bjO. 
 All heaven, meanwhile, condensed into 
 
 one eye 
 Which fears to lose the wonder, should 
 
 it wink. 1864. 
 
 PROSPICE 
 
 Fkar death ?— to feel the fog in my 
 throat. 
 The mist in my face. 
 When the snows begin, and the blasts 
 denote 
 I am nearing the place. 
 The power of the night, the press of the 
 storm, 
 The post of the foe ; 
 Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a 
 visible form. 
 Yet the strong man must go : 
 For tlie journey is done and the summit 
 attained. 
 And the barriers fall. 
 Though a battle's to fight ere the guer- 
 don be gained. 
 The reward of it all. 
 I was ever a fighter, so — one fight more. 
 
 The best and the last ! 
 I would hate that death bandaged my 
 e}'es, and fcn'bore. 
 And bade me creep past. 
 No ! let me taste tlie whole of it, fare 
 like iny peers 
 The heroes of old, 
 Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad 
 life's arrears 
 Of j>ain. darkness and cold. 
 For sudden the worst turns the best to 
 the brave. 
 The black minute's at end, 
 
668 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices 
 that rave, 
 Shall dwindle, shall blend, 
 Shall change, shall become first a peace 
 out of pain, 
 Then a light, then thy breast, 
 O thou soul of my soul ! I shall clasp 
 thee again. 
 And with God be tlie rest ! 1861. 1864, 
 
 / 
 
 TO DRAMATIS PERSONjE 
 
 EPILOGUE 
 
 Witless alike of will and way divine. 
 How heaven's higli with earth's low 
 
 sliould intertwine ! 
 Friends, I have seen through your eyes : 
 
 now use mine ! 
 
 Take the least man of all mankind, as I ; 
 Look at his head and heart, find liow 
 
 and why 
 He differs from his fellows utterly : 
 
 Then, like me, watch when nature by 
 
 degrees 
 Grows alive round him, as in Arctic seas 
 (They said of old) the instinctive water 
 
 flees 
 
 Toward some elected point of central 
 
 rock. 
 As though, for its sake onlv, roamed the 
 
 flock 
 Of waves about the waste : awhile they 
 
 mock 
 
 With radiance caught for the occasion, 
 
 — hues 
 Of blackest hell now, now such reds and 
 
 blues 
 As only heaven could fitly interfuse, — 
 
 Tlie mimic monarch of the wliirlpool, 
 
 king 
 O" tlie current for a minute : then they 
 
 wring 
 Up by the roots and oversweep the thing, 
 
 And hasten off, to play again elsewhere 
 The same part, choose anotlier peak as 
 
 bare. 
 They find and flatter, feast and finish 
 
 there. 
 
 Wlien you see what I tell you. — nature 
 
 dance 
 About each man of us, retire, advance. 
 As thougli the pageant's end were to 
 
 enhance 
 
 His worth, and — once tiie life, his pro- 
 duct, gained — 
 
 Roll away elsewhere, keep the strife 
 sustained. 
 
 And show thus real, a thing the North 
 but feigned — 
 
 When jou acknowledge that one world 
 
 could do 
 All the diverse woi'k, old yet ever new, 
 Divide us, eacli from other, me from 
 
 you,— 
 
 Why, where's the need of Temple, when 
 
 tlie walls 
 O' the worhl are that? What use of 
 
 swells and falls 
 From Levites' choir. Priests' cries, and 
 
 trumpet-calls ? 
 
 Tliat one Face, far from vanish, rather 
 
 grows. 
 Or decomposes but to recompose. 
 Become my universe that feels and 
 
 knows! IStU. 
 
 DEDICATION OF THE RING AND 
 THE BOOK 
 
 ( END OF BOOK l) 
 
 Such, British Public, ye who like me not. 
 (God love you ! ) — whom I yet have 
 
 labored for. 
 Perchance more careful whoso runs may 
 
 read 
 Tlian erst when all, it seemed, could 
 
 read who ran. — 
 Perchance more careless whoso reads 
 
 may praise 
 Than late when he who praised and read 
 
 and wrote 
 Was apt to find himself the selfsame 
 
 me, — 
 Such labor had such issue, so I wrought 
 This arc, by furtherance of sucli alloy. 
 And so, by one spirt, take away its trace 
 Till, justifiably golden, rounds my ring. 
 
 A ring witliout a posy, and that ring 
 mine ? 
 
 O lyric Love, half angel and half bird. 
 And all a wonder and a wild desire. — 
 Boldest of hearts that ever braved the 
 
 sun, 
 Took sanctuary w^ithin the holier blue. 
 And sang a kindred soul out to his face, — 
 Yet human at the red-ripe of tlie heart — 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 669 
 
 Wlien tlie first siiiiiiiions from the ilark- 
 
 liug eavtli 
 Reached thee amid tliy chambeis, 
 
 blanched their blue. 
 And bared them of the glory — to dro[) 
 I down. 
 
 To toil for man, to suffer or to die, — 
 This is the same voice : can tliy soul 
 
 know change ? 
 Hail then, and harken from tlie realms 
 
 of help ! 
 Never may I commence my song, my due 
 To God who best taught song by gift of 
 
 thee. 
 Except with bent head and beseecliing 
 
 hand- 
 That still, despite the distance and the 
 
 dark, [change 
 
 What was, again may be ; some iuler- 
 Of grace, some splendor once thy very 
 
 thouglit, 
 Some benediction anciently thy smile : 
 — Never conclude, but raising liand and 
 
 head 
 Thither where ej'es. that cannot reach. 
 
 yet yearn 
 For all hope, all sustainment, all reward, 
 Their utmost up and on, — so blessing 
 
 back 
 In those thy realms of lielp, that heaven 
 
 thy home. 
 Some wliiteness which, I judge, thy face 
 
 makes proud. 
 Some wanness where, I think, thy foot 
 
 may fall ! 1868. 
 
 HERVE RIEL 
 
 On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen 
 hundred ninety-two, 
 
 Did the English fight the French. — woe 
 to France ! 
 
 And, the thirty-first of Maj', helter- 
 skelter through the blue, 
 
 Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a 
 shoal of sharks pursue, 
 Came crowding ship on ship to Saint 
 Malo on tiie Ranee, 
 
 Witli the Englisli fleet in view. 
 
 'T was the squadron that escaped, with 
 
 the victor in full chase ; 
 Fii-st and foremost of the drove, in his 
 
 great ship, Damfreville : 
 Close on him fled, great and small. 
 Twenty-two good ships in all ; 
 
 And they signalled to the place 
 " Help the winners of a race ! 
 Get us guidance, give us harbor, talce 
 us quick — or, quicker still. 
 Here 's the English can and will ! " 
 
 III 
 
 Then the pilots of the place put out brisk 
 and leaped on board ; 
 '• Whj' wliat hope or chance have ships 
 like these to pass ? "' lauglied they : 
 •' Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all 
 
 tlie passage scarred and scored, 
 Sliall tlie ' Formidable ' here with her 
 twelve and eight}' guns 
 Tliiuk to make the river-mouth bj^ the 
 single njirrow way, 
 Trust to enter where " t is ticklisii for a 
 
 craft of twenty tons. 
 And with flow at full beside? 
 Now, "t is shickest ebb of tide. 
 
 Reacli the mooring? Rather say, 
 While rock stands or water runs. 
 Not a ship will leave tlie bay ! " 
 
 Then was called a council straight. 
 
 Brief and bitter the debate : 
 
 •' Here's the English at our heels ; would 
 
 you have them take in tow 
 All that's left us of the fleet, linked to- 
 gether stern and bow. 
 For a prize to Plymouth Sound ? 
 Better run tlie ships aground ! " 
 
 (Ended Damfreville his speech). 
 ■' Not a minute more to wait ! 
 Let tlie Captains all and each 
 Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the 
 vessels on the beach ! 
 France must undergo her fjite. 
 
 ■' Give the word ! " But no such word 
 
 Was ever spoke or heard : 
 
 For up stood, for out stepped, for in 
 
 struck amid all these 
 — A Captain ? A Lieutenant ? A Mate — 
 
 first, second, third ? 
 No such man of mark, and meet 
 With his betters to compete ! 
 But a simple Breton sailor pressed by 
 
 Tourville for the fleet, 
 A poor coasting-pilot he. Herve Riel the 
 
 Croisickese. 
 
 VI 
 
 And " What mockery or malice have we 
 here ? " cries Herve Riel : 
 
670 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 '■ Ale you mad, 3^111 Malouiiis? Are you 
 
 cowards, fools, or rogues? 
 Talk to nie of rocks and slioals, me wlio 
 
 took the soundings, tell 
 On my fingers every bank, every shallow, 
 
 every swell, 
 'Twixt the offing here and Greve where 
 
 the j'iver disembogues ? 
 Are you bought by English gold V Is it 
 
 love tlie lying's for? 
 Morn and eve, niglit and day, . 
 Have I piloted your bay. 
 Entered free and ancliored fast at the 
 
 foot of Solidor. 
 Burn the fleet and ruin France ? That 
 
 were worse than fifty Hogues ! 
 Sirs, tliey know I speak the trutli ! Sirs, 
 
 believe me there's a way ! 
 Only let me lead the line, 
 Have the biggest sliip to steer, 
 Get this ' Formidable ' clear, 
 Make the others follow mine. 
 Audi lead them, most and least, by 
 
 a passage I know well. 
 Right to Solidor past Greve, 
 And tiiere lay them safe and sound : 
 And if one ship misbehave, 
 — Keel so much as grate the ground, 
 Why I've notliing but my life. — here's 
 
 my head ! " cries Herve Riel. 
 
 Not a minute more to wait, 
 
 " Steer us in, then, small and great ! 
 
 Take the helm, lead the line, save tlie 
 squadron ! " cried its chief. 
 Captains, give the sailor place ! 
 
 He is Admiral, in brief. 
 Still the north-wind, by God's grace ! 
 See the noble fellow's face 
 As tiie big ship, with a bound, 
 Clears the entry like a hound. 
 Keeps the passage as its inch of way 
 were the wide sea's profound ! 
 
 See, safe through shoal and rock, 
 
 How they follow in a flock. 
 Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel 
 that grates the ground. 
 
 Not a spar that comes to grief ! 
 The peril, see, is past. 
 All are harbored to the last, 
 And just as Herve Riel hollas 
 
 " Anchor ! '' — sure as fate, 
 Up the English come — too late ! 
 
 So. the storm subsides to calm : 
 They see the green ti'ees wave 
 
 On the heights o'erhjoking Gieve. 
 Hearts that bled are stanched vvitli balm. 
 •• Just our rapture to enhance, 
 
 Let tiie English rake the baj', 
 Gnash their teeth and glare askance 
 
 As they cannonade away ! 
 'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding 
 
 on the Ranee ! " 
 How hope succeeds despair on each Cap- 
 tain's countenance! 
 Out burst all with one accord, 
 
 ■• This is Paradise for Hell ! 
 Let France, let France's King- 
 Thank the man tiiat did the thing ! " 
 Wliat a shout, and all one word, 
 
 " Herve Riel ! " 
 As lie stepped in front once more, 
 
 Not a symptcuu of surprise 
 
 In the frank blue Breton eyes, 
 Just the same man as before. 
 
 Then said Damfreville, " My friend, 
 I must speak out at the end, 
 
 Thougli I find the speaking, hard. 
 Praise is deeper than the lips : 
 You have saved the King his ships. 
 
 You must name your own reward. 
 'Faitli, our sun was near eclipse ! 
 Demand whate'er j^ou will, 
 France remains your delator still. 
 Ask to heart's content and have ! or my 
 name's not Damfreville." 
 
 Then a beam of fun outbroke 
 On the bearded moutli that spoke. 
 As the honest heart laughed through 
 Those frank eyes of Breton blue : 
 " Since I needs must say my say, 
 
 Since on board the duty 's done. 
 
 And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, 
 what is it but a run ? — 
 Since 't is ask and have. I may — 
 
 Since the otiiers go ashore — 
 Come ! A good whole holiday ! 
 
 Leave to go and see my wife, whom I 
 call the Belle Aurore ! " 
 
 That he asked and that he got, — noth- 
 ing moi"e. 
 
 Name and deed alike are lost : 
 Not a pillar nor a post 
 In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it 
 befell ; 
 Not a head in white and black 
 On a single fishing-smack, 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 671 
 
 111 ineniory of the man but for wlioiu 
 
 had gone to wrack 
 All that France saved from tlie figlit 
 
 whence England bore the bell. 
 Gro to Paris : rank on rank 
 
 Search tiie heroes flung pell-mell 
 Oil the Louvre, face and flank ! 
 
 You shall look long enough ere you 
 
 come to Herv^e Riel. 
 So, for l)etter and for woi'se, 
 Herve Riel, accept my verse, 
 In my verse, Herve Riel, do tliou once 
 
 more 
 Save t!ie squadron, lienor France, love 
 
 thy wife, the Belle Aurore ! 1871. 
 
 / 
 
 FIFINE AT THE FAIR 
 
 PROLOGUE 
 
 AMPHIBIAN 
 
 The fancy I had to-day, 
 
 Fancy which turned a fear ! 
 I swam far out in the bay. 
 
 Since waves laughed warm and clear. 
 
 I lay and looked at the sun, 
 
 The iioon-sun lookeil at me : 
 Between us two, no one 
 
 Live creature, that I could see. 
 
 Yes ! There came floating bj"- 
 
 Me, who lay floating too. 
 Such a strange butterfly ! 
 
 Creature as dear as new : 
 
 Because the membraned wings 
 
 So wonderful, so wide. 
 So sun-suffused, were things 
 
 Like soul and naught beside. 
 
 A handbreadth overhead ! 
 
 All of the sea my own. 
 It owned the sky instead ; 
 
 Both of us were alone. 
 
 I never shall join its flight, 
 For, naught buoys flesh in air. 
 
 If it touch the sea — good niglit ! 
 Death sure and swift waits there. 
 
 Can the insect feel the better 
 For watching the uncouth ])lay 
 
 ®f limbs that slip the fetter. 
 Pretend as they were not clay ? 
 
 Undoubtedly I rejoice 
 That the air comports so well 
 
 With a creature wliich had tlie choice 
 Of the land once. Who can tell? 
 
 What if a certain soul 
 
 Which early slipjied its sheath, 
 And has for its home the whole 
 
 Of heaven, thus look beneath, 
 
 Thus watch one who, in the world, 
 Both lives and likes life's way, 
 
 Nor wishes the wings unfurled 
 That sleep in the worm, they say ? 
 
 But sometimes when the weather 
 Is blue, and warm waves tempt 
 
 To free one's self of tether, 
 And try a life exempt 
 
 From worldly noise and dust. 
 In the sphere which overbrims 
 
 With passion and thought, — why, just 
 Unable to fly, one swims ! 
 
 By passion and thought upborne. 
 
 One smiles to one's self — " They fare 
 Scarce better, they need not scorn 
 
 Our sea, who live in the air ! " 
 
 Emancipate through passion 
 And tliought, with sea for sky, 
 
 We substitute, in a fashion, 
 For heaven — poetry : 
 
 Which sea, to all intent, 
 (lives flesh such noon-disport 
 
 As a finer element 
 Affords the spirit-sort. 
 
 Whatever tliey are, we seem : 
 Imagine the thing tliey Icnow ; 
 
 All deeds they do, we dream ; 
 Can heaven be else but so? 
 
 And meantime, yonder sti"eak 
 
 Meets the horizon's verge ; 
 That is tlie land, to seek 
 
 If we tire or dread the surge : 
 
 Land the solid and safe — 
 To welcome again (confess !) 
 
 When, high and dry, we chafe 
 The body, and don the dress. 
 
 Does she look, pity, wonder 
 
 At one who mimics fliglit. 
 Swims— heaven above, sea under. 
 
 Yet always earth in sight ? 1873. 
 
 EPILOGUE ^ 
 
 THE HOUSEHOLDER 
 
 Savage I was sitting in my liouse, late, 
 lone : 
 
672 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Dreary, weary with the long day's 
 work : 
 Head of me, heart of me, stupid as a 
 stone : 
 Tongue-tied now, now blaspheming 
 like a Turk ; 
 When, in a moment, just a knock, call, 
 cry. 
 Half a pang and all a rapture, there 
 again were we ! — 
 " Wliat, and is it really you again ? " 
 quoth I : 
 " I again, what else did you expect ? " 
 quoth She. 
 
 "Never inind, hie away from this old 
 liouse — 
 Every crumbling brick embrowned 
 witli sin and shame ! 
 Quick, in its corners ere certain shapes 
 arouse ! 
 Let tiiem — every devil of the night — 
 lay claim. 
 Make and mend, or rap and rend, for 
 me ! Good-by ! 
 God be tlieir guard from disturbance 
 at their glee, 
 Till, crasli, comes down the carcass in a 
 heap ! " quoth I : 
 "Nay, but there's a decency re- 
 quired ! " quoth She. 
 
 " Ah, but if you knew how time has 
 dragged, days, nights ! 
 All the neighbor-talk with man and 
 maid — sucli men ! 
 All the fuss and trouble of street-sounds, 
 window-sights : 
 All the worry of flapping door and 
 echoing roof : and then. 
 All the fancies . . . Who were they had 
 leave, dared trj' 
 Darker arts tliat almost struck despair 
 in me ? 
 If you knew but how I dwelt down 
 here ! " quoth I : 
 " And was I so better off up there ?" 
 quoth She. 
 
 " Help and get it over ! Reiinited to 
 Ms tcife 
 (How draw up the paper lets the par- 
 isli people know ?) 
 Lies M, or N., departed from this life. 
 Day the this or that, moiitlL and year 
 the so and so. 
 What i' the way of final flourish ? Prose, 
 verse ? Try ! 
 Affliction sore long time he bore, or, 
 what is it to be? 
 
 Till God did please to grant him ease. 
 Do end ! " quoth I : 
 •* I end with — Love is all, and Deatli 
 is nought ! " quoth She. 1872. 
 
 ^ 
 
 HOUSE 
 
 Shall I sonnet-sing you about myself ? 
 Do I live in a house you would like to 
 see? 
 Is it scant of gear, has it store of pelf ? 
 " Unlock my heart witli a sonnet- 
 key ? " 
 
 Invite the world, as my betters ha^'e 
 done ? 
 " Take notice : this building remains 
 on view. 
 Its suites of reception every one, 
 
 Its private apartment and bedroom 
 too; 
 
 " For a ticket, apply to the Publisher." 
 No : thanking the pviblic, I must de- 
 cline. 
 A peep through my window, if folk pre- 
 fer ; 
 But, please you, no foot over threshold 
 of mine ! 
 
 I have mixed witli a crowd and heard 
 free talk 
 In a foreign land where an earthquake 
 chanced 
 And a house stood gaping, naught to 
 balk 
 Man's eye wlierever lie gazed or 
 glanced. 
 
 The whole of the frontage shaven sheer, 
 The inside gaped : exposed to day, 
 
 Right and wrong and common and 
 queer. 
 Bare, as the palm of your liand, it lay. 
 
 The owner? Oh, he had been crushed, 
 no doubt ! 
 " Odd tables and chairs for a man of 
 wealth 1 
 What a parcel of mustj^ old books about I 
 He smoked. — no wonder he lost his 
 health! 
 
 " I doubt if he bathed before he dressed." 
 A brasier? — tlie pagan, he burned 
 perfumes ! 
 You see it is proved, what the neighbors 
 guessed : 
 His wife and himself had separate 
 rooms." 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 673 
 
 Frieuds, the good man of the house at 
 least 
 Kept house to himself till aii earth- 
 quake came : 
 'T is the fall of its frontage permits you 
 feast 
 On the inside arrangement you praise 
 or blame. 
 
 Outside should suffice for evidence : 
 And whoso desires to penetrate 
 
 Deeper, must dive by the spirit-sense — 
 No optics like yours, at anj^ rate ! 
 
 '• Hoity-toity ! A street to explore, 
 Your house the exception ! • With thiH 
 same ken 
 Shakespeare unlocked liis heart.''" — 
 Once more. 
 Did Shakespeare ? If so. the less 
 Shakespeare he ! 1876. 
 
 / 
 
 5 
 
 FEARS AND SCRUPLES 
 
 Here 's my case. Of old I used to love 
 hira, 
 This same unseen friend, before I 
 knew : 
 Dream there was none like him, none 
 above him, — 
 Wake to hope and trust my dream was 
 true. 
 
 Loved I not his letters full of beauty ? 
 
 Not his actions famous far and wide ? 
 Absent, he would know I vowed him 
 duty ; 
 
 Present, he would find me at liis side. 
 
 Pleasant fancy ! for I had but letters, 
 Only knew of actions by hearsay : 
 
 He himself was busied with my betters ; 
 What of that? jNIy turn must come 
 some daj'. 
 
 "Some day " proving — no dny ! Here's 
 tlie puzzle. 
 Passed and passed my turn is. Why 
 complain ? 
 He "s so busied ! If I could but muzzle 
 People's foolish mouths that give me 
 pain ! 
 
 ' ' Letters ? " ( hear them ! ) " You a 
 judge of writing? 
 Ask the experts ! How they shake the 
 head 
 O'er these cliaracters, your friend's in- 
 diting — 
 Call them forgery from A to Z ! 
 
 43 
 
 " Actions ? Where's your certain proof " 
 (they bother) 
 "He, of all you find so great and 
 good. 
 He, he only, claims this, that, the other 
 Action — claimed by men, a multi- 
 tude ? " 
 
 I can simply wish I might refute you. 
 Wish my friend would, — by a word, a 
 wink, — 
 Bid me stop that foolish mouth, — you 
 brute you ! 
 He keeps absent, — why, I cannot 
 think. 
 
 Never mind ! Tliough foolishness may 
 flout me. 
 One tiling 's sure enough : 't is neither 
 frost. 
 No, nor fire, shall freeze or burn from 
 out me 
 Thanks for truth — though falsehood, 
 gained — though lost. 
 
 All my days, I'll go the softlier, sadlier. 
 For that dream's sake ! How forget 
 the thrill 
 Through and through me as I thought 
 " The gladlier 
 Lives my friend because I love him 
 still ! " 
 
 Ah, but there "s a menace some one 
 utters ! 
 " What and if j'our friend at home 
 play tricks ? 
 Peep at hide-and-seek behind the sliut- 
 ters ? 
 Mean your eyes should pierce through 
 solid bricks? 
 
 " Wliat and if he, frowning, wake you, 
 dreamy ? 
 Lay on you the blame that bricks — 
 conceal ? 
 Say, ' At least I saiv tcho did not see me. 
 Does .fee vou\ and presently shall 
 feeV? 
 
 " Why, that makes your friend a mon- 
 ster ! " say you : 
 '• Had his house no window ? At first 
 nod, 
 AVould you not have hailed him ? '' 
 Hush, I pray you ! 
 What if this friend happened to be — 
 God ? 1876. 
 
674 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 NATURAL MAGIC 
 
 All I can say is — I saw it ! 
 
 The room was as bare as your hand. 
 
 I locked in the swarth little lady, — I 
 
 swear, 
 From the head to the foot of her — well, 
 
 quite as bare ! 
 " No Nautch sliall cheat me," said I, 
 
 " taking my stand 
 At this bolt which I draw ! " And this 
 
 bolt — I withdraw it. 
 And there laughs the lady, not bare, but 
 
 embowered 
 With — who knows what verdure, o'er- 
 
 fruited, o'erflowered ? 
 Impossible ! Only — I saw it ! 
 
 All I can sing is — I feel it ! 
 
 This life was as blank as that room ; 
 
 I let you pass in hei'e. Precaution, in- 
 deed ? 
 
 Walls, ceiling and floor, — not a chance 
 for a weed ! 
 
 Wide opens the entrance : where 's cold 
 now, where 's gloom? 
 
 No May to sow seed here, no June to 
 reveal it. 
 
 Behold you enshrined in these blooms 
 of your bringing. 
 
 These fruits of your bearing — nay, birds 
 of j'our winging ! 
 
 A fairy-tale ! Only— I feel it ! 187(3. 
 
 MAGICAL NATURE 
 
 Flower — I never fancied, jewel — I pro- 
 fess 3'^ou ! 
 Briglit I see and soft I feel the outside 
 of a flower. 
 Save but glow inside and — jewel, I 
 should guess you. 
 Dim to sight and rough to touch : the 
 glor^y is the dower. 
 
 You, forsooth, a flower? Nay, my love, 
 a jewel — 
 Jewel at no mercy of a moment in 
 your prime ! 
 Time may fray the flower-face : kind be 
 time or cruel. 
 Jewel, from each facet, flash your 
 laugh at time ! 1876. 
 
 APPEARANCES 
 
 And so you found that poor room dull, 
 Dark, hardly to your taste, my dear ? 
 Its features seemed unbeautiful : 
 
 But this I know — 't was there, not here. 
 You pliglited troth to me, the word 
 Which — ask that poor room how it heard. 
 
 And this rich room obtains your praise 
 Unqualified. — so bright, so fair, 
 
 So all whereat perfection stays ? 
 Ay, but remember — here, not there, 
 
 The other word was sjioken ! — Ask 
 
 This rich room how you dropped the 
 mask ! 1876. 
 
 <? EPILOGUE 
 
 TO THE PACCHIAROTTO VOLUME 
 
 juetTTol . . . 
 oi S' a/u.<^opi)$ olvov (iieAavos avBoij'ft.iov. 
 
 " The poets pour us wine — " 
 
 Said tlie dearest poet I ever knew, 
 Dearest and greatest and best to me. 
 You clamor athirst for poetry — 
 We pour. " But when shall a vintage 
 be""— 
 You cry — " strong grape, squeezed 
 gold from screw. 
 Yet sweet juice, flavored flowery-fine? 
 Tliat were indeed the wine ! " 
 
 One pours your cup — stark strength. 
 
 Meat for a man ; and you eye the pulp 
 Strained, turbid still, from the viscous 
 
 blood 
 Of the snaky bough : and you grumble 
 
 " Good ! 
 For it swells resolve, breeds hardihood ; 
 
 Dispatch it, then, in a single gulp ! " 
 So, down, with a wr^^ face, goes at 
 length 
 Tlie liquor : stuff for strength. 
 
 One pours your cup — sheer sweet, * 
 The fragrant fumes of a year con- 
 densed : 
 Suspicion of all that 's ripe or rathe. 
 From the bud on branch to the grass in 
 
 swathe, 
 " We suck mer6 milk of the seasons," 
 saith 
 A curl of each nostril — " dew, dis- 
 l)ensed 
 Nowise for nerving man to feat : 
 Boys sip such honeyed sweet ! " 
 
 And thus who wants wine strong. 
 Waves each sweet smell of the year 
 away ; 
 Who likes to swoon as tlie sweets suffuse 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 67s 
 
 His brain with a mixture of beams aud 
 
 dews 
 Turned syi"upy drink — rough strength 
 eschews : 
 " What though in our veins your wine- 
 stock stay ? 
 The lack of the bloom does our palate 
 wrong. 
 Give us wine sweet, not strong ! " 
 
 Yet wine is — some affirm — 
 
 Prime wine is found in the world 
 somewliere. 
 Of portable strength with sweet to 
 
 match. 
 You double your heart its dose, j'et 
 
 catch — 
 As the draught descends — a violet- 
 smatch, 
 Softness — however it came there, 
 Through drops expressed by the fire and 
 worm : 
 Strong sweet wine — some affirm. 
 
 Body and bouquet both ? 
 
 'Tis easy to ticket a bottle so ; 
 But what was the case in the cask, my 
 
 friends ? 
 Cask ? Nay, the vat— where the maker 
 
 mends 
 His strong with his sweet (you suppose) 
 and blends 
 His rough with his smooth, till none 
 can know 
 How it comes 3'ou may tipple, nothing 
 loth. 
 Body and bouquet both. 
 
 " You "' being just — ^the world. 
 No poets — wlio turn, themselves, the 
 winch 
 Of the press ; no critics — I'll even saj', 
 (Being flustered and easy of faith to- 
 
 <^lay,) 
 Who for love of the work have learned 
 the way 
 Till themselves produce home-made, 
 at a pinch : 
 No ! You are the woi"ld. and wine ne'er 
 purled 
 Except to please the world ! 
 
 " For, oh the common heart ! 
 
 And, ah the irremissible sin 
 Of poets who please themselves, not us ! 
 Strong wine yet sweet wine pouring 
 
 thus ! 
 How please still — Pindar and ^schy- 
 
 lus! 
 
 Drink — dipped into by the bearded 
 chin 
 Alike and the bloomy lip — no part 
 Denieii the common heart ! 
 
 *' And might we get such grace, 
 And did you moderns but stock oui* 
 vault 
 With the true half-brandy half-attar-gul. 
 How would seniors indulge at a hearty 
 
 pull 
 While Juniors tossed off their thimble- 
 ful ! 
 Our Shakespeare and Milton escaped 
 your fault, 
 So, they reign supreme o'er the weaker 
 race 
 Tliat wants the ancient grace ! " 
 
 If I paid myself with words 
 
 (As the French say well) I were dupe 
 indeed ! 
 I were found in belief that you quaffed 
 
 and bowsed 
 At your Shakespeare the whole day 
 
 long, caroused 
 In your Milton pottle-deep nor drowsed 
 A moment of night — toped on. took 
 heed 
 Of nothing like modern cream-and- 
 cui'ds. 
 Pay me with deeds, not words ! 
 
 For — see your cellarage ! 
 There are fortj' barrels with Shakes- 
 peare's brand. 
 Some five or six are abroacli : the rest 
 Stand spigoted, fauceted. Try and test 
 Wliat vourselves call best of the very 
 best ! 
 How comes it that still untouched they 
 stand ? 
 Why don't you try tap. advance a stage 
 With the rest in the cellarage ? 
 
 For — see your cellarage ! 
 There are four big butts of Milton's 
 
 brew. 
 How comes it you make old drips and 
 
 drops 
 Do duty, and there devotion stops ? 
 Leave sucii an abyss of malt and hops 
 . Embellied in butts which bungs still 
 
 glue ? [rage ! 
 
 You hate your bard ! A fig for your 
 Free him froni cellarage ! 
 
 'T is said I brew stiff drink. 
 But the deuce a flavor of grape is 
 there. 
 
676 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 A 
 
 Hardly a May -go-down, 't is just 
 A sort of a gruff Go-dowii-it-inust — 
 No Merry-go-down, no gracious gust 
 Commingles the racy with Spring- 
 tide's rare ! 
 "What wonder," say you, "that we 
 cough, and blink 
 At Autumn's heady drink?" 
 
 Is it a fancy, friends ? 
 yC Mighty and mellow are never mixed, 
 Though mighty and mellow be born at 
 
 once. 
 Sweet for the future, — strong for the 
 
 nonce ! 
 Stuff j'ou should stow away, ensconce 
 In the deep and dark, to be found fast- 
 fixed 
 At the century's close : sucli time 
 strengtli spends 
 A-sweetening for my friends ! 
 
 And then — wliy, what you quaff 
 
 With a smack of lip and a cluck of 
 tongue, 
 Is leakage and leavings — just what haps 
 From the tun some learned taster taps 
 With a promise "Prepare your v^'atery 
 chaps ! 
 Here 's properest wine for old and 
 young ! 
 Dispute its perfection ? You make us 
 laugli ! 
 Have faith, give thanks, but — 
 quaff ! " 
 
 Leakage, I sa3% or — worse — 
 
 Leavings suffice, pot-valiant souls. 
 Somebody, brimful, long ago. 
 Frothed flagon he drained to tlie dregs ; 
 
 and, lo, 
 Down whisker and beard what an over- 
 flow ! 
 Lick spiltli that has trickled from 
 classic jowls. 
 Sup the single scene, sip the only verse — 
 Old wine, not new and worse ! 
 
 I grant you : worse by much ! 
 
 Renounce that new where you never 
 gained 
 One glow at heart, one gleam at head. 
 And stick to the warrant of age in-. 
 
 stead ! 
 No dwarfs-lap! Fatten, by giants fed ! 
 You fatten, with oceans of drink un- 
 drained ? 
 You feed — who would choke did a cob- 
 web smutch 
 The Age you love so much ? 
 
 A mine 's beneath a moor : 
 
 Acres of liioor roof fathoms of mine 
 Which diamonds dot where you please 
 
 to dig ; 
 Yet who plies spade for the bright and 
 
 big? 
 Your product is — truffles, you hunt with 
 a pig ! 
 Since bright-and-big, when a man 
 would dine, 
 Suits badly : and therefore tiie Koh- 
 i-noor 
 May sleep in mine 'neath moor ! 
 
 Wine, pulse in might from me ! 
 
 It may never emerge in must from 
 vat. 
 Never fill cask nor furnish can, 
 Never end sweet, which strong began — 
 God's gift to gladden the heart of man ; 
 
 But spirit 's at proof, I promise that ! 
 No sparing of juice spoils what should 
 be 
 
 Fit brevvage — mine for me. 
 
 Man's thoughts and loves and hates ! 
 Earth is my vineyard, these grew 
 there : 
 From grape of the ground, I made or 
 
 marred 
 My vintage ; easy the task or hard. 
 Who set it — his praise be my reward ! 
 Earth's yield ! Who yeai'n for the 
 Dark Blue Sea's. 
 Let them " lay, pray, bray " — the addle- 
 pates ! 
 Mine be Man's thoughts, loves, 
 hates ! 
 
 But some one says, " Good Sir ! " 
 
 ('T is a worthy versed in what concerns 
 The making such labor turn out well, ) 
 " You don't suppose that the nosegay- 
 smell 
 Needs always come from the grape ? 
 Each bell 
 At your foot, each bud that your cul- 
 ture spurns 
 The very cowslip would act like myrrh 
 On tlie stiff est brew — good Sir ! 
 
 " Cowslips, abundant birth 
 O'er meadow and hillside, vineyard 
 too, 
 — Like a schoolboy's scrawlings in and 
 
 out 
 Distasteful lesson-book — all about 
 Greece and Rome, victory and rout — 
 Love-vei'ses instead of such vain ado ! 
 
^^ 
 
 ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 677 
 
 So, fancies frolic it o'er the earth 
 
 Where thoughts have riglitlier birth. 
 
 " Nay, thoughtlings they themselves ; 
 Loves, hates — in little and less and 
 least ! 
 Thoughts ? ' What is a man beside a 
 
 mount ! ' 
 Loves ? ' Absent— poor lovers the min- 
 utes count ! ' 
 Hates V ' Fie — Pope's letters to Martha 
 Blount r 
 These furnish a wine for a children's 
 feast : 
 Insipid to man, they suit tlie elves 
 
 Like thoughts, loves, hates, them- 
 selves." 
 
 And, friends, beyond dispute 
 
 I too have the cowslips dewy and dear. 
 Punctual as Springtide forth peep tliey : 
 I leave them to make my meadow gay. 
 But I ought to pluck and impound tiiem, 
 eh? 
 Not let them alone, but deftly shear 
 And shred and reduce to — what may 
 suit 
 Children, beyond dispute ? 
 
 And, here 's May-month, all bloom, 
 
 All bounty : what if I sacrifice? 
 If I out with shears and siiear, nor stop 
 Shearing till j^rostrate, lo, the crop? 
 And will you prefer it to ginger-pop 
 When I've made you wine of the 
 memories 
 Which leave as bare as a churchyard 
 tomb 
 My meadow, late all bloom ? 
 
 Nay, what ingratitude 
 
 Should I hesitate to amuse the wits 
 Tiiat have pulled so long at my flask, 
 
 nor grudged 
 The headaclie that paid their pains, nor 
 
 budged 
 From bungiiole before they sighed and 
 judged 
 " Too rough for our taste, to-dav, 
 befits 
 The racy and right when the years con- 
 clude ! " 
 Out on ingratitude ! 
 
 (rrateful or ingrate — none. 
 
 No cowslip of all my fairy crew 
 Shall lielp to concoct wliat makes you 
 
 wink. 
 And goes to your head till you think 
 
 you think 1 
 
 I like them alive : the printer's ink 
 Would sensibly tell on the perfume 
 too. 
 I may use up my nettles, ere I 've done ; 
 But of cowslips — friends get none ! 
 
 Don't nettles make a broth 
 
 Wholesome for blood grown lazy and 
 thick ? 
 Maws out of sorts make mouths out of 
 
 taste. 
 My Thirty-four Port — no need to waste 
 On a tongue that "s fur and a palate — 
 paste ! 
 A magnum for friends who are sound ! 
 the sick — 
 I '11 posset and cosset them, nothing 
 loth. 
 Henceforward witli nettle-broth ! 
 
 1876. 
 
 LA SAISIAZ 
 
 PROLOGUE 
 
 ,/ 
 
 ^, 
 
 Good, to forgive ; 
 
 Best, to forget ! 
 
 Living, we fret ; 
 Dying, we live. 
 Fretless and free. 
 
 Soul, clap thy pinion ! 
 
 Eartli have dominion, 
 Body, o'er thee ! 
 
 Wander at will. 
 
 Day after day, 
 
 Wander away, 
 W'andering still — 
 Soul that canst soar ! 
 
 Body may slumber : 
 
 Body shall cumlier 
 Soul-flight no more. 
 
 Waft of soul's wing ! 
 
 What lies above ? 
 
 Sunshine and Love, 
 Skyblue and Spring ! 
 Body hides — vviiere? 
 
 Ferns of all featlier, 
 
 Mosses and heatlier. 
 Yours be the care ! 1878. 
 
 THE TWO POETS OF CROISIC 
 
 PROLOGUE 
 
 Such a starved bank of moss 
 
 Till, that May-morn, 
 Blue ran the flash across : 
 
 Violets were born ! 
 
678 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Skj^ — what a scowl of cloud 
 
 Till, near and far, 
 Ray on ray split tiie shroud : 
 
 Splendid, a star ! 
 
 World — how it walled about 
 
 Life with disgrace 
 Till God's own smile came out : 
 
 That was thy face ! 
 
 EPILOGUE 
 
 Wliat a pretty tale you told me 
 
 Once upon a time 
 — Said you found it somewhere (scold 
 me !) 
 
 AVas it prose or was it rhyme, 
 Greek or Latin ? Greek, you said. 
 While your shoulder propped my head. 
 
 Anyhow there 's no forgetting 
 
 This much if no more, 
 That a poet (pray, no petting !) 
 
 Yes, a bard, sir, famed of j'ore, 
 Went where suchlike used to go, 
 Singing for a prize, you know. 
 
 Well, he had to sing, nor merely 
 
 Sing but play the lyre ; 
 Playing was important clearly 
 
 Quite as singing : I desire, 
 Sir, you keep tiie fact in mind 
 For a purpose that's behind. 
 
 There stood he, while deep attention 
 
 Held the judges round, 
 — Judges able. I sliould mention, 
 
 To detect the slightest sound 
 Sung or played amiss : such ears 
 Had old judges, it appears ! 
 
 None the less he sang out boldly. 
 
 Played in time and tune. 
 Till the judges, weighing coldlj- 
 
 Each note's worth, seemed, late or 
 soon, 
 Sure to smile " In vain one tries 
 Picking faults out : take the prize ! " 
 
 When, a mischief ! Were they seven 
 
 Strings the lyre possessed ? 
 Oh, and afterwards eleven, 
 
 Thank you ! Well, sir, — who had 
 guessed 
 Such ill luck in store ? — it happed 
 One of those same seven strings snapped. 
 
 All was lost, then! No ! a cricket 
 
 (What "cicada"? Pooh!) 
 — Some mad thing that left its thicket 
 
 For mei"e love of mvisic — flew 
 With its little heart on tire. 
 Lighted on the crippled Ij're. 
 
 So that when (Ah, joy !) our singer 
 
 For his truant string 
 Feels with disconcerted finger. 
 
 What does cricket else bvit fling 
 Fiery heart forth, sound the note 
 Wanted by the throbbing throat ? 
 
 Ay and, ever to the ending, 
 
 Cricket chirps at need. 
 Executes the hands intending, 
 
 Promptlv. jierfectly, — indeed 
 Saves the singer from defeat 
 With her chirrup low and sweet. 
 
 Till, at ending, all the judges 
 
 Cry with one assent 
 " Take the ]n-ize — a prize who grudges 
 
 Such a voice and instrument? 
 Wh}', we took jour lyre for harp. 
 So it shrilled us forth F sharp ! " 
 
 Did the conqueror spurn the creature. 
 
 Once its service done ? 
 That 's no such uncommon feature 
 
 In the case when Music's son 
 Finds his Lotte's power too sjjent 
 For aiding soul-development. 
 
 No ! This other, on retui-ning 
 
 Homeward, prize in hand. 
 Satisfied his boson\'s yearning : 
 
 (Sir, I hope you understand !) 
 — Said "Some record there must be 
 Of this cricket's help to me ! " 
 
 So, he made himself a statue : 
 
 Marble stood, life-size ; 
 On the lyre, he pointed at you. 
 
 Perched his partner in the prize ; 
 Never more apart you found 
 Her, he throned, from him, she crowned. 
 
 That "s the tale : its application ? 
 
 Somebody I know 
 Hopes one day for reputation 
 
 Through his poetry that 's — Oh, 
 All so learned and so wise 
 And deserving of a prize ! 
 
 If he gains one, will some ticket, 
 
 Wlien his statue 's built. 
 Tell the gazer " 'Twas a cricket 
 
 Helped my crippled lyre, wliose lilt 
 Sweet and low, when strength usurped 
 Softness" ])lace i' the scale, she chirped? 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 679 
 
 " For as victory was nighest, 
 
 Wliile I sang and played, — 
 With my lyre at lowest, highest, 
 
 Right alike, — one string that made 
 ' Love ' sound soft was snapt in twain 
 Never to be heard again, — 
 
 " Had not a kind cricket fluttered, 
 
 Perched vipon the place 
 Vacant left, and duly uttered 
 
 ' Love, Love, Love,' whene'er the bass 
 Asked the treble to atone 
 For its somewhat sombre drone." 
 
 But you don't know music ! Wherefore 
 
 Keep on casting pearls 
 To a — poet ? All I care for 
 
 Is — to tell him that a girl's 
 " Love " comes aptly in when gruff 
 Grows his singing. (There, enough !) 
 
 1878. 
 
 TRAY 
 
 Sing me a hero ! Quench my thirst 
 Of soul, ye bards ! 
 
 Quoth Bard tlie first : 
 " Sir Olaf, the good knight, did don 
 His helm and eke his habergeon "... 
 Sir Olaf and his bard ! 
 
 "That sin-scathed brow" (quoth Bard 
 the second), 
 
 "That eye wide ope as though Fate 
 beckoned 
 
 My hero to some steep, beneath 
 
 Which precipice smiled tempting 
 death "... 
 
 You too without your host have reck- 
 oned ; 
 
 "A beggar child" (let 's hear this 
 
 third!) 
 " Sat on a quay's edge : like a bird 
 Sang to herself at careless play. 
 And fell into the stream. ' Dismay ! 
 Help, you the standers-by ! ' None 
 
 stirred. 
 
 " Bystanders reason, think of wives 
 And children ere tliey risk their lives. 
 Over tlie balustrade has bounced 
 A mere instinctive dog, and pounced 
 Plumb on the prize. ' How well he 
 dives ! 
 
 "'Up he comes with the child, see, 
 
 tight 
 In mouth, alive too, clutched from quite 
 A depth of ten feet — twelve, I bet ! 
 
 Good dog ! What, off again ? There 's 
 
 yet 
 Another child to save ? All right ! 
 
 " How strange we saw no other fall ! 
 It 's instinct in the animal. 
 Good dog ! But lie's a long while under : 
 If he got drowned I should not wonder — 
 Strong current, that against the wall ! 
 
 " ' Here he comes, holds in mouth this 
 
 time 
 — ^What may the thing be ? Well, that 's 
 
 prime ! 
 Now, did you ever? Reason reigns 
 In man alone, since all Tray's pains 
 Have fislied — the child's doll from the 
 
 slime ! ' 
 
 " And so, amid the laughter gaj% 
 Trotted my hero off, — old Tray, — 
 Till somebody, prerogatived 
 With reason, reasoned : ' Why he dived. 
 His brain would show us, I should say. 
 
 " ' John, go and catch — or, if needs be, 
 Purchase that animal forme ! 
 By vivisection, at expense 
 Of half-an-hour and eighteenpence. 
 How brain secretes dog's soul, we '11 
 see ! ' " 1879. 
 
 ECHETLOS 
 
 Here is a story, shall stir you ! Stand 
 
 up, Greeks dead and gone. 
 Who breasted, beat Barbarians, stemmed 
 
 Persia rolling on. 
 Did the deed and saved the world, for 
 
 the day was Maratlion ! 
 
 No man but did his manliest, kept rank 
 
 and fought away 
 In his tribe and file : up, back, out, 
 
 down — was the spear-arm play : 
 Like a wind-whipt brancliy wood, all 
 
 spear-arms a-swing that day ! 
 
 But one man kept no rank, and his sole 
 
 arm plied no spear. 
 As a flashing came and went, and a 
 
 form i' the van, the rear, 
 Briglitened the battle up, for he blazed 
 
 now there, now here. 
 
 Nor lielmed nor shielded, he ! but, a 
 
 goat-skin all his wear. 
 Like a tiller of the soil, with a clown's 
 
 limbs broad and bare. 
 Went he ploughing on and on : he 
 
 pushed with a ploughman's share. 
 
68o 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Did the weak mid-line give way, as tun- 
 nies on whom the shark 
 
 Precipitates liis bulk? Did the right- 
 wing halt when, stark 
 
 On his heap of slain lay stretched Kalli- 
 machos Polemarch ? 
 
 Did the steady phalanx falter ? To the 
 rescue, at the need, 
 
 The clown was ploughing Persia, clear- 
 ing Greek earth of weed. 
 
 As he routed through the Sakian and 
 rooted up the Mede. 
 
 But the deed done, battle won, — nowhere 
 
 to be descried 
 On the meadow, by the stream, at the 
 
 marsh, — look far and wide 
 From the foot of the mountain, no, to 
 
 the last blood-plashed sea-side, — 
 
 Not anywhere on view blazed the large 
 
 limbs thonged and brown. 
 Shearing and clearing still with the 
 
 share before wliich — down 
 To the dust went Persia's pomp, as he 
 
 ploughed for Greece, tliat clown ! 
 
 How spake tlie Oracle ? ' ' Care for no 
 name at all ! 
 
 Say bvit just this : ' We praise one help- 
 ful whom we call 
 
 The Holder of the Ploughshare.' The 
 great deed ne'er grows small." 
 
 Not the great name ! Sing — woe for the 
 
 great name Miltiades 
 And its end at Paros isle ! Woe for 
 
 Themistokles 
 — Satrap in Sardis court ! Name not the 
 
 clown like tliese ! 1880. 
 
 ; EPILOGUE TO DRAMATIC IDYLS 
 
 " Touch him ne'er so lightly, into song 
 he broke : 
 
 Soil so quick-receptive, — not one featlier- 
 seed. 
 
 Not one flower-dust fell but straight its 
 fall awoke 
 
 Vitalizing virtue : song would song suc- 
 ceed 
 
 Sudden as spontaneous — prove a poet- 
 soul ! " 
 
 Indeed ? 
 
 Rock 's the song-soil rather, surface 
 hard and bare : 
 
 Sun and dew their mildness, storm and 
 frost tJieir rage 
 
 Vainly both expend, — few flowers 
 awaken there : 
 
 Quiet in its cleft broods — ^what the after- 
 age 
 
 Knows and names a pine, a nation's 
 heritage.! 1880. 
 
 WANTING IS— WHAT ? 
 
 Wanting is — wliat ? 
 Summer redundant, 
 Bhieness abundant, 
 — Where is the blot ? 
 Beamy the world, yet a blank all the 
 
 same, 
 — Framework which waits for a picture 
 
 to frame : 
 What of the leafage, what of the flower ? 
 Roses embowering with nauglit they 
 
 embower ! 
 Come then, complete incompletion, O 
 
 comer, 
 Pant through the blueuess, perfect the 
 summer ! 
 Bi'eathe but one bi'eath 
 Rose-beauty above. 
 And all that was death 
 Grows life, grows love. 
 Grows love ! 1883. 
 
 ADAM, LILITH, AND EVE 
 
 ? 
 
 One day, it thundered and liglitened. 
 
 Two women, fairly frightened. 
 
 Sank to their knees, transformed, trans- 
 fixed. 
 
 At the feet of the man who sat betwixt ; 
 
 And " Mercy !" cried each — " if I tell 
 the truth 
 
 Of a passage in my youth ! " 
 
 Said This : " Do you mind the morning 
 I met your love with scorning ? 
 As the worst of the venom left my lips, 
 I thought, ' If, despite this lie, he strips 
 Tlie mask from my soiil with a kiss — I 
 
 crawl 
 His slave, — soul, body, and all ! ' " 
 
 Said that : ' ' We stood to be married ; 
 The priest, or some one, tarried ; 
 
 1 Having been criticised for speaking thus of his 
 own work (as well he might, if lie chose), Brown- 
 ing wrote the following lines in an album, for an 
 American girl, at Venice : 
 
 Thus I wrote in London, musing on my betters, 
 Poets dead and gone ; and lo, the critics cried, 
 "Out on such a boast!" as if I dreamed that 
 
 fetters 
 Binding Dante bind up— me ! as if true pride 
 Were not also humble 1 . . . . 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 68i 
 
 ' If Paradise-door prove locked ? ' smiled 
 
 you. 
 I thought, as I nodded, smiling too, 
 ' Did one, that "s away, arrive — nor late 
 Nor soon should unlock Hell's, gate ! ' " 
 
 It ceased to lighten and thunder. 
 
 Up started both in wonder. 
 
 Looked round and saw that tlie sky was 
 
 clear, 
 Then lauglied " Confess you believed 
 
 us. Dear ! "' 
 '• I saw tlirougli the joke ! " tlie man 
 
 replied. 
 They re-seated themselves beside. 
 
 1883. 
 
 NEVER THE TIME AND THE PLACE 
 
 Nevek the time and the place 
 
 And the loved one all together ! 
 Tliis path — how soft to pace ! 
 
 This May — what magic weatlier ! 
 Where is the loved one's face ? 
 In a dream tliat loved one's face meets 
 mine, 
 But the house is narrow, the place is 
 bleak 
 Where, outside, rain and wind combine 
 Witli a furtive ear, if I strive to speak. 
 With a hostile eye at my flushing 
 cheek, 
 With a malice that marks each word, 
 each sign ! 
 
 enemy sly and serpentine, 
 Uncoil tliee from tlie waking man ! 
 
 Do I hold tlie Past 
 
 Thus firm and fast 
 Yet doubt if the Future hold I can ? 
 This path so soft to pace shall lead 
 Through tlie magic of May to lierself 
 
 indeed ! 
 Or narrow if needs the house must be, 
 Outside are the storms and strangers : 
 
 we — 
 Oh, close, safe, warm, sleep I and she, 
 
 I and she. 1888. 
 
 SONGS FROM FERISHTAH'S 
 FANCIES 
 
 Round us the wild creatures, overhead 
 
 the trees, 
 Underfoot the moss-tracks, — life and 
 
 love with these ! 
 
 1 to wear a fawn-skin, thou to dress in 
 
 flowers : 
 All tlie long lone smiuiier-da^', that 
 greenwood life of ours ! 
 
 Rich-pavilioned, rather, — still the world 
 
 without, — 
 Inside — gold-roofed silk-walled silence 
 
 round about ! 
 Queen it thou on purple, — I, at watch 
 
 and ward. 
 Couched beneath the columns, gaze, thy 
 
 slave, love's guard ! 
 
 So, for us no world ? Let throngs press 
 
 tliee to me ! 
 Up and down amid men, heart by heart 
 
 fare we ! 
 Welcome squalid vesture, harsh voice, 
 
 hateful face ! 
 God is soul, souls land thou : with souls 
 
 should souls have place. 
 
 Wish no word unspoken, want no look 
 
 awaj' 
 
 What if words were but mistake, and 
 
 looks — too sudden, say ! 
 Be unjust for once. Love ! Bear it — well 
 
 I may ! 
 
 Do me justice always ? Bid my heart — 
 
 their shrine — 
 Render back its store of gifts, old looks 
 
 and words of tliine 
 — Oh, so all unjust — tlie less deserved, 
 
 the more divine ? 
 
 Fire is in the flint : true, once a spark 
 
 escapes. 
 Fire forgets the kinship, soars till fancy 
 
 shapes 
 Some befitting cradle where the babe 
 
 had birth — 
 Wholly lieaven's the product, unallied 
 
 to earth. 
 Splendors recognized as perfect in the 
 
 star I 
 In our flint their home was, lioused as 
 
 now the}' are. 
 
 Verse-making was least of my virtues : 
 
 I viewed with despair 
 Wealth that never yet was but might 
 
 be — all that verse-making were 
 If the life would but lengthen to wish, 
 
 let the mind be laid bare. 
 Sol said '"To do little is bad, to do 
 
 nothing is wtirse " — 
 And made verse. 
 
682 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 
 Love-making, — how simple a matter ! 
 No depths to explore, 
 
 No heights in a life to ascend ! No dis- 
 heartening Before, 
 
 No affrighting Hereafter, — love now will 
 be love evermore. 
 
 So I felt " To keep silence were folly : " 
 — all language above, 
 I made love. 
 
 Ask not one least word of praise ! 
 
 Words declare your eyes are bright ? 
 What then meant that summer day's 
 Silence spent in one long gaze ? 
 
 Was my silence wrong or right ? 
 
 Words of praise were all to seek ! 
 
 Face of you and form of you, 
 Did they find the praise so weak 
 When my lips just touched your cheek — 
 
 Touch which let my soul come through? 
 
 "Why from the world," Ferishtah 
 smiled, " should thanks 
 Go to this work of mine ? If worthy 
 praise. 
 Praised let it be and welcome : as verse 
 ranks, 
 So rate my verse : if good therein out- 
 weighs 
 Aught faulty judged, judge justly I 
 Justice says : 
 Be just to fact, or blaming or approving : 
 But — generous ? No, nor loving ! 
 
 " Loving ! what claim to love has work 
 of mine ? 
 Concede mj"- life wei-e emptied of its 
 gains 
 To furnish forth and fill work's strict 
 confine. 
 Who works so for the world's sake- 
 he complains 
 With cause when hate, not love, 
 rewards his pains. 
 I looked beyond the world for truth and 
 
 beauty : 
 Sought, found, and did my duty." 
 
 1884. 
 
 WHY I AM A LIBERAL 
 
 " Why ? " Because all I haply can and do. 
 All tha t I am nj5w. all I hope to be, — 
 vVjien ce coin esTt' save from furTune S(:'C- 
 ting free 
 
 Body and soul the |)iirpose to pursue. 
 Gro d traced for botli ? If fetters not a 
 
 Few , 
 Of pr ejuilicp. convention, fall from me, 
 1'hese s liall I bid uxau — each in "his 
 
 (Tegrt'p 
 Also God-guided — bear, and gayly, too ? 
 
 But little do or can the best of us : 
 That little is achieved through Liberty. 
 Who, then, dares hold, emancipated 
 
 thus. 
 His fellow shall continue bound? Not I, 
 Who live, love, labor freely, nor discuss 
 A brother's right to freedom. That is 
 
 " Why." 1885. 
 
 ROSNY 
 
 Woe, he went galloping into the war, 
 
 Clara, Clara ! 
 Let us two dream : shall he 'scape with 
 a scar ? 
 Scarcely disfigurement, rather a grace 
 Making for manhood which nowise we 
 mar : 
 See, while I kiss it, the flush on his 
 face — 
 
 Rosny, Rosny ! 
 
 Light does he laugh : " With your love 
 in my soul " 
 
 (Clara. Clara !) 
 " How could I other than — sound, safe, 
 and whole — 
 Cleave who opposed me asunder, yet 
 stand 
 Scatheless beside you, as, touching 
 love's goal, 
 Who won the race kneels, craves re- 
 ward at your hand — 
 Rosny, Rosny ? " 
 
 Ay, but if certain who envied should 
 see ! 
 
 Clara, Clara, 
 Certain who simper : " The hero for me 
 
 Hardly of life were so chary as miss 
 Death — death and fame — that's love's 
 guerdon when She 
 Boasts, proud bereaved one, her choice 
 fell on this 
 
 Rosny, Rosny ! " 
 
 So. — go on dreaming, — he lies mid a 
 
 heap 
 
 (Clara. Clara.) 
 Of the slain by his hand : what is death 
 
 but a sleep ? 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 683 
 
 Dead, with my portrait displayed on 
 his breast : 
 Love wrought his undoing :" No pru- 
 dence could keep 
 The love-maddened wretch from his 
 fate." That is best, 
 
 Rosny, Rosny ! 1889. 
 
 POETICS 
 
 "So say the foolish!" Say the foolish 
 so, Love? 
 "Flower she is, mj' rose" — or else, 
 " My very swan is she" — 
 Or perhaps, "Yon maid-moon, blessing 
 earth below. Love, 
 That art thou! " — to tliem, belike : no 
 such vain words from me. 
 
 "Hush, rose, blush! no balm like 
 breath," I chide it : 
 "Bend thy neck its best, swan, — hers 
 the whiter curve ! " 
 Be tlie moon the moon : my Love I place 
 beside it : 
 What is she? Her human self, — no 
 lower word will serve. 1889. 
 
 SUMMUM BONUM 
 
 All the breath and the bloom of the 
 year in the bag of one bee : 
 All the wonder and wealth of the mine 
 in the heart of one gem : 
 In the core of one pearl all the shade 
 and the shine of the sea : 
 Breath and bloom, shade and shine, — 
 wonder, wealth, and — how far 
 above them — 
 Truth, that's brighter than gem, 
 Trust, that's purer than pearl — 
 Brightest truth, purest trust in the 
 universe — all were for me 
 In the kiss of one girl. 1889. 
 
 A PEARL, A GIRL 
 
 A SIMPLE ring with a single stone. 
 To tiie vulgar eye no stone of price : 
 
 Whisper the right word, that alone — 
 Forth starts a sprite, like fire from ice. 
 
 And lo, you are lord (says an Eastern 
 scroll) [sole 
 
 Of heaven and earth, lord whole and 
 Through the power in a pearl. 
 
 A woman ( 't is I this time that say) 
 With little the world counts worthy 
 praise : 
 
 Utter the true word — out and away 
 
 Escapes her soul : I am wra)>t in blaze, 
 Creation's lord, of heaven and earth 
 Lord whole and sole — by a minute's 
 birth- 
 Through the love in a girl ! 1889. 
 
 MUCKLE-MOUTH MEG 
 
 "So, 
 
 Frowned the Laird on the Lord 
 redhanded I catcii thee ? 
 Death-doomed by our Law of the 
 Border ! 
 We've a gallows outside and a chiel to 
 dispatch thee : 
 Who trespasses — hangs : all 's in 
 order." 
 
 He met frown with smile, did the young 
 English gallant : 
 Then the Laird's dame : " Nay, Hus- 
 band , I beg ! 
 He 's comely : be merciful ! Grace for 
 the callant 
 — If he marries our Muckle-mouth 
 Meg ! 
 
 "No mile-wide-mouthed monster of 
 yours do I many : 
 Grant rather tlie gallows I " laughed he. 
 " Foul fare kith and kin of j^ou — why do 
 you tarry ? " 
 " To tame your fierce temper ! " quoth 
 she. 
 
 " Shove him quick in the Hole, shut him 
 fast for a week : 
 Cold, darkness, and hunger work 
 wonders • 
 
 Who lion-like roars now. mouse-fashion 
 will squeak. 
 
 And ' it rains ' soon succeed to ' it thun- 
 ders.'" 
 
 A week did he bide in the cold and tlie 
 dark 
 — Not hunger : for duly at morning 
 In flitted a lass, and a voice like a lai'k 
 Chirped, "Muckle-mouth Meg still 
 ye 're scorning ? 
 
 "Go hang, but here 'spai'ritch to heart- 
 en ye first ! " 
 "Did Meg's muckle-mouth boast 
 within some 
 Such music as yours, mine should match 
 it or burst : 
 No frog- jaws! So tell folk, my Win- 
 some ! " 
 
684 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 t? 
 
 Soon week came to end, and, from Hole's 
 door set wide, 
 Out he marched, and there waited the 
 lassie : 
 " Yon gallows, or Mnckle-mouth Meg 
 for a bride ! 
 Consider ! Sky 's blue and turf 's 
 grassy : 
 
 "Life 's sweet: shall I say ye wed 
 Muckle-mouth Meg ? " 
 " Not I." quoth the stout heart : " too 
 eerie 
 The mouth that can swallow a bubbly- 
 jock's egg ; 
 Shall I let it munch mine ? Never, 
 Dearie ! " 
 
 "Not Muckle-moutli Meg ? Wow, the 
 obstinate man ! 
 Perhaps he would rather wed me ! " 
 "Ay. would he — with just for a dowrj^ 
 your can ! " 
 " I 'm Muckle-mouth Meg,'' chirruped 
 she. 
 
 " Then so — so — so — so — '" as he kissed her 
 apace — 
 " Will I widen thee out till thou 
 turnest 
 From Margaret Minnikin-mou', by God's 
 grace, 
 To Muckle-mouth Meg in good 
 earnest ! " 1889. 
 
 DEVELOPMENT 
 
 My Father was a scholar and knew 
 
 Greek. 
 When I was five years old, I asked him 
 
 once 
 " What do you read about ? " 
 
 " Tlie siege of Troy." 
 " What is a siege, and what is Troj^ ? " 
 
 Whereat 
 He piled up chairs and tables for a town. 
 Set me a-top for Priam, called our cat 
 — Helen, enticed away from home (he 
 
 said) 
 By wicked Paris, who couched some- 
 where close 
 Under the footstool, being cowardly, 
 But whom — since she was worth the 
 
 pains, poor puss— 
 Towzer and Tray, — our dogs, the Atrei- 
 
 dai. — souglit 
 By taking Troy to get possession of 
 — Alwavs \vl\en great Achilles ceased to 
 
 sulk. 
 
 (My pony in the stable) — fortli would 
 prance 
 
 And put to flight Hector — our page-boy's 
 self. 
 
 This taught me who was who and what 
 was what : 
 
 So far I rightly understood the case 
 
 At five years old ; a huge delight it 
 proved 
 
 And still proves — thanks to that in- 
 structor .sage 
 
 My Father, who knew better than turn 
 straight 
 
 Learning's full flare on weak-eyed igno- 
 rance, 
 
 Or, worse yet, leave weak eyes to grow 
 sand-blind. 
 
 Content with darkness and vacuity. 
 
 It happened, two or three years after- 
 ward. 
 
 That — I and playmates playing at Troy's 
 Siege — 
 
 My Father came upon our make-believe. 
 
 '• How would you like to read your.self 
 the tale 
 
 Properl}' told, of which I gave you first 
 
 Merely such notion as a boy could 
 bear ? 
 
 Pope, now, would give you the precise 
 account 
 
 Of what, some day, by dint of scholar- 
 ship. 
 
 You '11 hear — who knows ? — from 
 Homer's very mouth. 
 
 Learn Greek by all means, read the' Blind 
 Old Mali, 
 
 Sweetest of Singers ' — tuphlos which 
 means ' blind,' 
 
 Hedistos which means ' sweetest '. Time 
 enough ! 
 
 Try, anyhow, to master him some daj' : 
 
 Until when, take what serves for sub- 
 stitute. 
 
 Read Pope, bj' all means ! " 
 
 So I ran through Pope, 
 
 Enjoyed the tale — what history so true ? 
 
 Also attacked my Primer, duly drudged, 
 
 Grew fitter tlms for what was promised 
 next — 
 
 The very thing itself, the actual words. 
 
 When I could turn — say, Buttmann to 
 account. 
 
 Time passed, I ripened somewhat : one 
 
 fine day, 
 " Quite ready for the Iliad, notliing less? 
 Tliere's Heine, where the big books block 
 
 tlie shelf : 
 
ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 685 
 
 Don't skip a word, thumb well the 
 Lexicon ! "' 
 
 I thumbed well and skipped nowise till I 
 
 learned 
 Who was who, what was what, from 
 
 Homer's tongue, 
 And there an end of learning. Had you 
 
 asked 
 The all-accomplished scholar, twelve 
 
 years old, 
 " Who was it wrote the Iliad ?" — what a 
 
 laugh ! 
 '• Why, Homer, all the world knows : of 
 
 his life 
 Doubtless some facts exist : it 's every- 
 where : 
 We have not settled, though, liis place of 
 
 birth : 
 He begged, for certain, and was blind 
 
 beside : 
 Seven cities claimed liim — Scio, witli 
 
 best right, 
 Thinks Byron. What he wrote? Those 
 
 Hymns we have. 
 Then there 's the ' Battle of the Frogs 
 
 and Mice,' 
 That's all — unless they dig ' Margites' up 
 (I'd like that) nothing more remains to 
 
 know." 
 
 Thus did youth spend a comfortable 
 
 time ; 
 Until — '■ What's tliis the Germans say in 
 
 fact 
 Tliat Wolf found out first ? It 's un- 
 pleasant work 
 Their chop and change, unsettling one's 
 
 belief : ^ 
 
 All the same, where we live, we learn, 
 
 that's sure." 
 So, I bent brow o'er Prolegomena. 
 And after Wolf, a dozen of his like 
 Proved there was never any Troy at all. 
 Neither Besiegei's nor Besieged, — nay, 
 
 woi'se, — 
 No actual Homer, no authentic text. 
 No waiTaiit for the fiction I, as fact. 
 Had treasured in my heart and soul so 
 
 long— 
 Av, mark you ! and as fact held still, 
 
 still hold. 
 Spite of new knowledge, in my heart of 
 
 hearts 
 And soul of souls, fact's essence freed and 
 
 fixed 
 From accidental fancy's guardian sheatii. 
 Assure<lly tlienceforward — thank my 
 
 stars !— 
 
 However it got there, deprive who 
 could — 
 
 Wring from the shrine my precious ten- 
 antry, 
 
 Helen, Ulysses, Hector and his Spouse, 
 
 Achilles and his Friend ? — though Wolf 
 —ah, Wolf ! 
 
 Why must he needs come doubting, spoil 
 a dream ? 
 
 But then, " No dream's worth waking" — 
 
 Browning says : 
 And here 's the reason why I tell thus 
 
 much. 
 I, now mature man, you anticipate. 
 May blame my Father justifiably 
 For letting me dream out my nonage 
 
 thus. 
 And only by such slow and sure degrees 
 Permitting me to sift the gi-ain from 
 
 chaff. 
 Get truth and falsehood known and 
 
 named as such. 
 Why did he ever let me dream at all. 
 Not bid me taste the story in its strength ? 
 Suppose my childhood was scarce quali- 
 fied 
 To rightlj^ understand mythology. 
 Silence at least was in liis power to keep : 
 I might have — somehow — correspond- 
 ingly- 
 Well, who knows by what method, 
 
 gained my gains, 
 Been taught, by forthrights not ineand- 
 
 erings, 
 My aim should be to loathe, like Peleus' 
 
 son, 
 A lie as Hell's Gate, love my wedded 
 
 wife, 
 Like Hector, and so on with all the rest. 
 Could not I have excogitated this 
 Without believing such men really were ? 
 That is — he might have put into my 
 
 hand 
 The '■ Etliics"? In translation, if you 
 
 please, 
 Exact, no pretty lying that improves, 
 To suit the modern taste : no more, no 
 
 less— 
 The " Ethics : " 't is a treatise I find hard 
 To read aright now that my hair is gray, 
 And I can manage the original. 
 At five years old — how ill had fared its 
 
 leaves ! 
 Now. growing double o'er the Stagirite, 
 At least I soil no page with bread and 
 
 milk, 
 Nor crumple, dogs-ear and deface— boys' 
 way. 1889! 
 
686 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 EPILOGUE 
 
 At the midnight in the silence of the 
 sleep-time, 
 "When you set your fancies free, 
 Will they pass to where — by death, fools 
 
 think, imprisoned — 
 Low he lies who once so loved you, whom 
 you loved so, 
 
 — Pity me ? 
 
 Oh to love so, be so loved, yet so mis- 
 taken ! 
 What had I on earth to do 
 With the slothful, with the mawkish, 
 
 the unmanly ? 
 Like the aimless, helpless, hopeless, did I 
 drivel 
 
 — Being — who ? 
 
 One who never turned his back but 
 marched breast forward. 
 Never doubted clouds would break, 
 Never dreamed, though right were 
 
 worsted, wrong would triumpli, 
 Held we fall to rise, are baffled to light 
 better, 
 
 Sleep to wake. 
 
 No, at noonday in the bustle of man's 
 work-time 
 Greet the unseen with a cheer ! 
 Bid him forward, breast and back as 
 
 either should be, 
 "Strive and thrive!" cry "Speed, — 
 fight on, fare ever 
 There as here ! " 
 
 1889. 
 
CLOUGH 
 
 LIST OF REFERENCES 
 
 Editions 
 
 Poems, with Memoir by Charles Eliot Norton, Ticknor & Fields, 1862. 
 Poems and Prose Remains, with Memoir by Mrs. Clough, 2 volumes, 
 London, 1869. Poems, 1 volume, The Macmillan Company. Selections 
 from the Poems, 1 volume (Golden Treasury Series). Prose Remains, 1 
 volume. The Macmillan Company. 
 
 Biography axd Reminiscences 
 
 Memoirs by * C. E. Norton and by Mrs. Clough, in the editions above 
 mentioned. Shairp (J. C), Portraits of Friends. 
 
 Criticism 
 
 * Bagehot (W.), Literary Studies, Vol. II. Bijvanck (W. G. C). 
 Poezie en Leven in de 19de Eeuw : Studien op het Gebied der Letterkunde, 
 Haarlem, 1889. Dowden (E.), Studies in Literature : I'ranscendental 
 Movement in Literature. Hudson (AV, H.), Studies in Interpretation, 
 * Hutton (R. H.), Literary Studies. Mabie (H. W.), My Study Fire, Sec- 
 ond Series. Oliphant (Margaret), Victorian Age of Literature. Pat- 
 more (C), Principle in Art. Perky (T. S.), In Atlantic Monthly, 1875, 
 p. 409. Robertson (J. 31.), New Essays Towards a Critical Method. 
 Stedman (E. C), Victorian Poets, p. 243-4. Waddington (S.), Arthur 
 Hugh Clough, a Monograph. Ward (T. H.), English Poets. 
 
 Armstrong (R. A.), Faith and Doubt. Macdonald (G.), England's 
 Antiphon. Scudder (V. D.), Life of the Spirit. Seeburg (L.), Ueber A. 
 H. Clough. Sharp (Amy), Victorian Poets. Swanwick (A.), Poets the 
 Interpreters of their Age. 
 
 Tributes in Verse 
 
 * Arnold, The Scholar Gypsey ; Thyrsis. * Lowell, Agassiz : Sec- 
 tion HI. 
 
 687 
 
 ^ 
 
C L O U G H 
 
 IN A LECTURE-ROOM 
 
 Away, haunt thou not me, 
 
 Thou vain Philosopliy ! 
 
 Little hast thou bestead, 
 
 Save to perplex the head. 
 
 And leave the spirit dead. 
 
 Unto thy broken cisterns wherefore go, 
 
 While from the secret treasure-deptlis 
 below, 
 
 Fed by tlie skiey shower, 
 
 And clouds that sink and rest on hill- 
 tops high, 
 
 Wisdom at once, and Power, 
 
 Are welling, bubbling forth, unseen, 
 incessantly ? 
 
 Why labor at the dull mechanic oar, 
 
 When the fresh breeze is blowing. 
 
 And the strong current flowing. 
 
 Right onward to the Eternal Shore ? 
 ISJfO. 1849. 
 
 BLANK MISGIVINGS 
 
 How often sit I, poring o'er 
 
 My strange distorted youth. 
 Seeking in vain, in all my store. 
 
 One feeling based on truth ; 
 Amid the maze of petty life, 
 
 A clue wliei'eby to niove, 
 A spot wiiereon in toil and strife 
 
 To dare to rest and love. 
 So constant as my heart would be, 
 
 So fickle as it must, 
 'T were well for others as for me 
 
 'T were dry as summer dust. 
 Excitements come, and act and si^eech 
 
 Flow freely forth ; — but no, 
 Nor tliey, nor aught beside can reach 
 
 The buried world below. 
 
 IS4I. 1849. 
 
 I HAVE seen higlier, holier things than 
 these. 
 And therefore must to these refuse 
 mv heart, 
 
 Yet am I panting for a little ease ; 
 I'll take, and so depart. 
 
 Ah, hold ! the heart is prone to fall 
 away. 
 Her high and cherished visions to for- 
 get. 
 And if thou takest, how wilt thou re- 
 pay 
 So vast, so dread a debt ? 
 
 How will the heart, wliicli now thou 
 trustest, tlien 
 Corrupt, yet in corruption mindful 
 
 yet. 
 
 Turn with sharp stings upon itself! 
 Again , 
 Bethink thee of the debt ! 
 
 — Hast thou seen higher, holier things 
 than these, 
 And therefore must to these thy heart 
 refuse ? 
 With the true best, alack, how ill 
 agrees 
 That best that thou would'st choose ! 
 
 The Summum Pulchrum rests in heaven 
 above ; 
 Do thou, as best thou may'st, tliy dutv 
 do: 
 Amid the things allowed thee live and 
 love ; 
 Some day thou shalt it view. 
 
 ISU' 1849. 
 
 QUA CURSUM VENTUS 
 
 As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay 
 With canvas drooping, side by side. 
 
 Two towers of sail at dawn of day 
 Are scarce long leagues apart descried; 
 
 When fell the night, upsprung the 
 breeze. 
 
 And all the darkling hours they plied. 
 Nor dreamt but each the self-same seas 
 
 By each was cleaving, side by side : 
 
CLOUGH 
 
 689 
 
 E'en so, but why the tale reveal 
 Of tliose, whom year by year un- 
 changed, 
 
 Brief absence joined anew to feel, 
 Astounded, soul from soul estranged? 
 
 At dead of night their sails were filled, 
 And onward each rejoicing steered — 
 
 Ah, neither blame, for neither willed, 
 Or wist, what first with dawn ap- 
 peared ! 
 
 To veer, how vain ! On, onward strain. 
 
 Brave barks ! In light, in darkness 
 
 too, 
 
 Through winds and tides one compass 
 
 guides — 
 
 To tliat, and ^^our own selves, be true. 
 
 feut O blithe breeze ; and O great seas, 
 Though ne'er, that earliest parting 
 past. 
 
 On your wide plain they join again. 
 Together lead them home at last. 
 
 One port, methought, alike they sovight. 
 
 One purpose hold where'er they fare. — 
 O bounding breeze, O rushing seas ! 
 
 At last, at last, unite them there ! 
 
 1849. 
 
 THE NEW SINAI 
 
 Lo, here is God. and there is God ! 
 
 Believe it not, O Man ; 
 In such vain sort to this and that 
 
 The ancient heathen ran : 
 Thougli old Religion shake her head. 
 
 And say in bitter grief. 
 The day behold, at first foretold. 
 
 Of atheist unbelief : 
 Take better part, Avith manly heart, 
 
 Tiiine adult .spirit can ; 
 Receive it not, believe it not, 
 
 Believe it not, O Man ! 
 
 As men at dead of night awaked 
 
 With cries, "The king is here." 
 Rush forth and greet whome'er they 
 meet. 
 
 Whoe'er shall first appear ; 
 And still repeat, to all the street, 
 
 " 'Tis he, — -the king is here ; " 
 The long procession nioveth on, 
 
 Each nobler forjn they see, 
 With changeful suit they still salute 
 
 And cry, " 'Tis he, 'tis lie ! " 
 
 So, even so, when men were young. 
 And earth and heaven were new, 
 
 44 
 
 And His immediate presence He 
 
 From human hearts withdrew, 
 The soul perplexed and daily vexed 
 
 With sensuous False and True, 
 Amazed, bereaved, no less believed, 
 
 And fain would see Him too : 
 "He is!" the prophet-tongues pro- 
 claimed ; 
 
 In joy and hasty fear, 
 " He is ! " aloud replied the crowd, 
 
 " Is here, and here, and here." 
 
 " He is ! They are ! " in distance seen 
 
 On yon Olympus high, 
 In those Avernian woods abide 
 
 And walk this azure sky : 
 "They are! They are!'' — to every 
 show 
 
 Its eyes the baby turned. 
 And blazes sacrificial, tall, 
 
 On thousand altars burned : 
 " They are ! They are ! " — On Sinai's top 
 
 Far seen the lightnings shone. 
 The thvmder broke, a trumpet spoke, 
 
 And Grod said, " I am One." 
 
 God spake it out, " I, God, am One ; " 
 
 The unheeding ages ran. 
 And baby -thoughts again, again. 
 
 Have dogged the growing man : 
 And as of old fi'om Sinai's top 
 
 God said that God is One, 
 B3' Science strict so speaks He now 
 
 To tell us, There is None ! 
 Earth goes by chemic forces ; Heaven's 
 
 A Mecanique Celeste ! 
 And heart and mind of human kind 
 
 A watch-work as the rest ! 
 
 Is this a Voice, as was the Voice, 
 
 Whose speaking told abroad, 
 When thunder pealed, and mountain 
 reeled. 
 
 The ancient truth of God ? 
 Ah, not the Voice ; 'tis but the cloud, 
 
 The outer-darkness dense. 
 Where image none, nor e'er Avas seen 
 
 Similitude of sense. 
 'Tis but the cloudy darkness dense 
 
 That wrapt the Mount around ; 
 While in amaze the people stays, 
 
 To hear the Coming Sound. 
 
 Is there no prophet-soul the while 
 
 To dare, sublimely meek, 
 Within the shroud of blackest cloud 
 
 The Deity to seek ? 
 'Midst atheistic systems dark. 
 
 And darker hearts' despair, 
 That soul has heard perchance His word, 
 
690 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 And on the dusky air 
 His skirts, as passed He by, to see 
 
 Hath strained on their behalf, 
 Who on tlie plain, with dance amain, 
 
 Adore the Golden Calf. 
 
 "Tis but the cloudy darkness dense ; 
 
 Though blank the tale it tells. 
 No God, no Truth ! yet He, in sooth, 
 
 Is there — within it dwells ; 
 Within the sceptic darkness deep 
 
 He dwells that none may see. 
 Till idol forms and idle thouj;hts 
 
 Have passed and ceased to be : 
 No God, no Truth ! ah though, in sooth 
 
 So stand the doctrine's half : 
 On Egypt's track return not back, 
 
 Nor own the Golden Calf. 
 
 Take better part, with manlier heart, 
 
 Thine adult spirit can ; 
 No God, no Truth, receive it ne'er — 
 
 Believe it ne'er — O Man ! 
 But turn not then to seek again 
 
 What first the ill began ; 
 No God, it saith ; ah, wait in faith 
 
 God's self-completing plan ; 
 Receive it not, but leave it not. 
 
 And wait it out, O man ! 
 
 " The Man that went the cloud within 
 
 Is gone and vanished quite ; 
 He cometh not," the people cries, 
 
 " Nor bringeth God to sight : 
 Lo these thy gods, that safety give, 
 
 Adore and keep the feast ! " 
 Deluding and deluded cries 
 
 Tlie Prophet's brother-Priest : 
 And Israel all bows down to fall 
 
 Before the gilded beast. 
 
 Devout, indeed ! that priestly creed, 
 
 O Man, reject as sin ; 
 The clovided hill attend thou still, 
 
 And him that went within. 
 He yet shall bring some worthy thing 
 
 For waiting souls to see : 
 Some sacred word that he hath heard 
 
 Their light and life shall be ; 
 Some lofty part, than which the heart 
 
 Adopt no nobler can, 
 Thou shalt receive, thou shalt believe 
 
 And thou shalt do, O Man ! 
 
 IS45. 1869. 
 
 THE QUESTIONING SPIRIT 
 
 The human spirits saw I on a day, 
 Sitting and looking each a different way ; 
 Aiid hardly tasking, subtly questioning, 
 
 Another spirit went around tlie ring 
 To each and each : and as he ceased his 
 
 say, 
 Each after each, I heard them singly 
 
 sing. 
 Some querulously high, some softly, 
 
 sadly low, 
 We know not — what avails to know ? 
 We know not — wherefore need we know ? 
 This answer gave they still unto his suing. 
 We know not, let vis do as we are doing. 
 Dost thou not know that these things 
 
 only seem ? — 
 I know not, let me dream my dream. 
 Are dust and ashes fit to make a 
 
 treasure ? — 
 
 I know not, let me take my pleasure. 
 What shall avail the knowledge thou hast 
 
 sought ? — 
 I know not, let me think my thought. 
 What is the end of strife? — 
 I know not, let me live my life. 
 How many days or e'er thou mean'st to 
 
 move ? — 
 I know not, let me love my love. 
 Were not things old once new ? — 
 I know not, let me do as others do. 
 And when the rest were over past, 
 I know not, I will do my duty, said the 
 
 last. 
 
 Thy duty do? rejoined the voice, 
 Ah, do it, do it, and rejoice ; 
 But shalt thou then, wlien all is done. 
 Enjoy a love, embrace a beauty 
 Like these, that may be seen and won 
 In life, whose course will then be run ; 
 Or wilt thou be where there is none ? 
 I know not, I will do my duty. 
 
 And taking up the word around, above, 
 
 below. 
 Some querulously high, some softly, 
 
 sadly low, 
 We know not, sang they all, nor ever 
 
 need we know. 
 We know not, sang they, what avails to 
 
 know ? 
 Whereat the questioning spirit, some 
 
 short space, 
 Though unabashed, stood quiet in his 
 
 place. 
 But as the echoing chorus died away 
 And to their dreams the rest returned 
 
 apace, 
 By the one spirit I saw him kneeling 
 
 low. 
 And in a silvery whisper heard him say : 
 
CLOUGH 
 
 691 
 
 Truly, thou know'st not, and thou 
 
 need'st not know ; 
 Hope only, hope tliou, and believe al- 
 
 way ; 
 I also know not, and I need not know, 
 Only with questionings pass I to and 
 
 fro, 
 Perplexing these that sleep, and in their 
 
 folly 
 Imbreeding- doubt and sceptic melan- 
 choly ; 
 Till that, their dreams deserting, tliey 
 
 with me 
 Come all to this true ignorance and 
 
 thee. JS47. 1863. 
 
 BETHESDA 
 
 A SEQUEL 
 
 I SAW again the spirits on a day, 
 
 Wliere on the earth in mournful case 
 they lay ; 
 
 Five porches were there, and a pool, and 
 round, 
 
 Huddling in blankets, strewn ui^un the 
 ground, 
 
 Tied-up and bandaged, weary, sore and 
 spent. 
 
 The maimed and halt, diseased and im- 
 potent. 
 
 For a great angel came, 't was said, and 
 
 stirred 
 The pool at certain seasons, and tlie 
 
 word 
 Was, with this people of the sick, tliat 
 
 they 
 Who in the waters here their limbs 
 
 should lay 
 Befoi'e the motion on the surface ceased 
 Should of their torment straightway be 
 
 released . 
 So with shrunk bodies and with heads 
 
 down-dropped, 
 Stretched ou tlie steps, and at the pil- 
 lars propped. 
 Watching hy day and listening tlirougli 
 
 the night. 
 They filled the place, a miserable sight. 
 
 And I beheld tliat on the stony floor 
 He too, that spoke of duty once befox'6. 
 No otlierwise than otliers liere to-day, 
 Foredone and sick anil sadly muttering 
 
 lay. 
 " I know not, I will do — vvliat is it I 
 
 would say : 
 What was that word wliich once suf- 
 ficed alone for all, 
 
 Which now I .seek in vain, and never 
 can recall ? " 
 
 And then, as weary of in vain renew- 
 ing 
 
 His question, thus his mournful thought 
 pursuing, 
 
 " I know not, I must do as other men 
 are doing." 
 
 But what the waters of that pool might 
 
 be. 
 Of Lethe were they, or Philosophy ; 
 And wliethor he, long waiting, did at- 
 tain 
 Deliverance from the burden of his pain 
 Tliere with the rest ; or whetlier, yet 
 
 before. 
 Some more diviner stranger passed the 
 
 door 
 With his small company into tliat sad 
 
 place. 
 And breathing hope into the sick man's 
 
 face, [go. 
 
 Bade him take up his bed, and rise and 
 Wliat the end were, and whether it 
 
 were so. 
 Further than this I saw not. neither 
 
 know. ISJfO. 1862. 
 
 FROM AMOURS DE VOYAGE 
 
 EN ROUTE 
 
 Over the great windy waters, and oi'er 
 the clear-crested sum^nits. 
 Unto the sun and tliesky, and unto tJie 
 perfecter earth. 
 Come, let ns go, — to a land wherein gods 
 of the old time wandered, 
 Where every breath even noiv changes 
 to ether divine. 
 Come let us go ; though inithal a voice 
 ivhisper, " The world that we live in, 
 Whithersoever we turn, still is the same 
 narrow crib ; 
 'Tis but to prove limitation, and measure 
 a cord, tliat we travel ; 
 
 • Clough's long poem in hexameters, Tlie 
 Botliie of Tofcec-iVa- T^i(o/(c7i, interesting as it is, 
 is of too little importance and poetic value in 
 proportion to its length, tu he included in these 
 selections ; and no parts of it are detachable as 
 extracts. Some examples of Clough's use of 
 hexameters (and elegiacs) may however be taken 
 from his other long poem, the Amours de Voy- 
 age, which suffer comparatively little in being 
 separated from their context, and are equally 
 characteristic of some of Clough's moods. They 
 are also interesting as a contrast to Byron's 
 verses on Rome, in Childi' Harold and elsewhere. 
 On tlie Amours de Voyage, see especially Bage- 
 hot's Essay on Clough. 
 
692 
 
 BRITiSH POETS 
 
 Let who would 'scape and he free go to 
 
 liis cJuimber and think ; 
 'Tis but to change idle fancies for 
 
 memories wilf idly falser ; 
 'Tis but to go and have been.'' — Come, 
 
 little bark ! let us go. 
 
 ROME 
 
 Rome disappoints me still ; but I shrink 
 and adapt myself to it. 
 
 Somehow a tyrannous sense of a super- 
 incumbent oppression 
 
 Still, wherever I go, accompanies ever, 
 and makes me 
 
 Feel like a tree (shall I say ?) buried 
 under a ruin of brickwork 
 
 Rome, believe me, my friend, is like its 
 own Monte Testaceo, 
 
 Merely a marvelous mass of broken and 
 casta waj'^ wine-pots. 
 
 Ye gods ! what do I want with this rub- 
 bish of ages departed. 
 
 Things that Nature abhors, the experi- 
 ments that she has failed in ? 
 
 What do I find in the Forum ? An arcli- 
 way and two or three pillars. 
 
 Well, but St. Peter's? Alas, Bernini 
 has filled it with sculpture ! 
 
 No one can cavil, I grant, at tlie size of 
 tlie great Coliseum. 
 
 Doubtless the notion of grand and capa- 
 cious and massive amusement. 
 
 Tills the old Romans had ; but tell me, 
 is this an Idea? 
 
 Yet of solidity much, but of splendor 
 little is extant : 
 
 " Brickwork I found thee, and marble I 
 left thee ! " their Emperor vaunted ; 
 
 " Marble I thought thee, and brickwork 
 I find thee ! '" the Tourist may answer. 
 
 THE PANTHEON 
 
 No, great Dome of Agrlppa, thou art not 
 
 Christian I canst not. 
 Strip and replaster and daub and do 
 
 what they will with thee, be so ! 
 Here underneath the great jsorch of 
 
 colossal Corintiilan columns, 
 Here as I walk, do 1 dream of the Chris- 
 tian belfries above them ? 
 Or, on a bench as I sit and abide for long 
 
 hours, tin thy whole vast 
 Round grows dim as in dreams to my 
 
 eyes, I repeople thy niches. 
 Not with the Martyrs, and Saints, and 
 
 Confessors, and Virgins, and children, 
 But with the mightier forms of an older, 
 
 austerer worship ; 
 
 And I recite to myself, how 
 
 Eager for battle here 
 Stood Vulcan, here matronal Juno, 
 And with the bow to his shoulder 
 faithful 
 He, who witii pure dew laveth of Castaly 
 His flowing locks, who holdeth of Lycia 
 The oak forest and the wood that bore 
 him, 
 Delos' and Patara's own Apollo. 
 
 ON MONTORIO'S HEIGHT 
 
 TiBUR is beautiful, too, and the oreliard 
 slopes, and the Anio 
 
 Falling, falling yet, to the ancient lyri- 
 cal cadence ; 
 
 Tibur and Anlo's tide ; and cool from 
 Lucretllis ever. 
 
 With the Digentian stream, and with 
 the Bandusian fountain. 
 
 Folded in Sabine recesses, the valley and 
 villa of Horace : — 
 
 So not seeing I sang ; so seeing and lis- 
 tening say I, 
 
 Here as I sit by the stream, as I gaze at 
 the cell of the Sibyl. 
 
 Here witli Albunea's home and the grove 
 of Tlburnus beside me ; 
 
 Tivoll beautiful is, and musical, O Tev- 
 erone. 
 
 Dashing from mountain to plain, thy 
 parted impetuous waters, 
 
 Tivoli's waters and rocks ; and fair unto 
 Monte Gennaro 
 
 (Haunt, even yet, I must think, as I 
 wander and gaze, of the shadows, 
 
 Faded and pale, yet Immortal, of Faunu.s, 
 the Nymphs, and the Graces), 
 
 Fair In itself, and yet fairer with human 
 completing creations. 
 
 Folded In Sabine recesses the valley and 
 villa of Horace :— 
 
 So not seeing I sang ; so now — Nor see- 
 ing, nor hearing, 
 
 Neitlier by waterfall lulled, nor folded 
 in sylvan embraces, 
 
 Neither by cell of the Slbjd, nor stepping 
 the Monte Gennaro, 
 
 Seated on Anlo's bank, nor sipping 
 Bandusian waters. 
 
 But on Montorlo's height, looking down 
 on the tile-clad streets, the 
 
 Cupolas, crosses, and domes, the bushes 
 and kitchen-gardens. 
 
 Which, by the grace of the Tibur, pro- 
 claim themselves Rome of the 
 Romans, — 
 
 But on Montorlo's height, looking forth 
 to the vapory mountains, 
 
CLOUGH 
 
 693 
 
 Cheating the prisoner Hope with illu- 
 sions of vision and fancy, — 
 
 But on Montorio's height, with these 
 weary soldiers by me, 
 
 Waiting till Oudinot enter, to reinstate 
 Pope and Tourist. 
 
 THE REAL QUESTION 
 
 Action will furnish belief, — but will that 
 belief be tlie true one ? 
 
 Tliis is tlie point, you know. However, 
 it doesn't much matter. 
 
 What one wants, I suppose, is to pi'ede- 
 termine the action. 
 
 So as to make it entail, not a chance be- 
 lief, but the true one. 
 
 Ont of the question, you say ; if a thing 
 isx't lorong we may do it. 
 
 Ah ! but this wrong, you see — but I do 
 not know that it matters. . . . 
 
 SCEPTIC MOODS 
 
 Rome is fallen, I hear, the gallant Medi- 
 ci taken, 
 Noble Manara slain, and Garibaldi has 
 
 lost il Moro ; — 
 Rome is fallen ; and fallen, or falling, 
 
 heroical Venice. 
 I, meanwhile, for the loss of a single 
 
 small chit of a girl, sit 
 Moping and mourning here, — for her, 
 
 and myself much smaller. 
 AVhither depart the souls of tiie brave 
 
 that die in tlie battle. 
 Die in tlie lost, lost hght, for the cause 
 
 that perishes with them ? 
 Are they upborne from tlie field on tlie 
 
 shimberous pinions of angels 
 Unto a fai'-off home, where the weary 
 
 rest from their labor. 
 And the deep wounds are healed, and 
 
 the bitter and burning moisture 
 Wiped from the generous ej'es? or do 
 
 they linger, unhappy. 
 Pining, and haunting the grave of their 
 
 by-g(»ne ho]ie and endeavor ? 
 All declamation, alas ! though I talk, 
 
 1 care not for Rome nor 
 Italy : feebly and faintly, and but with 
 
 tlie lips, can lament the 
 Wreck of the Lombard j'outh, and the 
 
 victory of the oppressor. 
 Whither depart the brave ! — God knows ; 
 
 I certainly do not. 
 
 So go forth to the world, to the good rc- 
 jport and the evil ! 
 
 Go. little book ! thy tale, is it not evil 
 and good ? 
 Go. and if strangers revile, pass quietly 
 by witliout answer. 
 Go, and if curious friends ask of thy 
 rearing and age. 
 Say, " I ani flitting about many years 
 from brain unto brain of 
 Feeble and restless youths boini to in- 
 glorious days : 
 But.'' so finish the word, " Iirasirritina 
 Roman chamber, 
 IMuni from Janiculan heights thun- 
 dered the cannon of France." 
 
 iS4S-lS4!). 1858. 
 
 y 
 
 PESCHIERA 
 
 What voice did on my spirit fall. 
 Peschiera, when thy bridge J crost ? 
 " *Tis better to have fought and lost, 
 Than never to have fouglit at all." 
 
 The tricolor — a trampled rag — 
 Lies, dirt and dust ; the lines I track 
 By sentry boxes yellow- black. 
 Lead up to no Italian flag. 
 
 I see the Croat soldier stand 
 Upon the grass of your redoubts ; 
 The eagle with his black wings flouts 
 The breadth and beauty of yoiu- land. 
 
 Yet not in vain, although in vain, 
 C) men of Brescia, on the day 
 Of loss past hope, I heard you say 
 Your welcome to the noble pain. 
 
 You say. " Since so it is, — good-bye 
 Sweet life, high hope ; but vvhatsoe'er 
 May be, or must, no tongue shall dare 
 To tell, ' The Lombard feared to die ! ' " 
 
 You said (there shall be answer fit), 
 " And if our children must obey, 
 The.y must : but thinking on this day 
 'Twill less debase them to submit." 
 
 You said (Oh not in vain you said). 
 
 ■' Haste, l)rothers, haste, while yet Ave 
 
 may ; 
 The hours ebb fast of this one day 
 When blood may yet be nobly shed." 
 
 Ah ! not for idle hatred, not 
 For honor, fame, nor self-applause. 
 But for the glory of the cause, 
 You did, what will not be forgot. 
 
 And though the stranger stand, 'tis true, 
 By force and fortune's right he stands ; 
 
694 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 By fortune, which is in God's hands, 
 And strength, which yet shall spring in 
 you. 
 
 This voice did on my spirit fall. 
 Peschiera, when thj' bridge I crost, 
 " 'Tis better to liave fought and lost, 
 Than never to liave fought at all." 
 
 18J^9. 1863. 
 
 ALTERAM PARTEM 
 
 Or shall I !-aj% Vain word, false thought, 
 Since Prudence hath lier martyrs too. 
 And Wisdom dictates not to do, 
 Till doing shall be not for nouglit ? 
 
 Not oui"s to give or lose is life : 
 Will Nature, when her brave ones fall, 
 Remake her work ? or songs recall 
 Death's victim slain in useless strife ? 
 
 That rivers flow into the sea 
 
 Is loss and waste, the foolish say. 
 
 Nor know that back they find their way, 
 
 Unseen, to where they wont to be. 
 
 Showers fall upon tlie hills, springs flow, 
 The river runneth still at hand. 
 Brave men are born into tlie land, 
 And whence the foolish do not know. 
 
 No ! no vain voice did on me fall, 
 Peschiera, when thy bridge I crost. 
 " 'T is better to have fouglit and lost, 
 Than never to iiave fought at all." 
 
 181,9. 1862. 
 
 IN THE DEPTHS 
 
 It is not sweet content, be sure. 
 
 That moves the nobler Muse to sotig. 
 Yet when could trutli come whole and 
 pure 
 From hearts that inly writhe with 
 wrong V 
 
 'T is not the (;alm and peaceful breast 
 That sees or leads the problem true ; 
 
 They only know, on whom 't lias prest 
 Too hard to hope to solve it too. 
 
 Our ills are worse than at their ease 
 These blameless happj' souls suspect, 
 
 They only study the disease, 
 Alas, who live not to detect. 1863. 
 
 THE LATEST DECALOGUE 
 
 Thou shalt liave one God only ; who 
 Would be at tiie expense of two? 
 
 No graven images may be 
 
 Worshipped, except the currency : 
 
 Swear not at all ; for, for thy curse 
 
 Thine enemy is none the worse : 
 
 At churcli on Sunday to attend 
 
 Will serve to keep the world thj' friend : 
 
 Honor tiiy parents : that is, all 
 
 From wjiom advancement may befall ; 
 
 Thou slialt not kill ; but need'.st not 
 
 strive 
 Officioush^ to keep alive : 
 Do not adulter}' commit ; 
 Advantage rarely comes of it : 
 Thou shalt not steal ; an empty feat. 
 When it 's so lucrative to cheat : 
 Bear not false witness ; let tlie lie 
 Have time on its own wings to fly : 
 Thou shalt not covet, but tradition 
 Approves all forms of competition. 
 
 1862. 
 
 FROM DIPSYCHUS 
 
 "There is no God," the wicked saith, 
 
 " And truly it "s a blessing. 
 For what He might have done with us 
 
 It 's better only guessing." 
 
 " There is no God." a youngster thinks, 
 "Or really, if there may be. 
 
 He surely did not mean a man 
 Always to be a baby." 
 
 " There is no God, or if there is," 
 The tradesman thinks, " 't were funny 
 
 If He should take it ill in me 
 To make a little money." 
 
 " Whetiier there be," the rich man says. 
 
 *• It matters very little, 
 For I and mine, thank somebody. 
 
 Are not in want of victual." 
 
 Some others, also, to themselves. 
 
 Who scarce so much as doubt it. 
 Think there is none, when they are well 
 
 And do not think about it. 
 
 But country folks who live beneath 
 
 The shadow of the steeple ; 
 The parson and the parson's wife. 
 
 And mostly married people ; 
 
 Youths green and happy in first love, 
 
 So thankful for illusion ; 
 And men caught out in what the world 
 
 Calls guilt, in first confusion ; 
 
 And almost every one when age. 
 Disease, or sorrows strike him, 
 
CLOUGH 
 
 69s 
 
 Inclines to think there is a God, 
 Or something very like Him. 
 
 I849. 1862. 
 
 Our gaieties, our luxuries. 
 
 Our pleasures and our glee, 
 Mere insolence and wantonness, 
 
 Alas ! they feel to me. 
 
 How shall I laugh and sing and dance? 
 
 My very heart recoils, 
 While here to give my mirth a chance 
 
 A hungry brother toils. 
 
 The joy that does not spring from joy 
 
 Which I in others see, 
 How can I venture to employ. 
 
 Or find it joy for me ? IS49. 1869, 
 
 This world is very odd we see, 
 
 We do not comprehend it ; 
 But in one fact we all agree, 
 
 God won't, and we can't mend it. 
 
 Being common sense, it can't be sin 
 
 To take it as I find it ; 
 The pleasure to take pleasure in ; 
 
 The pain, try not to mind it. 
 
 These juicy meats, this flashing wine. 
 May be an unreal mere appearance ; 
 
 Only — for my inside, in fine. 
 They have a singular coherence. 
 
 Oh yes, mj^ pensive youth, abstain : 
 And any emptj' sick sensation, 
 
 Remember, anything like pain 
 Is only your imagination. 
 
 Trust me, I've read your German sage 
 To far more purpose e'er than you did : 
 
 You find it in his wisest page. 
 Whom God deludes is well deluded. 
 IS49. 1869. 
 
 Where are the great, whom tliou 
 
 would'st wish to praise thee ? 
 Where are the pure, wliom thou would'st 
 
 choose to love tliee ? 
 Where are the brave, to stand supreme 
 
 above thee. 
 Whose high commands would cheer, 
 
 whose chiding raise tliee ? 
 Seek, seeker, in thvself ; submit to 
 
 find 
 
 In the stones, bread, 
 blank mind. 
 
 and life in the 
 IS49. 1863. 
 
 When the enemy is near thee, 
 
 Call on us ! 
 In our hands we will upbear thee. 
 He shall neither scathe nor scare thee, 
 He shall fly thee, and shall fear thee. 
 
 Call on us ! 
 Call when all good friends have left thee. 
 Of all good sights and sounds bereft thee ; 
 Call wlien hope and heart are sinking. 
 And the brain is sick with thinking. 
 
 Help, O help ! 
 Call, and following close behind thee 
 There shall haste, and there shall find 
 thee, 
 
 Help, sure help. 
 
 When the panic comes upon thee, 
 When necessity seems on thee, 
 Hope and choice have all forgone thee, 
 Fate and force are closing o'er thee. 
 And but one way stands before thee — 
 
 Call on us ! 
 Oh, and if thou dost not call. 
 Be but faithful, that is all. 
 Go right on, and close behind thee 
 There shall follow still and find thee. 
 
 Help, sure help. 
 
 Jb'49. 1863, 
 
 SAY NOT THE STRUGGLE NOUGHT 
 AVAILETH 
 
 Say not the struggle nought availeth. 
 The labor and tlie wounds are vain. 
 
 The enemy faints not, nor faileth. 
 And as things have been they remain. 
 
 If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars ; 
 
 It may be, in yon smoke concealed. 
 Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers. 
 
 And, but for you, possess the field. 
 
 For while the tired waves, vainly break- 
 ing- 
 Seem here no painful inch to gain. 
 Far back, through creeks and inlets 
 making. 
 Comes silent, flooding in, the main. 
 
 And not by eastern windows only. 
 
 When daylight comes, comes in the 
 
 light, [slowl}'. 
 
 In front, the sun climbs slow, how 
 
 But westward, look, the land is Viright, 
 
 IS49. 1863. 
 
696 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 EASTER DAY 
 NAPLES, 1849 
 
 Through the great sinful streets of 
 Najjles as I passed, 
 With fiercer lieat than flamed above 
 m3' liead 
 My heart was hot within ine ; till at 
 last 
 My brain was lightened wlien my 
 tongne had said — 
 Christ is not risen ! 
 Christ is not risen, no — 
 
 He lies and moulders low ; 
 Christ is not risen ! 
 
 What though the stone were rolled 
 awa}', and though 
 The grave found empty there ? — 
 If not tiiere, then elsewhere ; 
 If not where Joseph laid Him first, wliy 
 then 
 Where other men 
 Translaid Him after, in some humbler 
 clay. 
 Long ere to-day 
 Corruption that sad perfect work hatli 
 
 done. 
 Which here she scarcel}% lightly had 
 begun : 
 Tlie foul engendered worm 
 Feeds on the flesh of the life-giving 
 
 form 
 Of our most Holy and Anointed One. 
 He is not risen, no — 
 He lies and moulders low ; 
 Christ is not risen ! 
 
 What if the women, ere the dawn was 
 
 gi'ay, 
 Saw one or more great angels, as thev 
 
 say 
 (Angels, or Him himself) ? Yet neither 
 
 there, nor then. 
 Nor afterwards, nor elsewhere, nor at 
 
 all. 
 Hath He appeared to Peter or the Ten ; 
 Nor save in thunderous terror, to blind 
 
 Saul ; 
 Save in an after Gospel and late Creed, 
 He is not risen, indeed, — 
 Christ is not risen I 
 
 Or, what if e'en, as runs a tale, the Ten 
 Saw, heard, and touched, again and yet 
 
 again ? 
 What if at Emmaiis' inn, and by Caper- 
 naum's Lake, 
 Came One, the bread that brake- 
 
 Came One that spake as never mortal 
 
 spake, 
 And with them ate, and drank, and 
 stood, and walked about ? 
 Ah ? " .some " did well to " doubt ! " 
 Ah ! the true Christ, while these things 
 
 came to pass, 
 Nor heard, nor spake, nor walked, nor 
 lived, alas ! 
 He was not risen, no — 
 He Jay and mouldered low, 
 Christ was not risen ! 
 
 As circulates in some great city crowd 
 A rumor changeful, vague, impor- 
 tunate, and loud. 
 From no determined centre or of fact 
 Or authorship exact. 
 Which no man can deny 
 
 Nor verify ; 
 So spread the wondrous fame ; 
 He all the same 
 
 Laj^ senseless, mouldering, low : 
 He was not risen, no — 
 Christ was not risen ! 
 
 Ashes to ashes, dust to dust : 
 
 As of the imjust, also of the just — 
 
 Yea, of that Just One, too ! 
 This is the one sad Gospel that is true — 
 
 Christ is not risen ! 
 
 Is He not risen, and shall we not rise ? 
 
 Oh, we unwise ! 
 What did we dream, what wake we to 
 
 discover ? 
 Ye hills, fall on us, and ye mountains, 
 cover ! 
 In darkness and great gloom 
 Come ere we thought it is our day of 
 
 doom ; 
 From the cursed world, which is one 
 tomb. 
 Christ is not risen ! 
 
 Eat, drink, and play, and think that this 
 
 is bliss : 
 There is no heaven but this ; 
 
 There is no hell. 
 Save earth, which .serves tiie purpose 
 doubly well. 
 Seeing it visits .still 
 With equalest apportionment of ill 
 Both good and bad alike, and brings to 
 one same dust 
 The unjust and the just 
 With Christ, who is not risen. 
 
 Eat, drink, and die, for we are souls be- 
 reaved : 
 
CLOUGH 
 
 697 
 
 Of all the creatures under heaven's 
 
 wide cope 
 We are most hopeless, who had once 
 most hope, [lieved. 
 
 And most beliefless, that had most be- 
 Aslies to ashes, dust to dust ; 
 As of the unjust, also of the just — 
 Yea, of that Just One too ! 
 It is the one sad Gospel that is true — 
 Christ is not risen I 
 
 Weep not beside the tomb, 
 Ye women, unto whom [Him ; 
 
 He was great solace while ye tended 
 
 Ye wlio with napkin o'er the head 
 And folds of linen round each wounded 
 limb 
 Laid out the Sacred Dead ; 
 And thou that bar'st Him in thy won- 
 dering womb ; 
 Yea. Daughters of Jerusalem, depart, 
 Bind up as best ye may your own sad 
 bleeding heart : 
 
 Go to 3'our homes, your living children 
 tend. 
 Your earthly spouses love ; 
 Set your affections not on things 
 above, 
 Which moth and rust corrupt, which 
 
 qnickiiest come to end : 
 Or pray, if pray ye must, and pray, if 
 
 l)ray ye can. 
 For death ; since dead is He wliom ye 
 deemed more than man. 
 Who is not risen : no— 
 But lies and moulders low — 
 Wlio is not risen ! 
 
 Ye men of Galilee ! 
 Why stand ye looking up to heaven, 
 
 where Him ye ne'er may see, 
 Neitlier ascending hence, nor returning 
 1 lit her again? 
 Ye ignorant and idle fishermen ! 
 Hence to your huts, and boats, and in- 
 land native shore. 
 And catch not men, but fish ; 
 AVIiate'er things ye might wish. 
 Him neither hei-e nor there ye e'er shall 
 meet with more. 
 Ye poor deluded youths, go home, 
 Mend the old nets ye left to roam. 
 Tie the split oar, patch the torn sail : 
 It was indeed an " idle tale" — 
 He was not risen ! 
 And, oh, good men of ages yet to be. 
 Who shall believe becmise ye did not 
 see — 
 
 Oh, be ye warned, be wise ! 
 Nor more with {)leading eyes, 
 And sobs of strong desire. 
 Unto the empty vacant void aspire, 
 Seeking another and impossible birth 
 That is not of your own, and only mother 
 
 earth. 
 But if there is no other life for you. 
 Sit down and be content, since this must 
 even do ; 
 He is not risen ! 
 One look, and then depart. 
 Ye humble and ye holy men of 
 heart ; 
 And ye ! ye ministers and stewards of a 
 
 Word 
 Which ye would preach, because another 
 heard — 
 Ye worshippers of that ye do not 
 
 .know, 
 Take these things hence and go : — 
 He is not risen ! 
 
 Here, on our Easter Daj'" 
 We rise, we come, and lo ! we find Him 
 
 not. 
 Gardener nor other, on the sacred sjjot : 
 Where they have laid Him there is none 
 
 to say ; 
 No sound, nor in, nor out — no word 
 Of where to seek the dead or meet the 
 
 living Lord. 
 There is no glistering of an angel's 
 
 wings. 
 There is no voice of heavenl}^ clear be- 
 hest : 
 Let us go hen'fte, and think upon these 
 things 
 In silence, which is best. 
 Is He not risen ? No — 
 But lies and moulders low? 
 Christ is not risen ? 
 
 EASTER DAY 
 
 So in the sinful streets, abstr.acted and 
 
 alone, 
 I with my secret self held communing 
 
 of mine own. 
 So in the southern city spake the 
 
 tongue 
 Of one that somewhat overwildly sung, 
 But in a later hour I sat and heard 
 Another voice that spake — another 
 
 graver word. 
 Weep not, it bade, whatever hath been 
 
 said. 
 Though He be dead, He is not dead. 
 
698 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 In the true creed 
 He is yet risen indeed ; 
 Christ is yet risen. 
 
 Weep not beside His Tomb, 
 
 Ye women unto whom 
 
 He was great comfort and yet greater 
 
 grief ; 
 Nor ye, ye faithfvil few that wont with 
 
 Him to roam, 
 Seek sadly wliat for Him ye left, go 
 
 hopeless to your liome ; 
 Nor ye despair, ye sharers yet to be of 
 their belief ; 
 Though He be dead. He is not dead, 
 Nor gone, though fled. 
 Not lost, though vanished ; 
 Though He return not, though 
 He lies and moulders low ; 
 In the true creed 
 He is yet risen indeed ; 
 Christ is yet risen. 
 
 Sit if ye will, sit down upon the ground, 
 Yet not to weep and wail, but calmly 
 look around. 
 Whate'er befell. 
 Earth is not hell ; 
 Now, too, as when it first began, 
 Life is yet life, and man is man. 
 For all that breathe beneath the heaven's 
 
 high cope, 
 Joy with grief mixes, with despondence 
 
 hope. 
 Hope conquers cowardice, joy grief ; 
 Or at least, faith unbelief. 
 Though dead, not dead ; 
 Not gone, though fled ; 
 Not lost, though vanished. 
 In the great gospel and true creed. 
 He is yet risen indeed ; 
 
 Christ is yet risen. IS49. 1869. 
 
 HOPE EVERMORE AND BELIEVE! 
 
 Hope evermore and believe, O man, for 
 e'en as thy thought 
 So are the things that thou see'st ; 
 e'en as thy hope and belief. 
 Cowardly art thou and timid ? they rise 
 to provoke thee against them ; 
 Hast thou courage ? enough, see them 
 exulting to yield. 
 Yea, the rough rock, the dull earth, the 
 wild sea's furying waters 
 (Violent say'st thou and hard, mighty 
 thou think'st to destroy). 
 All with ineffable longing are waiting 
 their Invader, 
 
 All, with one varying voice, call to 
 
 him. Come and subdue ; 
 Still for their Conqueror call, and, but 
 
 for the joy of being conquered 
 (Rapture tliey will not forego), dare 
 
 to resist and rebel ; 
 Still, when resisting and raging, in soft 
 
 undervoice say unto him, 
 Fear not, retire not, O man ; hope 
 
 evermore and believe. 
 
 Go from the east to the west, as the sun 
 and the stars direct thee, 
 Go with the girdle of man, go and 
 encompass the earth. 
 Not for the gain of the gold ; for the 
 getting, tlie hoarding, the having. 
 But for the joy of the deed ; but for 
 the Duty to do. 
 Go with the spiritual life, the higher 
 volition and action, 
 Witli tlie great girdle of God, go and 
 encompass the earth. 
 
 Go ; say not in thy heart, And what 
 then were it accomplished, 
 Were the wild impulse allayed, what 
 were the use or the good ! 
 Go, when the instinct is stilled, and 
 when the deed is accomplished, 
 AVhat thou hast done and shalt do, 
 shall be declared to thee then. 
 Go with the sun and the stars, and yet 
 evermore in thy spirit 
 Say to thyself : It is good : yet is there 
 better than it. 
 Tliis that I see is not all, and this that I 
 do is but little ; 
 Nevertheless it is good, though there 
 is better than it. 1863. 
 
 QUI LABORAT, ORAT 
 
 O ONLY Source of all our light and life. 
 Whom as our truth, our strength, we 
 see and feel. 
 But whom the hours of mortal moral 
 strife 
 Alone aright reveal ! 
 
 Mine inmost soul, before Thee inly 
 brought. 
 Thy presence owns ineffable, divine ; 
 Chastised each rebel self-encentered 
 thought, 
 My will adoreth Thine. 
 
 With eye down-dropped, if then this 
 earthly mind 
 
CLOUGH 
 
 699 
 
 Speechless remain, or speechless e'en 
 
 depart ; 
 Nor seek to see — for what of earthly 
 
 kind 
 Can see Thee as Thou art ? — 
 
 If well-assured 'tis but profanely bold 
 In thought's abstractest forms to seem 
 to see, 
 It dare not dare the dread communion 
 hold 
 In ways unworthy Thee, 
 
 O not unowned, thou shalt unnamed 
 forgive. 
 In worldly walks the prayerless heart 
 prepare ; 
 And if in vv^ork its life it seem to live, 
 Shalt make that work be prayer. 
 
 Nor times shall lack, when while tlie 
 work it plies. 
 Unsummoned powers the blinding film 
 shall part. 
 And scarce by happy tears made dim, 
 the eyes 
 In recognition start. 
 
 But, as thou wiliest, give or e'en forbear 
 
 The beatific supersensual sight. 
 So, with Thy blessing blessed, that 
 humbler prayer 
 Approach Thee morn and night. 
 
 1862. 
 
 O Thou whose image in the shrine 
 Of human spirits dwells divine ; 
 Which from that precinct once con- 
 veyed , 
 To be to outer day displayed. 
 Doth vanisli, part, and leave behind 
 Mere blank and void of empty mind. 
 Which wilful fancy seeks in vain 
 With casual shapes to fill again ! 
 
 TIiou that in our bosom's sJirine 
 Dost dwell, unknown because divine ! 
 
 1 thought to speak. I thought to say, 
 "The light is here," " behold the way." 
 " The voice was thus," and " thus the 
 
 word," 
 And " thus I saw," and " that I heard," — 
 But from the lips that half essayed 
 The imperfect utterance fell unmade. 
 
 Thou, in that mysterious shrine 
 Enthroned, as I must say. divine ! 
 
 1 will not frame one thought of what 
 Thou mayest either be or not. 
 
 I will not prate of " thus" and " so," 
 And be profane with "yes " and " no," 
 Enough that in our soul and heart 
 Thou, whatsoe'er Thou may'st be, art. 
 
 Unseen, secure in that high shrine 
 Acknowledged present and divine, 
 I will not ask some upper air. 
 Some future day to place Thee there ; 
 Nor say, nor yet deny, such men 
 And women saw Thee tlius and then : 
 Tliy name was such, and there or here 
 To him or her Thou didst appear. 
 
 Do only Thou in that dim shrine. 
 Unknown or known, remain, divine ; 
 There, or if not, at least in eyes 
 That scan the fact that round them lies. 
 The hand to sway, the judgment guide, 
 In sight and sense Thyself divide : 
 Be Thou but there, — in soul and heart, 
 I will not ask to feel Thou art. 1862. 
 
 "THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY" 
 
 What we, when face to face we see 
 The Father of our souls, shall be, 
 John tells us, doth not yet appear ; 
 Ah ! did he tell what we are here I 
 
 A mind for thouglits to pass into. 
 A heart for loves to travel through, 
 Five senses to detect things near, 
 Is this the whole tliat we are hei'e ? 
 
 Rules baffle instincts — instincts rules. 
 Wise men are bad — and good are fools, 
 Facts evil — wishes vain appear. 
 We cannot go, wliy are we here ? 
 
 O may we for assurance' sake, 
 Some arbitrary judgment take. 
 And wilfully pronounce it clear, 
 For this or that 'tis we ai'e here ? 
 
 Or is it right, and will it do, 
 To pace the sad confusion tlirongh, 
 And say : — It doth not yet appear. 
 What we shall be, what we are here ? 
 
 Ah yet, when all is thought and said. 
 The heart still overrules the head ; 
 Still what we hope we must believe, 
 And what is given us receive ; 
 
 Must still believe, for still we hope 
 Tliat in a worhl of larger scope, 
 AVIiat iiere is faithfully begun 
 Will be completed, not undone. 
 
700 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 My child, we still must think, wlien we 
 
 That ampler life togetiier see, 
 
 Some true result will yet appear 
 
 Of what we are. together, here. 18G3. 
 
 AH! YET CONSIDER IT AGAIN! 
 
 " Old things need not be therefore true," 
 O brother men. nor yet the new ; 
 Ah ! still awhile the old thought retain. 
 And yet consider it again ! 
 
 The souls of now two thousand years 
 Have laid up here tlieir toils and fears, 
 And all the earnings of their pain, — 
 Ah, yet consider it again ! 
 
 We ! what do we see ? each a space 
 Of some few yards before his face ; 
 Does that the whole wide i^lan explain ? 
 Ah, yet consider it again ! 
 
 Alas ! the great world goes its whv. 
 And takes its truth from each new day ; 
 They do not quit, nor can retain. 
 Far less consider it again. 1851. 1862. 
 
 SONGS IN ABSENCE 
 
 Come home, come home ! and where is 
 
 home for me. [sea ? 
 
 AVliose ship is driving o'er the tracklpss 
 
 To tlie frail bark hei'e plunging on its 
 
 way, 
 To the wild waters, sliall I turn and say 
 To tlie i>lunging bark, or to the salt sea 
 foam. 
 You are my home ? 
 
 Fields once I walked in, faces once I 
 
 knew. 
 Familiar things so old my heart believed 
 
 them true. 
 These far, far back, behind me lie, l)e- 
 
 fore 
 The dark clouds mutter, and the dee^i 
 
 seas I'oar. 
 And speak to them that 'neath and o'er 
 
 them roam 
 
 No words of hotne. 
 
 Beyond the clouds, beyond tiie waves 
 
 that roar, 
 Tliere may indeed, or may not be a shore. 
 Where fields as green, and hands and 
 
 hearts as true. 
 The old forgotten semblance may renew, 
 And offer exiles driven far o'er the salt 
 
 sea foam 
 Another home. 
 
 But toil and pain must wear out many a 
 
 d.iy, 
 And days bear weeks, and weeks bear 
 
 months away, 
 Ere, if at all, the weary traveller liear. 
 With accents whispered in his waj'worn 
 
 ear, 
 A voice he dares to listen to, say, Come 
 To thy true home. 
 
 Come home, come home ! and where a 
 home hath he [sea ? 
 
 Whose ship is driving o'er the driving 
 Through clouds that mutter, and o'er 
 waves that roar, [shore 
 
 Say, shall we find, or shall we not, a 
 That is, as is not ship or ocean foam. 
 
 Indeed our home ? 1S5.,'. 1862. 
 
 Green fields of England ! wheresoe'er 
 Across this watery waste we fare. 
 Your image at our hearts we bear. 
 Green fields of England, everywhere. 
 
 Sweet eyes in England, I must fiee 
 Past where the waves' last confines be, 
 Ere ytmr loved smile I cease to see. 
 Sweet eyes in England, dear to me. 
 
 Dear home in England, safe and fast 
 If but in thee my lot lie cast. 
 Tlie past shall seem a nothing past 
 To thee, dear home, if won at last ; 
 Dear home in England, won at last. 
 
 IS-,.?. 1862. 
 
 Come back, come back ! V)ehold witli 
 
 straining mast 
 And svi-elling sail, behold her steaming 
 
 fast ; 
 With one new sun to see her voyage o'er. 
 With morning light to touch her native 
 
 shore. 
 
 Come back ! come back. 
 
 Come back, come back ! wliile westward 
 
 laboring by. 
 With sailless yards, a bare black hulk 
 
 we fly. 
 See how the gale we fight with sweeps 
 
 her back, 
 To our lost home, on our forsaken track. 
 Come back, come back. 
 
 Come back, come back ! across tlie tty 
 
 ing foam. 
 We hear faint far-off voices call us home : 
 
CLOUGH 
 
 701 
 
 Come back, ye seem to sa}^ ; ye seek in 
 
 vain ; 
 We went, we sought, and homeward 
 
 turned again. 
 Come back, come back. 
 
 Come back, come back ; and wliitlier 
 
 back or why ? 
 To fan quenched hopes, forsaken schemes 
 
 to try ; 
 Walk the old fields ; pace tlie familiar 
 
 street ; 
 Dream witli the idlers, with the bards 
 
 compete. 
 
 Come back, come back. 
 
 Come back, come back ; and wliitlier 
 and for what ? 
 
 To finger idly some oldGordian knot, 
 
 Unskilled to sunder, and too weak to 
 cleave, 
 
 And with much toil attain to half- 
 believe. 
 
 Come back, come back. 
 
 Come back, come back ; yea back, in- 
 deed, do go 
 
 Sighs panting thick, and tears that want 
 to flow ; 
 
 Fond fluttering hopes upraise their use- 
 less wings, 
 
 And wishes idly struggle in tlie strings ; 
 Come back, come back. 
 
 Come back, come back, more eager than 
 
 the breeze, 
 Tlie flj'ing fancies sweep across the seas, 
 And lighter far than ocean's flying foam. 
 The lieavt's fond message hurries to its 
 
 home. 
 Come back, come back. 
 
 Come back, come back ! 
 
 Back flies the foam ; the hoisted flag 
 streams back ; 
 
 The long smoke wavers on the home- 
 ward track. 
 
 Back fly with winds things which the 
 winds obe}'. 
 
 The strong ship follows its appointed 
 way" 1852. 18G2. 
 
 Some future day wlien what is now is 
 not, [got, 
 
 When all old faults and follies are ft)r- 
 
 And thoughts of difference passed like 
 dreams away, 
 
 We'll meet again, upon some future 
 day. 
 
 When all that hindered, all that vexed 
 
 our love. 
 As tall rank weeds will climb the blade 
 
 above, 
 W^hen all but it has jaelded to decay. 
 We'll meet again upon some future day. 
 
 When we have proved, each on his 
 
 course alone, 
 The wider world, and learned what's 
 
 now unknown. 
 Have made life clear, and worked out 
 
 each a way. 
 We'll meet again, — we shall have much 
 
 to say. 
 
 With happier mood, and feelings born 
 anew. 
 
 Our boyhood's bygone fancies vi^e'll re- 
 view, [l>lay. 
 
 Talk o"er old talks, play as we used to 
 
 And meet again, on many a future day. 
 
 Some day, which oft our hearts shall 
 j'earn to see, [be. 
 
 In some far year, though distant yet to 
 
 Shall we indeed, — ye winds and waters, 
 say!— 
 
 Jleet yet again, upon some future day ? 
 1852. 1862. 
 
 Where lies the land to wiiicli the sliip 
 
 would go ? 
 Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know. 
 And where the land she travels from? 
 
 Away, 
 Far, far behind, is all that they can say. 
 
 On sunny noons upon the deck's smooth 
 
 face. 
 Linked arm in arm, how pleasant here 
 
 to pace ; 
 Or, o'er tiie stern reclining, watch below 
 The foaming wake far widening as we go. 
 
 On stormy nights when wild north- 
 westers rave. 
 
 How proud a thing to fight with wind 
 and wave ! 
 
 The dripping sailor on the reeling mast 
 
 Exults to bear, and scorns to wish it past. 
 
 Where lies the land to which the ship 
 
 would go ? 
 Far. far ahead, is all her seamen know. 
 And wliere the land slie travels from ? 
 
 Away, 
 Far, far behind, is all that they can say. 
 1852. 1862. 
 
702 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Were you with me, or I with you, 
 There's nought, inethinks, I iniglit not 
 
 do; 
 Could venture here, and venture there. 
 And never fear, nor ever care. 
 
 To things before, and things behind, 
 Could turn my thoughts, and turn my 
 
 mind, 
 On this and that, day after day, 
 Could dare to throw myself away. 
 
 Sec;ure, when all was o'er, to find 
 My proper thought, my perfect mind. 
 And unimpaired receive anew 
 My own and better self in vou. 
 
 1853. 1863. 
 
 O SHIP, ship, ship. 
 
 That travellest over the sea, 
 What are the tidings, I pray thee, 
 
 Thou bearest hither to me ? 
 
 Are they tidings of comfort and joy, 
 That shall make me seem to see 
 
 The sweet lips softly moving 
 And whispering love to me ? 
 
 Or are they of trouble and grief. 
 Estrangement, sorrow, and doubt. 
 
 To turn into torture mj' hopes, 
 And drive me from Paradise out ? 
 
 O ship, ship, ship. 
 
 That comest over the sea. 
 Whatever it be thou bringest. 
 
 Come quickly with it to me. 
 
 1853. 1869. 
 
 THE STREAM OF LIFE 
 
 O STREAM descending to the sea, 
 Thy mossy banks between. 
 
 The flow'rets blow, the grasses grow. 
 The leafy trees are green. 
 
 In garden plots the children play, 
 
 The fields the laborers till. 
 And houses stand on either hand, 
 
 And thou descendest still. 
 
 O life descending into death, 
 
 Our waking eyes behold. 
 Parent and friend thy lapse attend, 
 
 Companions young and old. 
 
 Strong purposes our mind possess. 
 
 Our hearts affections till. 
 We toil and earn, we seek and learn, 
 
 And thou descendest still. 
 
 end to which our currents tend. 
 Inevitable sea, 
 
 To which we flow, what do we know, 
 What shall we guess of thee ? 
 
 A roar we hear upon thy sliore, 
 
 As we our covirse fulfil ; 
 Scarce we divine a sun will shine 
 
 And be above us still. 1863. 
 
 "WITH WHOM IS NO VARIABLE- 
 NESS, NEITHER SHADOW OF 
 TURNING " 
 
 It fortifies my soul to know 
 That, thougli I perish, Truth is so : 
 That, howsoe'er I stray and range, 
 Whate'er I do, Thou dost not change. 
 
 1 steadier step when I recall 
 
 That, if I slip. Thou dost not fall. 1863. 
 
 ITE DOMUM SATURN, VENIT 
 HESPERUS 
 
 The skies have sunk, and hid the upper 
 
 snow 
 (Home, Rose, and home, Provence and 
 
 La Palie) , 
 The rainy clouds are filing fast below, 
 And wet will be the path, and wet shall 
 
 we. 
 Home, Rose, and home, Provence and 
 
 La Palie. 
 
 Ah dear, and where is he, a year agone, 
 Who stepped beside and cheered us on 
 
 and on? 
 My sweetheart wanders far away from 
 
 me, 
 In foreign land or on a foreign sea. 
 Home, Rose, and liome, Provence and 
 
 La Palie. 
 
 The lightning zigzags shoot across the 
 
 sky 
 (Home, Rose, and home, Provence and 
 
 La Palie), 
 And througli the vale the rains go 
 
 sweeping by ; 
 Ah me, and when in shelter shall we be? 
 Home. Rose, and home, Provence and 
 
 La Palie. 
 
 Cold, drearj' cold, the stormy winds feel 
 
 they 
 O'er foreign lands and foreign seas that 
 
 stray 
 (Home. Rose, and home, Provence and 
 
 La Palie). 
 
CLOUGH 
 
 703 
 
 And doth he e'er, I wonder, bring to 
 mind 
 
 The pleasant huts and herds he left be- 
 hind ? 
 
 And doth he sometimes in his slumbering 
 see 
 
 The feeding kine, and doth he tliink of 
 me, 
 
 My sweetheart wandering whereso'er it 
 be? 
 
 Home, Rose, and home, Provence and 
 La Palie. 
 
 The thunder bellows far from snow to 
 snow 
 
 (Home, Rose, and home, Provence and 
 La Palie), 
 
 And loud and louder roars the flood be- 
 low. 
 
 Heiglio ! but soon in shelter shall we be : 
 
 Home, Rose, and home, Provence and 
 La Palie), 
 
 Or shall he find before his term be speil, 
 Some comelier maid that he shall wish 
 
 to wed ? 
 (Home, Rose, and home, Provence and 
 
 La Palie.) 
 For weary is work, and weary day by day 
 To have your comfort miles on miles 
 
 away. 
 Home, Rose, and home, Provence and 
 
 La Palie. 
 
 Or may it be that I shall find mj^ mate. 
 And he returning see himself too late ? 
 For work we must, and what we see, we 
 
 see. 
 And God he knows, and what must be, 
 
 must be 
 When sweethearts wander far away 
 
 from me. 
 Home, Rose, and home, Provence and 
 
 La Palie. 
 
 The sky behind is brightening up anew 
 (Home, Rose, and home, Provence and 
 
 La Palie), 
 The rain is ending, and our journey too : 
 Heigho ! aha ! for hei'e at home aie we : — 
 in, Rose, and in. Provence and La Palie. 
 
 1863. 
 
 CURRENTE GALA MO 
 
 Quick, painter, quick, the moment seize 
 Amid the snowy Pyrenees ; 
 More evanescent than the snow, 
 The pictures come, are seen, and go : 
 Quick, quick, currente calamo. 
 
 I do not ask the tints that fill 
 The gate of day 'twixt hill and hill ; 
 I ask not for the hues that fleet 
 Above the distant peaks ; my feet 
 Are on a poplar-bordered road. 
 Where with a saddle and a load 
 A donkey, old and ashen-gray, 
 Reluctant works his dusty way. 
 Before him, still witli might and main 
 Pulling his rope, the rustic rein, 
 A girl : before both him and me, 
 Frequent she turns and lets me see. 
 Unconscious, lets me scan and trace 
 The sunny darkjiess of her face 
 And outlines full of southern grace. 
 
 Following I notice, yet and yet. 
 Her olive skin, dark eyes deep set, 
 And black, and blacker e'en than jet, 
 Tlie escaping hair that scantly showed, 
 Since o'er it in the country mode, 
 For winter warmth and summer shade, 
 The lajj of scarlet cloth is laid. 
 And then, back-falling fi-om the head, 
 A crimson kerchief overspread 
 Her jacket blue ; thence passing down, 
 A skirt of darkest yellow-brown. 
 Coarse stuff, allowing to the view 
 The smooth limb to the woollen shoe. 
 
 But who — here 's some one following 
 too, — 
 A priest, and reading at his book ! 
 Read on, O priest, and do not look ; 
 Consider, — she is but a child, — 
 Yet might your fancy be beguiled. 
 Read on, O priest, and pass and go ! 
 But see, succeeding in a row. 
 Two, three, and four, a motley train, 
 Musicians wandering back to Spain ; 
 With fiddle and with tambourine, 
 A man with women following seen. 
 What dresses, ribbon ends, and flowers ! 
 And, — sigiit to wonder at for hours, — 
 The man, — to Phillip has he sat? — 
 With butterfly-like velvet hat ; 
 One dame his big bassoon conveys, 
 On one his gentle arm he lays ; 
 They stop, and look, and something say. 
 And to " Espaiia" ask the way. 
 
 But while I speak, and point them 
 on, 
 Alas ! my dearer friends are gone ; 
 The dark-eyed maiden and the ass 
 Have had the time the bridge to pass. 
 Vainly, beyond it far descried. 
 Adieu, and peace with you abide, 
 Gray donkey, and your beauteous guide. 
 The pictures come, the pictures go, 
 Quick, quick, currente calamo. 
 
 From Mari Magno, 1862. 
 
704 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 1 
 
 COME, POET, COME! 
 
 Come. Poet, come ! 
 A thousand laborers ply their task, 
 And what it tends to scarcely ask, 
 And trembling thinkers on the brink 
 Shiver, and know not how to think. 
 To tell tlie purjiort of tlieir pain. 
 And what our silly joys contain ; 
 In lasting lineaments portray 
 The substance of the shadowy day ; 
 Our real and inner deeds reliearse. 
 And niake our meaning clear in verse : 
 Come, Poet, come ! for but in vain 
 We do the work or feel the pain , 
 And gather up the seeming gain. 
 Unless before the end thou come 
 To take, ere they are lost, their sum. 
 
 Come, Poet, come ! 
 To give an utterance to the dumb, 
 And make vain babblers silent, come ; 
 A thousand dupes point here and tliere. 
 Bewildered by the show and glare ; 
 And wise men half have learned to 
 
 doubt 
 Wliether we are not best witliout. 
 Come, Poet ; both but wait to see 
 Their error proved to them in tliee. 
 
 Come, Poet, come ! 
 
 In vain I seem to call. And yet 
 
 Tliink not tlie living times forget. 
 
 Ages of lieroes fought and fell 
 
 Tliat Homer in the end might tell ; 
 
 O'er grovelling generations past 
 
 Upstood the Doric fane at last ; 
 
 And countless hearts on countless years 
 
 Had wasted thoughts, and hopes, and 
 
 fears. 
 Rude laughter and unmeaning tears. 
 Ere England Shakespeare saw, or Rome 
 The pure perfection of her dome. 
 Others, I doubt not, if not we, 
 The issue of our toils shall see ; 
 Young children gather as their own 
 The harvest that the dead had sown. 
 The dead forgotten and unknown. 
 
 1863. 
 
 THE HIDDEN LOVE 
 
 O LET me love my love unto myself alone, 
 
 And know my knowledge to tlie world 
 unknown ; 
 
 No witness to my vision call, 
 
 Beholding, unbeheld of all ; 
 
 And worship Thee, with Thee with- 
 drawn apart, 
 
 Whoe'er, Whate'er Thou art. 
 Within the closest veil of mine own in- 
 most heart. 
 
 What is it then to me 
 
 If others are inquisitive to see ? 
 
 Why should I quit my place to go and 
 
 ask 
 If other men are working at their task ? 
 Leave my own bui-ied roots to go 
 And see that brother plants shall grow ; 
 And turn away from Thee, O Thou most 
 
 Holy Light 
 To look if other orbs tlieir orbits keep 
 
 aright. 
 Around their proper sun. 
 Deserting Thee, and being undone. 
 
 O let me love my love unto myself alone. 
 And know my knowledge to the world 
 
 unknown ; 
 And worship Thee, O hid One, O much 
 
 sought. 
 As but man can or ought. 
 Within the abstracted'st shrine of my 
 
 least breathed on thought. 
 
 Better it were, thou sayest, to consent ; 
 
 Feast while we may, and live ere life be 
 spent ; 
 
 Close up clear eyes, and call the un- 
 stable sure. 
 
 The unlovely lovely, and the filthy pure ; 
 
 In self-belyings, self-deceivings roll. 
 
 And lose in Action, Passion, Talk, the 
 soul. 
 
 Nay, better far to mark off thus much 
 
 air. 
 And call it Heaven : yyliu-e bliss and 
 
 glory there ; [sky, 
 
 Fix perfect homes in the unsubstantial 
 And say, what is not, will be by-and-bye. 
 
 1869. 
 
 PERCHE PENSA ? PENSANDO S' IN- 
 VECCHIA 
 
 To spend uncounted years of pain. 
 
 Again, again, and yet again. 
 
 In working out in heart and brain 
 
 The problem of our being here ; 
 To gather facts from far and near, 
 Upon the mind to hold them clear, 
 And, knowing more may yet appear, 
 Unto one's latest breath to fear, 
 The premature result to draw — 
 Is this the object, end and law. 
 
 And purpose of our being here ? 
 
 1869. 
 
CLOUGH 
 
 705 
 
 LIFE IS STRUGGLE 
 
 To wear out heart, and nerves, and 
 
 brain, 
 And give oneself a world of pain ; 
 Be eager, angry, fierce, and hot, 
 Imperious, supple — God knows what, 
 For wluit's all one to liave or not ; 
 O false, unwise, absurd, and vain ! 
 For 'tis not joy. it is not gain, 
 It is not in itself a bliss. 
 Only it is precisely this 
 That keeps us all alive. 
 
 To say we truly feel the pain. 
 And quite are sinking with the strain ; — 
 Entirely, simply, undeceived. 
 Believe, and say we ne'er believed 
 The object, e'en were it achieved, 
 A thing we e'er had cared to keep ; 
 With heart and soul to hold it cheap. 
 And tlieu to go and try it again ; 
 O false, unwise, absurd, and vain ! 
 O, 'tis not joy, and 'tis not bliss, 
 Only it is precisely this 
 
 That keeps us still alive. 1869. 
 
 SONNETS ON THE THOUGHT OF 
 DEATH 
 
 If it is thou whose casual hand with- 
 draws 
 Wliat it at first as casually did make. 
 Say what amount of ages it will take 
 With tardy rare concurrences of laws, 
 And subtle multiplicities of cause, 
 Tlie thing the.y once had made us to re- 
 make ; [awake, 
 May hopes dead slumbering dare to re- 
 E'en after utmost iiiterval of pause. 
 What revolutions must have passed, be- 
 fore 
 The great celestial cj-cles shall restore 
 The starry sign whose present lujur is 
 
 gone ; 
 Wliat worse than dubious chances inter- 
 pose, [pose 
 Witli cloud and sunny gleam to recom- 
 The skiey picture we had gazed upon. 
 
 But if as not by tliat the soul desired 
 Swayed in the judgment, wisest men 
 
 have thought 
 And funiishing the evidence it sought, 
 Man's lieart hatli ever fervently required. 
 And story, for that reason deemed in- 
 spired, 
 
 4S 
 
 To every clime, in every age, hath 
 
 taught ; 
 If in tliis human complex tliere be aught 
 Not lost in death, as not in birth acquired , 
 O then, though cold the lips tliat did 
 
 convey 
 Rich freights of meaning, dead each liv- 
 ing sphere 
 Where thought abode, and fancy loved 
 
 to play. 
 Thou yet, we think, somewhere somehow 
 
 still art. 
 And satisfied vi^ith that the patient heart 
 The where and how doth not desire to 
 hear. 1869. 
 
 IN A LONDON SQUARE 
 
 Put forth tliy leaf, thou lofty plane. 
 
 East wind and frost are safely gone ; 
 With zephj-r mild and balmy rain 
 
 Tlie summer comes serenely on ; 
 Eartli, air. and sun and skies combine 
 
 To proinise all that's kind and fair : — 
 But tliou, O human heart of mine. 
 
 Be still, contain thyself, and bear. 
 
 December days were brief and chill, 
 The winds of March were wild and 
 drear. 
 And, nearing and receding still. 
 Spring never would, we thought, be 
 here. 
 The leaves that burst, the suns that shine. 
 Had, not tlieless, theircertain date: — 
 And tliou. O human heart of mine, 
 Be still, refrain th3'self, and wait. 
 
 1869. 
 
 ALL IS WELL 
 
 Whate'er you dream, with doubt 
 
 possessed. 
 Keep, kee]> it snug within your breast. 
 And lay you down and take your rest ; 
 Forget in sleep the doubt and pain. 
 And wlien you wake, to work again. 
 The wind it blows, the vessel goes. 
 And where and whither, no one knows. 
 
 'Twill all be well : no need of care ; 
 Though how it will, and wlien, and 
 
 wliere. 
 We cannot see, and can't declare. 
 In spite of dreams, in spite of tliought, 
 'Tis not in vain, and not for nonglit. 
 The wind it blows, the ship it goes. 
 Though where and wliither, no one 
 
 knows. 1869. 
 
ARNOLD 
 
 LIST OF REFERENCES 
 
 Editions 
 
 Complete Works, 14 volumes ; Poetical Works, 3 volumes ; Poetical 
 Works, Globe Edition, 1 volume ; Selected Poems (Golden Treasury 
 Series), The Macmillan Co. Letters, 2 volumes, see below. 
 
 Biography 
 
 * Letters of Matthew Arnold, edited by G. W. E. Russell, 2 volumes, 
 1899. Fitch (Joshua), Thomas and Matthew Arnold (Great Educators 
 Series). Thorxe (W. H.), Life of Matthew Arnold, 1887. *Gaenett 
 (R.), Arnold, in the Dictionary of National Biography. Saintsbury 
 (George), Life of Matthew Arnold (Modern English Writers), 1899. Paul 
 (H. W.), Matthew Arnold (English Men of Letters Series), 1902. Russell 
 (G. W. E.), Matthew Arnold (Literary Lives), 1904. 
 
 Reminiscences and Early Criticism 
 
 Fakrar (F. W.), Men I Have Known. Clough (A. H.), Prose Remains 
 (originally in the North American Review, July, 18.53). * Roscoe ( W. C), 
 Poems and Essays, Vol. II ; The Classical School of English Poetry, Mat- 
 thew Arnold, 1859. * Swinburne, Essays and Studies : Matthew Arnold's 
 New Poems (Originally in the Fortnightly Review, October, 1867). For-. 
 MAN (H. B.), Our Living Poets : Matthew Arnold (Originally in Tinsley's 
 Magazine, September, 1868). Austin (Alfred), The Poetry of the Period 
 (Originally in Temple Bar, August and September, 1869). Whipple 
 (E. P.), Recollections : Matthew Arnold, 1887. 
 
 Later Criticism 
 
 Birkell (Augustine), Res Judicatse; Papers and Essays. Burroughs 
 (John), The Light of Day : Spiritual Insight of Matthew Arnold. Dow- 
 den (Edward), Transcripts and Studies. Garnett (Richard), Essays of 
 an Ex-Librarian. * Gates (L. E.), Three Studies in Literature. Gates 
 (L. E.), Studies and Appreciations : The Return of Conventional Life. 
 Harrison (Frederic), The Choice of Books. Harrison (Frederic), 
 
 706 
 
 II 
 
ARNOLD 707 
 
 Tennyson, Ruskin, Mill, and Other Literary Estimates. Henley 
 (W. E.), Views and Reviews. Hudson (W. H.), Studies in Inter- 
 pretation. * HuTTON (R. H.), Literary Essays. Modern Guides of Eng- 
 lish Thought in Matters of Faith. Mustard (W. P.), Homeric Echoes 
 in ]\[atthew Arnold's Balder. Nencioxi (E.), Letteratura Inglese. Oli- 
 PMANT (^hxrgaret), Victorian Age of English Literature. Paii, (H. W.), 
 Men and Letters : Matthew Arnold's Letters. SAiNTSuujiv (Cxeorge), Cor- 
 rected Impressions. * Stedmax (E. C.), Mctorian Poets. Stephen (Les- 
 lie), Studies of a Biographer. Tuaill (H. D.), New Fiction and Other 
 Essays on Literary Subjects. *Woodberry (G. E.), Makers of Literature. 
 Cheney (J. V.)^ The Golden Guess. Dawson (W. IL), :\hitthew Arnold 
 and His Relation to the Thought of Our Time. Dawsox ( W. J.), Makers 
 of Modern English. Dixon (\v. M.) English Poetry : Blake to Browning. 
 Duff (M. E. G.), Out of the Past. Galton (A.), Urbana Scripta. 
 Galton (A.), Two Essays on Matthew Arnold, with Some of His Letters 
 to the Author, MacArthur (Henry), Realism and Romance. Nadal 
 (E. S.) Essays at Home and Elsewhere. Selkirk (J. B.), Ethics and Ms- 
 thetics of Modern Poetry : Modern Creeds and Modern Poetry. Sharp 
 (Amy), Victorian Poets. ' Stearns (F. P.), Sketches from Concord and 
 Appledore. Swanwick (A.), Poets the Interpreters of Their Age. Walker 
 (Hugh), The Great Victorian Poets. 
 
 Tributes in Verse 
 
 BouRDiLLON (F. W.), Sursum Corda : To Matthew Arnold in America. 
 Shairp (J. C), Glen d'Esseray and Other Poems: Balliol Scholars, 1840- 
 1848 ; A Remembrance. Truman (Joseph), Afterthoughts : Laleham, a 
 Poem. 
 
 Bibliooraphy 
 * Smart (Thomas B.), The Bibliography of Matthew Arnold. 
 
> 
 
 r ^ 
 
 I 
 
 s (^ 
 
 •^ 
 
 CD 
 
 ) /v. 
 
 9 o 
 
 ^ ' 
 
 U 
 
 ©. 
 
 Vl rv 
 
 ^ 
 
 QUIET WORK 
 
 One lesson, Nature, let me learn of thee, 
 One lesson which in every wind is 
 
 blown, 
 One lesson of two duties kept at one 
 Though the loud world proclaim their 
 
 enmity — 
 Of toil unsever'd from tranquillity ! 
 Of labor, that in lasting fruit outgrows 
 Far noisier schemes, accomplislTd in 
 
 repose. 
 Too great for haste, too high for rivalry ! 
 Yes, while on earth a thousand discords 
 
 ring, 
 Man's fitful uproar mingling with his 
 
 toil. 
 Still do thy sleepless ministers move on, 
 Tlieir glorious tasks in silence perfect- 
 ing ; 
 Still working, blaming still our vain 
 
 turmoil. 
 Laborers that shall not fail, when man 
 
 is gone. 1849. 
 
 TO A FRIEND 
 
 Who prop, thou ask'st, in these bad 
 
 days, my mind ? — 
 He much, the old man, who, clearest- 
 
 soul'd of men. 
 Saw The Wide Prospect, and the Asian 
 
 Fen, 
 And Tmolus hill, and Smyrna bay, 
 
 though blind. 
 Miach he, wliose friendsliip I not long 
 
 since won. 
 That halting slave, who in Nicopolis 
 Tauglit Arrian, when Vespasian's brutal 
 
 son 
 Clear'd Rome of what most shamed him. 
 
 But be his 
 My special thanks, whose even-balanced 
 
 soul. 
 From first youth tested up to extreme 
 
 old age, 
 
 Business could not make dull, nor pas- 
 sion wild ; 
 Who saw life steadily, and saw it whole ; 
 The mellow glory of the Attic stage, 
 Singer of sweet Colonus, and its child. 
 
 1849. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE 
 
 Others abide our question. Thou art 
 free. 
 
 We ask and ask — Thou smilest and art 
 still. 
 
 Out-topping knowledge. For the lofti- 
 est hill, 
 
 Who to the stars uncrowns his majesty. 
 
 Planting his steadfast footsteps in tlie 
 sea. 
 
 Making the heaven of heavens his dwell- 
 ing-place. 
 
 Spares but the cloudy border of liis base 
 
 To the foil'd searching of mortality ; 
 
 And thou, who didst the stars and sun- 
 beams know, 
 
 Self-school'd, self-scann'd, self-honor'd, 
 self-secure. 
 
 Didst tread on earth unguess'd at. — 
 Better so ! 
 
 All pains the immortal spirit must 
 endure. 
 
 All weakness whicli impairs, all griefs 
 which bow. 
 
 Find their sole speecli in that victorious 
 brow. 1849. 
 
 THE FORSAKEN MERMAN 
 
 Come, dear children, let us away ; 
 Down and away below ! 
 Now my brothei-s call from the bay. 
 Now the great winds shoreward blow, 
 Now the salt tides seaward flow ; 
 Now the wild wliite horses play. 
 Champ and chafe and toss in the spray. 
 Children dear, let us awaj' ! 
 This way, tliis way ! 
 
 708 
 
 ^P-^'" ' 
 
ARNOLD 
 
 709 
 
 Call her once before you go — 
 
 Call once yet ! 
 
 In a voice that she will know : 
 
 " Margaret ! Margaret ! " 
 
 Children's voices should be dear 
 
 (Call once more) to a motiier's ear ; 
 
 Children's voices, wild witli pain — 
 
 Surely she will come again ! 
 
 (.'all her once and come away ; 
 
 This way. this way ! 
 
 "Mother dear, we cannot stay ! 
 
 The wild white Iiorses foam and fret." 
 
 Jlargaret ! IMargaret ! 
 
 Come, dear c;hildren, come away down ; 
 Call no more I 
 
 One last look at the wliite-wall'd town, 
 And the little gray church on the v^^indy 
 
 shore, 
 Then come down ! 
 She will not come though you call all 
 
 day : 
 Come away, come away ! 
 
 Children dear, was it yesterday 
 
 We heard the sweet bells over the 
 
 bay? 
 In the caverns where we lay, 
 Througli the surf and through the swell. 
 The far-off sound of a silver bell ? 
 Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep. 
 Where the winds are all asleep ; 
 Where the spent lights qviiver and 
 
 gleam, 
 Where the salt weed sways in the 
 
 stream. 
 Where the sea-beasts, ranged all round. 
 Feed in the ooze of their pasture- 
 ground ; 
 Where the sea-snakes coil and twine, 
 Dry their mail and bask in the brine ; 
 Where great whales come sailing by. 
 Sail and sail, with unshut eye. 
 Round the world for ever and aye ? 
 Wlien did music come this way ? 
 Children dear, was it yesterday ? 
 
 Children dear, was it yestei'day 
 
 (Call yet once) that she went away ? 
 
 Once she sate witii you and me, 
 
 On a red gold throne in the heart of the 
 
 sea. 
 And the youngest sate on her knee. 
 She conib'd its bright hair, and she 
 
 tended it well, 
 Wlien down swung the sound of a far-off 
 
 bell. 
 She sigh'd, she look'd up through the 
 
 clear green sea ; 
 
 She said : " I must go. for my kinsfolk 
 
 pray 
 In the little gray church on the shore to- 
 day. 
 'T will be Easter-time in the world — ah 
 
 me ! 
 And I lose my poor soul, Merman ! here 
 
 with thee." 
 I said : " Go up, dear heart, through the 
 
 waves ; 
 Say thy prayer, and come back to the 
 
 kind sea-caves ! " 
 She smiled, she went up through the 
 
 surf in the bay. 
 Children dear, was it yesterday ? 
 
 Children dear, were we long alone ? 
 " The sea grows stormy, the little ones 
 
 moan ; 
 Long prayers,' I said, " in the world 
 
 they say ; 
 Come ! " I said ; and we rose through the 
 
 surf in the bay. 
 We went up the beach, by the sandy 
 
 down 
 Where the sea-stocks bloom, to the 
 
 white-wall'd town ; 
 Through tlie narrow paved streets, where 
 
 all was still. 
 To the little gray church on the windy 
 
 hill. 
 From the church came a murmur of 
 
 folk at their prayers.. 
 But we stood without in the cold blow- 
 ing airs. 
 We cliinb'd on the graves, on the stones 
 
 worn with rains, 
 And we gazed up the aisle through the 
 
 small leaded panes. 
 She sate by the pillar ; we saw her clear : 
 •'Margaret, hist! come quick, we are 
 
 here ! 
 Dear heart," I said, " we are long alone ; 
 Tlie sea grows stormy, the little ones 
 
 moan." 
 But, ah. she gave me never a look, 
 For her eyes were seal'd to the holy 
 
 book ! 
 Loud prays the priest ; shut stands the 
 
 door. 
 Come away, children, call no more ! 
 Come away, come down, call no more ! 
 
 Down, down, down ! 
 Down to the depths of the sea ! 
 She sits at her wheel in the humming 
 
 town. 
 Singing most joyfully. 
 Hark what she sings : '• O joy, O joy. 
 
7IO 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 For the humming street, and tlie child 
 with its toy ! [well ; 
 
 For the priest and the bell, and the holy 
 For the wheel where I spun. 
 And the blessed light of the sun ! " 
 And so she sings her fill, 
 Singing most joyfully. 
 Till the spindle drops from her hand. 
 And the w-hizzing wheel stands still. 
 She steals to the window, and looks at 
 
 •the sand, 
 And over the sand at the sea ; 
 And her eyes are set in a stare ; 
 And anon there breaks a sigh, 
 And anon there drops a tear. 
 From a son-ow-clouded eye. 
 And a heart sorrow-laden. 
 A long, long sigh : 
 For the cold strange eyes of a little Mer- 
 
 maiden 
 And the gleam of her golden hair. 
 
 Come away, away children ; 
 Come children, come down ! 
 The hoarse wind blows coldly ; 
 Lights shine in the town. 
 She will start from her slumber 
 When gusts shake the door ; 
 She will hear the winds howling. 
 Will hear the waves roar. 
 We shall see, while above us 
 The waves roar and whirl, 
 A ceiling of amber, 
 A pavement of pearl. 
 Singing: " Here came a mortal. 
 But faithless was she ! 
 And alone dwell for ever 
 The kings of the sea." 
 
 But, children, at midnight, 
 
 When soft the winds blow. 
 
 When clear falls the moonlight, 
 
 When spring tides are low ; 
 
 When sweet airs come seaward 
 
 From heaths starr'd with broom. 
 
 And high rocks throw mildly 
 
 On the blanch'd sands a gloom ; 
 
 Up the still, glistening beaches. 
 
 Up the creeks we will hie, 
 
 Over banks of bright seaweed 
 
 The ebb-tide leaves dry. 
 
 We will gaze, from the sand hills. 
 
 At the white, sleeping town ; 
 
 At the church on the hill-side — 
 
 And then come back down. 
 
 Singing : " There dwells a loved one. 
 
 But cruel is she ! 
 
 She left lonely for ever 
 
 The kings of the sea." 1849. 
 
 THE STRAYED REVELLER 
 
 THE PORTICO OF CIRCE'S PALACE 
 EVENING 
 
 A Youth. Circe 
 The Youth 
 
 Faster, faster, 
 
 Circe, Goddess, 
 
 Let the wild, thronging train, 
 The bright procession 
 Of eddying forms. 
 Sweep through my soul ! 
 
 Thou standest, smiling 
 
 Down on me ! tliy right arm, 
 
 Lean'd up against the column there, 
 
 Props thy soft clieek ; 
 
 Tln^ left holds, hanging loosely. 
 
 The deep cup, ivj-cinctured, 
 
 1 held but now. 
 
 Is it, then, evening 
 So soon ? I see, the night-dews, 
 Clustei-'d in thick beads, dim 
 The agate brooch-stones 
 On thy white shoulder ; 
 The cool night-wind, too. 
 Blows throiigh the portico, 
 Stirs thy hair, Goddess, 
 Waves thy white robe ! 
 
 Circe 
 
 AVhence art thou, sleeper ? 
 
 The Youth 
 
 When the white dawn first , 
 
 Through the rough fir-planks 
 
 Of my hut, by the chestnuts. 
 
 Up at tlie valley-head. 
 
 Came bi'eaking. Goddess ! 
 
 I sjnang up, I threw round me 
 
 My dappled fawn-skin ; 
 
 Passing out, from the wet turf, 
 
 Wliere tliey lay, by the hut door, 
 
 I snatch'd up my vine-crown, my fir-staff, 
 
 All drench'd in dew — 
 
 Came swift down to join 
 
 The rout early gather'd 
 
 In the town, round the temple, 
 
 lacchus' white fane 
 
 On yonder hill. 
 
 Quick I pass'd, following 
 The wood-cutters' cart-track 
 Down the dark valley ; — I saw 
 On my left, througli the beeches, 
 
ARNOLD 
 
 711 
 
 Tliy palace, Goddess, 
 
 Smokeless, empty ! 
 
 Trembling, I enter'd ; beheld 
 
 The court all silent, 
 
 The lions sleeping. 
 
 On the altar this bowl. 
 
 I drank. Goddess ! 
 
 And sank down here, sleeping, 
 
 On the steps of thy portico. 
 
 Circe 
 
 Foolish boy ! Why tremblest thou ? 
 Thou lovest it, then, my wine ? 
 Wouldst more of it ? See, how glows, 
 Through the delicate, flush'd marble. 
 The red, creaming liquor, 
 Strown with dark seeds ! 
 Drink, then ! I cliide thee not. 
 Deny thee not my bowl. 
 Come, stretch forth thy hand, then — so ! 
 Drink — drink again ! 
 
 Tlie Youth 
 
 Thanks, gracious one ! 
 Ah, tlie sweet fumes again ! 
 More soft, ah me, 
 More subtle-winding 
 Than Pan's flute-music ! 
 Faint — faint ! Ah me, 
 Again the sweet sleep ! 
 
 Cb'ce 
 
 Hist ! Tliou — within there I 
 Come forth . Ulysses ! 
 Art tired with hunting ? 
 While we range the woodland, 
 See what the day brings. 
 
 Ulysses 
 
 Ever new magic ! 
 
 Hast thou then lured hither, 
 
 Wonderful Goddess, by thy art. 
 
 The young, languid-eyed Ampelus, 
 
 lacchus' darling — 
 
 Or some youth beloved of Pan, 
 
 Of Pan and the Nymphs? 
 
 That he sits, bending downward 
 
 His white, delicate neck 
 
 To the ivy- wreathed marge 
 
 Of thy cup ; the bright, glancing vine- 
 leaves 
 
 That crown his hair. 
 
 Falling forward, mingling 
 
 With the dark ivy-plants — 
 
 His fawn-skin, half untied, 
 
 Smear'd with red wine-stains ? Who is 
 he, 
 
 That he sits, overweigh'd 
 
 By fumes of wine and sleep. 
 
 So late, in thj' portico ? 
 
 What youtli, Goddess, — what guest 
 
 Of Gods or mortals ? 
 
 Circe 
 
 Hist ! he wakes ! 
 
 I lured him not hither, Ulysses. 
 
 Nay, ask him I 
 
 The Youth 
 
 Who speaks ? Ah, who comes foi'th 
 
 To thy side, Goddess, from within ? 
 
 How shall I name him ? 
 
 This spare, dark-featured, 
 
 Quick-eyed stranger ? 
 
 Ah, and I see too 
 
 His sailor's bonnet. 
 
 His sliort coat, travel tarnish'd, 
 
 With one arm bare ! — 
 
 Art thou not he, w4ioni fame 
 
 This long time rumors 
 
 The favor'd guest of Circe, brought by 
 
 the waves ? 
 Art thou he, stranger ? 
 The wise Ulysses, 
 Laertes' son ? 
 
 Ulysses 
 
 I am Ulysses. 
 
 And thou, too, sleeper ? 
 
 Thy voice is sweet. 
 
 It may be thou hast foUow'd 
 
 Through the islands some divine bard. 
 
 By age taught many things, 
 
 Age and the Muses ; 
 
 And heard him delighting 
 
 The chiefs and people 
 
 In the banquet, and learn'd his songs, 
 
 Of Gods and Heroes, 
 
 Of war and arts. 
 
 And peopled cities, 
 
 Inland, or built 
 
 By the graj' sea. — If so, then hail ! 
 
 I honor and welcome thee. 
 
 Tlie Youth 
 
 The Gods are happy. 
 They turn on all sides 
 Their shining eyes. 
 And see below them 
 The earth and men. 
 
 They see Tiresias 
 Sitting, staff in hand, 
 On the warm, grassy 
 Asopus bank. 
 His robe drawn over 
 
712 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 His old, sightless head, 
 
 Revolving inly 
 
 The doom of Thebes. 
 
 They see the Centaurs 
 In the upper glens 
 Of Pelion, in the streams, 
 Where red-berried ashes fringe 
 The clear-brown shallow pools. 
 With streaming flanks, and heads 
 Rear'd proudly, snuffing 
 The mountain wind. 
 
 Tliey see the Indian 
 Drifting, knife in hand. 
 His frail boat moor"d to 
 A floating isle thick-matted 
 With large-leaved, low-creei^ing melon- 
 plants, 
 And the dark cucumber. 
 He reaps, and stows them, 
 Drifting — drifting : — round him, 
 Round liis green harvest-plot. 
 Flow the cool lake-waves. 
 The mountains ring them. 
 
 They see the Scythian 
 
 On tlie wide stepp, unharnessing 
 
 His vvheel'd house at noon. 
 
 He tet[iers his beast down, and makes 
 
 his meal — 
 Mares' milk, and bread 
 Baked on the embers ; — all ai'ound 
 The boundless, waving grass-plains 
 
 stretch, thick-star r'd 
 With saffron and tlie yellow^ hollyhock 
 And flag-leaved iris-flowers. 
 Sitting in his cart [miles. 
 
 He makes his meal ; before him, for long 
 Alive with bright green lizards. 
 And the springing bustard-fowl, 
 The track, a straight black line, 
 Furrows the rich soil ; here and there 
 Clusters of lonely mounds 
 ToppVl with rougii-hewn, 
 Gray, rain-blear'd statues, overpeer 
 The sunny waste. 
 
 They see the ferry 
 On the broad, clay-laden 
 Lone Chorasmian stream ; thereon. 
 With snort and strain. 
 Two horses, strongly swimming, tow 
 The ferry-boat, with woven ropes 
 To either bow 
 
 Firm harness'd by the mane ; a chief 
 With shout and sliaken spear. 
 Stands at the prow, and guides them ; 
 but astern 
 
 The cowering merchants, in long robes, 
 
 Sit pale beside their wealth 
 
 Of silk-bales and of balsam-drops. 
 
 Of gold and ivory, 
 
 Of turquoise-earth and amethyst, 
 
 Jasper and chalcedony, 
 
 And milk-barr'd onyx-stones. 
 
 Tlie loaded boat swings groaning 
 
 In the yellow eddies ; 
 
 The Gods behold them. 
 
 They see the Heroes 
 
 Sitting in the dark ship 
 
 On the foamless, long-heaving 
 
 A^iolet sea. 
 
 At sunset nearing 
 
 The Happy Islands. 
 
 These things. Ulysses, 
 The wise bards also 
 Behold and sing. 
 But oh, what labor I 
 O prince, what pain ! 
 
 They too can see 
 Tiresias ; — but the Gods, 
 Wlio give them vision. 
 Added this law : 
 That they sliould bear too 
 His groping blindness. 
 His dark foreboding. 
 His scorn'd while hairs ; 
 Bear Hera's anger 
 Througli a life lengthen'd 
 To .seven ages. 
 
 They see the Centaurs 
 
 On Pelion ; — then tliey feel, 
 
 They too, the maddening wine 
 
 Swell their large veins to bursting ; in 
 
 wild pain 
 They feel the biting spears 
 Of the grim Lapitha^. and Theseus, drive. 
 Drive crashing through their bones; 
 
 they feel 
 High on a jutting rock in the red stream 
 Alcmena's dreadful son 
 Ply his bow ; such a price 
 The God« exact for song : 
 To become what we sing. 
 
 They see the Indian 
 
 On his mountain lake ; but squalls 
 
 Make their skiff reel, and worms 
 
 In the unkind spring have gnawn 
 
 Their melon-harvest to the heart. — They 
 
 see 
 The Scythian ; but long frosts 
 Parch them in winter-time on the bare 
 
 stepp. 
 
ARNOLD 
 
 713 
 
 Till they too fade like grass ; they crawl 
 Like shadows forth in spring. 
 
 They see the merchants 
 
 On the Oxus stream ; — but care 
 
 Must visit first them too, and make 
 
 them pale. 
 Whether, through whirling sand, 
 A cloud of desert robber-horse have 
 
 burst 
 Upon their caravan ; or greedy kings. 
 In the vvaird cities the way passes 
 
 through, 
 Crush'd them with tolls : or fever-airs. 
 On some great river's marge, 
 Mown them down, far from home. 
 
 They see the Heroes 
 
 Near harbor ; — but they share 
 
 Their lives, and former violent toil in 
 
 Thebes. 
 Seven-gated Thebes, or Troy ; 
 Or where the echoing oars 
 Of Argo first 
 Startled the unknown sea. 
 
 The old Silenus 
 
 Came, lolling in the sunshine, 
 
 From the dewy forest-coverts, 
 
 This way at noon. 
 
 Sitting by me, while his Fauns 
 
 Down at the water-side 
 
 Sprinkled and smoothed 
 
 His drooping garland, 
 
 He told me these things. 
 
 But I, Ulysses, 
 Sitting on the warm steps, 
 Looking over the valley. 
 All day long, have seen. 
 Without pain, without labor, 
 Sometimes a wild-hair'd Msenad — 
 Sometimes a Faun with torches — 
 And sometimes, for a moment, 
 Passing through the dark stems 
 Flowing-robed, the beloved, 
 The desire, tlie divine, 
 Beloved lacchus. 
 
 Ah, cool night-wind, tremulous stars ! 
 
 Ah. glimmering water. 
 
 Fitful earth-murmur. 
 
 Dreaming woods ! 
 
 Ah, golden-haired, strangely smiling 
 
 Goddess, 
 And thou, proved, mucli enduring, 
 Wave-toss'd Wanderer ! 
 Who can stand still V 
 Ye fade, ye swim, ye waver before me — 
 The cup again ! 
 
 Faster, faster, 
 
 O Circe, Goddess. 
 
 Let the wild, thronging train, 
 
 The bright procession 
 
 Of eddying forms, 
 
 Sweep through my soul ! 
 
 MEMORIAL VERSES 
 
 1849. 
 
 April, 1850 
 
 Goethe in Weimar sleeps, and Greece, 
 Long since, saw Byron's struggle cease. 
 But one such death remain'd to come ; 
 The last poetic voice is dinnb — 
 We stand to-day by WordswortlTstomb. 
 
 When Byron's eyes were shut in death, 
 We bow'd our head and held our breath. 
 He taught us little ; but our soul 
 H-dd felt him like the thunder's roll. 
 With shivering heart tlie strife we saw 
 Of passion witli eternal law ; 
 And yet witli reverential awe 
 We watch'd the fount of fiery life 
 Which served for that Titanic strife. 
 
 When Goethe's death was told, we 
 
 said : 
 Sunk, tlien, is Europe's sagest head. 
 Phj^sician of tlie iron age, 
 Goethe has done his pilgrimage. 
 He took the suffering human race. 
 He read each wound, each weakness 
 
 clear ; 
 And struck his finger on the place, 
 And said : Tlion ailest here, and here ! 
 He look'd on Europe's dying hovu- 
 Of fitful dream and feverish power ; 
 His eye plunged down the weltering 
 
 strife. 
 The turmoil of expii'ing life — 
 He said : The end is everywhere. 
 Art still has truth, fake refuge there! 
 And he was happy, if to know 
 Causes of things, and far below 
 His feet to see the lurid flow 
 Of terror, and insane distress, 
 And headlong fate, be happiness. 
 
 And Wordsworth !— Ah, pale ghosts, 
 
 x'ejoice ! 
 For never has such soothing voice 
 Been to your shadowy world convey'd. 
 Since erst, at morn, some wandering 
 
 shade 
 Heard the clear song of Orpheus come 
 Through Hades, and the mournful 
 
 gloom. 
 
714 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Wordsvvoi'th has gone from us — and ye, 
 Ah, may ye feel liis voice as we ! 
 He too vipon a wintry clime 
 Had fallen — on tliis iron time 
 Of doubts, disputes, distractions, fears. 
 He found us when the age had bound 
 Our souls in its benumbing round ; 
 He spoke, and loosed our heart in tears. 
 He laid us as we lay at birth 
 On the cool flowery lap of earth. 
 Smiles broke from us and we had ease ; 
 The hills were round us, and the breeze 
 Went o'er the sun-lit fields again ; 
 Our foreheads felt the wind and rain. 
 Our youth returned ; for there was shed 
 On spirits that had long been defid, 
 Spirits dried up and closely furl'd, 
 The freshness of the early world. 
 
 Ah ! since dark days still bring to light 
 Man's prudence and man's fiery might. 
 Time may restore us in his course 
 Goethe's sage mind and Byron's force ; 
 But where will Europe's latter hour 
 Again find Wordsworth's healing 
 
 power ? 
 Others will teach us how to dare, 
 And against fear our breast to steel : 
 Others will strengthen us to bear — 
 But who, ah ! who, will make us feel ? 
 The cloud of mortal destiny. 
 Others will front it fearlessly — 
 But who, like him, will put it by ? 
 
 Keep fresh the grass upon his grave 
 O Rotha, with tliy living wave ! 
 Sing him thy best ! for few or none 
 Hears thy voice right, now he is gone. 
 
 1850. 
 
 SELF-DECEPTION 
 
 Say, what blinds us, that we claim the 
 
 glory 
 Of possessing powers not our share? 
 — Since man woke on earth, he knows 
 
 his story. 
 But, before we woke on earth, we were. 
 
 Long, long since, undower'd yet, our 
 spirit 
 
 Roam'd, ere birth, the treasuries of God ; 
 
 Saw the gifts, the powers it might in- 
 herit, 
 
 Ask'd an outfit for its earthly road. 
 
 Then, as now, this tremulous, eager 
 
 being 
 Strain'd and long'd and grasp'd each gift 
 
 it saw ; 
 
 Then, as now, a Power beyond our see- 
 ing. 
 
 Staved us back, ana gave our choice the 
 law. 
 
 Ah, whose hand tl\at day through 
 Heaven guided 
 
 Man's new spirit, since it was not we? 
 
 All, who swayed our choice and who de- 
 cided 
 
 What our gifts, and what our wants 
 should be ? 
 
 . For, alas ! he left us eacli retaining 
 Siueds of gifts which he refused in full. 
 Still these waste us with their hopeless 
 
 straining, 
 Still tlie attempt to use them proves 
 
 tlieni null. 
 
 And on earth we wander, groping, reel- 
 ing ; 
 
 Powers stir in us, stir and disappear. 
 
 Ah ! and he, who placed our master- 
 feeling, 
 
 Fail'd to place that master- feeling clear. 
 
 We but dream we have our wish'd-for 
 
 powers. 
 Ends we seek we never shall attain. 
 Ah ! some power exists there, which is 
 
 ours ? 
 Souie end is there, we indeed may gain? 
 
 1852. 
 
 THE SECOND BEST 
 
 Moderate tasks and moderate leisure, 
 Quiet living, strict-kept measure 
 Both in suffering and in pleasure — 
 'Tis for this thy nature yearns. 
 
 But so many books thou readest. 
 But so many schemes thou breedest, 
 But so many wishes feedest. 
 That thy poor head almost turns. 
 
 And (the world 's so madly jangled, 
 Human things so fast entangled) 
 Nature's wish must now be strangled 
 For tliat best which she discerns. 
 
 So it mitst be ! yet. while leading 
 A strain'd life, while overfeeding. 
 Like the rest, his wit with reading, 
 No small profit that man earns. 
 
 Who through all he meets can steer him, 
 Can reject what cannot clear him. 
 Cling to what can truly cheer him ; 
 Who each day more surely learns 
 
ARNOLD 
 
 715 
 
 That an innnilse, from tlie distance 
 Of his deepest, best existence, 
 To the words, " Hope, Light, Persist- 
 ence," 
 Strongly sets and truly burns. 
 
 1852. 
 
 LYRIC STANZAS OF EMPEDOCLES 
 
 The out-spread world to span 
 A cord the Gods first slung, 
 And then tlie soul of man 
 There, like a mirror, hung. 
 And bade tlie winds tiirough space im- 
 pel tlie gust}' toy. 
 
 Hither and tliither spins 
 The wind-borne, mirroring soul, 
 A thousand glimpses wins. 
 And never sees a whole ; 
 Looks once, and drives elsewhere, and 
 leaves its last employ. 
 
 The Gods laugh in their sleeve 
 To watch man doubt and fear 
 Who knows not wliat to believe 
 Since he sees nothing; clear. 
 And dares stamp nothing false where 
 he finds notliing sure. 
 
 Is this, Pausanias, so? 
 And can our souls not strive. 
 But with tlie winds must go. 
 And hurry wliere they drive? 
 Is fate indeed so strong, man's strengtii 
 indeed so poor ? 
 
 I will not judge. That man, 
 Howbeit, I judge as lost. 
 Whose mind allows a plan. 
 Which would degrade it most ; 
 And he treats doubt the best who tries 
 to see least ill. 
 
 Be not, tlien, fear's blind slave! 
 Thou art my friend ; to thee. 
 All knowledge that I have, 
 All skill I wield, are free. 
 Aslc not the latest news of the last mir- 
 acle, 
 
 Ask not what days and nights 
 In trance Pantheia lay. 
 But ask how tliou svicli sights 
 May'st see without dismay ; 
 Ask what most lielps when known, thou 
 son of Anchitus ! 
 
 What ? hate, and awe, and shame 
 Fill thee to see our time ; 
 
 Tliou feelest thy soul's frame 
 Shaken and out of ciiime? 
 Wliat ? life and cliance go hard with tliee 
 too, as witii us ; 
 
 Tiiy citizens, 'tis said, 
 Envy thee and oppress, 
 Thy goodness no men aid. 
 All strive to make it less ; 
 Tyranny, pride, and lust, fill Sicily's 
 abodes ; 
 
 Heaven is with eai'tli at strife, 
 Signs make tli.y soul afraid, 
 Tlie dead retnin to life. 
 Rivers are dried, winds stay'd ; 
 Scarce can one think in c:Jm, so tlii'eat- 
 ening are tlie Gods ; 
 
 And we feel, day and night, 
 Tlie burden of ourselves — 
 Well, then, the wiser wight 
 In his own bosom delves. 
 And asks what ails him so, and gets 
 what cure he can. 
 
 The sophist sneers : Fool, take 
 Thy pleasure, right or wrong. 
 The pious wail : Forsake 
 A world these sophists throng. 
 Be neither saint nor sophist-led, but be a 
 man ! 
 
 These hundred doctors try 
 To preach thee to their school. 
 We have the truth ! they cry ; 
 And yet their oracle. 
 Trumpet it as they will, is but the same 
 as thine. 
 
 Once read thy own breast right. 
 And thou hast done with fears ; 
 Man gets no other light, 
 Search he a thousand j^ears. 
 Sink in thyself ! there ask what ails thee, 
 at that shrine ! 
 
 What makes thee struggle and rave ? 
 Why are men ill at ease ? — 
 'Tis that the lot they have 
 Fails their own will to please ; 
 For man would make no murmuring, 
 were his will obey'd. 
 
 And why is it, that still 
 Man with his lot thus fights?— 
 'Tis that he makes this ?(v7Z 
 The measure of his rights. 
 And believes Nature outraged if his will's 
 gainsaid. 
 
 A\ 
 
 <. 
 
 ^' >< 
 
7i6 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Couldst thou, Pausanias, learn 
 How deep a fault is this ; 
 Couldst thou but once discern 
 Thou hast no right to bliss, 
 No title from the Gods to welfare and 
 repose ; 
 
 Then thou wouldst look less mazed 
 Whene'er of bliss debarr'd, 
 Nor think tlie Gods were crazed 
 When tliy own lot went hard. 
 But we are all tlie same — the fools of our 
 own woes ! 
 
 For. from the first faint morn 
 Of life, the thirst for bliss 
 Deep in man's heart is born ; 
 And, sceptic as he is. 
 He fails not to judge clear if this be 
 quench'd or no. 
 
 Nor is tlie thirst to blame. 
 Man errs not that he deems 
 His welfare his true aim, 
 He errs because he dreams 
 The world does but exist that welfare to 
 bestow. 
 
 We mortals ai'e no kings 
 For each of whom to sway 
 A new-made world up-springs, 
 Meant merely for his play : 
 No, we are strangers here ; the world is 
 from of old. 
 
 In vain our pent wills fret, 
 And would the world subdue. 
 Limits we did not set 
 Condition all we do ; 
 Born into life we are, and life must be 
 our mould. 
 
 Born into life I — man grows 
 Forth from his parents' stem. 
 And blends their bloods, as those 
 Of theirs are blent in them ; 
 So each new man strikes root into a far 
 fore-time. 
 
 Born into life ! — we bring 
 A bias with us here. 
 And, when here, each new thing 
 Affects us we conre near ; 
 To tunes we did not call our being must 
 keep chime. 
 
 Born into life ! — in vain, 
 Opinions, those or these, 
 Unalter'd to retain 
 
 The obstinate mind decrees ; 
 Experience, like a sea, soaks all-eflfacing 
 in. 
 
 Born into life !^ — who lists 
 May what is false hold dear, 
 And for himself make mists 
 TJirough which to see less clear : 
 The world is what it is, for all our dust 
 and din. 
 
 Born into life I — 'tis we, 
 And not tlie world, are new ; 
 Our cry for bliss, our plea. 
 Others have urged it too — 
 Our wants have all been felt, our errors 
 made before. 
 
 No eye could be too sound 
 To observe a world .so vast, 
 No patience too profound 
 To sort what's here amass'd ; 
 How man may here best live no care 
 too great to explore. 
 
 But we — as some rude guest 
 Would change, where'er he roam, 
 Tlie manners there profess'd 
 To those he brings from home — 
 AVe mark not the world's course, but 
 would have it take ours. 
 
 The world's course proves the terms 
 On which man wins content ; 
 Reason the proof confirms — 
 We spurn it, and invent 
 A false course for the world, and for 
 ourselves, false powers. 
 
 Riches we wish to get. 
 Yet remain spendthrifts still ; 
 We would have health, and yet 
 Still use our bodies ill ; 
 Bafflers of our own praj'ers, from youlli 
 to life's last scenes. 
 
 We would have inward peace. 
 Yet will not look within ; 
 We would have misery cease. 
 Yet will not cease from sin ; 
 We want all pleasant ends, but will use 
 no harsh means ; 
 
 We do not what we ought, 
 What we ought not, we do. 
 And lean upon the thought 
 That chance will bring us through ; 
 But our own acts, for good or ill, are 
 mightier powers. 
 
ARNOLD 
 
 717 
 
 I 
 
 Yet, even wlieu man forsakes 
 All sin, — is just, is pure. 
 Abandons all whicli makes 
 His welfare insecure, — 
 Otiier existences there are, that clash 
 with ours. 
 
 Like us, the lightning-fires 
 Love to have scope and play ; 
 The stream, like us, desires 
 An unimpeded way ; 
 Like us, the Libyan wind delights to 
 roam at large. 
 
 Streams will not curb their pride 
 The just man not to entomb, 
 Nor lightnings go aside 
 To give his virtues room : 
 Nor is that wind less rougli which blows 
 a good man's barge. 
 
 Nature, with equal mind. 
 Sees all her sons at play ; 
 Sees man control the wind. 
 The wind sweep man away ; 
 Allows the proudly-riding and the 
 foundering bark. 
 
 And, lastly, though of ours 
 No weakness spoil our lot. 
 Though the non -human powers 
 Of Natui'e harm us not, 
 The ill deeds of other men make often 
 our life dark. 
 
 What were the wise man's plan ? — 
 Through tliis sharp, toil-set life. 
 To work as best he can. 
 And win what's won by strife. — 
 But we an easier way to clieat our pains 
 have found. 
 
 Scratch'd by a fall, with moans 
 As children of weak age 
 Lend life to the dumb stones 
 Whereon to vent tlieir rage. 
 And bend their little fists, and rate the 
 senseless ground ; 
 
 So, loath to suffer mute, 
 We, peopling the void air. 
 Make Gods to wliom to impute 
 The ills we ought to bear ; 
 With God and Fate to rail at, suffering 
 easily. 
 
 Yet grant — as sense long miss'd 
 Things that are now perceived, 
 And much may still exist 
 
 Which is not yet believed — 
 Grant that the world were full of Gods 
 we cannot see ; 
 
 All things the world which fill 
 Of but one stuff are spun. 
 That we who rail are still, 
 With what we rail at, one ; 
 One with the o'erlabored Power that 
 through the breadth and length 
 
 Of earth, and air. and sea. 
 In men, and plants, and stones. 
 Hath toil perjjetually, 
 And travails, pants, and moans ; 
 Fain would do all things well, but some- 
 times fails in strength. 
 
 And patiently exact 
 This universal God 
 Alike to any act 
 Proceeds at any nod. 
 And quietly declaims the cursings of 
 himself. 
 
 This is not what man hates. 
 Yet lie can curse but this. 
 Harsh Gods and hostile Fates 
 Are dreams ! this only is 
 Is everywhere ; sustains the wise, the 
 foolish elf. 
 
 Not only, in the intent 
 To attach blame elsewhere. 
 Do we at will invent 
 Stern Powers who make their care 
 To embitter human life, malignant 
 Deities ; 
 
 But, next, we would reverse 
 Tlie scheme ourselves have spun. 
 And what we made to ciu-se 
 We now would lean upon. 
 And feign kind Gods who perfect what 
 man vainly tries. 
 
 Look, the world tempts our eye, 
 And we would know it all ! 
 We map the starry sky. 
 We mine this earthen ball. 
 We measure the sea-tides, we nmulier 
 the sea-sands ; 
 
 We scrutinise the dates 
 Of long-past human things, 
 Tlie liounds of effaced states, 
 Tlie lines of deceased kings ; 
 We searcli out dead men's words, and 
 works of dead men's hands ; 
 
 J 
 
7i8 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 We shut our eyes, and muse 
 How our own minds are made, 
 What springs of tliought they use, 
 How rigliten'd, liow betray'd — 
 And spend our wit to name what most 
 employ unnamed. 
 
 But still, as we proceed 
 The mass swells more and more 
 Of volumes yet to read. 
 Of secrets yet to explore. 
 Our hair grows graj^ our eyes are 
 dimm'd, our lieat is tamed ; 
 
 We rest our faculties. 
 And thus address the Gods : 
 " Ti'ue science if there is, 
 It stays in your abodes ! 
 Man's measures cannot mete the im- 
 measurable All. 
 
 " You only can take in 
 The world's immense design. 
 Our desperate search was sin. 
 Which henceforth we resign, 
 Sure only that your mind .sees all things 
 which befall." 
 
 Fools ! That in man's brief term 
 He cannot all things view, 
 Affords no ground to affirm 
 That tliere are Gods who do ; 
 Nor_does being \yeary prove_that he has 
 where to rest. 
 
 Again. — Our youthful blood 
 Claims rapture as its right ; 
 The world, a rolling flood 
 Of newness and delight. 
 Draws in the enanior'd gazer to its 
 shining breast ; 
 
 Pleasure, to our hot grasp, 
 Gives flowers after flowers ; 
 With passionate warmth we clasp 
 Hand after hand in ours ; 
 Now do we soon perceive how fast our 
 youth is spent. 
 
 At once our eyes grow clear ! 
 We see, in blank dismay, 
 Year posting after year. 
 Sense after sense decay ; 
 Our shivering heart is mined by secret 
 discontent ; 
 
 Yet still, in spite of truth. 
 In spite of hopes entonib'd, 
 That longing of our youth 
 
 Burns ever unconsumed, 
 Still hungrier for delight as delights 
 grow more rare. 
 
 We pause ; we hush our heart. 
 And thus address the Gods : 
 '* The world hath fail'd to impart 
 The joy our youth forebodes, 
 Fail'd to fill up the void whicii in our 
 breasts we bear. 
 
 " Changeful till now, we still 
 Look'd on to something new ; 
 Let us, with changeless will. 
 Henceforth look on to you. 
 To find with you the joy we in vain here 
 require ! "' 
 
 Fools ! That so often here 
 Happiness niock'd our prayer, 
 I tliink, niiglit make us fear 
 A like event elsewhere ; 
 Make us, not fly to dreams, but moderate 
 desire. 
 
 And yet, for those who kuow 
 Themselves, who wisely take 
 Their way through life, and bow 
 To what they cannot bieak. 
 Why should I say that life need yield 
 but moderate bliss ? 
 
 Shall we, with temper spoil'd, 
 Healtii sapp'd by living ill. 
 And judgment all embroil'd 
 By sadness and self-will. 
 Shall we judge what for man is not true 
 bliss or is ■? 
 
 Is it so small a thing 
 
 To have enjoy'd the sun, 
 
 To have lived light in the spring. 
 
 To have loved, to have tliought, to 
 
 have done ; 
 To have advanced true friends, and beat 
 
 down baffling foes — 
 
 That we must feign a bliss 
 Of doubtful future date. 
 And, while we dream on this. 
 Lose all our present state. 
 And relegate to worlds yet distant oin- 
 repose ? 
 
 Not much, I know, you prize 
 What pleasures may be had, 
 AVho look on life with e3''es 
 Estranged, like mine, and sad ; 
 And yet the village-churl feels the truth 
 more than you. 
 
/> 
 
 ,^^ 
 
 '/t^- ^ 
 
 ARNOLD 
 
 719 
 
 Who's loath to leave tliis life 
 Which to him little yields — 
 His hard-task'd sunburnt wife. 
 His often-labor'd fields, 
 The boors with whom he talk'd, the 
 country -spots he knew. 
 
 But tliou, because thou hear'st 
 Men scoff at Heaven and Fate, 
 Because the (lods thou fear'wt 
 Fail to make blest thj^ state, 
 Tremblest, and wilt not dare to trust 
 the joys there are ! 
 
 I say : Fear not ! Life still 
 Leaves human effort scope. 
 But, since life teems with ill, 
 Nurse no extravagant hope ; 
 Because thou must not dream, thou 
 need'st not then despair ! 1852. 
 
 CALLICLES' SONG 
 
 FROM EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA 
 
 Through the black, rushing sinoke- 
 
 bursts, 
 Thick breaks the red flame ; 
 All Etna heaves fiercely 
 Her forest-clothed frame. 
 
 Not here, O Apollo ! 
 
 Are haunts meet for tliee. 
 
 But, where Helicon breaks down 
 
 In cliff to the sea, 
 
 Where the moon-silver'd inlets 
 Send far their light voice 
 Up the still vale of Thisbe, 
 O speed, and rejoice ! 
 
 On the sward at the cliff-top 
 Lie strewn the white flocks. 
 On the cliff-side the pigeons 
 Roost deep in the rocks. 
 
 In the moonlight the shepherds, 
 Soft luird by the rills, 
 Lie wrapped in their blankets 
 Asleep on the hills. 
 
 — What forms are these coming 
 So white through the gloom ? 
 What garments out-glistening 
 The gold-flower'd broom ? 
 
 What sweet-breathing presence 
 Out-perfumes the thyme V 
 What voices enrapture 
 The night's balmy ijrime ? — 
 
 'Tis Apollo comes leading 
 His choir, the Nine. 
 — The leader is fairest, 
 But all are divine. 
 
 They are lost in the hollows ! 
 They stream up again ! 
 What seeks on this mountain 
 The glorified train ? — 
 
 They bathe on this mountain, 
 In the spring by their road ; 
 Then on to Olj'mpus, 
 Their endless abode. 
 
 — Wliose praise do they mention ? 
 Of what is it told ?— 
 What will be for ever ; 
 What was from of old. 
 
 First hymn they tlie Father 
 Of all tilings ; and tlien. 
 The rest of immortals. 
 The action of men ; 
 
 The day in his hotness, 
 Tlie strife witli the palm ; 
 The night in her silence, 
 The stars in their calm. 
 
 1853. 
 
 THE YOUTH OF NATURE 
 
 Raised are the dripping oars. 
 
 Silent the boat ! tlie lake. 
 
 Lovely and soft as a dream. 
 
 Swims in the siieen of the moon. 
 
 The mountains stand at its head 
 
 Clear in the pure June-night, 
 
 But tlie valleys are floodeil with haze. 
 
 Rydal and Fairfield are tliere ; 
 
 In tlie shadow Wordsworth lies dead. 
 
 80 it is, so it will be for aye. 
 
 Nature is fresli as of old. 
 
 Is lovely ; a mortal is dead. 
 
 The spots which recall him survive. 
 For he lent a new life to these hills. 
 The Pillar still broods o'er the fields 
 Wliich border Ennerdale Lake, 
 And Egremont sleeps by the sea. 
 The gleam of Tlie Evening Star 
 Twinkles on Grasmere no more, 
 But ruin'd and solemn and gray 
 The sheepfold of Michael survives ; 
 And, far to the south, the lieath 
 Still blows in the Quantock coombs 
 By the favorite waters of Ruth. 
 These survive ! — yet not without pain, 
 Pain and dejection to-night. 
 Can I feel that their poet is gone. 
 
720 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 He grew old in an age he condemn'd. 
 / He look'd on the i-ushing decay 
 / Of tlie times which had sheltered his 
 / j'outh, 
 
 I Felt the dissolving throes 
 ' Of a social order lie loved ; 
 
 Outlived liis brethren, liis peers ; 
 
 And, like the Theban seer, 
 \ Died in his enemies' day. 
 
 Cold bubbled tlie spring of Tilphusa, 
 Copais lay bright in the moon, 
 Helicon glass'd in the lake 
 Its firs, and afar rose the peaks 
 Of Parnassus, snowily cleai- ; 
 TJiebes was behind liim in flames, 
 And the clang of arms in his ear. 
 When his awe-struck captors led 
 Tlie Theban seer to tlie spring. 
 Tiresias drank and died. 
 Nor did reviving Thebes 
 See such a propliet again. 
 
 Well may we mourn, when the head 
 
 Of a sacred poet lies low 
 
 In an age which can rear them no more ! 
 
 The complaining millions of men 
 
 Darken in labor and pain : 
 
 But he was a priest to us all 
 
 Of the wonder and bloom of tlie world, 
 
 Which we saw with his eyes, and were 
 
 glad. 
 He is dead, and the fruit-bearing day 
 Of his race is past on the eartli : 
 .And darkness returns to our eyes. 
 
 For, oh I is it j^ou, is it you. 
 Moonlight, and shadow, and lake, 
 And mountains, tliat fill us with joy. 
 Or tlie poet wiio sings you so well ? 
 Is it you, O beautjs O grace, 
 O charm, O romance, that we feel. 
 Or the voice which reveals wliat you are ? 
 Are ye, like daylight and sun, 
 Sliared and rejoiced in by all ? 
 Or are ye immei'sed in the mass 
 Of matter, and hard to extract. 
 Or sunk at the core of the world 
 Too deep for the most to discern ? 
 Like stars in the deep of the sky. 
 Which arise on the glass of the sage. 
 But are lost when their watcher is gone. 
 
 " They are here " — I heard, as men heard 
 
 In Mysian Ida the voice 
 
 Of the Mighty Motlier, or Crete, 
 
 The murmur of Nature reply — 
 
 " Loveliness, magic, and grace. 
 
 They are here ! tliey are set in the world, 
 
 Tliey abide ; and llie finest of souls 
 
 Hath not been thrill'd by them all, 
 Nor the dullest been dead to them quite. 
 Tlie poet who sings them may die, 
 But they are immortal and live. 
 For they are the life of the world. 
 Will }'e not learn it, and know. 
 AVhen ye mourn that a poet is dead. 
 That the singer was less than his themes, 
 Life, and emotion, and I ? 
 
 " More than the singer are these. 
 
 AVeak is the tremor of pain 
 
 That thrills in his movirn fullest chord 
 
 To that which once ran through his soul. 
 
 Cold the elation of joy 
 
 In his gladdest, airiest song. 
 
 To that which of old in his youth 
 
 Fiird iiim and made him divine. 
 
 Hardly his voice at its best 
 
 Gives us a sense of the awe. 
 
 The vastness, the grandeur, the gloom 
 
 Of the unlit gulf of himself. 
 
 " Ye know not yourselves ; and your 
 
 bards — 
 The clearest, the best, who have read 
 Most in themselves — have beheld 
 Less than thej^ left unreveard. 
 Ye express not yourselves ; — can you 
 
 make 
 AVith marble, with color, with word, 
 AVhat charm'd you in others re-live? 
 Can thy pencil. O artist ! restore 
 The figure, the bloom of thy love. 
 As she was in her morning of spring ? 
 Canst thou paint the ineffable smile 
 Of her eyes as they rested on thine V 
 Can theimage of life have the glow. 
 The motion of life itself? 
 
 '• Yourselves and j^our fellows ye know 
 
 not ; and me. 
 The mateless. the one, will ye know ? 
 AA^'ill ye scan me, and read me, and tell 
 Of the thoughts that ferment in my 
 
 breast. 
 My longing, my sadness, mj" joy ? 
 Will ye claim for your great ones the 
 
 gift 
 To have renderVl the gleam of my skies. 
 To have echoed the moan of my seas, 
 Utter'd tlie voice of my hills ? 
 When your great ones depart, will ye 
 
 say : 
 All things have suffered a loss. 
 Nature is hid in their grave ? 
 
 " Race after race, man after m.an. 
 Have thought that my secret was theirs. 
 Have dream'd that I lived but for them. 
 
ARNOLD 
 
 721 
 
 Tliat they were my glory and joy. 
 
 — Tliey are dust, they are changed, they 
 
 are gone ! 
 I remain." 1852. 
 
 SELF-DEPENDENCE 
 
 Weary of myself, and sick of asking 
 What I am, and what I oiiglit to be, 
 At tliis vessel's prow I stand, which bears 
 
 me 
 Forwards, forwards, o'er the starlit sea. 
 
 And a look of passionate desire 
 O'er the sea and to tlie stars I send : 
 "Ye wiio from my childhood up have 
 
 calm'd me. 
 Calm me, ah, compose me to the end ! 
 
 " Ah, once more," I cried, " j'e stars, ye 
 
 waters, 
 On my heart j'onr miglity charm renew ; 
 Still, still let me. as I gaze upon you, 
 Feel my soul becoming vast like you ! '" 
 
 From the iiitense, clear, star-sown vault 
 of heaven, 
 
 Over the lit sea's unquiet way. 
 
 In the rustling night-air came tlie an- 
 swer : [they. 
 
 ' ' Wouldst thou be as these are ? Live as 
 
 "Unaflrighted by the silence round 
 
 them, 
 Undistracted by the sights they see, 
 Tliese demand not that the things witli- 
 
 out them 
 Yield them love, amusement, sympathy. 
 
 " And with joy the stars perform their 
 
 shining. 
 And the sea its long moon-silver'd roll : 
 For self-poised they live, nor pine with 
 
 noting 
 All tlie fever of some differing soul. 
 
 " Bounded by themselves, andunregard- 
 
 ful 
 In what state God's other works may be. 
 In tlieir own tasks all their powers 
 
 pouring. 
 These attain the mighty life you see." 
 
 O air-born voice ! long since, severely 
 
 clear, 
 A cry like thine in mine own heart I 
 hear : [he, 
 
 " Resolve to be thyself ; and know that 
 Who finds himself, loses his misery !" 
 
 1853. 
 46 
 
 MORALITY 
 
 We cannot kindle when we will 
 
 The fire which in the heart resides ; 
 
 The spirit bloweth and is still. 
 
 In mystery our soul abides. 
 
 But tasks in houi's of insight will'd 
 Can be through hours of gloom fulfiU'd. 
 
 Witli aching hands and bleeding feet '\ 
 
 We dig and iieap, lay stone on stone : \ 
 
 We bear the burden and the heat 1 
 
 Of the long dav, and wish 't were done. j 
 
 Not till the hours of light return, / 
 
 All we have built do we discern. / 
 
 Then, when the clouds are off the soul, 
 When thou doSt bask in Nature's eye, 
 Ask, hovv sJie view'd thy self-control, 
 Thy struggling, task'd morality — 
 Nature, whose free, light, cheerful air, 
 Oft made thee, in thy gloom, despair. 
 
 And she, whose censure thou dost dread, 
 Whose eye thou wast afraid to seek, 
 See, on her face a glow is spread, 
 A strong emotion on her cheek ! 
 
 "Ah. child!" she cries, "that strife 
 divine, 
 
 Whence was it, for it is not mine ? 
 
 " There is no effort on my brow — 
 I do not strive. I do not weep ; 
 I rush with tiie swift spiieres and glow 
 In jov, and when I will, I sleej). 
 
 Yet that severe, that earnest air. 
 
 I saw, I felt it once — but where? 
 
 " I knew not yet the gauge of time, 
 
 Nor wore the manacles of space ; 
 
 I felt it in some other clime, 
 
 I saw it in some other place. 
 'Twas when the heavenly house I trod, 
 And lav upon the bivast of God." 
 
 1852. 
 
 A SUMMER NIGHT 
 
 In the deserted, moon-blanch'd street. 
 How lonely rings the echo of my feet ! 
 Those windows, which I gaze at, frown, 
 Silent and white, unopening down. 
 Repellant as the world : — but see, 
 A break between the housetops shows 
 The moon ! and, lost behind her, fading 
 
 dim 
 Into the dewy dark obscurity 
 Down at the far horizon's rim. 
 Doth a whole tract of heaven disclose! 
 
722 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 And to luy mind the thought 
 
 Is on a, sudden bronght 
 
 Of a past night, and a far different scene. 
 
 Headlands stood out into the moonlit 
 
 deep 
 As clearly as at noon ; 
 The spring-tide's brimming flow 
 Heaved dazzlingly between ; 
 
 Houses, with long white sweep, 
 
 Girdled the glistening bay ; 
 
 Behind, throiigli the soft air, 
 
 The blue liaze-cradled mountains spread 
 
 away, 
 Tiie night was far more fair — 
 But tlie same restless pacings to and fro, 
 And the same vainly throbbing heart 
 
 was there. 
 And the same bright, calm moon. 
 
 And the calm moonlight seems to say : 
 
 Hast thou then still the old iin'quiet hreast. 
 
 Which neither deadens into rest, 
 
 Nor ever feels the fiery glow 
 
 That whirls the spirit from itself aicay, 
 
 But fluctuates to and fro. 
 
 Never by passion quite possessed 
 
 And never quite benumb'd by the world's 
 
 sway ? — 
 And I, I know not if to pray 
 Still to be what I am, or yield and be 
 Like all the other men I see. 
 
 For most men in a brazen prison live, 
 
 Where, in the sun's hot eye. 
 
 With heads bent o'er their toil, they 
 
 languidly 
 Their lives to some unmeaning taskwork 
 
 give. 
 Dreaming of nought beyond their prison 
 
 wall. 
 And as, year after year. 
 Fresh products of their barren labor fall 
 From their tired hands, and rest 
 Never yet comes more near, 
 Gloom settles slowly down over their 
 
 breast ; 
 And wJiile they try to stem 
 The waves of mournful thought by 
 
 which they are pressed. 
 Death in their prison reaches them, 
 Unfreed, having seen nothing, still un- 
 
 blest. 
 
 And the rest, a few. 
 Escape their prison and depart 
 On the wide ocean of life anew. 
 There the freed prisoner, where'er his 
 heart 
 
 Listeth, will .sail ; 
 
 Nor doth he know how there prevail, 
 
 Despotic on that sea. 
 
 Trade- winds which cross it from eternitj'. 
 
 Awhile lie liolds some false way, unde- 
 
 barr'd 
 By thwarting signs, and braves 
 The freshening wind and blackening 
 
 waves 
 And then the tempest strikes him ; and 
 
 between 
 The lightning-bursts is seen 
 Only a driving wreck. 
 And the pale master on his spar-strewn 
 
 deck 
 With anguish'd face and flj'^ing hair 
 Grasping the rudder hard. 
 Still bent to make some port he knows 
 
 not where, 
 Still standing for some false, impossible 
 
 shore. 
 And sterner comes the roar 
 Of sea and wind, and through the deep- 
 ening gloom 
 Fainter and fainter wreck and helmsman 
 
 loom. 
 And he too disappears, and comes no 
 
 moi"e. 
 
 Is there no life, but these alone ? 
 Madman or slave, must man be one ? 
 
 Plainness and clearness without siiadow 
 
 of stain ! 
 Clearness divine ! 
 Ye heavens, whose pm"e dark regions 
 
 have no sign 
 Of languor, though so calm, and, though 
 
 so great. 
 Are yet untroubled and unpassionate : 
 Who, though so noble, share in the 
 
 world's toil. 
 And, though so task'd, keep free from 
 
 dust and soil ! 
 I will not sa}' that 5'our mild deeps retain 
 A tinge, it may be, of their silent pain 
 Who have long'd deeply once, and long'd 
 
 in vain — 
 But I will rather say that you remain 
 A world above man's head, to let him 
 
 see 
 How boundless might his soul's horizons 
 
 be. 
 How vast, yet of what clear trans- 
 parency ! 
 How it were good to abide there, and 
 
 breathe free ; 
 How fair a lot to fill 
 Is left to each man still ! 1852. 
 
 I 
 
ARNOLD 
 
 723 
 
 THE BURIED LIFE 
 
 Light flows our war of mocking words, 
 
 and yet, 
 Behold, with tears mine eyes are wet ! 
 I feel a nameless sadness o'er me roll. 
 Yes, 3'es, we know that we can jest. 
 We know, we know that we can smile ! 
 But tliere's a something- in this breast, 
 To which thy light words bring no rest. 
 And thy gay smiles no anodyne. 
 Give me thy liand, and iiusl\ awliile, 
 And turn those limpid eyes on mine. 
 And let me read there, love ! thy inmost 
 
 soul. 
 
 Alas ! is even love too weak 
 To unlock the lieart, and let it speak ? 
 Are even lovei's powerless to reveal 
 To one another what indeed they feel ? 
 I knew the mass of men conceal'd 
 Their thoughts, for fear that if reveal'd 
 They would by. other men be met 
 With blank indifference, or with blame 
 
 reproved ; 
 I knew they lived and moved 
 Trick'd in disguises, alien to the rest 
 Of men, and alien to themselves — and 
 
 j^et 
 The same heart beats in every human 
 
 breast ! 
 
 But we, my love ! — doth a like spell be- 
 numb 
 
 Our hearts, our voices ? — must we too be 
 dumb ■? 
 
 Ah ! well for us, if even we. 
 Even for a moment, can get free 
 Our heart, and have our lips unchain'd ; 
 For that which seals them hath been 
 deep-ordain'd ! 
 
 Fate, which foresaw 
 How frivolovis a baby man would be — 
 By wliat distractions he would be pos- 
 sess' d. 
 How he would pour himself in every 
 
 strife. 
 And well-nigh change his own identity — 
 That it miglit keei) from his capricious 
 
 play 
 His genuine self, and force him to obej^ 
 Even in his own despite liis being's law. 
 Bade through the deep reces.ses of our 
 
 breast 
 Tlie unregarded river of our life 
 Pursue witli indiscernible flow its way ; 
 And tliat we should not see 
 The bm-ied stream, and seem to be 
 
 Eddying at large in blind uncertainty. 
 Though driving on witli it eternally. 
 
 But often, in the world's most crowded 
 
 streets. 
 But often, in the din of strife, 
 There rises an unspeakable desire 
 After the knowledge of our buried life ; 
 A thirst to spend our fire and restless 
 
 force 
 In tracking out our true, original 
 
 course ; 
 A longing to inquire 
 Into tlie mystery of this heart which 
 
 beats 
 So wild, so deep in us — to know 
 Whence our lives come and where they 
 
 go- 
 And many a man in his own breast then 
 
 delves. 
 But deep enough, alas ! none ever mines. 
 And we have been on many thousand 
 
 lines, 
 And we have sliown, on each, spirit and 
 
 power ; 
 But hardly have we, for one little hour. 
 Been on our own line, have we been 
 
 ourselves — 
 Hardly had skill to utter one of all 
 Tlie nameless feelings that course 
 
 through our breast. 
 But they course on for ever unexpress'd. 
 And long we try in vain to speak and act 
 Our hidden self, and what we say and do 
 Is eloquent, is well — but 'tis not true ! 
 And then we will no more be rack'd 
 With inward striving, and demand 
 Of all the thousand nothings of the hour 
 Their stupefying power ; 
 Ah yes, and they benumb us at our call ! 
 Yet still, from time to time, vague and 
 
 forlorn, 
 From the soul's subterranean depth up- 
 
 boi'ne 
 As from an infinitely distant land. 
 Come airs, and floating echoes, and con- 
 vey 
 A melancholy into all our day. 
 
 Only — but this is rare — 
 
 Wlien a beloved hand is laid in ours, 
 
 Wlien, jaded with the rush and glare 
 
 Of the interminable hours. 
 
 Our eyes can in another's eyes read clear, 
 
 When our world-deafen'd ear 
 
 Is by the tones of a loved voice caress'd — 
 
 A bolt is shot back somewhere in our 
 
 breast. 
 And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again. 
 
724 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Tlie eye sinks inward, and the heart lies 
 
 plain, 
 And what we mean, we say, and what 
 
 we would, we know. 
 A man becomes aware of his life's flow, 
 And hears its winding murmui- ; and he 
 
 sees 
 The meadows where it glides, the sun, 
 
 the breeze. 
 
 And there arrives a lull in the hot race 
 W.lierein he dotli for ever chase 
 Tliat ll5'ing and elusive shadow, rest. 
 An air of coolness plays upon his face. 
 And an unwonted calm pervades liis 
 
 breast. 
 And then he tliinks he knows 
 The hills wliere liis life rose, 
 And the sea where it goes. 1852. 
 
 LINES 
 
 WRITTEN IN KENSINGTON GARDENS 
 
 In this lone, open glade I lie. 
 Screen'd by deep bouglison either hand ; 
 And at its end, to stay the eye, 
 Tliose black-crown'd, red-boled pine- 
 trees stand ! 
 
 Birds here make song, eacli bird has his, 
 Across the girdling city's hum. 
 How green under the boughs it is ! 
 How thick the tremulous slieep-cries 
 come ! 
 
 Sometimes a child will cross the glade 
 To take his nurse his broken toy ; 
 Sometimes a thrush flit overhead 
 Deep in her unknown da3''s employ. 
 
 Here at my feet what wonders pass. 
 What endless, active life is here ! 
 What blowing daisies, fragrant grass I 
 An air-stirr'd forest, fresh and clear. 
 
 Scarce fresher is the mountain-sod 
 Where the tired angler lies, stretch'd 
 
 out. 
 And, eased of basket and of rod. 
 Counts liis day's spoil, the spotted trout. 
 
 In the huge world, -which roars hard by, 
 
 Be others happy if they can ! 
 
 But in my helpless cradle I 
 
 Was breathed on by the rural Pan. 
 
 I, on men's impious uproar hurl'd, 
 Tliink often, as I hear tliem rave. 
 That peace has left the upper world 
 And now keeps only in the grave. 
 
 Yet here is peace for ever new I 
 Wlien I who watch them am away. 
 Still all things in this glade go through 
 The ciianges of tlieir quiet day. 
 
 Then to their happy rest they pass! 
 The flowers upclose, the birds are fed. 
 The night conies down upon the grass. 
 The ciiild sleeps warmly in his bed. 
 
 Calm soul of all things ! make it mine 
 To feel, amid the city's jar. 
 That tliere abides a peace of thine, 
 Man did not make, and cannot mar. 
 
 The will to neither strive nor cry, 
 Tlie power to feel with others give ! 
 Calm, calm me more ! nor let me die 
 Before I have begun to live. 1852. 
 
 THE FUTURE 
 
 A wanderer is man from his birth. 
 He was born in a ship 
 On tiie breast of the river of Time ; 
 Brimming with wonder and joy 
 He spreads out his arms to tlie light. 
 Rivets his gaze on the banks of tlie 
 stream. 
 
 As what he sees is, so have his thouglits 
 
 been. 
 Whetlier he wakes 
 Where the snowy mountainous pass. 
 Echoing the screams of the eagles. 
 Hems in its gorges the bed 
 Of the new-born clear-flowing stream ; 
 Whetlier he first sees light 
 Where the river in gleaming rings 
 Sluggishl}' winds through tiie plain ; 
 Whether in sound of the swallowing sea— 
 As is the world on the banks. 
 So is the mind of the man. 
 
 Vainly does each, as he glides. 
 Fable and dream 
 
 Of the lands which the river of Time 
 Had left ere he woke on its breast. 
 Or shall reach when his eyes have been 
 
 closed. 
 Only the tract where he sails 
 He wots of : only the thoughts. 
 Raised by the objects he passes, are his. 
 
 Who can see the green earth any more 
 As she was by the sources of Time ? 
 Who imagines her fields as they lay 
 In the sunshine, unworn by the plough? 
 AVho thinks as they tliought. [breast. 
 The tribes who then roain'd on her 
 Her vigorous, primitive sons ? 
 
ARNOLD 
 
 725 
 
 What girl 
 
 Now reads in her bosom as clear 
 
 As Rebekah read, when she sate 
 
 At eve by the palm-shaded well ? 
 
 Who guards in her breast 
 
 As deep, as pellucid a spring 
 
 Of feeling, as tranquil, as sure ? 
 
 What bard, 
 At the height of his vision, can deem 
 Of God, of the world, of the soul, 
 Witli a plainness as near, 
 As flashing as Moses felt 
 When he lay in the night by his flock 
 On the starlit Arabian waste ? 
 Can rise and obey 
 The beck of the Spirit like him ? 
 
 This tract whicli the river of Time 
 Now flows through with us, is the plain. 
 Gone is the calm of its earlier shoi'e. 
 Border'd by cities and hoarse 
 With a thousand cries is its stream. 
 And we on its breast, our minds 
 Are confused as the cries which we hear, 
 Clianging and shot as the sights which 
 we see. 
 
 And we say that repose has fled 
 
 For ever the course of the river of Time. 
 
 Tliat cities will crowd to its edge 
 
 In a blacker, incessanter line ; 
 
 Tliat the din will be more on its banks, 
 
 Denser the trade on its stream, 
 
 Flatter the plain wliere it flows, 
 
 Fiercer the sun overhead. 
 
 Tliat never will tliose on its breast 
 
 See an ennobling sight, 
 
 Drink of the feeling of quiet again. 
 
 But \\ hat was before us we know not, 
 And we know not what shall succeed. 
 
 Haply, tlie river of Time — 
 
 As it grows, as the towns on its marge 
 
 Fling their wavering lights 
 
 On a wider, statelier stream — 
 
 May acquire, if not the calm 
 
 Of its early mountainous shore, 
 
 Yet a solemn peace of its own. 
 
 And the width of the waters, the hush 
 Of the gray expanse where he floats. 
 Freshening its current and spotted with 
 
 foam 
 As it draws to the Ocean, may strike 
 Peace to the soul of the man on its 
 
 Ijreast — 
 As the pale waste widens around him. 
 As the laanks fade dimmer away, 
 
 As the stars come out, and the night- 
 wind 
 Brings up the stream 
 Murmurs and scents of the infinite sea. 
 
 1852. 
 
 STANZAS IN MEMORY OF THE 
 AUTHOR OF "OBERMANN"! 
 
 In front the awful Alpine track 
 Crawls up its rocky stair ; 
 The autumn storm-winds drive the rack, 
 Close o'er it, in the air. 
 
 ' The author of Obermann, fitienne Pivert de 
 Senaucour, has Httle celebrity in France, his own 
 country ; and out of France he is almost un- 
 known. But the profound inwardness, the aus- 
 tere sincerity, of his principal work, Obermaun, 
 the delicate feeling for nature which it exhibits, 
 and the melancholy eloquence of many passages 
 of it, have attracted and charmed some of the 
 most remarkable spirits of this century, such as 
 George Sand and Saiiite-Beuve, and will probably 
 always find a certain number of spirits whom 
 they touch and interest. 
 
 Senanciiur was born in 1770. He was educated 
 for the priesthood, and passed some time in the 
 seminary of St. Sulpice ; broke away from the 
 Seminary and from France itself, and passed 
 some years in Switzerland, where he married ; 
 returned to France in middle life, and followed 
 thenceforward tlie career of a man of letters, but 
 with hardly any fame or success. He died an old 
 man in 1846, desiring that on his grave might be 
 placed these words only : Eteniite, deviens moii 
 as He.' 
 
 The influence of Rousseau, and certain afiini- 
 ties with more famous and fortunate authors of 
 his own day,— Chateaubriand and Madame de 
 Stael,— are everywhere visible in Senancour. 
 But though, like these eminent personages, he 
 may be called a sentimental writer, and though 
 Obermaun, a collection of letters from Switzer- 
 land treating almost entirely of nature and of 
 the human soul, may be called a work of senti- 
 ment, Senancour has a gravity and severity 
 which distinguish him from all other writers of 
 the sentimental school. The world is with him in 
 his solitude far less than it is with them ; of all 
 writers he is the most perfectly isolated and the 
 least attitudinizing. His chief work, too, has a 
 value and power of its own, apart from these 
 merits of its author. The stir of all the main 
 forces, by which modern life is and has been im- 
 pelled, lives in the letters of Obeniiann ; the dis- 
 solving agencies of the eighteenth century, the 
 fiery storm of the French Revolution, the first 
 faint promise and dawn of that new world which 
 our own time is but more fully bringing to light, 
 —all these are to be felt, almost to be touched, 
 there. To me, indeed, it will always seem that 
 the impressivenessof this production can hardly 
 be rated too high. 
 
 Beside Oberniann there is one other of Se- 
 nancour's works which, for those spirits who 
 feel his attraction, is very interesting ; its title 
 is, Libres Meditations d'uu Solifarre Inconnu. 
 (Arnold's note. The passage of Geoi-ge Sand 
 alluded to may be found in her Questions d'Art 
 et de Litterafn're. Sainte-Beu ve has several times 
 written of Senancour : especially in his Portraits 
 Conteni)iorains. Vol. I, and in Chateaubriand et 
 son Gruupe litteraire. Chap. 14.) 
 
726 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Behind are the abandon'd baths ^ 
 Mute in their meadows lone ; 
 The leaves are on the valley-paths, 
 The mists are on the Rhone — 
 
 Tlie white mists rolling like a sea ! 
 I hear the torrents roar. 
 — Yes. Obermann, all speaks of thee ; 
 I feel thee near once more ! 
 
 I turn thy leaves ! I feel their breath 
 Once more upon me roll ; 
 That air of languor, cold, and death, 
 Which brooded o'er thy soul. 
 
 Fly hence, poor wretch, whoe'er thou art, 
 Condemn"d to cast about, 
 All shipwreck in thy own weak heart, 
 For comfort from without ! 
 
 A fever in these pages burns 
 Beneath the calm they feign ; 
 A wounded human spirit turns, 
 Here, on its bed of j)ain. 
 
 Yes, though the virgin mountain-air 
 Fresh through these pages blows ; 
 Though to these leaves the glaciers spare 
 The soul of their white snows ; 
 
 Though here a mountain-murmur swells 
 Of many a dark-bougli'd pine ; 
 Though, as you read, you hear the bells 
 Of the higli-pasturing kine — 
 
 Yet, through the hum of torrent lone. 
 And brooding mountain-bee. 
 There sobs I know not what ground-tone 
 Of human agony. 
 
 Is it for this, because the sound 
 Is fraught too deep with pain. 
 That, Obermann ! the world around 
 So little loves thy strain ? 
 
 Some secrets may the poet tell, 
 For the world loves new ways ; 
 To tell too deep ones is not well — 
 It knows not what he says. 
 
 Yet, of the spirits who have reign'd 
 In this our troubled day, 
 I know but two, who have attain'd 
 Save thee, to see their way. 
 
 ' The Baths of Leuk. This poem was con- 
 ceived, and partly composed, in the valley going 
 down from the foot of the Gemmi Pass towards 
 the Rhone. (Arnold.) 
 
 By England's lakes, in gray old age. 
 His quiet home one keeps ; 
 And one, the strong much-toiling sage, 
 In German Weimar sleeps. 
 
 But Wordsworth's eyes avert their ken 
 From lialf of human fate ; 
 And Goetlies course few sons of men 
 May think to emulate. 
 
 For he pursued a lonely road, 
 His eyes on Nature's plan ; 
 Neither made man too much a God, 
 Nor God too much a man. 
 
 Strong was he, with a spirit free 
 From mists, and sane, and clear; 
 Cleai'er, how mucl> ! than ours — yet we 
 Have a worse course to steer. 
 
 For though his manhood bore the blast 
 Of a tremendous time. 
 Yet in a tranquil world was pass'd 
 His tenderer youthful prime. 
 
 But we, brought forth and rear'd in hours 
 Of change, alarm, surprise — 
 What shelter to grow ripe is ours ? 
 What leisure to grosv wise ? 
 
 Like children bathing on the shore, 
 Buried a wave beneath, 
 The second wave succeeds, before 
 We have had time to breathe. 
 
 Too fast we live, too much are tried, 
 
 Too harass'd, to attain 
 
 Wordsworth's sweet calm, or Goethe's 
 
 wide 
 And luminous view to gain. 
 
 And then we turn, thou sadder sage, 
 To thee ! we feel thy spell ! 
 — The hopeless tangle of our age, 
 Thou too hast scann'd it well ! 
 
 Immoveable thou sittest, still 
 As death, composed to bear ! 
 Thj' head is clear, thy feeling chill, 
 And ic\" thy despair. 
 
 Yes, as the son of Thetis said, 
 I hear thee saying now : 
 Greater by far than thou are dead ; 
 Strive not ! die also thou ! 
 
 Ah ! two desires toss about 
 
 The poet's feverish blood. 
 
 One drives liini to the world without, 
 
 And oJie to solitude. 
 
ARNOLD 
 
 727 
 
 The glow, he cries, the thrill of life, 
 Where, tchere do these abound ? — 
 Not in the world, not in the strife 
 Of men, shall they be found. 
 
 He who hath watch'd, not shared, the 
 
 strife. 
 Knows how the day hath gone. 
 He only lives with the world's life, 
 Who hath renounced his own. 
 
 To thee we come, then ! Clouds areroU'd 
 Where thou, O seer ! art set ; 
 Thy realm of thought is drear and cold — 
 The world is colder yet ! 
 
 And thou hast pleasures, too, to share 
 With those who come to thee — 
 Balms floating on thy mountain-air, 
 And healing sights to see. 
 
 How often, where the slopes are green 
 On Jaman, hast tliou sate 
 By some high chalet-door, and seen 
 The summer-day grow late ; 
 
 And darkness steal o'er the wet grass 
 
 With the pale crocus starr'd. 
 
 And reacla that glimmering sheet of 
 
 glass 
 Beneath the piny sward, 
 
 Lake Leman's waters, far below ! 
 And watch'd the rosy light 
 Fade from the distant peaks of snow ; 
 And on the air of night 
 
 Heard accents of the eternal tongue 
 Through the pine branches play — 
 Listen'd, and felt thyself gi'ow young ! 
 Listeu'd and wept Away ! 
 
 Away the dreams that but deceive 
 And thou, sad guide, adieu ! 
 I go, fate drives tne ; but I leave 
 Half of my life with you. 
 
 We, in some unknown Power's employ, 
 Move on a rigorous line ; 
 Can neither, when we will, enjoy. 
 Nor, when we will, resign. 
 
 I in the world must live ; but thou, 
 Thou melancholy shade ! 
 Wilt not, if thou canst see me now, 
 Condemn me, nor upbraid. 
 
 For thou art gone away from earth, 
 And place with those dost claim. 
 The Children of the Second Birth, 
 Whom the world could not tame ; 
 
 And with that small, transfigured band. 
 Whom many a different way 
 Conducted to their common land. 
 Thou learn'st to think as they. 
 
 Christian and pagan, king and slave, 
 Soldier and anchorite. 
 Distinctions we esteem so grave , 
 Are nothing in their sight. 
 
 They do not ask, who pined unseen, 
 Wlio was on action hurrd. 
 Whose one bond is, that all have been 
 Unsi)otted by the world. 
 
 There without anger thou wilt see 
 Him who obeys thy spell 
 No more, so he but rest, like thee, 
 Unsoil'd ! — and so, farewell. 
 
 Farewell ! — Whether thou now liest near 
 That much-loved inland sea, 
 The ripples of whose blue waves cheer 
 Vevey and Meillerie : 
 
 And in that gracious region bland, 
 Wliere with clear-rustling wave 
 The scented pines of Switzerland 
 Stand dark round thy green grave, 
 
 Between the dusty vineyard-walls 
 Issuing on that green place 
 The early peasant still recalls 
 The pensive stranger's face, 
 
 And stoops to clear thy moss-grown date 
 Ere he plods on again ; — 
 Or whether, by maligner fate. 
 Among the swarms of men. 
 
 Where between granite terraces 
 The blue Seine rolls her wave, 
 The Capital of Pleasure sees 
 The hardly-heard-of grave ; — 
 
 Farewell ! Under the sky we part. 
 In the stern Alpine dell. 
 O unstrung will ! O broken heart ! 
 A last, a last farewell ! 1852. 
 
 REQUIESCAT 
 
 Strew on her roses, roses, 
 
 And never a spray of yew ! 
 In quiet she reposes ; 
 
 Ah, would that I did too ! 
 
 Her mirth the world required ; 
 
 She bathed it in smiles of glee. 
 But her heart was tiied. tired, 
 
 And now they let her be. 
 
728 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 t\ 
 
 Her life was turning, turning, 
 
 In mazes of heat and sound. 
 But for peace her soul was yearning, 
 
 And now peace laps her round. 
 
 Her cabin'd, ample spirit, 
 It flutter'd and fail'd for breath. 
 
 To-night it doth inherit 
 The vasty liall of death. 1853. 
 
 SOHRAB AND RUStUM 
 
 And the first gray of morning fill'd the 
 
 east. 
 And the fog rose out of the Oxus stream. 
 But all the Tartar camp along tJie stream 
 Was hush'd, and still the men were 
 
 plunged in sleep ; 
 .Sohrab alone, he slept not ; all niglit long 
 He had lain wakeful, tossing on his bed ; 
 But when the gray dawn stole into his 
 
 tent, 
 He rose, and clad himself, and girt his 
 
 sword, 
 And took his horseman's cloak, and left 
 
 liis tent; 
 And went abroad into the cold wet fog. 
 Through the dim camp to Peran-Wisa's 
 
 tent. 
 Througli the black Tartar teiits he 
 
 pass"d, which stood 
 Clustering like beehives on the low flat 
 
 strand 
 Of Oxus, where, the summer-floods o'er- 
 
 flovv 
 When the sun melts the snows in high 
 
 Pamere ; 
 Through the black tents he pass'd, o'er 
 
 that low strand. 
 And to a hillock came, a little back 
 From the stream's brink — the spot where 
 
 first a boat, 
 Crossing the stream in summer, scrapes 
 
 the land. 
 Tlie men of former times liad crown'd 
 
 the top 
 With a clay fort ; but that was fall'n, 
 
 and now 
 The Tartars built there Peran-Wisa"s tent , 
 A dome of laths, and o"er it felts were 
 
 spread. 
 And Sohrab came there, and went in, and 
 
 stood 
 Upon the thick piled carpets in tlie tent. 
 And found the old man sleeping on his 
 
 bed 
 Of rugs and felts, and near him lay his 
 
 arms, [step 
 
 And Peran-Wisa heard him, though the 
 
 Was duU'd ; for he slept light, an old 
 
 man's sleep ; 
 And he rose quickly on one arm, and 
 
 said : — 
 " Who art thouV for it is not yet clear 
 
 dawn. 
 Speak ! is there news, or any night 
 
 alarm ? " 
 But Sohrab came to the bedside, and 
 
 said : — 
 " Thou know'st me, Peran-Wisa ! it is I. 
 The sun is not yet risen, and the foe 
 Sleei) ; but 1 sleep not ; all night long 
 
 Hie 
 Tossing iind wakeful, and I come to thee. 
 For so did King Afrasiab bid me seek 
 Thy counsel, and to heed thee as thy son. 
 In Samarcand, before the army mart^h'd; 
 And I will tell thee what my heart 
 
 desires.' 
 Thou know'st if, since from Ader-baijan 
 
 first 
 I came among the Tartars and bore arms. 
 I have still served Afrasiab well, and 
 
 shown. 
 At my boy's years, the courage of a man. 
 This too thou know'st, that wlnle I still 
 
 bear on 
 The conquering Tartar ensigns tlirough 
 
 the world. 
 And beat the Persians back on every 
 
 field, 
 I seek one man, one man, and one alone — 
 Rustum, my father ; wholhoped sliould 
 
 greet, 
 Should one day greet, upon some well- 
 fought field. 
 His not unworthy, not inglorious son. 
 So I long hoped, but him I never find. 
 Come then, hear now, and grant me 
 
 wliat I ask. 
 Let the two armies rest to-day ; but I 
 Will challenge forth Uie bravest Per- 
 sian lords 
 To meet me, man to man ; if I pievail, 
 Rustum will surely hear it ; if I fall — 
 Old man, the dead need no one, claim no 
 
 kin. 
 Dim is the rumor of a common figlit. 
 Where host meets liost. and many names 
 
 are sunk ; 
 But of a single combat fame speaks 
 
 clear." 
 He spoke ; and Peran-Wisa took the 
 
 hand 
 Of the young man in, his, and sigh'd, and 
 
 ^aid : — 
 '• O Sohrab, an unquiet heart is 
 
 thine ! 
 
ARNOLD 
 
 729 
 
 Canst thou not rest among tlie Tartar 
 
 chiefs. 
 And share tlie battle s common chance 
 
 with us 
 Who love thee, but must press for ever 
 
 first, 
 In single fight incurring single risk. 
 To find a father tliou hast never seen ? 
 Tliat were far best, my son, to stay witli 
 
 us 
 Unmurnuiring ; in our tents, wliile it is 
 
 war. 
 And when "t is truce, then in Afrasiab's 
 
 towns. 
 But, if this one desire indeed rules all, 
 To seek out Rustum — seek him not 
 
 through fight ! 
 Seek him in peace, and carry to Ids 
 
 arms, 
 () Sohrab, carry an unwounded son ! 
 But far hence seek him, for he is not 
 
 here. 
 For now it is not as when I was young. 
 When Rustum was in front of every 
 
 fray ; 
 But now he keeps apart, and sits at 
 
 lnome. 
 In Seistan, with Zal, his father old. 
 Whether tliat his own mighty strengtii 
 
 at last 
 Feels the abliorr'd approaches of old age. 
 Or in some quarrel with tlie Persian 
 
 King. 
 Tliere go! — Thou wilt not? Yet my 
 
 heart forebodes 
 Danger or death awaits thee on this 
 
 field. 
 Fain would I know thee safe and well, 
 
 thougli lost 
 To us : fain therefore send thee hence, 
 
 in peace 
 To seek tliy father, not seek single 
 
 fights 
 In vain ; — but who can keep tlie lion's 
 
 cub 
 From ravening, and who govern Rus- 
 
 tum's souV 
 Go, I will grant thee what thy heart 
 
 desires.*' 
 So said he, and dropp'd Solirab's hand, 
 
 and left 
 His bed, and tlie warm rugs whereon he 
 
 lay ; 
 And o'er his chilly limbs his woollen 
 
 coat 
 He pass'd, and tied his sandals on his 
 
 feet. 
 And threw a white cloak round him. and 
 
 he took 
 
 In his right hand a rulers staff, no 
 
 sword ; 
 And on his liead he set his sheep-skin 
 
 cap, 
 Black, glossy, curl'd, the fleece of Kara- 
 
 Kul ; 
 And raised the curtain of his tent, and 
 
 caird 
 His herald to his side, and went abroad. 
 The sun by this had risen, and clear'd 
 
 the fog 
 From the broad Oxus and the glittering 
 
 sands. 
 And from their tents the Tartar horse- 
 men filed 
 Into tlie open plain ; so Haman bade — 
 Hainan, who next to Peraii-Wisa ruled 
 The host, and still was in his lusty 
 
 prime. 
 From their black tents, long files of 
 
 horse, they stream'd : 
 As when .some gray November morn the 
 
 files. 
 In marching order spread, of long-neck'd 
 
 cranes 
 Stream over Casbiii and the southern 
 
 slopes 
 Of Elburz, from the Aralian estuaries. 
 Or some frore Caspian reed-bed, south- 
 ward bound 
 For the warm Persian sea-board — so they 
 
 stream'd. 
 The Tartars of the Oxus, the King's 
 
 guard, 
 First, with black sheep-skin caps and 
 
 with long spears ; 
 Large men, large steeds ; who from Bok- 
 
 liara come 
 And Khiva, and ferment the milk of 
 
 mares. 
 Next, the more temperate Toorkmuns of 
 
 the south, 
 The Tukas, and the lances of Salore. 
 And those from Attruck and the Cas- 
 pian sands ; 
 Light men and on light steeds, who only 
 
 drink 
 The acrid milk of camels, and their 
 
 wells. 
 And then a swarm of wandering horse, 
 
 who came 
 From far, and a more doubtful service 
 
 own'd ; 
 The Tartars of P'erghana, from the 
 
 banks 
 Of tiie Jaxartes, men with scanty beards 
 And clo.se-set skull-caps ; and those 
 
 wilder hordes [ern waste. 
 
 Who roam o'er Kipchak and the north- 
 
73° 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Kalmucks and unkempt Kuzzaks, tribes 
 
 who stray 
 Nearest the Pole, and wauderiug Kir- 
 
 ghizzes, 
 Who come on shaggy ponies from Pa- 
 mere ; 
 These all filed out from camp into the 
 
 plain. 
 And on the other side the Persians 
 
 form'd ; — 
 First a light cloud of hoi'se, Tartars they 
 
 seem'd, 
 The Ilyats of Khorassan ; and behind. 
 The royal troops of Persia, horse and 
 
 foot, 
 Marshall'd battalions bright in burnish'd 
 
 steel. 
 But Peran-Wisa with his herald came, 
 Threading the Tartar squadrons to the 
 
 front, 
 And with his staff kept back the fore- 
 most ranks. 
 And when Ferood, who led the Persians, 
 
 saw 
 That Peran-Wisa kept the Tartars back. 
 He took his spear, and to the front he 
 
 came. 
 And check'd his ranks, and fix'd them 
 
 where tliey stood. 
 And the old Tartar came upon tlie sand 
 Betwixt the silent hosts, and spake, and 
 
 said : 
 ' ' Ferood, and ye, Persians and Tartars, 
 
 hear ! 
 Let there be truce between the hosts to- 
 day. 
 But choose a champion from the Persian 
 
 lords 
 To fight our champion Sohrab, man to 
 
 man." 
 As, in the country, on a morn in June, 
 When the dew glistens on the pearled 
 
 ears, 
 A shiver runs through the deep corn for 
 
 joy- 
 So, when they heard what Peran-Wisa 
 
 said, 
 A thrill through all the Tartar squad- 
 rons ran 
 Of pride and hope for Sohrab, whom 
 
 thej'^ loved. 
 But as a troop of pedlars, from Ca- 
 
 bool. 
 Cross underneath the Indian Caucasus, 
 That vast sky neigliboring mountain of 
 
 milk snow ; 
 Crossing so high, that, as they mount, 
 
 they pass [tlie snow. 
 
 Long flocks of travelling birds dead on 
 
 Clioked by the air, and scarce can they 
 
 themselves 
 Slake their parch'd throats with sugar "d 
 
 mulberries — 
 In single file they move, and stop their 
 
 breath, 
 For fear they should dislodge the o'er- 
 
 hanging snows — 
 So the pale Persians held their breath 
 
 with fear. 
 And to Ferood his brother chiefs came 
 
 up 
 To counsel : Gudurz and Zoarrah came. 
 And Feraburz, wlio ruled the Persian 
 
 host 
 Second, and was the uncle of the King ; 
 These came and counsell'd, and then 
 
 Gudurz said : — 
 " Ferood, shame bids us tak^ their 
 
 challenge up. 
 Yet champion have we none to match 
 
 this youth. 
 He has the wild stag's foot, the lion's 
 
 heart; 
 But Rustum came last night ; aloof he 
 
 sits 
 And sullen, and has pitch'd his tents 
 
 apart. 
 Him will I seek, and carry to his ear 
 The Tartar challenge, and this young 
 
 man's name. 
 Haply he will forget his wrath, and fight. 
 Stand forth the while, and take their 
 
 challenge up." 
 So spake he ; and Ferood stood forth 
 
 and cried : — 
 " Old man. be it agreed as thou hast 
 
 said ! 
 Let Solirab arm, and we w-ill find a 
 
 man." 
 He spake : and Peran-Wisa turn'd, 
 
 and strode 
 Back through the opening squadrons to 
 
 his tent. 
 But through the anxious Persians Gud- 
 urz ran, 
 And cross'd the camp which lay behind, 
 
 and reach'd. 
 Out on the sands beyond it, Rustum's 
 
 tents. 
 Of scarlet cloth they were, and glitter- 
 ing gay, 
 Just pitch'd ; the high pavilion in the 
 
 midst 
 Was Rustum's, and his men lay camp'd 
 
 around. 
 And Gudurz enter'd Rustum's tent, and 
 
 found [but still 
 
 Ruslum ; his morning meal was done, 
 
ARNOLD 
 
 731 
 
 The table stood before him, charged 
 
 with food — 
 A side of roasted slieep, and cakes of 
 
 bread. 
 And dark green melons ; and there Rus- 
 
 tuni sate 
 Listless, and held a falcon on his wrist, 
 And play'd with it ; but Gudurz came 
 
 and stood 
 Before him ; and he look'd, and saw him 
 
 stand, 
 And with a cry sprang up and dropp'd 
 
 the bird. 
 And greeted Gudurz with both hands, 
 
 and said : — 
 "Welcome! these eyes could see no 
 
 better siglit. 
 What news? but sit down first, and eat 
 
 and drink." 
 But Gudurz stood in the tent door, 
 
 and said :— 
 " Not now ! a time will come to eat and 
 
 drink. 
 But not to-day ; to-day has other needs. 
 The armies are drawn out, and stand at 
 
 gaze ; 
 For from the Tartars is a challenge 
 
 brought 
 To pick a champion from the Persian 
 
 lords 
 To fight tlieir champion — and thou 
 
 kuow'st his name — 
 Sohrab men call him, but his birth is 
 
 hid. 
 O Rustum, like thy might is this young 
 
 man's ! 
 He has the wild stag's foot, the lion's 
 
 heart ; 
 And he is young, and Iran's chiefs are 
 
 old. 
 Or else too weak ; and all eyes turn to 
 
 thee. 
 Come down and help vis, Rustum, or we 
 
 lose ! " 
 He spoke ; but Rustum answer 'd with 
 
 a smile : — 
 Go to ! if Iran's chiefs are old, then I 
 Am older : if the young are weak, the 
 
 King 
 Errs strangely : for the King, for Kai 
 
 Khosroo. 
 Himself is young, and honors younger 
 
 men, 
 And lets the aged moulder to their 
 
 graves. 
 Rustum he loves no more, but loves the 
 
 young— 
 Tlie young may rise at Sohrab's vaunts, 
 
 not I. 
 
 For what care L though all speak 
 
 Sohrab's fame V 
 For would that I myself had such a son. 
 And not that one slight helpless girl I 
 
 have — 
 A son so famed, so brave, to send to war, 
 And I to tarry with the snow-hair'd Zal, 
 My father, whom the robber Afghans 
 
 vex. 
 And clip his borders short, and drive 
 
 his herds. 
 And he has none to guard his weak old 
 
 age. 
 There would I go, and hang my armor 
 
 up. 
 And with my great name fence that 
 
 weak old man. 
 And spend the goodly treasures I have 
 
 got, 
 And rest my age, and hear of Sohrab's 
 
 fame. 
 And leave to death the hosts of thank- 
 less kings, 
 And with these slaughterous hands draw 
 
 sword no more." 
 He spoke and smiled ; and Gudurz 
 
 made reply : — 
 •' What then, O Rustum, will men 
 
 say to this. 
 When Sohrab dares our bravest forth, 
 
 and seeks 
 Thee most of all, and thou, whom most 
 
 he seeks, 
 Hidest thy face? Take heed lest men 
 
 should say : 
 Like some old miser, Rustum hoards his 
 
 fame. 
 And shuns to peril it ivith younger men.''' 
 And greatl\" moved, then Rustum 
 
 made reply : — 
 "0 Gudurz, wherefore dost thou say 
 
 such words ? 
 Thou knowest better words than this to 
 
 say. 
 What is one more, one less, obscure or 
 
 famed, 
 Valiant or craven, young or old, to me 'i 
 Are not they mortal, am not I myself ? 
 But who for men of nought would do 
 
 great deeds ? 
 Come, thou shalt see how Rustvim 
 
 hoards his fame ! 
 But I will fight unknown, and in plain 
 
 arms ; 
 Let not men say of Rustum, he was 
 
 niatch'd 
 In single figiit with any mortal man." 
 He spoke, and frown'd ; and Gudiu'z 
 
 turn'd, and ran 
 
732 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Back quickly through the camp iu fear 
 
 and joy- 
 Fear at his wrath, but joy that Rustuiu 
 
 came. 
 But Rustum strode to his tent-door, and 
 
 call'd 
 His followers in, and bade them bring 
 
 liis arms, 
 And clad himself in steel ; the arms he 
 
 chose 
 Were plain, and on his shield was no 
 
 device, 
 Only his helm was rich, inlaid with gold, 
 And. from the fluted spine atop, a plume 
 Of horsehair waved, a scarlet horsehair 
 
 plume. 
 So arm'd, he issued forth ; and Ruksh, 
 
 his horse. 
 Follow'd him like a faithful hound at 
 
 heel — 
 Ruksh, whose renown was noised 
 
 through all the earth, 
 Tlie horse, whom Rustum on a foray 
 
 once 
 Did in Bokhara by the river find 
 A colt beneath its dam, and drove him 
 
 home. 
 And rear'd him ; a bi'ight bay, witli 
 
 lofty crest, 
 Dight with a saddle-cloth of broider'd 
 
 green 
 Crusted with gold, and on the ground 
 
 were vvork"d 
 All beasts of chase, all beasts which 
 
 hunters know. 
 So follow'd, Rustum left his tents, and 
 
 cross'd 
 The camp, and to the Persian host ap- 
 pear 'd. 
 And all tlie Persians knew him, and 
 
 with shouts 
 Hail'd ; but the Tartars knew not who 
 
 he was. 
 And dear as the wet diver to the eyes 
 Of Jiis ])ale wife who waits and weeps 
 
 on shore, 
 By sandy Bnhrein, in the Persian Gulf, 
 Plunging all day in the blue waves, at 
 
 night. 
 Having made up his tale of precious 
 
 pearls, 
 Rejoins her in their hut upon the sands — 
 So dear to the pale Persians Rustum 
 
 came. 
 And Rustum to the Persian front ad- 
 vanced. 
 And Sohrab arm'd in Haman's tent, and 
 
 came. 
 And as afield the reapers cut a swath 
 
 Down through the middle of a rich 
 
 man's corn. 
 And on each side are squares of stand- 
 ing corn, 
 And in the midst a stubble, short and 
 
 bare — 
 So on each side were squares of men, 
 
 with spears 
 Bristling, and in the midst, the open 
 
 sand. 
 And Rustum came upon the sand, and 
 
 cast 
 His eyes toward the Tartar tents, and 
 
 saw 
 Sohrab come forth, and eyed him as he 
 
 came. 
 As some rich woman, on a winter's 
 
 morn. 
 Eyes through her silken curtains the 
 
 poor drudge 
 Who with numb blacken'd fingers makes 
 
 her fire — 
 At cock-crow, on a starlit winter's morn. 
 When the frost flowers the whiten 'd 
 
 window-panes— 
 And wonders how she lives, and what 
 
 the thoughts 
 Of that poor drudge may be ; so Rus- 
 tum eyed 
 The unknown adventurous youth, who 
 
 from afar 
 C'ame seeking Rustum, and defying forth 
 All the most valiant chiefs ; long he 
 
 perused 
 His spirited air, and wonder'd who he 
 
 was. 
 For very young he seem'd, tenderly 
 
 rear'd ; 
 Like some young cypress, tall, and dark, 
 
 and straigjit. 
 Which in a queen's secluded garden 
 
 throvvs 
 Its slight dark shadow on the moonlit 
 
 turf. 
 By midniglit, to a bubbling fountain's 
 
 sound — 
 So slender Sohrab seem'd^ so softly 
 
 rear'd. 
 And a deep pity enter'd Rustum's soul 
 As he beheld him coming ; and he stood. 
 And beckon'd to him with his hand, and 
 
 said : — 
 ' ' O thou young man , the air of Heaven 
 
 is soft. 
 And warm, and pleasant ; but the grave 
 
 is cold ! 
 Heaven's air is better than the cold dead 
 
 grave. 
 Behold me ! I am vast, and clad in iron. 
 
ARNOLD 
 
 733 
 
 And tried ; and I have stood on manj' a 
 
 field 
 Of Vjlood, and I have fought with many 
 
 a foe — 
 Never was that field lost, or that foe 
 
 saved. 
 O Sohrab, wherefore wilt thou rush on 
 
 death ? 
 Be govern'd ! quit the Tartar host, and 
 
 come 
 To Iran, and be as my son to me, 
 And fight beneath my banner till I die ! 
 Tliere are no youtlis in Iran brave as 
 
 thou." 
 80 lie spake, mildly ; Sohrab heard his 
 
 voice, 
 Tlie mighty voiceof Rustnm, and he saw 
 His giant figui'e planted on the sand, 
 Sole, like some single tower, which a 
 
 chief 
 Hath builded on the waste in former 
 
 years 
 Against the robbers ; and he saw that 
 
 head, 
 Streak'd witli its first graj^ hairs ; — hope 
 
 filled his soul, 
 And lie ran forward and embraced his 
 
 knees. 
 And clasp'd his liand within his own, 'and 
 
 s;iid : — 
 '• O, by tliy father's hea<l ! by thine 
 
 own soul ! 
 Art thou not Rustum ? speak ! art thou 
 
 not he ? " 
 But Rustum eyed askance the kneel- 
 ing youth. 
 And turn'd away, and spake to his own 
 
 soul : — 
 '• Ah me. I muse what this young fox 
 
 may mean ! 
 False, wily, boastful, are these Tartar 
 
 boys. 
 For if I now confess this thing he asks. 
 And hide it not, but saj^ : Rustum is here ! 
 He will not yield indeed, nor quit our 
 
 foes. 
 But he will find some pretext not to figlit, 
 And praise my fame, and proffer court- 
 eous gifts 
 A belt or sword perhaps, and go his way. 
 And on a feast-tide, in Afrasiab's hall, 
 In Samarcand, he will arise and cry : 
 ' I challenged once, when the two 
 
 armies canip'd 
 Beside the Oxus. all the Persian lords 
 To cope with me in single fight ; but they 
 Shrank, only Rustum dared ; tlien he 
 
 and I [away.' 
 
 Changed gifts, and went on equal terms 
 
 So will he speak, perliaps, while men 
 
 applaud ; 
 Then were the chiefs of Iran shamed 
 
 through me.'" 
 And then he turn'd, and sternly spake 
 
 aloud : — 
 " Rise ! wherefore dost thou vainly 
 
 question thus 
 Of Rustum ? I am here, whom thou 
 
 hast call'd 
 By challenge forth ; make good thy 
 
 vaunt, or jield ! 
 Is it with Rustum only thou wouldst 
 
 fight? 
 Rash boy, men look on Rustum's face 
 
 and flee ! 
 For well I know, that did great Rustum 
 
 stand 
 Before thy face this day, and were re- 
 
 veal'd. 
 There would be then no talk of fighting 
 
 more. 
 But being what I am, I tell thee this — 
 Do thou record it in thine inmost soul : 
 Either thou shalt renounce thy vaunt 
 
 and yield, 
 Or else thy bones shall strew this sand, 
 
 till winds 
 Bleach them, or Oxvis with his summer- 
 floods, 
 Oxus in summer wash them all away." 
 He spoke ; and Sohrab answer'd, on 
 
 his feet : — 
 "Art thou .so fierce? Thou wilt not 
 
 fright me so ! 
 I am no girl, to be made pale by words. 
 Yet this tliou hast said well, did Rus- 
 tum stand 
 Here on this field, there were no figlit- 
 
 ing then. 
 But Rustum is far hence, and we stand 
 
 here. 
 Begin ! thou art more vast, more dread 
 
 than I, 
 And thou art proved, I know, and I am 
 
 young— 
 But yet success sways with the breatli 
 
 of Heaven. 
 And tliough thou thinkest that thou 
 
 knowest sure [know. 
 
 Thy victory, yet thou canst not surely 
 For we are all, like swimmers in the sea. 
 Poised on the top of a liuge wave of fate. 
 Which hangs uncertain to wliich side to 
 
 fall. 
 And whether it will heave us up to land. 
 Or whether it will roll us out to sea. 
 Back out to sea, to the deep waves of 
 
 death, 
 
734 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 We know not, and no search will make 
 
 us know ; 
 Onh' the event will teach us in its hour." 
 He spoke, and Rustuin answer'd not, 
 
 but hui I'd 
 His spear ; down froni the shoulder, 
 
 down it came, 
 As on some partridge in the corn a hawk. 
 That long has tower'd in the airy clouds, 
 Drops like a plummet ; Sohrab saw it 
 
 come. 
 And sprang- aside, quick as a flash ; the 
 
 spea r 
 Hiss'd. and went quivering down into the 
 
 sand, 
 Which it sent flying wide ; — then Soli- 
 
 rab threw 
 In turn, and full struck Rustum's shield ; 
 
 sharp rang. 
 The iron plates rang sharp, but turn'd 
 
 tlae spear. 
 And Rustum seized his club, which none 
 
 but he 
 Could wield ; an unlopp'd trunk it was, 
 
 and iiuge. 
 Still rough — like those which men in 
 
 treeless plains 
 To build them boats fish from the flooded 
 
 rivers, 
 H3'phasis or Hj'daspes, when, higli up 
 Bj^ their dark springs, the wind in 
 
 winter-time 
 Hath made in Himalayan forests wrack. 
 And strewn the channels with torn 
 
 boughs — so huge 
 The club which Rustuin lifted now, and 
 
 struck 
 One stroke ; but again Sohrab sprang 
 
 aside. 
 Lithe as tiie glancing snake, and the 
 
 club came 
 Thundering to earth, and leapt from 
 
 Rustum's hand. 
 And Rustum follow'd his own blow, and 
 
 fell 
 To his knees, and with his fingers 
 
 clutch'd the sand : 
 And now might Sohrab have unsheathed 
 
 his sword. 
 And pierced the mighty Rustum wliile 
 
 he lay 
 Dizzy, and on his knees, and choked 
 
 with sand ; 
 But he look'd on, and smiled, nor bared 
 
 his sword. 
 But courteously drew back, and spoke, 
 
 and said : — 
 " Them strik'st too hard ! that club of 
 
 thine will float 
 
 Upon the summer-floods, and not un- 
 bones. 
 But rise, and be not wroth ! not wroth 
 
 am I ; 
 No, when I see thee, wrath forsakes my 
 
 soul. 
 Thou sav'st, thou art not Rustum ; be it 
 
 so! 
 Wlio art thou then, that canst so touch 
 
 mj^ soul? 
 Boy as I am, I have seen battles too — 
 Have waded foremost in their bloodj' 
 
 waves. 
 And heard their hollow roar of dying 
 
 men ; 
 But never was my heart thus touch'd 
 
 before. 
 Are they from Heaven, these softenings 
 
 of the heart ? 
 O thou old warrior, let us yield to 
 
 Heaven ! 
 Come, plant we here in earth our angry 
 
 spears. 
 And make a truce, and sit upon this 
 
 sand, 
 And pledge each other in red wine, like 
 
 friends, 
 And thou shalt talk to me of Rustum's 
 
 deeds. 
 There are enough foes in tiie Persian 
 
 host. 
 Whom I may meet, and strike, and feel 
 
 no pang: 
 Cliam]>ions enoiigh Afrasiab has. whom 
 
 thou 
 Mayst fight ; fight them, when they con- 
 front thy spear ! 
 But oh, let there be peace 'twixt thee 
 
 and me ! " 
 He ceased, but while he spake, Rus- 
 tum had risen. 
 And stood erect, trembling witli rage ; 
 
 his club 
 He left to lie, but had regain'd his spear. 
 Whose fiery point now in his mail'd 
 
 right-hand 
 Blazed bright and baleful, like that 
 
 autumn-star. 
 The baleful sign of fevers ; dust had soil'd 
 His stately crest, and dimni'd his glit- 
 tering arms. 
 His breast heaved, his lips foam'd, and 
 
 twice his voice 
 Was clioked with rage ; at last these 
 
 words broke way : — 
 " Girl ! nimble with thy feet, not with 
 
 thy hands ! 
 Curl'd minion, dancer, coiner of sweet 
 
 words ! 
 
ARNOLD 
 
 735 
 
 Fight, let me hear thy hateful voice no 
 
 more ! 
 Thou art not in Afrasiab's gardens now 
 With Tartar girls, with whom thou art 
 
 wont to dance ; 
 But on the Oxus-sands, and in the dance 
 Of battle, and witli me, who make no 
 
 pia}' 
 Of war ; I fight it out. and hand to hand. 
 Speak not to me of truce, and pledge, 
 
 and wine ! 
 Remember all thy valor ; try thy feints 
 And cunning ! all the pity Iliad is gone ; 
 Because thou liast shan\ed me before 
 
 both the hosts 
 With th}^ light skipping tricks, and th}' 
 
 girl's wiles." 
 He spoke, and Solirab kindled at his 
 
 taunts, 
 And he too drew his sword ; at once 
 
 they rush'd 
 Together, as two eagles on one prey 
 Come rushing down together from the 
 
 clouds. 
 One from the east, one from the west ; 
 
 their sliields 
 Dash'd with a clang together, and a din 
 Rose, such as tluit the sinewy wood- 
 cutters 
 Make often in the forest's heart at morn. 
 Of hewing axes, crashing trees — such 
 
 blows 
 Rustuni and Sohrabon each other hail'd. 
 And you would say tliat sun and stars 
 
 took part 
 In that unnatural conflict ; for a cloud 
 Grew suddenly in Heaven, and dark'd 
 
 the sun 
 Over the fighters' heads; and a wind 
 
 rose 
 Under their feet, and moaning swept 
 
 the plain, 
 And in a sandy whirlwind wrapp'd the 
 
 pair. 
 In gloom they twain were wrapp'd, and 
 
 the}^ alone ; 
 For both the on-looking hosts on either 
 
 hand 
 Stood in broad daylight, and the sky 
 
 was pure. 
 And thesun sparkled on the Oxus stream. 
 But in the gloom they fouglit, with 
 
 bloodshot eyes 
 And laboring breath ; first Rustum 
 
 struck the shield 
 Whicli Sohrab held stiff out ; the steel- 
 spiked spear 
 Rent the tough plates, but fail'd to reach 
 
 the skin, 
 
 And Rustum pluck'd it back with an- 
 gry groan. 
 
 Then Sohrab with his sword smote Rus- 
 tum's helm. 
 
 Nor clove its steel quite through ; but 
 all the crest 
 
 He shore away, and that proud horse- 
 hair plume. 
 
 Never till now defiled, sank to the dust : 
 
 And Rustuni bow'd his head ; but tlien 
 tlie gloom 
 
 Grew blacker, thunder rumbled in tlie 
 air. 
 
 And lightnings rent the cloud ; and 
 Ruksh, the horse. 
 
 Who stood at hand, utter'd a dreadful 
 cry ;— 
 
 No horse's cry was that, most like the 
 roar 
 
 Of some pain'd desert-lion, who all day 
 
 Hath trail'd the hunter's javelin in liis 
 side. 
 
 And comes at night to die upon the 
 sand. 
 
 Tlie two hosts heard that cry, and 
 quaked for fear, 
 
 And Oxus curdled as it cross'd liis 
 stream. 
 
 But Sohrab heard, and quail'd not. but 
 rush'd on, 
 
 And struck again ; and again Rustum 
 bow'd 
 
 His head ; but this time all the blade, 
 like glass. 
 
 Sprang in a thousand shivers on the 
 helm, 
 
 And in the hand the hilt reraain'd alone. 
 
 Then Rustum raised his head ; his dread- 
 ful eyes 
 
 Glared, and he shook on high his menac- 
 ing spear. 
 
 And shouted : Rustum ! — Sohrab heard 
 that sliout. 
 
 And shrank amazed ; back he recoil'd 
 one step. 
 
 And scann'd with blinking eyes the ad- 
 vancing form ; 
 
 And then lie stood bewilder'd ; and he 
 dropp'd 
 
 His covering shield, and the spear 
 pierced his side. 
 
 He reel'd, and staggering back, sank to 
 the ground. 
 
 And tiien the gloom dispersed, and tiie 
 wind fell. 
 
 And the bright sun broke forth, and 
 melted all 
 
 The cloud ; and the two armies saw tlie 
 pair — 
 
736 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Saw Riistum standing, safe upon his 
 
 feet. 
 And Sohiab, wounded, on the bloody 
 
 sand. 
 Then, with a bitter smile, Rustunt 
 
 began : — 
 " Sohrab, thou thoughtest in thy mind 
 
 to kill 
 A Persian lord tliis day, and strip his 
 
 corpse, 
 And bear thy trophies to Afrasiab's tent. 
 Or else tliat the great Rustum would 
 
 come down 
 Himself to liglit, and that thy wiles 
 
 would move 
 His heart to take a gift, and let thee go. 
 And then that all the Tartar host would 
 
 praise 
 Thy courage or tliy craft, and spread 
 
 tliy fame. 
 To glad thy father in his weak old age. 
 Fool, thou art slain, and by an unknown 
 
 man ! 
 Dearer to the red jackals shalt thou be 
 Than to thy friends, and to thy father 
 
 old." 
 And, with a fearless mien, Sohrab re- 
 plied : — 
 "Unknown thou art; yet th}- fierce 
 
 vaiuit is vain. 
 Tiiou dost not slay me, proud and boast- 
 ful man ! 
 No ! Rustum slays me, and this filial 
 
 heart. 
 For were I matciiM witli ten such men 
 
 as thee. 
 And I wei"e that which till to-day I w;us. 
 They should be lying liere, I standing 
 
 there. 
 But that beloved name unnerved my 
 
 arm — 
 That name, and something, I confess, in 
 
 thee. 
 Which troubles all my heart, and made 
 
 my shield 
 Fall ; and thj' spear transfix'd an un- 
 
 arm'd foe. 
 And now thou boastest. and insult'st my 
 
 fate. 
 But hear thou this, fierce man, tremble 
 
 to hear 
 The mighty Rustum shall avenge my 
 
 death ! 
 M}' father, whom I seek through all the 
 
 world. 
 He shall avenge my death, and punish 
 
 thee ! " 
 As when some hunter in the spring 
 
 hath found 
 
 A breeding eagle sitting on iier ne.sl, 
 
 Upon the craggy isle of a liill-lake. 
 
 And pierced lier with an arrow as she 
 rose. 
 
 And followed her to find her where she 
 fell 
 
 Far off ; — anon her mate comes winging 
 back 
 
 From hunting, and a great way off" de- 
 scries 
 
 His huddling young left sole ; at that, 
 he checks 
 
 His pinion, and with short uneasy 
 sweeps 
 
 Circles above his eyry. with loud screams 
 
 Chiding his mate back to her nest ; but 
 she 
 
 Lies dying, with the arrow in her side, 
 
 In some far stony gorge ovit of his ken, 
 
 A heap of fluttering feathers — never 
 more 
 
 Shall the lake glass her, flying over it : 
 
 Never the black and dripping preci])ices 
 
 Echo her stormy scream as she sails by — 
 
 As that poor bird flies home, nor knows 
 his loss. 
 
 So Rustum knew not his own loss, but 
 stood 
 
 Over his dying son, and knew him not. 
 But, with a cold incredulous voice, he 
 said : — 
 
 "What prate is this of fathers and re- 
 venge ? 
 
 The mighty Rustuna never ha'l a son." 
 And. with a failing voice, Sohrul) re- 
 plied : — 
 
 " Ah }'es, he had ! and that lost son am I. 
 
 Surely the news will one day reach his 
 ear. 
 
 Reach Rustum, where he sits, and tar- 
 ries long, 
 
 Somewhere, I know not where, but far 
 from here 
 
 And pierce him like a stab, and make 
 him leap 
 
 To arms, and cry for vengeance upon 
 tliee. 
 
 Fierce man, bethink thee, for an only 
 
 80T1 ! 
 
 What will tliat grief, what will that 
 
 vengeance be ? 
 Oh, could I live, till I tlint grief had 
 
 seen ! 
 Yet him I pit}^ not so much, but her. 
 My motlier, who in Ader-baijan dwells 
 With tiiat old king, her father, who 
 
 grows gray 
 With age, and rules over the valiant 
 
 Koords. 
 
ARNOLD 
 
 737 
 
 Her most I pity, who no more will see 
 Solirabretm-ning from the Tartar cam]), 
 With spoils and honor, when the war is 
 
 done. 
 But a dark rumor will be bruited up. 
 { From tribe to tribe, until it reach her 
 ' ear ; 
 
 And tlien will that defenceless wonaan 
 
 learn 
 That Sohrab will rejoice her sight no 
 
 more, 
 But that in battle with a nameless foe. 
 By the far-distant Oxus, he is slain." 
 He spoke ; and as he ceased, he wept 
 
 aloud. 
 Thinking of her he left, and his own 
 
 death. 
 He spoke ; but Rustum listen'd, plunged 
 
 in thouglit. 
 Nor did he yet believe it was his son 
 Who spoke, although he call'd back 
 
 names he knew ; 
 For he had had sure tidings that the 
 
 babe, 
 Which was in Ader-baijan born to him. 
 Had been a puny girl, no boy at all — 
 So that sad mother sent him word, for 
 
 fear 
 Rustum should seek the boy, to train in 
 
 arms 
 And so he deem'd that either Sohrab 
 
 took, 
 By a false boast, the style of Rustum's 
 
 son ; 
 Or that men gave it him, to swell his 
 
 fame, 
 i So deem'd he : yet he listen'd, plunged 
 ■ in thought 
 
 And his soul set to grief, as the vast tide 
 Of the bright rocking Ocean sets to 
 
 shore 
 At the full moon ; tears gather'd in his 
 
 eyes : 
 For he remember'd his own early youth, 
 And all its bounding rapture ; as, at 
 
 dawn, 
 Tlie sheplierd from his mountain-lodge 
 
 descries 
 A far, bright city, smitten by the sun, 
 Tin'ough many rolling clouds — so Rus- 
 tum saw 
 His youth ; saw Sobrab's mother, in her 
 
 bloom ; 
 And that old king, her father, who loved 
 
 well 
 His wandering guest, and gave him his 
 
 fair child 
 With joy ; and all the pleasant life they 
 
 led. 
 
 47 
 
 They three, in that long-distant summer- 
 time — 
 The castle, and the dewy woods, and 
 
 hunt 
 And Iiound, and morn on those delight- 
 ful hills 
 In Ader-baijan. And he saw that Youth , 
 Of age and looks to be his own dear 
 
 son. 
 Piteous and lovely, lying on the sand. 
 Like some rich hyacinth which by tlie 
 
 scythe 
 Of an unskilful gardener has been cut. 
 Mowing the garden grass-plots near its 
 
 bed. 
 And lies, a fragrant tower of purple 
 
 bloom, 
 On the mown, dying grass — so Sohrab 
 
 laj'. 
 Lovely in death, upon the common sand. 
 And Rustum gazed on him with grief, 
 
 and said : — 
 •' O Sohrab, thou indeed art such a son 
 Whom Rustum, wert thou his, might 
 
 well have loved. 
 Yet here thou errest, Sohrab, or else men 
 Have told thee false— tliou art not Rus- 
 tum's son. 
 For Rustum had no son ; one child he 
 
 had — 
 But one — a girl ; who with her mother 
 
 now 
 Plies some light female task, nor dreams 
 
 of us — 
 Of us she dreams not, nor of wounds, 
 
 nor war." 
 But Sohrab answer'd him in wrath ; 
 
 for now 
 The anguish of the deep-fix'd spear grew 
 
 fierce, 
 And he desired to draw forth the steel. 
 And let the blood flow free, and so to 
 
 die — 
 But first he would convince his stubborn 
 
 foe ; 
 And, rising sternly on one arm, he 
 
 said : — 
 "Man, who art thou who dost deny 
 
 my words ? 
 Truth sits upon the lips of dying men. 
 And falsehood, while I lived, was far 
 
 from mine. 
 I tell tliee, prick'd upon this arm I bear 
 Tliat seal which Rustum to my mother 
 
 gave, 
 Tliat she might prick it on the babe she 
 
 bore." 
 He spoke ; and all the blood left Rus- 
 tum's cheeks. 
 
738 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 And his knees totter'd, and he smote his 
 
 hand 
 Against his breast, his heavy mailed 
 
 hand. 
 That tlie hard iron corslet clank'd aloud ; 
 And to his heart he press'd the other 
 
 hand, 
 And in a hollow voice he spake, and 
 
 said : — 
 " Sohrab, that were a proof which 
 
 could not lie ! 
 If thou show this, then art thou Eus- 
 
 tum's sou." 
 Then, with weak hasty fingers, Sohrab 
 
 loosed 
 His belt, and near tlie shoulder bared 
 
 his arm, 
 And show'd a sign in faint vermilion 
 
 points 
 Prick'd ; as a cunning vs'orkman, in 
 
 Pekin, 
 Pricks with vermilion some clear porce- 
 lain vase. 
 An emperor's gift — at early morn he 
 
 paints. 
 And all day long, and, when night 
 
 comes, the lamp 
 Liglits up liis studious forehead and thin 
 
 hands — 
 So delicately prick'd the sign appear'd 
 On Sohrab's arm. the sign of Rustum's 
 
 seal. 
 It was tliat griffin, which of old rear'd 
 
 Zal, 
 Rustum's great father, whom they left 
 
 to die, 
 A helpless babe, among the mountain- 
 rocks ; 
 Him that kind creature found, and 
 
 rear'd, and loved — 
 Then Rustum took it for his glorious 
 
 sign. 
 And Sohrab bared that image on his 
 
 arm. 
 And himself scann'd it long with mourn- 
 ful eyes, 
 And then he touch'd it with his hand 
 
 and said : — 
 ' ' How say'st thou ? Is that sign the 
 
 proper sign 
 Of Rustum's son, or of some other 
 
 man 's?" 
 He spoke ; but Rustum gazed, and 
 
 gazed, and stood 
 Speechless ; and then he utter'd one 
 
 sharp cry : 
 O bny — ihyfaiher I — and his voice choked 
 
 there. [ej^es. 
 
 And tlien a dark cloud jjass'd before his 
 
 And his head swam, and he sank down 
 to earth. 
 
 But Sohrab crawl'd to where he lay,' and 
 cast 
 
 His arms about his neck, and kiss'd his 
 lips. 
 
 And with fond faltering fingers stroked 
 his cheeks, 
 
 Trying to call him back to life ; and life 
 
 Came back to Rustum, and he oped his 
 eyes. 
 
 And tliey stood wide with horror ; and 
 lie seized 
 
 In both his hands the dust which lay 
 around. 
 
 And threw it on his head, and smirch'd 
 his hair, — 
 
 His hair, and face, and beard, and glit- 
 tering arms ; 
 
 And strong convulsive groanings shook 
 his breast, 
 
 And his sobs choked him ; and he 
 clutch'd his sword. 
 
 To draw it, and for ever let life out. 
 
 But Sohrab saw his thought, and held 
 his hands. 
 
 And with a soothing voice he spake, and 
 said : — 
 " Father, forbear ! for I but meet to- 
 day 
 
 The doom wliich at my birth was writ- 
 ten down 
 
 In Heaven, and thou art Heaven's un- 
 conscious hand. 
 
 Surely my heart cried out that it was 
 thou. 
 
 When first I saw thee ; and thy heart 
 spoke too. 
 
 I know it ! but fate trod those prompt- 
 ings down 
 
 Under its iron heel ; fate, fate engaged 
 
 The strife, and hurl'd m« on my father's 
 spear. 
 
 But let us speak no more of this ! I find 
 
 My father ; let me feel tliat I have 
 found ! 
 
 Come, sit beside me on this sand, and 
 take 
 
 My head betwixt thy hands, and kiss my 
 cheeks. 
 
 And wash them with thy tears, and say : 
 My son .' 
 
 Quick ! quick ! for number'd are my 
 sands of life. 
 
 And swift ; for like the lightning to this 
 field 
 
 I came, and like the wind I go away — 
 
 Sudden, and swift, and like a passing 
 wind. 
 
ARNOLD 
 
 739 
 
 But it was writ in Heaven that this 
 
 slioukl be." 
 So said he, and Jiis voice released the 
 
 heart 
 Of Rustuni, and liis tears broke forth ; 
 
 lie cast 
 His arms round his son's neck, and wept 
 
 aloud, 
 And kiss'd liim. And awe fell on both 
 
 the hosts, 
 Wlien they saw Rustuui's grief ; and 
 
 Ruksh, the horse, 
 Witli his head bowing to the ground 
 
 and mane 
 Sweeping tlie dust, came near, and in 
 
 mute woe 
 First to the one, then to the otlier moved 
 His head, as if inquiring what their 
 
 grief 
 Might mean ; and from his dark, com- 
 passionate eyes, 
 The big warm tears roll'd dow^n, and 
 
 caked the sand. 
 But Rustum chid him with stern voice, 
 
 and said : — 
 " Ruksh, now tliou grievest ; but, O 
 
 Ruksh ; thy feet 
 Should first liave rotted on their nimble 
 
 joints. 
 Or ere they brought thy master to this 
 
 field ! "' 
 But Solirab look'd upon tlie horse and 
 
 said ; — 
 "Is this, then. Ruksh? How often, in 
 
 past days, 
 .My mother told me of thee, thou brave 
 
 steed. 
 My terrible father's terrible horse ! and 
 
 said, 
 Tliat I should one day find thy lord and 
 
 tliee. 
 Come, let me lay my hand upon tliy 
 
 mane ! 
 O Ruksli, thou art more fortunate tlian I; 
 For thou hast gone where I shall ne.ver 
 
 go, 
 And snuff'd the breezes of my father's 
 
 home. 
 And thou hast trod the sands of Seis- 
 
 tan. 
 And seen the River of Helmund, and the 
 
 Lake 
 Of Zirrah : and the aged Zal himself 
 Has often stroked thy neck, and given 
 
 thee food. 
 Corn in a golden platter soak'd w-ith 
 
 wine, 
 And said ; O Ruksli ! hear Rnstiim uiellf 
 
 —but I 
 
 Have never known my grandsire's fur- 
 
 row'd face, 
 Nor seen his lofty liouse in Seistan, 
 Nor slaked mj' thirst at the clear Hel- 
 mund stream ; 
 But lodged among my father's foes, and 
 
 seen 
 Afrasiab's cities only, Samarcand, 
 Bokhara, and lone Khiva in the waste, 
 And tlie black Toorkmun tents ; and 
 
 only drunk 
 The desert rivers, Moorgliab and Tejend, 
 Kohik, and where the Kalmuks feed 
 
 tlieir sheep. 
 The nortliern Sir ; and this great Oxus 
 
 stream, 
 The 3'ellow Oxus, by whose brink I die." 
 Then, witli a heavy groan, Rustuni be- 
 
 wail'd: — 
 " Oh, that its waves were flowing over 
 
 me ! 
 Oh. that I saw its grains of yellow silt 
 Roll tumbling in the current o'er my 
 
 head ! " 
 But, with a gi'ave mild voice, Sohrab 
 
 replied : — 
 " Desire not that, my father! tliou must 
 
 live. 
 For some are born to do great deeds, and 
 
 live. 
 As some are born to be obscured, and 
 
 die. 
 Do thou tiie deeds I die too young to do. 
 And reap a second glory in thine age ; 
 Thou art my father, and thj' gain is mine. 
 But come ! thou seest this great host of 
 
 men 
 Which follow me ; I pray tliee, slay 
 
 not these ! 
 Let me entreat for them ; what Iiave 
 
 they done ? 
 Tliey follow'd me, my hope, my fame, 
 
 my star. 
 Let them all cross the Oxus back in 
 
 peace. 
 But me thou must beai" hence, not send 
 
 with them. 
 But carry me with thee to Seistan, 
 And place me on a bed, and mourn for 
 
 me, 
 Thou, and the snow-hair'd Zal, and all 
 
 thy friends. 
 And thou must lay me in tliat lovely 
 
 earth. 
 And heap a stately mound above my 
 
 bones. 
 And plant a far-seen pillar over all. 
 That so the passing horseman on the 
 
 waste 
 
740 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Ma3' see my tomb a great way off, and 
 
 cry : 
 Sohvah, the mighty Rustnm's son, lies 
 
 there, 
 Whom his great father did in ignorance 
 
 kill ! 
 And I be not forgotten in my grave." 
 And, with a mournful voice, Rustura 
 
 replied : — 
 " Fear not, as thou hast said, Sohrab, 
 
 my son. 
 So shall it be ; for I will burn my tents, 
 And quit the host, and bear tliee hence 
 
 with me, 
 And carry thee awaj^ to Seistan, 
 And place thee on a bed, and mourn for 
 
 thee. 
 With the snow-headed Zal, and all my 
 
 friends. 
 And I will lay thee in that lovely earth, 
 And heap a stately mound above tliy 
 
 bones, 
 And plant a far-seen pillar over all. 
 And men shall not forget thee in thy 
 
 grave. 
 And I will spare thy host ; yea, let 
 
 them go ! 
 Let them all cross tlie Oxus back in 
 
 peace ! 
 What should I do witli slaying any 
 
 more ? 
 For would that all that I have ever 
 
 slain 
 Miglit be once more alive ; my bitterest 
 
 foes, 
 And they who were call'd champions in 
 
 their time. 
 And through whose death I won that 
 
 fame I have — 
 And I were nothing but a common man, 
 A poor, mean soldier, and without re- 
 nown, 
 So thou mightest live too, my son, my 
 
 son ! 
 Or rather would that I, even I myself, 
 Might now be lying on this bloody sand. 
 Near death, and by an ignorant stroke 
 
 of thine, 
 Not thou of mine ! and I might die, not 
 
 thou ; 
 And I, not thou, be borne to Seistan ; 
 And Zal miglit weep above my grave, 
 
 not thine ; 
 And say : O son Iiveep thee not too sore. 
 For tviilingly, I know, thou meVst thine 
 
 end! 
 But now in blood and battles was my 
 
 youth. 
 And full of blood and battles is my age, 
 
 And I shall never end this life of blood." 
 Then, at the point of death, Sohrab 
 
 replied : — 
 " A life of blood indeed, thou dreadful 
 
 man ! 
 But thou shalt yet have peace ; onh' not 
 
 novv^. 
 Not yet ! but thou shalt have it on that 
 
 day. 
 When thou shalt sail in a high-masted 
 
 ship, 
 Thou and the other peers of Kai Khos- 
 
 roo. 
 Returning home over the salt blue sea, 
 From laying thy dear master in his 
 
 grave." 
 And Rustum gazed in Sohrab's face, 
 
 and said : — 
 " Soon be that day, my son, and deep 
 
 that sea ! 
 Till then, if fate so wills, let me endure." 
 He spoke ; and Sohrab smiled on him, 
 
 and took 
 The spear, and drew it from his side, and 
 
 eased 
 His wound's imperious anguish ; but the 
 
 blood 
 Came welling from the open gash, and 
 
 life 
 Flow'd with the stream ; — all down his 
 
 cold white side 
 The crimson torrent ran, dim now and 
 
 soil'd, 
 Like the soil'd tissue of white violets 
 Left, freshly gather'd. on the native 
 
 bank. 
 By cliildren whom their nurses call with 
 
 haste 
 Indoors from the sun's eye ; his head 
 
 droop'd low, 
 His limbs grew slack ; motionless, white, 
 
 he lay — 
 White, with eyes closed ; only when 
 
 heavy gasps, 
 Deep heavy gasps quivering through all 
 
 his frame, 
 Convulsed him back to life, he open'd 
 
 them. 
 And fix'd them feebly on his father's 
 
 face ; 
 Till now all strength was ebb'd, and 
 
 from his limbs. 
 Unwillingly the spirit fled away, 
 Regretting the warm mansion which it 
 
 left, 
 And youth, and bloom, and this delight- 
 ful world. 
 So, on the bloody sand. Sohrab lay 
 
 dead ; 
 
 1 
 
ARNOLD 
 
 741 
 
 And the great Rustuiu drew his horse- 
 man's cloak 
 Down o'er his face, and sate by his dead 
 
 son. 
 As those black granite pillars, once 
 
 high-rear'd 
 By Jenishid in Persepolis, to bear 
 His house, now 'mid their broken flights 
 
 of steps 
 Lie prone, enormous, down the moun- 
 tain side — 
 80 in the sand lay Rustuni Viy his son. 
 And night came down over the sol- 
 emn waste. 
 And the two gazing hosts, and that sole 
 
 pair. 
 And darken'd all ; and a cold fog, with 
 
 night, 
 Crept from the Oxus. Soon a hum 
 
 arose. 
 As of a great assembly loosed, and fires 
 Began to twinkle through the fog ; for 
 
 now 
 Both armies moved to camp, and took 
 
 their meal ; 
 The Persians took it on the open sands 
 Southward, the Tartars by the river 
 
 marge ; 
 And Rustum and his son were left alone. 
 
 But the majestic river floated on, 
 Out of the mist and hum of that low 
 
 land. 
 Into the frosty starlight, and there 
 
 moved, 
 Rejoicing, through the hush'd Choras- 
 
 mian waste. 
 Under the solitaiy moon ; — he flow'd 
 Right for the polar star, past Orgiinje, 
 Brimming, and bright, and large ; then 
 
 sands began 
 To hem his watery march, and dam his 
 
 streams. 
 And split his currents ; that for many a 
 
 league 
 The shorn and parcell'd Oxus strains 
 
 along- 
 Through beds of sand and matted rushy 
 
 isles — 
 Oxus. forgetting the bright speed he had 
 In liis high mountain-cradle in Pamere. 
 A foil'd circuitous wamlerer — till at last 
 The long'd-for dash of waves is heard. 
 
 and wide 
 His luminous home of waters opens, 
 
 bright 
 And tranquil, from whose floor the new- 
 
 Vjathed stars 
 Emerge, and shine upon the Aral Sea. 
 
 1853. 
 
 PHILOMELA 
 
 Hark ! ah, tlie nightingale — 
 
 The tawny-throated ! 
 
 Hark, from that moonlit cedar what a 
 
 burst ! 
 What triumph ! hark ! — what pain ! 
 
 O wanderer from a Grecian shore, 
 Still, after many years, in distant lands, 
 Still nourishing in thj' bewilder'd brain 
 That wild, unquench'd, deep-sunken, 
 
 old-world i^ain — 
 Say, will it never heal? 
 And can this fragr;int lawn 
 With its cool trees, and night. 
 And the sweet, tranquil Thames, 
 And moonsliine, and the dew. 
 To thy rack'd heart and brain 
 Afford no balm ? 
 
 Dost thou to-night behold. 
 
 Here, through the moonlight on this 
 
 English grass, 
 The unfriendly palace in the Thracian 
 
 wild ? 
 Dost tliou again peruse 
 With hot cheeks and sear'd eyes 
 The too clear web, and thy dumb sister's 
 
 sliame ? 
 Dost thou once more assay 
 Thy flight, and feel come over thee, 
 Poor fugitive, the feathery change 
 Once more, and once more seem to make 
 
 resound 
 With love and hate, triumph and agony, 
 Lone Daulis, and the high Cephissian 
 
 vale ? 
 Listen. Eugenia — 
 How thick the bursts come crowding 
 
 through tile leaves ! * 
 
 Again — thou hearest ? 
 Eternal passion ! 
 Eternal pain ! 1853. 
 
 THE SCHOLAR-GIPSY 
 
 Go, for thev call you, shepherd, from the 
 
 hill:' 
 Go, shepherd, and vmtie tiie wattled 
 cotes ! 
 No longer leave thy wistful flock un- 
 fed, 
 Nor let thy bawling fellows rack their 
 • throats. 
 Nor the cropp'd herbage shoot another 
 head. 
 But when the fields are still. 
 And tlie tired men and dogs all gone to 
 rest , 
 
742 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 And only the white sheep are some- 
 times seen 
 
 Cross and recross the strips of moon- 
 blanch'd green, 
 Come, shepherd, and again begin tlie 
 quest ! 
 
 Here, where the reaper was at work of 
 
 late — 
 In this higli field's dark coi'ner, where he 
 leaves 
 His coat, his basket, and his earthen 
 cruse, 
 And in the sun all morning binds the 
 sheaves, 
 Then here, at noon, conies back his 
 stores to use — 
 Here will I sit and wait. 
 While to my ear from uplands far away 
 The bleating of the folded flocks is 
 
 borne, 
 Witli distant cries of reapers in the 
 corn — 
 All the live murmur of a summer's day. 
 
 Screen'd is this nook o'er the high, half- 
 
 reap'd field. 
 And here till sun-down, shepherd ! will 
 I be. 
 Tlirough tlie thick corn tlie scarlet 
 poppies peep, 
 And round green roots and jellowing 
 stalks I see 
 Pale pink convolvulus in tendrils 
 creep ; 
 And air-swept lindens yield 
 Their scent, and rustle down their per- 
 fumed showers 
 Of bloom on the bent grass where I am 
 
 . laid. 
 And iiower me from tlie August sun 
 with sliade ; 
 And the eye travels down to Oxford's 
 towers. 
 
 And near me on the grass lies Glanvil's 
 
 book — 
 Come, let me read the oft-read tale 
 again ! 
 The story of the Oxford scholar poor, 
 Of pregnant parts and quick inventive 
 brain. 
 Who, tired of knocking at prefer- 
 ment's door, 
 One summer-morn forsook 
 His friends, and went to learn the gipsy- 
 lore. 
 And roam'd tlie world with tliat wild 
 brotherliood. 
 
 And came, as most men deem'd, to lit- 
 tle good. 
 But came to Oxford and his friends no 
 more. 
 
 But once, years after, in the country- 
 lanes. 
 Two scholars, whom at college erst he 
 knew. 
 Met him, and of his way of life en- 
 quired ; 
 Whereat he answer'd, that the gipsy- 
 crew, 
 His mates, had arts to rule as they de- 
 sired 
 The workings of meji's brains, 
 And the}' can bind them to what thoughts 
 they will. 
 '• And 1," he said, " the secret of their 
 
 art. 
 When fully learn'd, will to the world 
 impart ; 
 But it needs heaven-sent moments for 
 this skill." 
 
 This said, he left them, and return'd no 
 
 more. — 
 But rumors hung about the country- 
 side. 
 That t]\e lost Scholar long was .seen to 
 stray, 
 Seen by rare glimpses, pensive and 
 tongue-tied, 
 In hat of antique shape, and cloak of 
 gray, 
 The same the gipsies wore. 
 Siiepherds had met him on the Hurst in 
 spring ; 
 At some lone alehouse in the Berk- 
 shire moors. 
 On the warm ingle-bench, the smo("k- 
 f rock'd boors 
 Had found him seated at their entering. 
 
 But, 'mid their drink and clatter, he 
 
 would fly. 
 And I mj-self seem half to know thy 
 looks. 
 And put the shepherds, wanderer ! on 
 thy trace ; 
 And boys who in lone wheatfields scare 
 the rooks 
 I ask if thou hast pass'd their quiet 
 place ; 
 Or ill my boat I lie 
 Moor'd to the cool bank in the summer- 
 heats, 
 'Mid wide grass meadows which the 
 sunshine fills. 
 
ARNOLD 
 
 743 
 
 And watch the warm, green-muffled 
 Cumiier hills, 
 And wonder if thou haunt'st their shy 
 retreats. 
 
 For most, I know, thou lov'st retired 
 
 ground ! 
 Thee at the ferry Oxford riders blithe, 
 Returning home on summer-nights, 
 have met 
 Crossing the stripling Thames at Bab- 
 lock-hithe, 
 Trailing in the cool stream thy fingers 
 wet. 
 As the punt's rope ciiops round ; 
 And leaning backward in a pensive 
 dream. 
 And fostering in thy lap a heap of 
 
 flowers 
 Pluck'd in shy fields and distant Wych- 
 wood bowers. 
 And thine eyes resting on the moonlit 
 stream. 
 
 And then they land, and thou art seen 
 
 no more ! — 
 Maidens, who from the distant hamlets 
 come 
 To dance around the Fyfield elm in 
 May, 
 Oft through the darkening fields have 
 seen thee roam. 
 Or cross a stile into the public way. 
 Oft thou hast given them store 
 Of flowers — the frail-leaf d, white anem- 
 one. 
 Dark bluebells drench'd with dews of 
 
 summer eves. 
 And purple orchises with spotted 
 leaves— 
 But none hath words she can report of 
 thee. 
 
 And, above Godstow Bridge, when hay- 
 time 's here 
 In June, and many a scythe in sunshine 
 flames. 
 Men who through those wide fields of 
 breezy grass 
 Where black-wing'd swallows haunt the 
 glittering Thames, 
 To bathe in the abandon'd lasher pass. 
 Have often pass'd thge near 
 Sitting upon the river bank o'ergrown ; 
 Mark'd thine outlandish garb, thy 
 
 figure spare, 
 Thy dark vague eyes, and soft ab 
 stracted air — [wast gone I 
 
 But, when they came fi-om bathing, thou 
 
 At some lone homestead in the Cumner 
 
 hills, 
 Where at her open door the housewife 
 darns. 
 Thou hast been seen, or hanging on a 
 gate 
 To watch the threshers in the mossy 
 barns. 
 Children, who early range these slopes 
 and late 
 For cresses from the rills. 
 Have known thee eying, all an April- 
 day, 
 Tlie springing pastures and the feeding 
 
 kine ; 
 And mark'd thee, when the stars come 
 out and shine. 
 Through the long dewy grass move slow 
 away. 
 
 In autumn, on the skirts of Bagley 
 
 Wood- 
 Where most the gipsies by the turf-edged 
 way 
 Pitch their smoked tents, and every 
 bush you see 
 With scarlet patches tagg'd and shreds 
 of gray. 
 Above the forest-ground called Thes- 
 saly— 
 The blackbird, picking food, 
 Sees thee, nor stops his meal, nor fears 
 at all ; 
 So often has he known thee past him 
 
 stray. 
 Rapt, twirling in thy hand a wither'd 
 spray, 
 And waiting for the spark from heaven 
 to fall. 
 
 And once, in winter, on the causeway 
 
 chill 
 Where home through flooded fields foot- 
 travellers go. 
 Have I not pass'd thee' on the wooden 
 bridge. 
 Wrapt in thy cloak and battling with 
 the snow, 
 Thy face tow'rd Hinksey and its win- 
 try ridge? 
 And thou hast climb'd the hill. 
 And gain'd the white brow of the Cum- 
 ner range ; 
 Turn'd once to watch, while thick the 
 
 snowflakes fall, 
 The line of festal light in Christ-Church 
 hall- 
 Then sought thy straw in some seques- 
 ter'd grange. 
 
744 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 But what — I dream ! Two hundred years 
 
 are flowu 
 Since first thy story ran through Oxford 
 halls, 
 And the grave Glanvil did the tale in- 
 scribe 
 That thou wert wander'd from the stu- 
 dious walls 
 To learn strange arts, and join a gipsy- 
 tribe ; 
 And tliou from earth art gone 
 Long since, and in some quiet churcliyard 
 laid — 
 Some country-nook, where o'er thy un- 
 known grave 
 Tall grasses and white flowering net- 
 tles wave, 
 Under a dark, red-fruited yew-tree's 
 shade. 
 
 — No, no, thou hast not felt the lapse of 
 
 hours ! 
 For what wears out the life of mortal 
 men? 
 Tis that from cliange to change their 
 being rolls ; 
 'Tis that repeated shocks, again, again. 
 Exhaust the energy of strongest souls 
 And numb the elastic powers. 
 Till having used our nerves with bliss 
 and teen. 
 And tired upon a thousand schemes 
 
 our wit, 
 To the just-pausing Genius we remit 
 Our worn-out life, and are — what we 
 have been. 
 
 Thou hast not lived, why should'st thou 
 
 perish, so? 
 Thou hadst owe aim, one business, one 
 desire ; 
 Else wert thou long since number'd 
 with the dead ! 
 Else hadst thou spent, like other men, 
 thy fire ! 
 The generations of thy peers are fled. 
 And we ourselves shall go ; 
 But thou possessest an immortal lot. 
 And we imagine thee exempt from age 
 And living as thou liv'st on Glanvil's 
 page, 
 Because thou hadst — what we, alas ! 
 have not. 
 
 For early didst thou leave the world, 
 
 with powers 
 Fresh, undiverted to the world without. 
 Firm to their mark, not spent on otlier 
 
 things ; 
 
 Free from the sick fatigue, the languid 
 doubt, 
 Whicli much to have tried, in much 
 been baffled, brings. 
 O life unlike to ours ! 
 Who fluctuate idly without term or 
 scope. 
 Of whom each strives, nor knows for' 
 
 what he strives, 
 And each half lives a hvmdred difi'er- 
 ent lives ; 
 Who wait like thee, but not, like thee, 
 in hope. 
 
 Thou waitest for the spark from heaven I 
 
 and we. 
 Light half-believers of our casual creeds. 
 Who never deeply felt, nor clearly 
 wiU'd, 
 Whose insight never has borne fruit in 
 deeds, 
 Whose vague resolves never have been 
 fulfiU'd ; 
 For wliom each year we see 
 Bi'eeds new beginnings, disappointments 
 new ; 
 Who hesitate and falter life away. 
 And lose to-morrow the ground won 
 to-day — 
 Ah ! do not we, wanderer ! await it too ? 
 
 Yes, we await it ! — but it still delays, 
 And tlien we sufl^er ! and amongst us one, 
 Who most hassufl'erd, takes dejectedly 
 His seat upon the intellectual throne ; 
 And all his store of sad experience he 
 Lays bare of wretched days ; 
 Tells us his misery's birth and growth 
 
 and signs, 
 And how the dying spark of hope was 
 
 fed. 
 And how the breast was sootlied, and 
 
 how the head. 
 And all his hoiu'ly varied anodynes. 
 
 This for our wisest ! and we others jiine. 
 And wish the long unhappy dream 
 would end. 
 And waive all claim to bliss, and try 
 to bear ; 
 With close-lipp'd patience for our only 
 friend. 
 Sad patience, too near neighbor to 
 despair — 
 But none has hope like thine ! 
 Thou through the fields and tlirougli the 
 woods dost stray. 
 Roaming the country-side*, a truant 
 boy, 
 
ARNOLD 
 
 745 
 
 Nursing tbj' project in uncloude'.l joy. 
 And every doubt long blown by time 
 away. 
 
 O born in days wlien wits were fresh 
 
 and clear, 
 And life ran gaily as the sparkling 
 Thames ; 
 Before the strange disease of modern 
 life, 
 With its sick hurry, its divided aims. 
 Its heads o'ertax'd, its palsied hearts, 
 was rife — 
 Fly hence, our contact fear ! 
 Still fly, plunge deeper in the bowering 
 wood ! 
 Averse, as Dido did with gesture stern 
 From her false friend's approach in 
 Hades turn. 
 Wave us away and keep thy solitude ! 
 
 Still nursing the unconquerable hope, 
 Still clutching the inviolable shade. 
 With a free onward impulse brushing 
 through, 
 By night, the silver'd branches of the 
 glade — 
 Far on the forest-skirts, where none 
 pursue. 
 On some" mild pastoral slope 
 Emerge, and resting on the moonlit pales 
 Freshen thy flowers as in former years 
 With dew, or listen with enchanted 
 ears. 
 From the dark dingles, to the nightin- 
 gales ! 
 
 But f?y our paths, our feverish contact 
 
 fly! 
 For strong the infection of our mental 
 strife, 
 Which, though it gives no bliss, yet 
 spoils for rest ; 
 And we should win thee from tli.y own 
 fair life. 
 Like us distracted, and like us uiililest. 
 Soon, soon thy cheer would die. 
 Thy hopes grow timorous, and unfix"d 
 thy powers. 
 And thy clear aims be cross and si lift- 
 ing made ; 
 And then thy glad perennial youtli 
 would fade, 
 Fade and grow old at last, and die like 
 ours. 
 
 Then fly our greetings, fly our speech and 
 
 smiles ! 
 — As some grave Tyrian trader, from the 
 
 sea, 
 
 Descried at sunrise an emerging prow 
 
 Lifting tliecool-hair'dcreepersstealthily, 
 
 Tlie fringes of a south ward-facing brow 
 
 Among the ^ga?an Isles ; 
 
 And saw the merry Grecian coaster come. 
 
 Freighted with amber grapes, and 
 
 Chian wine, 
 Green, bursting figs, and tunnies 
 steep'd in brine — 
 And knew the intruders on his ancient 
 home, 
 
 The young light-hearted masters of the 
 
 waves — 
 And snatch'd his rudder, and shook out 
 more sail ; 
 And daj' and night held on indignantly 
 O'er the Blue Midland waters with the 
 gale, 
 Betwixt the Syrtes and soft Sicily, 
 To where the Atlantic raves 
 Outside the western straits ; and unbent 
 sails 
 There, where down cloudy cliflfs, 
 
 through slieets of foam, 
 Shy traffickers, the dark Iberians 
 come ; 
 And on the beach undid his corded bales. 
 
 1853. 
 
 FROM BALDER DEAD 
 
 SECTION III 
 
 The Gods held talk together, group'd in 
 
 knots, 
 Round Balder 's corpse, which they had 
 
 thither borne ; 
 And Hermod came down tow'rds thenx 
 
 from the gate. 
 And Lok, the father of the serpent, first 
 Beheld him come, and to his neighbor 
 
 spake : — 
 " See, liere is Hermod, who comes 
 
 single back 
 From Hell ; and shall I tell thee how he 
 
 seems ? 
 Like as a farmer, who hath lost his dog. 
 Some morn, at market, in a crowded 
 
 town — 
 Through many streets the poor beast 
 
 runs in vain. 
 And follows this man after that, for 
 
 hours ; 
 And, late at evening, spent and panting, 
 
 falls 
 Before a stranger's threshold, not liis 
 
 liome, 
 Witli flanks atremble, and his slender 
 
 tongue 
 
746 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Hangs quivering out between his dust- 
 
 smear'd jaws, 
 And piteously he eyes the passers by ; 
 But lionie his master comes to liis own 
 
 farm, 
 Far in the country, wondering where he 
 
 is — 
 So Hermod comes to-day unfoUow'd 
 
 home." 
 And straight his neighbor, moved witli 
 
 wrath, replied : — 
 "Deceiver! fair in form, but false in 
 
 heart ! 
 Enemy, mocker, whom, though Gods, 
 
 we hate — 
 Peace, lest our father Odin hear thee 
 
 gibe ! 
 Would I might see him snatch thee in 
 
 his hand, 
 And bind thy carcase, like a bale, with 
 
 cords, 
 And hurl thee in a lake, to sink or swim ! 
 If clear from plotting Balder's death, to 
 
 swim ; 
 But deep, if thou devisedst it, to drown, 
 And perish, against fate, before thj^ daj'." 
 So they two soft to one another spake. 
 But Odin look'd toward the land, and saw 
 His messenger ; and he stood forth, and 
 
 cried. 
 And Hermod came, and leapt from 
 
 Sleipner down. 
 And in his father's hand put Sleipner's 
 
 rein , 
 And greeted Odin and the Gods, and 
 
 said : — 
 " Odin, my father, and ye, Gods of 
 
 Heaven ! 
 Lo, home, having perform'd your will, I 
 
 come. 
 Into the joyless kingdom have I been. 
 Below, and look'd upon the shadowy 
 
 tribes 
 Of ghosts, and communed with their 
 
 solemn queen ; 
 And to your prayer she sends you this 
 
 reply : 
 Show her through all the ivorld the signs 
 
 of grief ! 
 Fails but one thing to grieve, there Balder 
 
 stops ! 
 Let Gods, men, brutes, beweep him ; plants 
 
 and stones : 
 So shall she knoio your loss teas dear in- 
 deed. 
 And bend her heart and give you Balder 
 
 back.'" 
 He spoke ; and all the Gods to Odin 
 
 look'd ; 
 
 And straight the Father of the ages 
 
 said : — 
 " Ye Gods, these terms may keep an- 
 other day. 
 But now, put on your arms, and mount 
 
 your steeds. 
 And in procession all come near, and 
 
 weep 
 Balder ; for that is what the dead desire. 
 When ye. enough have wept, then build 
 
 a pile 
 Of the heap'd wood, and burn his corpse 
 
 with fire 
 Out of our sight ; that we may turn from 
 
 grief. 
 And lead, as erst, our daily life in 
 
 Heaven." 
 He spoke, and the Gods arm'd ; and 
 
 Odin donn'd 
 His dazzling corslet and his helm of gold. 
 And led the way on Sleipner ; and tlie 
 
 rest 
 Follow'd, in teai's, their father and their 
 
 king. 
 And thrice in arms around the dead they 
 
 rode. 
 Weeping ; the sands were wetted, and 
 
 their arms. 
 With their thick-falling tears — so good a 
 
 friend 
 They mourn'd that day, so bright, so 
 
 loved a God. 
 And Odin came, and laid his kingly 
 
 hands 
 On Balder's breast, and thus began the 
 
 wail : — 
 " Farewell, O Balder, bright and loved, 
 
 my son ! 
 In that great day, the twilight of the 
 
 Gods, 
 When Muspel's children sliall beleaguer 
 
 Heaven, 
 Then we shall miss thy counsel and thy 
 
 arm." 
 Thou earnest near the next, O warrior 
 
 Thor ! 
 Shouldering thy hammer, in thy chariot 
 
 drawn. 
 Swaying the long-hair'd goats with 
 
 silver'd rein ; 
 And over Balder's corpse these words 
 
 didst say : — 
 " Brother, thou dwellest in the dark- 
 some land. 
 And talkest with the feeble tribes of 
 
 ghosts, 
 Now, and I know not how they prize 
 
 thee there — [and mourn'd. 
 
 But liere, I know, thou wilt be niiss'd 
 
ARNOLD 
 
 747 
 
 For haughty spirits and high wraths are 
 
 rife 
 Among the Gods and Heroes here in 
 
 Heaven , 
 As among those whose joy and work is 
 
 war ; 
 And daily strifes arise, and angry words. 
 But from thy lips, O Balder, night or 
 
 day, 
 Heard no one ever an injurious word 
 To God or Hero, but thou keptest back 
 Tlie others, laboring to comi:)ose their 
 
 brawls. 
 Be ye then kind, asBalder too was kind ! 
 For we lose him, who smoothed all strife 
 
 in Heaven." 
 He spake, and all the Gods assenting 
 
 wail'd. 
 And Freya next came nigli, with golden 
 
 tears ; 
 The loveliest Goddess she in Heaven, by 
 
 all 
 Most honor'd after Frea, Odin's wife. 
 Her long ago the wandering Oder took 
 To mate, but left her to roam distant 
 
 lands ; 
 Since then she seeks him, and weeps tears 
 
 of gold. 
 Names hath she many ; Vanadis on 
 
 earth 
 Tliey call her, Freya is her name in 
 
 Heaven ; 
 She in her hands took Balder's head, and 
 
 spake :— 
 " Balder, my brother, thou art gone a 
 
 road 
 Unknown and long, and haply on that 
 
 way 
 My long-lost wandering Oder thou hast 
 
 met, 
 For in the patlis of Heaven he is not 
 
 found. 
 Oh, if it be so, tell him wliat thou wast 
 To his neglected wife, and what he is, 
 And wring liis lieart with shame, to liear 
 
 thy word ! 
 For he, my husband, left me here to pine. 
 Not long a wife, when his unquiet heart 
 First drove him from me into distant 
 
 lands ; 
 Since then I vainly seek him through 
 
 the world. 
 And weep from shore to shore my golden 
 
 tears. 
 But neither god nor mortal heeds my 
 
 pain. 
 Thou only, Balder, wast for ever kind. 
 To take my hand, and wipe my tears, 
 
 and say : 
 
 Weep not, O Freya. iveep no golden tears! 
 One day the zoandering Oder ivill return! 
 Or thou wilt find him in thy faithful 
 
 search 
 On some great road, or resting in an inn, 
 Or at a ford, or sleeping by a tree. 
 So Balder said ; — but Oder, well I know. 
 My truant Oder I shall see no more 
 To tlie world's end ; and Balder now is 
 
 gone, 
 And I am left uncomforted in Heaven." 
 She spake ; and all the Goddesses be- 
 
 wail'd. 
 Last from among the Heroes one came 
 
 near. 
 No God. but of the hero-troop the chief — 
 Regner, who swept the northern sea with 
 
 fleets, 
 And ruled o'er Denmark and the heathy 
 
 isles. 
 Living ; but Ella captured liim and 
 
 slew ; — 
 A king whose fame then fill'd the vast of 
 
 Heaven. 
 Now time obscures it, and men's later 
 
 deeds. 
 He last approach'd the corpse, and 
 
 spake, and said : — 
 " Balder, there yet are many Scalds 
 
 in Heaven 
 .Still left, and that chief Scald, thy 
 
 brother Brage, 
 Whom we may bid to sing, though 
 
 thou art gone. 
 And all these gladly, while we drink, 
 
 we hear. 
 After the feast is done, in Odin's hall ; 
 But they harp ever on one string, and 
 
 wake 
 Remembrance in our soul of wars alone. 
 Such as on earth we valiantly have 
 
 waged, 
 And blood, and ringing blows, and 
 
 violent death. 
 But when thou sangest. Balder, thou 
 
 didst strike 
 Another note, and, like a bird in spring, 
 Thy voice of joyance minded us, and 
 
 youth. 
 And wife, and children, and our ancient 
 
 home. 
 Yes, and I, too, remember'd then no 
 
 more 
 My dungeon, where the serpents stung 
 
 me dead, 
 Nor Ella's victory on the English coast — 
 But I lieard Tliora laugh in Gothland 
 
 Isle, 
 And saw my shepherdess Aslauga, tend 
 
748 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Her flock along the white Norwegian 
 
 beach. 
 Tears started to mine eyes with yearn- 
 ing joy, 
 Therefore witli grateful heart I mourn 
 
 thee dead." 
 So Regner spake, and all the Heroes 
 
 groan'd. 
 But now the sun had pass'd the heiglit 
 
 of Heaven, 
 And soon had all that day been spent in 
 
 wail ; 
 But til en tlie Father of the ages said : — 
 " Ye Gods, there well may be too 
 
 much of wail ! 
 Bring now the gather'd wood toBalder's 
 
 ship ; 
 Heap on the deck the logs, and build the 
 
 pyre." 
 But when the Gods and Heroes heard, 
 
 they brought 
 The wood to Balder's ship, and built a 
 
 pile, 
 Full tlie deck's breadth, and lofty ; then 
 
 the corpse 
 Of Balder on the highest top thej^ laid. 
 With Nanna on his right, and on his 
 
 left 
 Hoder, his brother, wliom liis own liand 
 
 slew. 
 And they set jars of wine and oil to lean 
 Against the bodies, and stuck torclies 
 
 near. 
 Splinters of pine-wood, soak'd with tur- 
 pentine ; 
 And brought liis arms and gold, and all 
 
 liis stuff. 
 And slew the dogs wlio at his table fed, 
 And his horse, Balder's horse, whom 
 
 most he loved. 
 And placed them on the pyre, and Odin 
 
 tlirew 
 A last choice gift thereon, his golden 
 
 ring. 
 The mast tliey fixed, and hoisted up the 
 
 sails, 
 Then they put fire to the wood ; and 
 
 Thor [stern 
 
 Set his stout shoulder hard against the 
 To pusli the ship through the tliick sand ; 
 
 sparks flew 
 From the deep trench slie plougli'd, so 
 
 strong a God 
 Furrow'd it ; and the water gurgled in. 
 And the ship floated on the waves, and 
 
 rock'd. 
 But in the liills a strong east-wind arose, 
 And came down moaning to the sea ; 
 
 first .squalls 
 
 Ran black o'er the sea's face, then steady 
 
 rush'd 
 The breeze, and fiU'd the sails, and blew 
 
 the fire. 
 And wreathed in smoke the ship stood 
 
 out to sea. 
 Soon with a roaring rose the miglity 
 
 fire, 
 And the pile crackled ; and between the 
 
 logs 
 Sharp quivering tongues of flame shot 
 
 out, and leaped. 
 Curling and darting, higher, until the\' 
 
 lick'd 
 The summit of the pile, the dead, the 
 
 mast, 
 And ate the shrivelling sails ; but still 
 
 the ship 
 Drove on, alilaze above her hull with 
 
 fire. 
 And the Gods stood upon the beach, and 
 
 gazed. 
 And while they gazed, the sun went 
 
 lurid down 
 Into the smoke-wrapt sea, and night 
 
 came on. 
 Then the wind fell, with night, and 
 
 there was calm ; 
 But through the dark they watch'd the 
 
 burning ship 
 Still carried o'er the distant waters on. 
 Farther and farther, like an eye of fire. 
 And long, in the far dark, blazed Balder's 
 
 pile ; 
 But fainter, as the stars rose liigh, it 
 
 flared, 
 The bodies were consumed, ash choked 
 
 the pile. 
 And as, in a decaying winter-fire, 
 A charr'd log, falling, makes a shower 
 
 of sparks — 
 So with a shower of sparks the pile fell 
 
 in. 
 Reddening the sea around ; and all was 
 
 dark. 
 But the Gods went by starlight up tlie 
 
 shore 
 To Asgard, and sate down in Odin's hall 
 At table, and the funeral-feast began. 
 All night they ate the boar Serimner's 
 
 flesh. 
 And from their horns, with silver 
 
 rimm'd. drank mead, 
 Silent, and waited for the sacred morn. 
 And morning over all the world was 
 
 spread. 
 Then fi'om their loathed feasts the Gods 
 
 ai"ose. [ride 
 
 And took their horses, and .set forth to 
 
ARNOLD 
 
 749 
 
 O'er the bridge Bifrost, where is Heim- 
 
 dall's watch. 
 To the ash Igdrasil, and Ida's plain ; 
 Thor came on foot, the rest on horse- 
 back rode. 
 And they found Miniir sitting by his 
 
 fount 
 Of wisdom, which beneath the ashtree 
 
 springs ; 
 And saw the Nornies watering the roots 
 Of that world-shadowing tree with 
 
 honey-dew. 
 There came the Gods, and sate them 
 
 down on stones ; 
 And thus the Father of the ages said : — 
 " Ye Gods, the terms ye know, wliiirh 
 
 Hermod brought. 
 Accept them or reject them ! both have 
 
 grounds. 
 Accept them, and they l)ind us, unful- 
 
 fill'd. 
 To leave for ever Balder -in the grave. 
 An unrecover'd prisoner, shade witli 
 
 shades. 
 But how, ye say, should the fulfilment 
 
 fail ?— 
 Smooth sound the terms, and light to 
 
 be f ulfill'd ; 
 For dear-beloved was Balder wliile he 
 
 lived 
 In Heaven and earth, and who would 
 
 grudge him tears ? 
 But from the traitorous seed of Lok 
 
 they come, 
 The.se terms, and I suspect some hidden 
 
 fraud. 
 Bethink ye, Gods, is there no other 
 
 way ?— 
 Speak, were not this a wav, the wav for 
 
 Gods ? 
 If I, if Odin, clad in radiant arms. 
 Mounted on Sleipner, with the warrior 
 
 Thor 
 Drawn in his car beside me, and mj^ 
 
 sons. 
 All the strong brood of Heaven, to swell 
 
 my train. 
 Should make irruption into Hela's realm, 
 And set tlie fields of gloom ablaze with 
 
 light, 
 And bring in triumph Balder back to 
 
 Heaven ? "' 
 He spake, and his fierce sons applauded 
 
 loud. 
 But Frea. mother of the Gods, arose. 
 Daughter and wife of Odin ; thus she 
 
 said : — 
 ''Odin, thou whirlwind, what a threat 
 
 is this ! 
 
 Thou threatenest what transcends thj' 
 
 might, even thine. 
 For of all powers the mightiest far art 
 
 thou. 
 Lord over men on earth, and Gods in 
 
 Heaven ; 
 Yet even from thee thyself hath been 
 
 withheld 
 One thing — to undo what tliou thyself 
 
 hast ruled. 
 For all which hath been fixt, was tixt 
 
 by thee. 
 In the beginning, ere the' Gods were 
 
 born, 
 Before the Heavens were builded, thou 
 
 didst slay 
 The giant Ymir, whom the abyss brought 
 
 forth. 
 Tiiou and thy brethren fierce, the sons 
 
 of Bor, 
 And cast his trunk to choke the abysmal 
 
 void. 
 But of his flesh and members thou didst 
 
 build 
 The eai-th and Ocean, and above them 
 
 Heaven. 
 And from the flaming world, wliere 
 
 Muspel reigns. 
 Thou sent'st and fetched'st fire, .and 
 
 madest lights, 
 Sun, moon, and stars, which tiiou hast 
 
 hung in Heaven, 
 Dividing clear the paths of night and 
 
 day. 
 And Asgard thou didst build, and Mid- 
 
 gard fort ; 
 Then me thou madst ; of us the Gods 
 
 were born. 
 Last, walking by the sea, thou foundest 
 
 spars 
 Of wood, and framed'st men, who till 
 
 the earth. 
 Or on the sea, the field of pirates, sail. 
 And all the race of Ymir thou didst 
 
 drown. 
 Save one, Bergelmer ; — he on shipboard 
 
 fled 
 Thy dekige, and from him the giants 
 
 sprang. 
 But all that brood tiiou hast removed 
 
 far off. 
 And set by Ocean's utmost marge to 
 
 dwell ; 
 But Hela into Niflheim thou threw'st. 
 And gav'st her nine unlighted worlds to 
 
 rule, 
 A queen, and empire over all the dead. 
 That empire wilt thou now invade, light 
 
 up 
 
75° 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Her darkness, from her grasp a subject 
 
 tear ? — 
 Try it ; but 1, for one. will not applaud. 
 Nor do I merit, Odin, thou should'st slight 
 Me and my words, though thou be first 
 
 in Heaven ; 
 For I too am a Goddess, born of thee, 
 Thine eldest, and of me the Gods are 
 
 sprung ; 
 And all that is to come I know, but lock 
 In mine own breast, and have to none 
 
 reveal'd. 
 Come then ! since Hela holds by right 
 
 her prey, 
 But offers terms for his release to 
 
 Heaven, 
 Accept tlie chance ; thou canst no more 
 
 obtain. 
 Send through the world thy messengers ; 
 
 entreat 
 All living and unliving things to weep 
 For Balder ; if thou hajjlj' thus maj'st 
 
 melt 
 Hela, and win the loved one back to 
 
 Heaven." 
 She spake, and on her face let fall her 
 
 veil, 
 And bow'd her head, and sate with 
 
 folded hands. 
 Nor did the all-ruling Odin slight her 
 
 word ; 
 Straightway he spake, and tlius ad- 
 
 dress'd the Gods : 
 "Go quickly forth through all tlie 
 
 world, and pray 
 All living and unliving things to weep 
 Balder, if haply he may thus be won." 
 When tlie Gods heard, they straight 
 
 arose, and took 
 Their horses, and rode forth through all 
 
 the world ; 
 North, soutli, east, west, they struck, 
 
 and roam'd the world 
 Entreating all things to weep Balder's 
 
 deatli. 
 And all that lived, and all without life, 
 
 wept. 
 And as in winter, when the frost breaks 
 
 up. 
 At winter's end, before the spring 
 
 begins. 
 And a warm west-wind blows, and 
 
 thaw sets in — 
 After an hour a dripping sound is heard 
 In all the forests, and the soft-strewn 
 
 snow 
 Under the trees is dibbled thick with 
 
 holes, [shuffle down ; 
 
 And from the boughs the snowloads 
 
 And, in fields sloping to the south, dark 
 
 plots 
 Of grass peep out amid surrounding 
 
 snow, 
 And widen, and the peasant's heart is 
 
 glad- 
 So through the world was heard a drip- 
 ping noise 
 Of all things weeping to bring Balder 
 
 back ; 
 And tliere fell jo}' ujion the Gods to liear. 
 But Hermod rode with Niord, whom 
 
 he took 
 To show him spits and beaches of the sea 
 Far off, where some unwarn'd miglit 
 
 fail to weep — 
 Niord, the God of storms, whom fishers 
 
 know ; 
 Not born in Heaven ; he was in Van- 
 
 heim rear'd. 
 With men, but lives a hostage with the 
 
 Gods ; 
 He knows each frith, and every rocky 
 
 creek 
 Fi'inged with dark pines, and sands 
 
 where seafowl scream — 
 They two scour'd every coast, and all 
 
 things wept. 
 And they rode home together, through 
 
 the wood 
 Of Jarnvid, wliichtoeast of Midgardlies 
 Bordering the giants, where the trees 
 
 are iron ; 
 There in the wood before a cave tliey 
 
 came, 
 Where sate, in the cave's mouth, askmiiy 
 
 hag. 
 Toothless and old ; she gibes the passers 
 
 by. 
 
 Thok is she call'd, but now Lok wore her 
 
 sliape ; 
 She greeted them the first, and laugh'd, 
 
 and said : — 
 "Ye Gods, good lack, is it so dull in 
 
 Heaven, 
 Tliat ye come pleasuring to Thok's iron 
 
 wood ? 
 Lovers of change ye are, fastidious 
 
 sprites. 
 Look, as in some boor's j^ard a sweet - 
 
 breath'd cow, 
 Whose manger is stuff'd full of good 
 
 fresh hay, 
 Snuffs at it daintily, and stoops her head 
 To chew the straw, her litter, at her f eet— 
 So ye grow squeamish, Gods, and sniff 
 
 at Heaven ! " 
 She spake ; but Hermod answer'd her 
 
 and said : — 
 
ARNOLD 
 
 7S5 
 
 " Tliok, not for gibes we come, we come 
 
 for tears. 
 Balder is dead, and Hela holds her prey, 
 But will restore, if all things give him 
 
 tears. 
 Begrudge not thine I to all was Balder 
 
 dear." 
 Then, with a louder laugh, the hag 
 
 replied : — 
 " Is Balder dead? and do ye come for 
 
 tears ? 
 Tliok with dry eyes will weep o'er 
 
 Balder's pyre. 
 Weep him all other things, if weep they 
 
 will — 
 I weep him not ! let Hela keep her prey." 
 She spake, and to tlie cavern's deptli 
 
 she fled, 
 Mocking ; and Hermod knew their toil 
 
 was vain. 
 And as seafaring men, who long have 
 
 wrought 
 In the great deep for gain, at last come 
 
 home, 
 And towards evening see the headlands 
 
 rise 
 Of tlieir dear country, and can plain 
 
 descry 
 A fire of wither'd furze which boys have 
 
 lit 
 Upon the cliffs, or smoke of burning 
 
 weeds 
 Out of a till'd field inland ; — then the 
 
 wind 
 Catches them, and drives out again to 
 
 sea ; 
 And they go long days tossing up and 
 
 down 
 Over the gray sea-ridges, and the glimpse 
 Of port they had makes bitterer far their 
 
 toil- 
 So the Gods' cross was bitterer for their 
 
 joy- 
 Then, sad at lieart, to Niord Hermod 
 
 spake : — 
 " It is the accuser Lok, who flouts us all ! 
 Ride back, and tellin Heaven this heavy 
 
 news ; 
 I must again below, to Hela's realm." 
 He spoke ; and Niord set forth back to 
 
 Heaven. 
 But northward Hermod rode, the way 
 
 below, 
 The way he knew ; and traversed Giall's 
 
 stream, 
 And down to Ocean groped, and ci-oss'd 
 
 the ice, 
 And came beneatli the wall, and found 
 
 the grate 
 
 Still lifted ; well was his return fore- 
 known. 
 And once more Hermod saw around him 
 
 s])read 
 The jovless plains, and lieard the streams 
 
 of Hell. 
 But as he enter 'd, on the extremest 
 
 bound 
 Of Niflheim, lie saw one ghost come 
 
 near. 
 Hovering, and stopping oft, as if afraid — 
 Hoder, the unhappy, whom his own hand 
 
 slew. 
 And Hermod look'd, and knew his 
 
 brotlier's ghost. 
 And call'd him by his name, and sternly 
 
 said : — 
 'Hoder, ill-fated, blind in heart and 
 
 eyes ! 
 Why tarriest thou to plunge thee in the 
 
 gulf 
 Of the deep inner gloom, but flittest here. 
 In twilight, on the lonely verge of Hell, 
 Far from the other ghosts, and Hela's 
 
 throne? 
 Doubtless thou fearest to meet Balder's 
 
 voice. 
 Thy brother, whom through folly thou 
 
 didst slay." 
 He spoke ; but Hoder answer'd him, 
 
 and said : — 
 "Hermod the nimlile. dost thou still 
 
 pursue 
 The unhappy with reproach, even in the 
 
 grave ? 
 For this I died, and fled beneath the 
 
 glooin. 
 Not daily to endure abhorring Gods, 
 Nor witii a hateful presence cumber 
 
 Heaven ; 
 And canst thou not, even liere, pass pity- 
 ing by? 
 No less than Balder have I lost the light 
 Of Heaven, andcommunion with my kin; 
 I too had once a wife, and once a child. 
 And substance, and a golden house in 
 
 Heaven — 
 But all I left of my own act, and fled 
 Below, and dost thou hate )ne even here ? 
 Balder upbraids me not, nor hates at all. 
 Though he has cause, have any cause ; 
 
 but he, 
 When that with downcast looks I hither 
 
 came. 
 Stretch'd forth his hand, and with be- 
 nignant voice. 
 Welcome, he said, if there be welcome 
 
 here. 
 Brother and felloio-sport of Lok with me ! 
 
752 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 And not to offend thee, Hermod, nor to 
 
 force 
 Mjr hated converse on thee, came I up 
 From the deep gloom, where I will now 
 
 return ; 
 But earnestly I long'd to hover near. 
 Not too far off, when that thou camest b}^; 
 To feel the presence of a brother God, 
 And hear the passage of a horse of 
 
 Heaven . 
 For the last time — for here thou com'st 
 
 no more." 
 He spake, and turn'dtogototheinuer 
 
 gloom. 
 But Hermod stay'd him with mild words, 
 
 and said :— 
 " Thou doest well to chide me, Hoder 
 blind ! 
 Truly thou say'st, the planning guilty 
 
 mind 
 Was Lok's : the unwitting hand alone 
 
 was tliiiie. 
 But Gods are like the sons of men in 
 
 this 
 When they have woe, they blame the 
 
 nearest cause. 
 Howbeit stay, and be appeased ! and 
 
 tell: 
 Sits Balder still in pomp by Hela's side. 
 Or is he mingled with the unnumber'd 
 
 dead ? "' 
 And the blind Hoder answer'd him 
 
 and spake : — 
 " His place of state remains by Hela's 
 
 side, 
 But empty ; for his wife, for Nanua 
 
 came 
 Lately below, and joinM him ; and the 
 
 pair 
 Frequent the still recesses of the realm 
 Of Hela, and hold converse undisturb'd. 
 But they too, doubtless, will have 
 
 breathed the halm, 
 Which floats before a visitant from 
 
 Heaven, 
 And have drawn upward to this verge of 
 
 Hell." 
 He spake ; and, as he ceased, a puff 
 
 of wind 
 Roll'd heavily the leaden mist aside 
 Round where the\' stood, and they be- 
 held two forms 
 j\Iake toward them o'er the stretching 
 
 cloudy plain. 
 And Hermod straight perceived them. 
 
 who they were 
 Balder and Nanna : and to Balder said : — 
 "Balder, too truly thou foresaw'st a 
 
 snare ! 
 
 Lok triumphs still, and Hela keeps her 
 
 prey. 
 No more to Asgard shalt thou come, nor 
 
 lodge 
 In thy own house. Breidablik, nor enjoy 
 The love all bear toward thee, nor train 
 
 up 
 Forset. thy son, to be beloved like thee. 
 Here must thou lie, and wait an endless 
 
 age. 
 Tlierefore for the last time, O Balder. 
 
 hail ! " 
 He spake ; and Balder answer'd him, 
 
 and said : — • 
 "Hail and farewell! for here thou 
 
 com'st no more. 
 Yet mourn not for me, Hermod, when 
 
 thou sitt'st 
 In Heaven, nor let the other Gods 
 
 lament, 
 As wlioUy to be pitied, quite forlorn. 
 For Nanna hath rejoin'd me. who, of old, 
 In Heaven, was seldom parted from my 
 
 side ; 
 And still the acceptance follows me, 
 
 whicli crown'd 
 My former life, and c;heeis me even here. 
 The iron frown of Hela is relax'd 
 When I draw nigh, and the wan tribes 
 
 of dead 
 Love me. and gladly bring for my award 
 Their ineffectual feuds and feeble hates — 
 Shadows of hates, but they distress 
 
 them still." 
 And the fleet-footed Hermod made 
 
 reply :— 
 " Thou hast then all the solace death 
 
 allows. 
 Esteem and function ; and so far is well. 
 Yet here thouliest. Balder, underground. 
 Rusting for ever ; and the years roll on. 
 The generations pass, the ages grow. 
 And bring us nearer to the final day 
 When from the south shall march the 
 
 fiery band 
 And cross the bridge of Heaven, wit ii 
 
 Lok for guide, 
 And Fenris at his heel with brokcu 
 
 chain ; 
 While from the east the giant Rymer 
 
 steers 
 His sliip. and the great serpent makes to 
 
 land : 
 And all are marshall'd in one flaming 
 
 square 
 Against the Gods, upon the plains of 
 
 Heaven . 
 I mourn thee, that thou canst not help 
 
 us tiien." 
 
ARNOLD 
 
 753 
 
 He spake ; but Balder ansvvei'M him, 
 
 and said : — 
 " Mourn not for me ! Mourn, Hermod, 
 
 for the Gods ; 
 Mourn for the nien on earth, the Gods 
 
 in Heaven, 
 Who live, and with their eyes shall see 
 
 that day ! 
 The day vv'ill come, wlien fall shall As- 
 
 gard's towers. 
 And Odin, and his sons, the seed of 
 
 Heaven ; 
 But what were I, to save them in tliat 
 
 hour ? 
 If strength might save them, could not 
 
 Odin save, 
 My father, and his pride, the wai'rior 
 
 Thor. 
 Vidar the silent, the impetuous Tyr? 
 I, what were I, when these can nought 
 
 avail ? 
 Yet, doubtless, when the day of battle 
 
 comes. 
 And the two hosts are marshall'd, and 
 
 in Heaven 
 The golden-crested cock shall sound 
 
 alarm. 
 And his black brother-bird from hence 
 
 reply. 
 And bucklei'S clash, and spears begin to 
 
 pour — 
 Longing will stir within my breast, 
 
 tliougli vain.- 
 But not to me so grievous, as, I know. 
 To other Gods it were, is niv enforced 
 Absence from fields where I could noth- 
 ing aid ; 
 For lam long since weary of your storm 
 Of carnage, and find, Hermod, in your 
 
 life 
 Sometliing too much of war and broils, 
 
 which make 
 Life one perpetual fight, a bath of blood. 
 Mine eyes are dizzy with the arrowy 
 
 hail ; 
 Mine ears are stunn'd with blows, and 
 
 sick for calm. 
 Inactive therefore let me lie, in gloom, 
 Unarm'd, inglorious ; I attend the course 
 Of ages, and my late return to liglit, 
 III times less alien to a spirit mild. 
 In new-recover'd seats, the happier day." 
 He spake ; and the fleet Hermod thus 
 
 replied : — 
 " Brother, what seats are these, what 
 
 happier day? 
 Tell me, that I may ponder it when 
 
 gone." [him: — 
 
 And tlie ray-crowned Balder answer'd 
 48 
 
 " Far to the south, beyond the blue, 
 there spreads 
 
 Another Heaven, the boundless — no one 
 yet 
 
 Hath reach'd it ; there hereafter shall 
 arise 
 
 Tlie second Asgard, with another name. 
 
 Thither, when o'er this present earth 
 and Heavens 
 
 The tempest of the latter days hath 
 swept, 
 
 And they from sight have disappeared, 
 and sunk, 
 
 Sliall a small remnant of the Gods re- 
 pair ; 
 
 Hoder and I shall join them from the 
 grave. 
 
 There re-assembling we shall see emerge 
 
 From the bright Ocean at our feet an 
 earth 
 
 More fresh, more verdant than the last, 
 witli fruits 
 
 Self-springing, and a seed of man pre- 
 served. 
 
 Who tlien shall live in peace, as now in 
 war. 
 
 But we in Heaven shall find again with 
 
 joy 
 
 The ruin'd palaces of Odin, seats 
 
 Familiar, halls where we have supp'd of 
 old; 
 
 Re-enter them with wonder, never fill 
 
 Our eyes with gazing, and rebuild with 
 tears. 
 
 And we shall tread once more tlie well- 
 known plain 
 
 Of Ida, and among the grass shall find 
 
 The golden dice wlierewith we play'd of 
 yore ; 
 
 And that will bring to mind tlie former 
 life 
 
 And pastime of the Gods, the wise dis- 
 course 
 
 Of Odin, the delights of other days. 
 
 Hermod, pray that tliou may'st join 
 
 us then ! 
 Such for the future is my hope ; mean- 
 while, 
 
 1 rest the thrall of Hela, and endure 
 Death, and the gloom which round me 
 
 even now 
 Tliickens, and to its inner gulf recalls. 
 Farewell, for longer speech is not al- 
 
 low'd ! " 
 He spoke, and waved farewell, and 
 
 gave his hand 
 To Nanna ; and she gave their brother 
 
 bUnd [the three 
 
 Her hand, in turn, for guidance ; and 
 
754 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Departed o'er the cloudy plain, and soon 
 Faded from sight into the interior gloom. 
 But Hermod stood beside his drooping 
 
 horse, 
 Mute, gazing after them in tears ; and 
 
 fain, 
 Fain had he foUow'd their receding steps, 
 Though they to death were bound, and 
 
 lie to Heaven, 
 Then ; but a power he could not break 
 
 withheld. 
 And as a stork which idle boys have 
 
 trapp'd. 
 And tied him in a j^ard, at autumn sees 
 Flocks of his kind pass flying o'er his 
 
 head 
 To warmer lands, and coasts that keep 
 
 the sun ; — 
 He strains to join their flight, and from 
 
 his shed 
 Follows them with a long complaining 
 
 cry- 
 So Hermod gazed, and yearn'd to join 
 
 his kin. 
 
 At last he sigh'd, and set fortli back 
 to Heaven. 1855. 
 
 STANZAS FROM THE GRANDE 
 
 CHARTREUSE 
 
 Through Alpine meadows soft-suffused 
 With rain, where thick the crocus blows. 
 Past the dark forges long disused, 
 The mule-track from Saint Laurent goes. 
 Tiie bridge is cross'd, and slow we ride. 
 Through forest, up tlie mountain-side. 
 
 The autumnal evening darkens round, 
 Tlie wind is up, and drives the rain ; 
 While, hark ! far down, with strangled 
 
 sound 
 Doth the Dead Guier's stream complain. 
 Where that wet smoke, among the 
 
 woods. 
 Over his boiling cauldron broods. 
 
 Swift rush the spectral vapors white 
 Past limestone scars with ragged pines. 
 Showing — then blotting from our 
 
 sight ! — 
 Halt — through the cloud-di-if t something 
 
 shines ! 
 High in the valley, wet and drear. 
 The huts of Courrerie appear. 
 
 Strike leftward ! cries our guide ; and 
 
 higher 
 Mounts up the stony forest-way. 
 At last the encircling trees retire ; 
 
 Look ! through the showery twilight 
 
 gray 
 What pointed roofs are these advance ? — 
 A{imlace of the Kings of France? 
 
 Approach, for what we seek is here ! 
 Alight, and sparely sup, and wait 
 For rest in this oiitbuilding near ; 
 Then cross the sward and reach that 
 
 gate. 
 Knock ; pass the wicket ! Thou art 
 
 come 
 To the Carthusians' world-famed home. 
 
 The silent courts, where night and day 
 Into their stone-carved basins cold 
 The splashing icy fountains play — 
 The humid corridors beiiold ! 
 Where, ghostlike in the deepening night 
 Covvl'd forms brusli by in gleaming 
 white. 
 
 The chapel, where no organ's peal 
 Invests the stern and naked prayer — 
 With penitential cries thej' kneel 
 And wrestle : rising then, with bare 
 And white uplifted faces stand. 
 Passing the Host from hand to hand ; 
 
 Each takes, and then his visage wan 
 Is buried in his cowl once more. 
 The cells ! — the suffering Son of Man 
 Upon the wall — tlie knee-worn floor — 
 And where they sleep, that Avooden bed. 
 Wliich shall their coflfin be, when dead ! 
 
 The library, where tract and tome 
 Not to feed priestly pride are there. 
 To hymn the conquering march of Rome, 
 Nor yet to amuse, as ours are 1 
 They paint of souls the inner strife. 
 Their drops of blood, their death in life. 
 
 The garden, overgrown — yet mild, 
 See, fragrant herbs are flowering there ! 
 Strong children of the Alpine wild 
 Whose culture is the brethi'en's care ; 
 Of human tasks their only one. 
 And cheerful works beneath the sun. 
 
 Tliose halls, too. destined to contain 
 Each its own pilgrim-host of old. 
 From England, Germany, or Spain — 
 All are before me ! I behold 
 The House, the Brotherhood austere ! 
 — And what am I, that I am here ? 
 
 For rigorous teachers seized my youth. 
 
 And purged its faith, and trimm'd its 
 
 fire, 
 
ARNOLD 
 
 755 
 
 Show'd nie the bigli, white star of Truth, 
 There bade me gaze, and there aspire. 
 Even now their whispers pierce the 
 
 gloom ; 
 miat dost thou in t]iis living tomb ? 
 
 Forgive me, masters of the mind ! 
 
 At whose behest I long ago 
 
 So much unlearnt, so much resign'd — 
 
 I come not here to be your foe ! 
 
 I seek tliese anchorites, not in ruth. 
 
 To curse and to deny your truth ; 
 
 Not as tlieir friend, or child, I speak ! 
 But as, on some far nortliern strand, 
 Thinking of his own Gods, a Greek 
 In pity and mournful awe might stand 
 Before some fallen Runic stone — 
 For both were faiths, and both are gone. 
 
 Wandering between two worlds, one 
 
 dead, 
 Tiie other powerless to be born, 
 With nowhere yet to rest my head, 
 Like these, on earth I wait forlorn. 
 Their faith, my tears, the world deride — 
 I come to shed them at their side. 
 
 Oil. hide me in your gloom profound. 
 
 Ye solemn seats of holy pain ! 
 
 Take me, cowl'd forms, and fence me 
 
 round 
 Till I possess my soul again ; 
 Till free my thoughts before me roll, 
 Not chafed by hourly false control ! 
 
 For the world cries your faith is now 
 
 But a dead time's exploded dream ; 
 
 My melancholy, sciolists say, 
 
 Is a pass'd mode, an outworn theme — 
 
 As if the world had ever had 
 
 A faith, or sciolists been sad ! 
 
 Ah, if it be pass'd, take away, 
 At least, the restlessness, the pain ; 
 Be man henceforth no more a prey 
 To these out-dated stings again ! 
 The nobleness of grief is gone — 
 Ah, leave us not the fret alone ! 
 
 But — if you cannot give us ease — 
 Last of the race of them who grieve 
 Here leave us to die out with these 
 Last of the people who believe ! 
 Silent, while years engrave the brow ; 
 Silent — tlie best are silent now. 
 
 Achilles ponders in his tent, 
 
 The kings of modern thought are dumb ; 
 
 Silent they are, though not content. 
 
 And wait to see the future come. 
 They have the grief men had of yore, 
 But they contend and cry no more. 
 
 Our fathers water'd with their tears 
 This sea of time whereon we sail, 
 Their voices were in all men's ears 
 We pass'd within tlieir puissant hail. 
 Still the same ocean round us raves. 
 But we stand mute, and watch tlie waves. 
 
 For what avail'd it, all the noise 
 And outciy of the former men ? — 
 Say, have their sons achieved more joys. 
 Say. is life lighter now than tlien : 
 Tlie sufferers died, tiiey left their pain — • 
 The pangs which tortured them remain. 
 
 What'helps it now, that Byron bore. 
 With haughty scf)rn which mock "d the 
 
 smart, 
 Througli Europe to the ^Etolian shore 
 The pageant of his bleeding heart ? 
 That thousands counted every groan, 
 And Europe made his W(je her own ? 
 
 What boots it, Shelley ! tliat the breeze 
 Carried thy lovely wail away. 
 Musical through Italian trees 
 Which fringe thy soft blue Sjiezzian 
 
 bay? 
 Inheritors of thy distress 
 Have restless hearts one thi'ob the less ? 
 
 Or are we easier, to have read, 
 O Obermann ! the sad, stern page, 
 Which tells us how thou hidd'st thy 
 
 head 
 From the fierce tempest of thine age 
 In the lone brakes of Fontainebleau, 
 Or chalets near the Alpine snow ? 
 
 Ye slumber in your silent grave ! — 
 The world, which for an idle day 
 Grace to your mood of sadness gave, 
 Long since hath flung her weeds away. 
 Tlie eternal trifler breaks j'our spell ; 
 But we — we learned your lore too well I 
 
 Years hence, pei'haps, may dawn an age. 
 More fortunate, alas ! than we, 
 Wliicli without hardness will, be sage. 
 And gay without frivolity. 
 Sons of the world, oh, speed those years ; 
 But, wiiile we wait, allow our tears ! 
 
 Allow them ! We admire with awe 
 Tlie exulting thunder of your race ; 
 You give the universe your law, 
 
756 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 You tiiuniph over time and space ! 
 Your pride of life, yoiu- tireless powers, 
 We laud them, but they are not ours. 
 
 We are like children rear'd in shade 
 Beneath some old-world abbey wall. 
 Forgotten in a forest-glade. 
 And secret from the e^'es of all. 
 Deep, deep the greenwood I'ound them 
 
 waves, 
 Their abbey, and its close of graves ! 
 
 But, wliere the road runs near thestream, 
 Oft through tlie trees they catch a glance 
 Of passing troops in the sun's beam — 
 Pennon, and plume, and fl;ishing lance ! 
 Forth to the world those soldiers fare, 
 To life, to cities, and to war ! 
 
 And through the wood," another way. 
 Faint bugle-notes from far are borne. 
 Where hvmters gatlier, staghounds V)ay, 
 Round some fair forest-lodge at morn. 
 Gay dames are there, in sylvan green ; 
 Laughter and cries — those notes be- 
 tween ! 
 
 The banners flashing through the trees 
 Make their blood dance and chain their 
 
 eyes ; 
 That bugle-music on the breeze 
 Arrests them with a cliarm'd sin-prise. 
 Banner by turns and bugle woo : 
 Ye shy recluses, foUuiv too ! 
 
 O children, what do ye reply ? — 
 " Action and pleasure, will ye roam 
 Through these secluded dells to cry 
 And call us ? — Vjut too late ye come ! 
 Too late for us yom- call ye blow. 
 Whose bent was taken long ago. 
 
 " Long since we pace this shadow'd nave ; 
 We watch those yellow tapers shine. 
 Emblems of hope over the grave, 
 In the high altar's depth divine ; 
 The organ carries to our ear 
 Its accents of another sphere. 
 
 '• Fenced early in this cloistral round 
 
 Of reverie, of shade, of prayer, 
 
 How should we grow in other ground ? 
 
 How can we flower in foreign air ? 
 
 — Pass, banners, pass, and bugles, cease ; 
 
 And leave our desert to its jieace ! " 
 
 1855.1 
 
 ' In Fraser^s Magazine. First included in Ar- 
 nold's Poetical Works in 1867. 
 
 FROM SWITZERLAND 
 
 ISOLATION. TO MARGUERITE 
 
 We were apart ; yet, day by day, 
 I l)ade my heart more constant be. 
 I bade it keep the world away. 
 And grow a home for onlj- thee ; 
 Nor fear'd but thy love likewise grew. 
 Like mine, each day, more tried, more 
 true. 
 
 The fault was grave ! I might have 
 
 known, 
 What far too soon, alas ! I learn'd — 
 The heart can bind itself alone. 
 And faith may oft be unreturn'd, 
 Self-sway'd our feelings ebb and swell — 
 Thou lov'st no more ; — Farewell ! Fare- 
 well ! 
 
 Farewell ! — and thou, thou lonely heart, 
 Which never yet without.remorse 
 Even for a moment didst depart 
 Fi'om thy remote and sphered course 
 To haunt the place where passions X'eign — 
 Back to thy solitude again ! 
 
 Back ! with the conscious thrill of shame 
 Which Luna felt, that summer-night, 
 Flash through her jKire immortal frame. 
 When she forsook the starry height 
 To hang over Endymion's sleep 
 Upon the jjine-grown Latmian steep. 
 
 Yat she. chaste queen, had never proved 
 How vain a thing is mortal love. 
 Wandering in Heaven, far removed. 
 But thou hast long had place to prove 
 Tins truth — to prove, and make thine 
 
 own : 
 '• Thou hast been, shalt be, art, alone." 
 
 Or, if not quite alone, yet they 
 Which touch thee are unmating things — 
 Ocean and clouds and night and day ; 
 Lorn autumns and triumphant springs ; 
 And life, and others' joy and pain, 
 And love, if love, of happier men. 
 
 Of happier men — for they, at least. 
 Have dream' d two human hearts might 
 
 blend 
 In one. and were through faith released 
 From isolation without end 
 Prolong'd ; nor knew, although not less 
 Alone than thou, their loneliness. 
 
 1857. 
 
ARNOLD 
 
 757 
 
 TO MARGUERITE — CONTINUED 
 
 Yes ! in the sea of life enisled, 
 With echoing straits between us thrown, 
 Dotting the shoreless watery wild, 
 We mortal millions live alone. 
 The islands feel the enclasping flow, 
 And then their endless bounds they 
 know. 
 
 But when tlie moon their hollows lights, 
 And they are swept by balms of spring. 
 And in their glens on starry nights, 
 The nightingales divinely sing ; 
 And lovely notes, from sliore to shore, 
 Across the sounds and channels pour — 
 
 Oh ! then a longing like despair 
 
 Is to their farthest caverns sent ; 
 
 For surely once, they feel, we were 
 
 Parts of a single continent ! 
 
 Now round us spreads the watery plain — 
 
 Oh, might our marges meet again ! 
 
 Who order'd, that their longing's fire 
 Should be, as soon as kindled, coolM ? 
 Who renders vain their deep desire ? — 
 A God, a God their severance ruled ! 
 And bade betwixt their shores to be 
 The unplvimb'd, salt, estranging sea. 
 
 (1853.)! 1857. 
 
 THYRSI.S2 
 
 A Monody, to commenioratc the author's 
 friend, 
 
 Arthur Hugh Clough, icho died at 
 Florence, ISGl 
 
 How changed is here each spot man 
 makes or fills ! 
 In the two Hinkseys nothing keeps the 
 same ; 
 The village street its haunted man- 
 sion lacks, 
 And from the sign is gone Sibylla's 
 name, 
 And from the roofs the twisted chim- 
 ney-stacks — 
 
 1 Standing alone, under the title : To Marguerite. 
 
 ' " There are in the English language three 
 elegiac poems so great that they eclipse and 
 efface all the elegiac poetry we know ; all of 
 Italian, all of Greek. It is only because the 
 latest born is yet new to us that it can seem 
 strange or rash to say so. The Thi/rsis of Mr. 
 Arnold makes a third with Li/citlns and 
 Adotiais. . . . Thi/rsis, like Lijcidas, has a quiet 
 and tender undertone which gives it something 
 of sacred." (Swinburne.) 
 
 Are ye too changed, ye hills ? 
 See, 'tis no foot of unfamiliar men 
 To-night from Oxford up your path- 
 way strays ! 
 Here came I often, often, in old days — 
 Thyrsis and I ; we still had Thyrsis then. 
 
 Runs it not here, the track by Childs- 
 worth Fai"m, 
 Past the high wood, to where the elm- 
 tree crowns 
 The hill behind whose ridge the sun- 
 set flames ? 
 The signal-elm, that l5oks on Ilsley 
 Downs, 
 The Vale, the three lone weirs, the 
 youthful Thames ? — 
 Tliis winter-eve is warm. 
 Humid tlie air ! leafless, yet soft as 
 spring. 
 The tender purple spray on copse 
 
 and briars ! 
 And that sweet city with her dreamr 
 ing spires, 
 Slie needs not June for beauty's height- 
 
 Lovely all times she lies, lovely to- 
 night ! — 
 Onl)'. methinks, .some loss of habit's 
 power 
 Befalls me wandering through tliis 
 upland dim. 
 Once pass'd I blindfold here, at any 
 hour ; 
 Now seldom come I, since I came with 
 him. 
 That single elm-tree bright 
 Against the west — ^I miss it ! is it gone ? 
 We prized it dearl}^ : while it stood, 
 
 we said. 
 Our friend, the Gipsy -Scholar, was 
 not dead ; 
 While tJie tree lived, he in these fields 
 lived on. 
 
 Too rare, too rare, grow now my visits 
 here. 
 But once I knew each field, each 
 flower, each stick ; 
 And witli the country-folk acquain- 
 tance made 
 By barn in threshing-time, by new- 
 built rick. 
 Here, too, our shepherd-pipes we 
 first assay 'd. 
 All me ! this many a year 
 My pipe is lost, my shepherd's holi- 
 day ! 
 
75« 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Needs must I lose them, needs with 
 
 heavy heart 
 Into the world and wave of men de- 
 part ; 
 But Thyrsis of his own will went away. 
 
 It irk'd him to be here, he could not rest. 
 He loved each simple joy the country 
 yields, 
 He loved his mates ; but yet he could 
 not keep, 
 For that a shadow lour'd on the fields, 
 Here with the shepherds and the 
 silly sheep. 
 Some life of men unblest 
 He knew, which made him droop, and 
 fill'd his head. 
 He went ; his piping took a trouliled 
 
 sound 
 Of storms that rage outside our 
 happy ground ; 
 He could Jiot wait their passing, he is 
 dead. 
 
 So. some tempestuous incn'n in early 
 
 June, [is o"er, 
 
 "When the year's primal burst of bloom 
 
 Before tiie roses and the longest 
 
 day — [floor 
 
 When garden-walks and all the grass}' 
 
 With blossoms red and wliite of 
 
 fallen May 
 
 And chesinut-flowers are strewn — 
 
 So have I heard the cuckoo's parting 
 
 cry, 
 
 From the wet field, througli the vext 
 
 garden-trees, 
 Come with the volleying rain and 
 tossing breeze : 
 The bloom is gone, and with the bloom 
 go I! 
 
 Too quick despairer. wherefore wilt thovi 
 go? 
 Soon will the high Midsummer ptm]|is 
 come on. 
 Soon will the musk carnations break 
 and swell. 
 Soon shall we have gold-dusted snap- 
 dragon, 
 Sweet-William with his homely 
 cottage-smell. 
 And stocks in fragrant blow ; 
 Roses tliat down the alleys shine afar, 
 And open, jasmine-muffled lattices. 
 And groups under the dreaming 
 garden trees, 
 And the full moon, and the white 
 evening-star. 
 
 He barkens not ! light comer, he is 
 flown ! 
 AVhat matters it ? next year he will 
 return. 
 And we shall have him in the 
 sweet spring-days, 
 AVith whitening hedges, and un- 
 crumpling fern. 
 And blue-bells trembling by the 
 forest-ways. 
 And scent of liay new-mown. 
 But Thyrsis never more we swains 
 shall see ; 
 See him come back, and cut a 
 
 smoother reed. 
 And blow a strain the world at last 
 shall heed — 
 For Time, not Corydon, hath conquer'd 
 thee ! 
 
 Alack, for Cor}'don no rival now ! — 
 But when Sicilian .shepherds lost a 
 mate, 
 Some good survivor with his flute 
 would go. 
 Piping a ditt\' sad for Bion's fate ; 
 And cross the unpermitted ferry's 
 flow. 
 And relax Pluto's brow, 
 And make leap up with joy the beaute- 
 ous head 
 Of Proserpine, among whose 
 
 crowned hair 
 Are flowers first open'd on Sicilian 
 air. 
 And flute his friend, like Orjjheus, 
 from the dead. 
 
 O easy access to the hearer's grace 
 
 When Dorian shepherds sang to 
 Proserpine ! 
 For she herself had trod Sicilian 
 fields, 
 She knew the Dorian water's gush 
 divine. 
 She knew each lily white which 
 Enna yields. 
 Each rose with blushing face ; 
 She loved the Dorian pipe, the Dorian 
 strain. 
 But ah, of our poor Thames she 
 never heard ! [stirr'd : 
 
 Her foot the Cumner cowslips never 
 And we should tease her with our 
 plaint in vain ! 
 
 Well ! wind-dispersed and vain the 
 
 words will be, [hour 
 
 Yet, Thyrsis, let me give my grief its 
 
 I 
 
ARNOLD 
 
 759 
 
 In the old liaunt. and find our tree- 
 
 I see her veil draw soft across the 
 
 topp'd hill ! 
 
 day, 
 
 Who, if not I. for questing here hath 
 
 I feel her slowly chilling breath invade 
 
 power ? 
 
 The cheek grown thin, the brown 
 
 I know .the wood which hides the 
 
 hair sprent with gray ; 
 
 daffodil, 
 
 I feel her finger light 
 
 I know the Fyfield tree, 
 
 Laid pausefully upon life's headlong 
 
 I know what white, what purple fri- 
 
 train ; — 
 
 tillaries 
 
 Tlie foot less prompt to meet the 
 
 The grassy harvest of the river- 
 
 morning dew, 
 
 fields. 
 
 The heart less bounding at emo- 
 
 Above by Ensham, down by Sand- 
 
 tion new. 
 
 ford, yields, 
 
 And hope, once crush'd, less quick to 
 
 And what sedged brooks are Thanies's 
 
 spring again. 
 
 tributaries ; 
 
 
 
 And long the way appears, which 
 
 I know these slopes ; who knows them 
 
 seem'd so short 
 
 if not I ?— 
 
 To the less practised eye of sanguine 
 
 But many a dingle on the loved liill- 
 
 youth ; 
 
 side. 
 
 And high the mountain-tops, in 
 
 With thorns once studded, old. 
 
 cloudy air. 
 
 white-blossom'd trees. 
 
 The mountain-tops where is the 
 
 Where thick the cowslips grew, and 
 
 throne of Truth. 
 
 far descried 
 
 Tops in life's morning-svin so bright 
 
 High tower'd the spikes of purple 
 
 and bare ! 
 
 orchises. 
 
 Unbreachable the fort 
 
 Hath since our day put by 
 
 Of the long-batter'd world uplifts its 
 
 The coronals of that forgotten time : 
 
 wall ; 
 
 Down each gi'een bank hath gone 
 
 And strange and vain the earthly 
 
 the ploughboy's team. 
 
 turmoil grows. 
 
 And only in the hidden brookside 
 
 And near and real the charna of thy 
 
 gleam 
 
 repose. 
 
 Primroses, orphans of the flowery 
 
 And night as welcome as a friend 
 
 prime. 
 
 would fall. 
 
 Where is the girl, who by the boatman's 
 
 But hush ! the upland hath a sudden 
 
 door. 
 
 loss 
 
 Above the locks, above the boating 
 
 Of quiet ! — Look, adown the dusk 
 
 throng, 
 
 hill-side, 
 
 Unmoor'd our pikiff" when through 
 
 A troop of Oxford hunters going 
 
 the Wytham flats. 
 
 home. 
 
 Red loosestrife and blond meadow- 
 
 As in old days, jovial and talking, 
 
 sweet among 
 
 ride ! 
 
 And darting swallows and light 
 
 From hunting with the Berkshire 
 
 water-gnats. 
 
 hounds they come. 
 
 We track'd the shy Thames shore ? 
 
 Quick ! let me fly. and cross 
 
 Where are the mowers, who, as the 
 
 Into j'on further field ! — 'Tis done, 
 
 tiny swell 
 
 and see, 
 
 Of our boat passing heaved the river- 
 
 Back'd by the sunset, which doth 
 
 grass, 
 
 glorify 
 
 Stood with suspended scj'the to see 
 
 The orange and pale violet evening- 
 
 us pass ? — 
 
 sky, 
 
 They all are gone, and thou art gone 
 
 Bare on its lonely ridge, the Tree ! 
 
 as well I 
 
 the Tree! 
 
 Yes, thou art gone ! and round me too 
 
 I take the omen ! Eve lets down her 
 
 the night 
 
 veil, 
 
 In ever-n earing circle weaves her 
 
 The white fog creeps from bush to 
 
 shade. 
 
 bush about. 
 
76o BRITISH 
 
 POETS 
 
 Tlie west unflushes, tlie liigh stars 
 
 'Neath the mild canopy of English air 
 
 grow bright. 
 
 That loneh^ tree against the western 
 
 And in the scatter'd farms the lights 
 
 sky. 
 
 come out. 
 
 Still, still these slopes, 'tis clear. 
 
 I cannot reach tlie signal-tree to- 
 
 Our Gipsv-Scholar haunts, outliving 
 
 night, 
 
 tliee ! 
 
 •Yet, liappy omen, hail ! 
 
 Fields where soft sheep from cages 
 
 Hear it from thy broad lucent Arno- 
 
 pull the hay, 
 
 vale 
 
 Woods with anemones in flower till 
 
 (For there thine earth-forgetting 
 
 May, 
 
 eyelids keep 
 
 Know him a wanderer still ; then why 
 
 The morningless and unawakening 
 
 not me ? 
 
 sleep 
 
 
 Under the flowery oleanders pale), 
 
 A fugitive and gracious light he seeks, 
 
 
 Shy to illumine ; and I seek it too. 
 
 Hear it, Thyrsis, still our tree is 
 
 This does not come with houses or 
 
 there ! — 
 
 with gold, 
 
 Ah, vain ! These English fields, this 
 
 With place, with honor, and a flatter- 
 
 upland dim, 
 
 ing crew ; 
 
 These brambles pale with mist en- 
 
 'Tis not in the world's market 
 
 garlanded. 
 
 bouglit and sold — 
 
 That lone, sky-pointing tree, are not 
 
 But the smooth-slipping weeks 
 
 for him ; 
 
 Drop by, and leave its seeker still 
 
 To a boon southern country he is 
 
 untii-ed ; 
 
 fled. 
 
 Out of the heed of mortals he is 
 
 And now in happier air. 
 
 gone. 
 
 Wandering with the great Mother's 
 
 He wends unfollow'd, he must house 
 
 train divine 
 
 alone ; 
 
 (And purer or more subtle soul than 
 
 Yet on he fares, by his own heart in- 
 
 thee. 
 
 spired. 
 
 I trow, the mighty Mother doth not 
 
 
 see) 
 
 Thou too, Thyrsis, on like quest wast 
 
 Within a folding of the Apennine, 
 
 bound ; 
 
 
 Thou wanderedst with me for a little 
 
 Thou hearest the immortal chants of 
 
 hour ! 
 
 old !— 
 
 Men gave thee nothing ; but this 
 
 Putting his sickle to the perilous 
 
 happy quest. 
 
 grain 
 
 If men esteemed thee feeble, gave thee 
 
 In the hot cornfield of the Phrygian 
 
 power. 
 
 king. 
 
 If men procured thee trouble, gave 
 
 For thee the Lityerses-song again 
 
 thee rest. 
 
 Young Daphnis with his silver voice 
 
 And this rude Cumner ground. 
 
 doth sing ; 
 
 Its fir-topped Hurst, its farms, its 
 
 Sings his Sicilian fold. 
 
 quiet fields. 
 
 His sheep, his hapless love, his blinded 
 
 Here cams't tliou in thy jocund 
 
 eyes— 
 
 youthful time. 
 
 And liow a call celestial round him 
 
 Here was thine lieight of strength. 
 
 rang. 
 
 thy golden prime ! 
 
 And heavenward from the fountain- 
 
 And still the haunt beloved a virtue 
 
 brink he sprang. 
 
 yields. 
 
 And all the marvel of the golden 
 
 
 skies. 
 
 Wliat though the music of thv rustic 
 
 
 flute 
 
 There thou art gone, and me thou leavest 
 
 Kept not for long its happy, country 
 
 here 
 
 tone ; 
 
 Sole in these fields ! yet will I not de- 
 
 Lost it too soon, and learnt a stormy 
 
 spair. 
 
 note 
 
 Despair I will not, while I yet de- 
 
 Of men contention-tost, of men who 
 
 scry 
 
 groan. 
 
ARNOLD 
 
 761 
 
 Which task'd thy pipe too sore, and 
 tired tliy throat — 
 It faird, and thou wast mute ! 
 Yet hadst thou always visions of our 
 light. 
 And long with men of care thou 
 couldst not sta.y. 
 And soon thy foot resumed its wau- 
 dei'ing way, 
 Left liuman haunt, and on alone till 
 niglit. 
 
 Too rare, too rare, grow now my visits 
 here ! 
 'Mid city-noise, not, as with thee of 
 yore, 
 Tliyrsis ! in reach of sheep-hells is 
 my home. 
 — Then through the great town's harsh, 
 Jieart-wearying roar. 
 Let in thy voice a whisper often 
 come, 
 To chase fatigue and fear : 
 Wliy faintest thou ! Iwander'd till Idled. 
 Roam oil! Tlie light ive sought is 
 
 shinijig still. 
 Dost thou ask proof? Our tree yet 
 i. crowns the hill. 
 
 Our Scholar travels yet the loved hillside. 
 
 186(3. 
 
 YOUTH AND CALM 
 
 'Tis death ! and peace, indeed, is liere. 
 And ease from shame, and rest from fear. 
 There's nothing can dismarble now 
 The suioothness of tliat limpid brow. 
 But is a calm like this, in truth. 
 The crowning end of life and youth. 
 And when this boon rewards the dead. 
 
 I Are all debts paid, has all been said '? 
 
 F And is the heart of youth so light, 
 Tts step so firm, its eyes so bright. 
 Because on its hot brow there blows 
 A wind of promise and repose 
 From the far grave, to which it goes ; 
 Because it hath the hope to come. 
 One day, to harbor in the tomb? 
 Ah no, the bliss youth dreams is one 
 For daylight, for the cheerful sun. 
 For feeling nerves and living breath — 
 Youth dreams a bliss on this side death. 
 It dreams a rest, if not inore deep, 
 More grateful than this marble sleep ; 
 It hears a voice within it tell : 
 CalDis not life's crown, though calm is 
 
 roell. 
 T is all perhaps which man acquires. 
 But 'tis not what our youth desires. 
 
 (185:2). 1867. 
 
 AUSTERITY OF POETRY 
 
 That son of Italy who tried to blow, 
 Ere Dante came, the trump of sacred 
 
 song, 
 In his light youth amid a festal throng 
 Sate with his bride to see a public show. 
 Fair was the bride, and on her front did 
 
 glow 
 Youth like a star ; and what to youth 
 
 belong — 
 Gay raiment, sparkling gauds, elation 
 
 strong. 
 A prop gave way ! crash fell a platform ! 
 
 lo, 
 'Mid struggling sufferers, hurt to death, 
 
 slie lay ! 
 Shuddering, they drew her garments 
 
 off — and foimd 
 A robe of sackcloth next the smootli, 
 
 white skin. 
 Such, poets, is your bride, the Muse ! 
 
 young, gay. 
 Radiant, adorn'd outside; a hidden 
 
 ground 
 Of thought and of austerity within. 
 
 1867. 
 
 WORLDLY PLACE 
 
 Even in a judaee. life may he led well! 
 So spake the imperial sage, purest of men, 
 Marcus Aurelius. But ilie stifling den 
 Of couimon life, where, crowded up 
 
 pell-mell. 
 Our freedom for a little l)read we sell. 
 And drudge under some foolish master's 
 
 ken 
 Who rates lis if we jieer outside our 
 
 pen — 
 ]Match"(l with a palace, is not this a hell? 
 Even in, a j^alace / (),, ]^]^ truth sincere. 
 Who spoke these words, no shadow ever 
 
 came ; 
 And when my ill-school'd spirit is aflame 
 Some nobler, ampler stage of life to win, 
 I'll stop, and say : "There were no suc- 
 cor here ! 
 Tlie aids to noble life are all within." 
 
 1867. 
 
 EAST LONDON 
 
 "TvvAS August, and the fierce sun over- 
 head 
 
 Smote on the scjualid streets of Bethnal 
 Green. 
 
 And the p;de weaver, through his 
 windows seen 
 
 In Spitalfields, look'd thrice dispii'ited. 
 
762 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 I met a preaclier there I knew, and said : 
 " 111 and o"erwork"d, how fare you in 
 
 this scene ? " — 
 " Bi'avely ! " said he ; " for I of late liave 
 
 been 
 Much cheer'd with thoughts of Christ, 
 
 the living bread.''' 
 O human soul ! as long as thou canst so 
 Set up a mark of everlasting liglit. 
 Above the howling senses' ebb and flow, 
 To cheer thee, and to right thee if thou 
 
 roam — 
 Not with lost toil thou laborest through 
 
 the night ! 
 Thou niak'st the heaven thou hoj)'st 
 
 indeed thy home. 1867. 
 
 WEST LONDON 
 
 Crouch'd on the pavement, close by 
 Belgrave Square. 
 
 A tramp I saw, ill, moody, and tongue- 
 tied. 
 
 A babe was in her arms, and at her side 
 
 A girl ; their clothes were rags, their 
 feet were bare. 
 
 Some laboring men. whose work lay 
 somewhere there. 
 
 Pass'd opposite ; she touch'd her girl, 
 who hied 
 
 Across, and begg'd, and came back 
 satisfied. 
 
 The rich she had let pass with frozen 
 stare. 
 
 Thought I : " Above her state this spirit 
 towel's ; 
 
 She will not ask of aliens, but of friends. 
 
 Of sharers in a common human fate. 
 
 She turns from that cold succor, which 
 attends 
 
 The unknown little from the unknow- 
 ing great. 
 
 And points us to a better time than 
 ours." 18(J7. 
 
 EAST AND WEST 
 
 In the bare midst of Anglesey thej^ show 
 
 Two springs which close by one another 
 play; 
 
 And, "Thirteen hundred years agone,"' 
 they say, 
 
 "Two saints met often where those 
 waters flow. 
 
 One came from Penmon westward, and 
 a glow 
 
 Whiten'd his face from the sun's front- 
 ing ray ; 
 
 Eastward the other, from the dying day. 
 
 And he with unsunn'd face did always 
 
 go-'" 
 Seiriol tlie Bright, Kybithe Dark! men 
 
 said. 
 The seer from the East was then in light. 
 The seer from the West was then in 
 
 shade. 
 Ah ! now 'tis changed. In conquering 
 
 sunshine bright 
 The man of the bold West now comes 
 
 array 'd ; 
 He of the mystic East is touch'd with 
 
 night. 1867. 
 
 THE BETTER PART 
 
 Long fed on boundless hopes, O race of 
 
 man. 
 How angrily thou spurn'st all .simpler 
 
 fare ! 
 " Christ," some one saj^s, " was human 
 
 as we are ; 
 No judge ejes us from Heaven, our sin 
 
 to scan ; 
 We live no more, when we have done 
 
 our span."' 
 " Well, then, for Christ," thou answerest, 
 
 " wlio can care? 
 From sin, which Heaven records not, 
 
 why forbear? 
 Live we like brutes our life without a 
 
 plan ! " 
 So answerest thou ; but why not rather 
 
 say : 
 "Hath man no second life? — Pitch this 
 
 one high ! 
 Sits there no judge in Heaven, our sin 
 
 to see ? — 
 More strictly, then, the inward judge 
 
 obey ! 
 Was Christ a man like us ? Ah ! let us try 
 If we then, too, can be such men as he ! " 
 
 1867. 
 
 IMMORTALITY 
 
 Foil'd by our fellow-men, depressed, 
 
 outworn. 
 We leave the brutal world to take its 
 
 way, 
 And, Patience! in another life, we say, 
 The world shall be thrust down, and we 
 
 xtp-borne. 
 And will not, then, the immortal armies 
 
 scorn 
 The world's poor, routed leavings? or 
 
 will they. 
 Who fail'd under the heat of this life's 
 
 day, 
 
ARNOLD 
 
 763 
 
 Support the fervors of the heavenly 
 
 morn ? 
 No. no ! tlie energy of life may be 
 Kept on after the grave, but not begun ; 
 And he who flagg'd not in the earthl}' 
 
 strife, 
 From strength to strength advancing — 
 
 only he, 
 His soul well-knit, and all his battles 
 
 won , 
 Mounts, and that hardlj', to eternal life. 
 
 1867. 
 
 DOVER BEACH 
 
 The sea is calm to-night, 
 
 Tlie tide is full, the moon lies fair 
 
 Upon the straits ; — on the Frencli coast 
 
 the light 
 Gleams and is gone ; the cliffs of Eng- 
 land stand. 
 Glimmering and vast, out in the tran- 
 quil bay. 
 Come to the window, sweet is the niglit- 
 
 air I 
 Only, from the long line of spray 
 Where the sea meets the moon-blanch'd 
 
 land , 
 Listen ! you hear the grating roar 
 Of pebbles wliicli the waves draw back, 
 
 and fling. 
 At their return, up the high strand, 
 Begin, and cease, and then again begin. 
 With tremulous cadence slow, and bring 
 The eternal note of sadness in. 
 
 Sophocles long ago 
 
 Heard it on the JEgsean, and it brought 
 
 Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow 
 
 Of human misery : we 
 
 Find also in the sound a thought. 
 
 Hearing it by this distant northern sea. 
 
 The Sea of Faith 
 
 Was once, too, at the full, and round 
 
 earth's sliore 
 Lay like the folds of a bright girdle f url'd. 
 But now I only liear 
 Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, 
 Retreating, to tlie breath 
 Of the night-wind, down the vast edges 
 
 drear 
 And naked shingles of the world. 
 Ah, love, let us be true 
 To one another I for the world, which 
 
 seems 
 To lie before us like a land of dreams. 
 So various, so beautiful, so new. 
 Hath really neither jov, nor love, nor 
 
 light, . 
 
 Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for 
 
 pain : 
 And we are here as on a darkling plain 
 Swept with confvised alarms of struggle 
 
 and flight. 
 Where ignorant armies clasli by night. 
 
 1867. 
 
 GROWING OLD 
 
 What is it to grow old ? 
 
 Is it to lose the glory of the form. 
 
 The lustre of the ej'e ? 
 
 Is it for beauty to forego her wreath ? 
 
 — Yes, but not this alone. 
 
 Is it to feel our strength — 
 
 Not our bloom only, but our strength — 
 
 decaj' V 
 Is it to feel each lindi 
 Grow stifl'er, ever\- function less exact, 
 Each nerve more loosely strung? 
 
 Yes, this, and more : but not 
 
 All, 't is not what in youth we dream'd 
 't would be ! 
 
 'T is not to have our life 
 
 Mellow'd and soften'd as with sunset- 
 glow, 
 
 A golden day's decline. 
 
 "T is not to see the world 
 
 As from a height, with rapt prophetic 
 
 eyes. 
 And heart profoundly stirr'd : 
 And weep, and feel the ftilness of the 
 
 past. 
 The years that are no more. 
 
 It is to spend long days 
 
 And not once feel that we were ever 
 
 young ; 
 It is to add, immured 
 In the liot prison of the present, month 
 To month with weary pain. 
 
 It is to suffer this. 
 
 And feel but half, and feeblv, what we 
 
 feel. 
 Deep in our hidden heart 
 Festers the dull remembrance of a 
 
 change. 
 But no emotion — none. 
 
 It is — last stage of all — 
 
 WJien we are frozen up within, and quite 
 
 Tlie phantom of ourselves, 
 
 To hear the world applaud the hollow 
 
 ghost 
 Which blamed the living man. 1867. 
 
764 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 PIS-ALLER 
 
 " Man is blind because of sin, 
 Revelation makes him sure ; 
 Without that, who looks within. 
 Looks in vain, for all 's obscure." 
 
 Nay, look closer into man ! 
 
 Tell me, can you find indeed 
 
 Nothing sure, no moral plan 
 
 Clear prescribed, without your creed? 
 
 " No, I nothing can perceive ! 
 Without that, all 's dark for men. 
 That, or nothing, I believe." — 
 For God's sake, believe it then ! 
 
 1867. 
 
 THE LAST WORD 
 
 Creep into tliy narrow bed. 
 Creep, and let no more be said ! 
 Vain thy onset ! all stands fast. 
 Thou thyself must break at last. 
 
 Let the long contention cease ! 
 Geese are swans, ami swans are geese. 
 Let them have it how tliey will ! 
 Thou art tired ; best be still. 
 
 They out-talk'd thee, biss'd thee, tore 
 
 thee ? 
 Better men fared tlius befoi"e thee ; 
 Fired their ringing shot and ]>ass"d, 
 Hotly cliarged — and sank at last. 
 
 Charge once more, then, and be dumb ! 
 Let the victors, wlien thev come, 
 When the forts of foUv fall. 
 Find thy body by the wall ! 1867. 
 
 BACCHANALIA ; 
 
 OR, 
 THE NEW AGE 
 
 The evening comes, the fields are still. 
 The tinkle of the thirsty rill, 
 Unlieard all day, ascends again ; 
 Deserted is the half-mown plain. 
 Silent the swaths ! the ringing wain. 
 The mower's cr}-, the dog's alarms. 
 All housed within the sleeping farms ! 
 Tlie business of the day is done, 
 The last-left haymaker is gone. 
 And from tlie thj'me upon the height, 
 And from the elder-blossom white 
 
 And I ale dog-roses in the hedge. 
 
 And Lorn the mint-plant in tlie sedge. 
 
 In puffs of balm the night-air blows 
 
 The perfume which the day foregoes. 
 
 And on the pure horizon far. 
 
 See. pulsing with the first-born star, 
 
 The liquid sky above the hill ! 
 
 The evening comes, the fields are still. 
 
 Loitering and leaping. 
 
 With saunter, with bounds — 
 
 Flickering and circling 
 
 In files and in rounds — 
 
 Gaily their pine-staff green 
 
 Tossing in air. 
 
 Loose o'er their shoulders white 
 
 Showering their hair — 
 
 See ! the wild Ma3nads 
 
 Break from the wood. 
 
 Youth and lacchus 
 
 Maddening their blood. 
 
 See ! through the quiet land 
 
 Rioting they pass — 
 
 Fling the fresh heaps about, 
 
 Trami>le the grass. 
 
 Tear from the rifled hedge 
 
 Garlands, their prize ; 
 
 Fill with their sports the field. 
 
 Fill with their cries. 
 
 Shepherd, what ails thee, then ? 
 
 Shephei'd, why nuite? 
 
 Forth with thy jovous song ! 
 
 Forth with tliy flute ! 
 
 Tempts not the revel blithe ? 
 
 Lure not their cries? 
 
 (tIow not their slumlders smooth? 
 
 Melt not their eyes ? 
 
 Is not, on cheeks like those, 
 
 Lovely the flush ? 
 
 — Ah, so the quiet was ! 
 
 So loas the liusli ! 
 
 The epoch ends, the Avorld is still. 
 The age has talkM and vvorkd its fill — 
 The famous orators have shone. 
 The famous poets sung and gone. 
 The famous men of war liave fought, 
 The famous speculators thought, 
 The famous players, sculptors, wrought. 
 The famous painters fill'd their wall. 
 The famous critics judged it ;dl. 
 The combatants are parted now — 
 Uphung the spear, unbent the bow. 
 The puissant crown'd, the weak laid low. 
 And in the after-silence sweet. 
 Now strifes are hush"d, our ears doth 
 meet. 
 
ARNOLD 
 
 765 
 
 Ascending pure, the bell-like fame 
 
 Of this or that down-trodden name, 
 
 Delicate spirits, push'd away 
 
 In the hot pi-ess of the noon-da3\ 
 
 And o'er the plain, where the dead age 
 
 Did its now silent warfare wage — 
 
 O'er that wide plain, now wiapt in 
 
 gloom, 
 Whei'e many a splendor finds its tomb, 
 Many spent fames and fallen mights — 
 Tlie one or two immortal liglits 
 Rise slowly up into the sky 
 To shine there everlastingly, 
 Like stars over the bounding hill. 
 The epoch ends, the world is still. 
 
 Tiiundering and bursting 
 
 111 torrents, in waves — 
 
 Carolling and shouting 
 
 Over tombs, amid graves — 
 
 See ! on the cumber 'd plain 
 
 Clearing a stage, 
 
 Scattering the past about, 
 
 Comes the new age. 
 
 Bards make new poems, 
 
 Tiiinkers new schools. 
 
 Statesmen new systems, 
 
 Critics new rules. 
 
 All tilings begin again ; 
 
 Life is their prize ; 
 
 Eartii with their deeds they fill, 
 
 Fill with their cries. 
 
 Poet, what ails thee, then? 
 
 Say, why so mute ? 
 
 Forth with thy praising voice ! 
 
 Forth with thy flute ! 
 
 Loiterer ! why sittest thou 
 
 Sunk in thy dream ? 
 
 Tempts not the bright new age ? 
 
 Shines not its stream ? 
 
 Look, ah, what genius, 
 
 Art, science, wit ! 
 
 Soldiers like Ctesar, 
 
 Statesmen like Pitt ! 
 
 Sculptors like Phidias, 
 
 Raphaels in shoals, 
 
 Poets like Shakespeare — 
 
 Beautiful souls ! 
 
 See, on their glowing cheeks 
 
 Heavenly the flush ! 
 
 — All, so the silence was ! 
 
 So was the hush ! 
 
 Tlie world but feels the present's spell, 
 Tlie poet feels the past as well ; 
 Whatever men have done, might do, 
 Whatever thought, might tlunk it too. 
 
 1867. 
 
 PALLADIUM 
 
 Set where the upper streams of Simois 
 
 flow 
 Was the Palladium, high 'mid rock and 
 
 wood ; 
 And Hector was in Ilium, far below, 
 And fought, and saw it not — but there 
 
 it stood ! 
 
 It stood, and sun and moonshine rain'd 
 
 their light 
 On the pure columns of its glen-built 
 
 hall, 
 Backward and forward roU'd the waves 
 
 of fight 
 Round Troy — but while this stood, Troy 
 
 could not fall. 
 
 So, in its lovely moonlight, lives the 
 
 soul. 
 Mountains surround it and sweet virgin 
 
 air ; 
 Cold plashing, past it, crystal waters 
 
 roll ; 
 We visit it by motnents, ah, too rare ! 
 
 We shall renew the battle in the plain 
 To-morrow ; red with blood will Xanthus 
 
 be; 
 Hector and Ajax will be there again, 
 Helen will come upon the wall to see. 
 
 Then we shall rust in shade, or shine in 
 
 strife. 
 And fluctuate 'twixt blind hopes and 
 
 blind despairs. 
 And fancy that we put forth all our life. 
 And never know how with the soul it 
 
 fares. 
 
 Still doth the soul, from its lone fastness 
 
 high, 
 Upon our life a ruling effluence send. 
 And when it fails, fight as we will, we 
 
 die ; 
 And while it lasts, we cannot wlioUy end. 
 
 1867. 
 
 A WISH 
 
 I ASK not that my bed of death 
 From bands of greedy heirs be free ; 
 For these besiege the latest breath 
 Of fortune's favor'd sons, not me. 
 
 I ask not each kind soul to keep 
 Tearless, when of my death he hears. 
 Let those who will, if any, weep I 
 
766 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 There are worse plagues on earth than 
 tears. 
 
 I ask but til at my deatli may find 
 The Freedom to my life denied ; 
 Ask but the folly of mankind 
 Then, then at last, to quit my side. 
 
 Spare me the whispering, crowded room, 
 The friends wlio come, and gape, and go; 
 The ceremonious air of gloom- 
 All, which makes death a hideous show ! 
 
 Nor bring, to see me cease to live, 
 Some doctor full of phrase and fame. 
 To shake his sapient head, and give 
 The ill he cannot cure a name. 
 
 Nor fetch, to take the accustom'd toll 
 Of the poor sinner bound for death. 
 His brother-doctor of the soul, 
 To canvass with official breath 
 
 The future and its viewless things — 
 
 That undiscover'd mystery 
 
 Whicli one who feels deatli's winnowing 
 
 wings 
 Must needs read clearer, sure, than he ! 
 
 Bring none of these ; but let me be, 
 While all around in silence lies. 
 Moved to the window near, and see 
 Once more, before my dying eyes. 
 
 Bathed in the sacred dews of morn 
 Tlie wide aerial landscape spread — 
 The world which was ere I was born. 
 The world which lasts when I am dead ; 
 
 Which never was the friend of one. 
 Nor promised love it could not give, 
 But lit for all its generous sun. 
 And lived itself, and made us live. 
 
 There let me gaze, till I become 
 In soul, with what I gaze on, wed ! 
 To feel the universe my home ; 
 To have befoi-e my mind — instead 
 
 Of the sick room, the mortal strife, 
 The turmoil for a little breath — 
 The pure eternal course of life. 
 Not human combatiugs with death ! 
 
 Thus feeling, gazing, might I grow 
 Composed, refresh'd, ennobled, clear ; 
 Then willing let my spirit go 
 To work or wait elsewhere or here ! 
 
 1867. 
 
 RUGBY CHAPEL 
 
 November 1857 
 
 Coldly, sadly descends 
 
 The autumn-evening. The field 
 
 Strewn witli its dank yellow drifts 
 
 Of wither'd leaves, and the ehns, 
 
 Fade into dimness apace, 
 
 Silent ; — hardly a shout 
 
 From a few boys late at tlieir ])lay ! 
 
 The lights come out in the street. 
 
 In the school-room windows ; — but cold. 
 
 Solemn, unlighted. austere, 
 
 Through tlie gathering darkness, arise 
 
 The chapel-walls, in wliose bound 
 
 Thou, my father ! art laid. 
 
 There thou dost lie, in the gloom 
 
 Of the autumn evening. But ah ! 
 
 That word, gloom, to my mind 
 
 Brings thee back, in the liglit 
 
 Of thy radiant vigor, again ; 
 
 In the gloom of November we pass'd 
 
 Days not dark at thy side ; 
 
 Seasons impaii''d not tlie ray 
 
 Of thy buoyant cheerfulness clear. 
 
 Such thou wast ! and I stand 
 
 In the autumn evening and think 
 
 Of bygone autumns witli thee. 
 
 Fifteen years have gone round 
 Since thou arosest to tread. 
 In the summer-morning, tlie road 
 Of deatli, at a call unforeseen, 
 Sudden. For fifteen years. 
 We who till then in thy shade 
 Rested as under the bouglis 
 Of a mighty oak, have endured 
 Sunshine and rain as we might, 
 Bare, unshaded, alone. 
 Lacking the shelter of thee. 
 
 O strong soul, by what shore 
 Tarriest thou now ? For that force. 
 Surely, has not been left vain ! 
 Somewhere, surelj', afar. 
 In the sounding labor-house vast 
 Of being, is practised that sLrength, 
 Zealous, beneficent, firm ! 
 
 Yes, in some far-shining sphere. 
 
 Conscious or not of the past. 
 
 Still thou performest the word 
 
 Of the Spirit in whom thou dost live — 
 
 Prompt, unwearied, as here ! 
 
 Still thou upraisest with zeal 
 
 The humble good from the ground, 
 
 Sternly repressest the bad ! 
 
 Still, like a trumpet, dost rouse 
 
ARNOLD 
 
 767 
 
 Those who with half-open eyes 
 Tread the border-laud dim 
 Twixt vice and virtue : reviv'st, 
 Succorest ! — this was thy work ; 
 This was thy life upon earth. 
 
 What is the course of the life 
 
 Of mortal men on the earth ? — 
 
 Most men eddy about 
 
 Here and there — eat and drink, 
 
 Chatter and love and hate. 
 
 Gather and squander, are raised 
 
 Aloft, are liurl'd in the dust, 
 
 Striving blindly, achieving 
 
 Nothing ; and then they die — 
 
 Perish ; — and no one asks 
 
 Who or what they have been. 
 
 More than he aslcs wliat waves, 
 
 In the moonlit solitudes mild 
 
 Of the midmost Ocean, have swell'd, 
 
 Foam'd for a moment, and gone. 
 
 And there are some, whom a tliirst 
 
 Ardent, unquenchable, fires. 
 
 Not with the crowd to l)e spent, 
 
 Not without aim to go round 
 
 In an eddy of purposelests dust, 
 
 Effort unmeaning and vain. 
 
 Ah yes ! some of us strive 
 
 Not without action to die 
 
 Fruitless, but something to snatch 
 
 From dull oblivion, nor all 
 
 Glut the devouring grave ! 
 
 We, we have chosen our path — 
 
 Path to a clear-purposed goal. 
 
 Path of advance ! — but it leads 
 
 A long, steep journey, through sunk 
 
 Gorges, o'er mountains in snow. 
 
 Cheerful, with friends, we set forth — 
 
 Then on the height, comes the storm. 
 
 Thunder crashes from rock 
 
 To rock, the cataracts reply, 
 
 Lightnings dazzle our eyes. 
 
 Roaring torrents have breach'd 
 
 The track, the stream-bed descends 
 
 In the place where the wayfarer once 
 
 Planted his footstep — the spray 
 
 Boils o'er its borders ! aloft 
 
 The unseen snow-beds dislodge 
 
 Their hanging ruin ; alas. 
 
 Havoc is made in our train ! 
 
 Friends who set forth at our side. 
 
 Falter, are lost in the storm. 
 
 We, we only are left ! 
 
 With frowning foreheads, with lips 
 
 Sternly compress'd, we strain on, 
 
 On — and at nightfall at last 
 
 Come to the end of our way. 
 
 To the lonely inn 'mid the rocks ; 
 
 Where the gaunt and taciturn host 
 Stands on the threshold, the wind 
 Shaking his thin white hairs — 
 Holds his lantern to scan 
 Our storm-beat figures, and asks : 
 Whom in our party we bring ? 
 Whom we have left in the snow ? 
 
 Sadly we answer : We bring 
 Only ourselves ! we lost 
 Sight of the rest in the storm. 
 Hardh' ourselves we fought through, 
 Stripp'd, without friends, as we are. 
 Friends, companions, and train, 
 The avalanche swept from our side. 
 
 But thou would'st not alone 
 Be saved, my father ! alone 
 Conquer and come to thy goal, 
 Leaving the rest in the wild. 
 We were weary, and we 
 Fearful, and we in our march 
 Fain to drop down and to die. 
 Still thou turnedst, and still 
 Beckonedst the trembler, and still 
 Gavest the weary thy hand. 
 
 If, in the paths of the world. 
 
 Stones might have wounded thy feet. 
 
 Toil or dejection have trieil 
 
 Tliy spirit, of that we saw 
 
 Nothing — to us thou wast still 
 
 Cheerful, and helpful, and firm ! 
 
 Tlierefore to thee it was given 
 
 Many to save with thyself ; 
 
 And, at the end of thy day, 
 
 O faithful shepherd ! to come. 
 
 Bringing thy sheep in thy hand. 
 
 And through thee I believe 
 
 In the noble and great who are gone ; 
 
 Pure souls honor'd and blest 
 
 By former ages, who else — 
 
 Such, so soulless, so poor, 
 
 Is the race of men whom I see — 
 
 Seem'd but a dream of the heart, 
 
 Seem'd but a cry of desire. 
 
 Yes ! I believe that there lived 
 
 Others like thee in the past. 
 
 Not like the men of the crowd 
 
 Who all round me to-day 
 
 Bluster or cringe, and make life 
 
 Hideous, and arid, and vile ; 
 
 But souls temper'd with fire, 
 
 Fervent, heroic, and good. 
 
 Helpers and friends of mankind. 
 
 Servants of God ! — or sons 
 Shall I not call j^ou? because 
 Not as servants ye knew 
 Your Father's innermost mind. 
 
768 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 His, who unwillingly sees 
 One of his little ones lost — 
 Yours is the praise, if mankind 
 Hath not as yet in its march 
 Fainted, and fallen, and died I 
 
 See ! In the rocks of tlie world 
 Marches the liost of mankind, 
 A feeble, wavering line. 
 Wliere are tliey tending ? — A God 
 Marsliaird them, gave them their goal. 
 Ah, but tlie way is so long ! 
 Years tliey liave been in the wild ! 
 Sore tliirst plagues tlieni, the rocks, 
 Rising all round, overawe ; 
 Factions divide them, their host 
 Threatens to break, to dissolve. 
 — Ah, keep, keep tliem combined ! 
 Else, of the myriads who fill 
 That army, not one shall arrive ; 
 Sole tliey shall stray ; in the rocks 
 Stagger for ever in vain. 
 Die one by one in the waste. 
 
 Then, in such hour of need 
 
 Of your fainting, dispirited race, 
 
 Ye, like angels, appear, 
 
 Radiant with ardor divine ! 
 
 Beacons of hope, ye appear ! 
 
 Languor is not in your heart. 
 
 Weakness is not in your word, 
 
 Weariness not on your brow. 
 
 Ye alight in our van ! at your voice, 
 
 Panic, despair, flee away. 
 
 Ye move through the ranks, recall 
 
 The stragglers, refresh the outworn, 
 
 Praise, re-insi^ire the brave ! 
 
 Order, courage, return ; 
 
 Eyes rekindling, and prayers. 
 
 Follow your steps as j'e go. 
 
 Ye fill up the gaps in our files, 
 
 Strengthen the wavering line, 
 
 Stablish, continue our march. 
 
 On, to the bound of the waste. 
 
 On, to the City of God. 1867. 
 
 HEINE 
 
 (from HEINE'S GRAVE) 
 
 The Spirit of the world. 
 Beholding tlie absurdity of men— 
 Their vaunts, their feats — let a sardonic 
 
 smile, 
 For one short moment, wander o'er liis 
 
 lips. 
 That smile ivas Hehie ! — for its earthly 
 
 hour 
 Tlie strange guest sparkle.d ; now 'tis 
 
 pass'd away. 
 
 That was Heine 1 and we. 
 Myriads wlio live, who have lived, 
 What are we all, but a mood, 
 A single mood, of the life 
 Of the Spirit in whom we exist. 
 Who alone is all things in one ? 
 Spirit, who fiilest us all ! 
 Spirit, who utterest in each 
 New-coming son of mankind 
 Such of thy thoughts as thoii wilt ! 
 
 thou, one of whose moods. 
 Bitter and strange, was the life 
 Of Heine — his strange, alas, 
 His bitter life ! — may a life 
 Other and milder be mine ! 
 May'st thou a mood more serene, 
 Happier, have utter'd in mine ! 
 May'st thou the rapture of peace 
 Deep have embreatlied at its core ; 
 Made it a ray of thv thought, 
 
 Made it a beat of thy joy ! 1867. 
 
 OBERMANN ONCE MORE 
 
 Savez-vous quelque bieti qui console dn regret 
 d^un monde ? Obermann. 
 
 Glion ? Ah, twenty years, it cuts i 
 
 All meaning from a name ! 
 
 White houses prank where once were 
 
 huts. 
 Glion, but not the same ! 
 
 And 3^et I know not ! All unchanged 
 The turf, the pines, the sky ! 
 The hills in their old order ranged ; 
 The lake, with Chillon by ! 
 
 And, 'neath those chestnut-trees, where 
 
 stiff 
 And stony mounts the way. 
 The crackling husk-heaps burn, as if 
 
 1 left them yesterday ! 
 
 Across the valley, on that sloi^e, 
 The huts of Avant shine ! 
 Its pines, under their branches, ope 
 Ways for the pasturing kine. 
 
 Full-foaming milk-pails, Alpine fare, 
 Sweet heaps of fresli-eut grass, 
 Invite to rest the traveller there 
 Before he climb the pass — 
 
 1 Probably all who know the Vevey end of the 
 Lake of Geiieva, will recollect Glion, the moun- 
 tain-village above the castle of Chillou. Glion 
 now has hotels, liensions, and villas ; but twenty 
 years ago it was hardly more than the huts of 
 Avant opposite to it, — huts through which goes 
 that beautiful path over the Col de Jamau, fol- 
 lowed by so many foot-travellers on their way 
 from Vevey to the Simmenthal and Thun. 
 
 (^Arnold). 
 
ARNOLD 
 
 769 
 
 Tlie gentian-flovver'd pass, its crown 
 With yellow spires aflame ; 
 Whence drops tlie path to Allieredown, 
 And walls where Byron came.^ 
 
 By their green river, who doth change 
 
 His birth-name just below ; 
 
 Orchard, and croft, and full-stored 
 
 grange 
 Nursed by his pastoral flow. 
 
 But stop ! — to fetch back thoughts that 
 
 stray 
 Beyond this gracious bound, 
 The cone of Jaman, pale and gray. 
 See, in the blue profound I 
 
 Ah, Jaman ! delicately tall 
 
 Above his sun-warm'd firs — 
 
 What thoughts to me his rocks recall, 
 
 What memories he stirs ! 
 
 And who but thou must be, in truth, 
 Obermann ! with me here ? 
 Thou master of my wandering youth, 
 But left this many a year ! 
 
 Yes, I forget the world's work wrought, 
 Its warfare waged with pain ; 
 An eremite with thee, in thought 
 Once more I slip my chain, 
 
 And to thy mountain-chalet come. 
 And lie beside its door, 
 And hear the wild bee's Alpine hum, 
 And thy sad, tranquil lore ! 
 
 Again I feel the words inspire 
 Their mournful calm ; serene. 
 Yet tinged with infinite desire 
 For all that might have been — 
 
 The harmony from which man swerved 
 Made his life's rule once more ! 
 The universal order served, 
 Earth happier than before ! 
 
 — While thus I mused, night gently ran 
 Down over liill and wood. 
 Then, still and sudden, Obermann 
 On the grass near me stood. 
 
 Those pensive features well I knew, 
 On my mind, years before. 
 Imaged so oft ! imaged so true ! 
 — A shepherd's garb he wore, 
 
 * Montbovon. See Byron's Journal, in his Worlcs, 
 vol. iii. p. 258. The river Saaue becomes the Sa- 
 rine below Montbovon. {Arnold). 
 
 49 
 
 A mountain-flower was in his hand, 
 
 A book was in his bi'east. 
 
 Bent on my face, with gaze which 
 
 scann'd 
 My soul, his eyes did rest. 
 
 " And is it thou," he cried, " so long 
 Held by the world which we 
 Loved not, who turnest from the throng 
 Back to thy youth and me ? 
 
 " And from thy world, with heart op- 
 
 prest, 
 Choosest thou note to turn ? — 
 Ah me ! we anchorites read things best. 
 Clearest their course discern ! 
 
 " Thou fledst me when the ungenial 
 
 earth, 
 Man's work-place, lay in gloom. 
 Retvirn'st thou in her hour of birth. 
 Of hopes and hearts in bloom ? 
 
 " Perceiv'st thou not the change of day ? 
 Ah ! Carry back thy ken, 
 What, some two thousand years ! Sur- 
 vey 
 The world as it was then ! 
 
 " Like ours it look'd in outward air. 
 Its head was clear and true. 
 Sumptuous its clothing, rich its fare. 
 No pause its action knew ; 
 
 " Stout was its arm, each thew and bone 
 Seem'd puissant and alive — 
 But, all ! its heart, its heai't was stone. 
 And so it could not thrive ! 
 
 " On that hard Pagan world disgust 
 And secret loathing fell. 
 Deep weariness and sated lust 
 Made human life a hell. 
 
 " In his cool hall, with haggard eyes. 
 The Roman noble lay ; 
 He drove abroad, in furious guise. 
 Along the Appian way. 
 
 " He made a feast, drank fierce and fast, 
 And crown'd his hair with flowers — 
 No easier nor no quicker pass'd 
 The impracticable hours. 
 
 " The brooding East with awe beheld 
 Her impious younger world. 
 The Roman tempest swell'd and swell'd, 
 And on her head was hurl'd. 
 
77° 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 "The East bow'd low before the blast 
 In patient, deep disdain ; 
 She let the legions thunder past, 
 And plunged in thought again. 
 
 " So well she mused, a morning broke 
 Across her spirit gray ; 
 A conquei'ing, new-born joy awoke, 
 And fiU'd her life with day. 
 
 " ' Poor world,' she cried, ' so deep ac- 
 curst, 
 That runn'st from pole to pole 
 To seek a draught to slake thy thirst — 
 Go, seek it in tliy soul ! ' 
 
 " She heard it, the victorious West, 
 In crown and sword array'd ! 
 She felt the void whicli mined her breast, 
 She shiver'd and obej^'d. 
 
 " She veil'd her eagles, snapp'd her 
 
 sword. 
 And laid lier sceptre down ; 
 Her stately purple slie abhorr'd. 
 And her imperial crown. 
 
 " She broke her flutes, she stopp'd her 
 
 sports, 
 Her artists could not please ; 
 She tore her books, she shut her courts, 
 She fled her palaces ; 
 
 " Lust of the eye and pride of life 
 Slie left it all beliind. 
 And hurried, torn with inward strife, 
 Tlie wilderness to find. 
 
 " Tears wash'd the trouble from her face! 
 
 She changed into a child ! 
 
 'Mid weeds and wrecks she stood— a 
 
 place 
 Of ruin — but she smiled ! 
 
 "Oil, had I lived in that great day. 
 
 How had its glory new 
 
 Fill'd earth an(l heaven, and caught 
 
 away 
 My ravish'd spirit too ! 
 
 " No tlioughts that to the world belong 
 Had stood against the wave 
 Of love which set so deep and strong 
 From Christ's then open grave. 
 
 " No cloister-floor of humid stone 
 Had been too cold for me. 
 For me no Eastern desert lone 
 Had been too fat to flee. 
 
 " No lonely life had pass'd too slow, 
 Wlien I could hourly scan 
 Upon his Cross, with head sunk low, 
 That nail'd, thorn-crowned Man ! 
 
 " Could see the Mother with her Child 
 Whose tender winjiing aits 
 Have to his little arms beguiled 
 So many wounded hearts ! 
 
 • ' And centuries came and ran their 
 
 course. 
 And unspent all that time 
 Still, still went forth that Child's dear 
 
 force. 
 And still was at its prime. 
 
 " Ay, ages long endured his span 
 
 Of life — 'tis true received — 
 
 That gracious Child, that thorn-crown'd 
 
 Man ! 
 — He lived while we believed. 
 
 " While we believed, on earth he went. 
 
 And open stood his grave. 
 
 Men call'd from chamber, church, and 
 
 tent ; 
 And Christ was by to save. 
 
 " Now he is dead ! Far hence he lies 
 In the lorn Syrian town ; 
 And on his grave, with shining eyes, 
 The Syrian stars look down. 
 
 " In vain men still, with hoping new. 
 Regard his death-place dumb, 
 And say the stone is not yet to. 
 And wait for words to come. 
 
 " Ah, o'er that silent sacred land, 
 Of sun, and arid stone. 
 And crumbling wall, and sultry sand. 
 Sounds now one word alone ! 
 
 " Unduped of fancy, henceforth man 
 Must labor ! — must resign 
 His all too human creeds and scan 
 Simphj the ivay divine ! 
 
 " But slow that tide of common thought, 
 Which bathed our life, retired ; 
 Slow, slow the old world wore to nought. 
 And pulse by pulse expired. 
 
 " Its frame yet stood without a breach 
 When blood and warmth were fled ; 
 And still it spake its wonted speech — 
 But every word was dead'. 
 
ARNOLD 
 
 771 
 
 " And oh. we cried, tliat on this corse 
 Migiit fall a freshening- storm ! 
 Rive its dry bones, and willi new force 
 A new-sprung world inform ! 
 
 " — Down came the storm ! O'er France 
 
 it pass'd 
 In sheets of scathing fire ; 
 All Europe felt that fiery blast, 
 Anil shook as it rusli'd by her. 
 
 " Down came the storm ! In ruins fell 
 Tlie worn-out world we knew. 
 — It pass'd, that elemental swell ! 
 Again appear 'd the blue ; 
 
 "Tlie sun shone in the new-wash'd sky, 
 And what from heaven saw he ? 
 Blocks of the past, like icebergs high, 
 Float on a rolling sea ! 
 
 " Upon them plies the race of man 
 All it before endeavor'd ; 
 ' Ye live,' I cried, ' ye work and plan. 
 And know not ye are sever 'd ! 
 
 " ' Poor fragments of a broken world 
 Whereon men pitch their tent ! 
 Why were ye too to death not liurl'd 
 When your world's day was spent ? 
 
 " ' That glow of central fire is done 
 Which with its fusing flame 
 Knit all your parts, and kept you one-^ 
 But ye, ye are tlie same ! 
 
 " * The past, its mask of union on. 
 Had ceased to live and thrive. 
 The past, its mask of union gone, 
 Say, is it more alive ? 
 
 " ' Your creeds are dead, your rites are 
 
 dead, 
 Your social order too ! 
 Where tarries he, the Power who said : 
 See, I make all tilings new 9 
 
 " 'The millions suffer still, and grieve. 
 And what can helpers heal 
 With old-world cures men half believe 
 For woes they wholly feel ? 
 
 " ' And yet men have .such need of joy ! 
 But joy whose grounds are true ; 
 And joy that should all hearts employ 
 As when the past was new. 
 
 " ' Ah, not the emotion of that past. 
 Its common hope, were vain ! 
 Some new such hope must dawn at last, 
 Or man must toss in pain. 
 
 '* • But now tlie old is out of date, 
 Tiie new is not yet born. 
 And who can be alone elate, 
 While the world lies forlorn ? ' 
 
 '■ Then to the wilderness I fled. — 
 There among Alpine snows 
 And pastoral huts I hid my head. 
 And sought and found repose. 
 
 " It was not yet the appointed horu". 
 Sad, patient, and resign'd, 
 I watch'd the croinis fade and flower, 
 I felt the sun and wind. 
 
 " Tlie day I lived in was not mine, 
 Man gets no second day. 
 In dreams I saw the future shine — 
 But ah ! I could not stay ! 
 
 " Action I had not. followers, fame ; 
 I pass'd obscure, alone. 
 The after-world forgets my name, 
 Nor do I wish it known. 
 
 " Composed to bear. I lived and died. 
 And knew my life was vain. 
 With fate I murmur not, nor chide. 
 At Sevres by the Seine 
 
 '• (If Paris that brief flight allow) 
 My humble tomb explore ! 
 It bears : Eternity, he thou 
 My refuge ! and no more. 
 
 " But thou, whom fellowship of mood 
 Did make from haunts of strife 
 Come to my mountain-solitude. 
 And learn my frustrate life ; 
 
 " O thou, who, ere thy flying span 
 Was past of ciieerful youth. 
 Didst find the solitary man 
 And love his cheerless truth — 
 
 " Despair not thou as I despair'd. 
 Nor be cold gloom thy prison ! ■ 
 Forward the gracious hours have fared, 
 And see ! the sun is risen ! 
 
 " He breaks the winter of the past ; 
 A green, new earth appears. 
 Millions, whose life in ice lay fast. 
 Have thoughts, and smiles, and tears. 
 
 " Wliat though there still need effort, 
 
 strife ? 
 Though nuich be still uTiwon ? 
 Yet w;irm it movuits. the hour of life ! 
 Death's frozen hour is done ! 
 
772 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 "The world's great order dawns in 
 
 sheen, 
 After long darkness rude, 
 Divinelier imaged, clearer seen, 
 With happier zeal pursued. 
 
 " With hope extinct and brow composed 
 I mark'd the present die ; 
 Its term of life was nearly closed, 
 Yet it had more than I. 
 
 " But thou, though to the world's new 
 
 hour 
 Thou come with aspect marr'd, 
 Sliorn of the joy, the bloom, tlie power 
 Which best befits its bard — 
 
 ' ' Though more than half thy years be 
 
 past, 
 And spent thy youthful prime ; 
 Though, round thy firmer manhood cast 
 Hang weeds of our sad time 
 
 " Whereof thy youth felt all the spell. 
 
 And traversed all the shade — 
 
 Though late, though dimm'd, though 
 
 weak, yet tell 
 Hope to a woi-ld new-made ! 
 
 " Help it to fill that deep desire. 
 The want which rack'd our brain. 
 Consumed our heart with thirst like fire, 
 Immedicable pain ; 
 
 '* Which to the wilderness drove out 
 Our life, to Alpine snow, 
 
 And palsied all our word with doubt, 
 And all our work with woe — 
 
 " What still of strength is left, employ, 
 This end to help attain : 
 One common wave of thought and joy 
 Lifting mankind again ! " 
 
 — The vision ended. I awoke 
 
 As out of sleep, and no 
 
 Voice moved ;— only the torrent broke 
 
 The silence, far below. 
 
 Soft darkness on the turf did lie. 
 Solemn, o'er hvit and wood. 
 In the yet star-sown nightly sky. 
 The peak of Jaman stood. 
 
 Still in my soul the voice I heard 
 
 Of Obermann ! away 
 
 I turn'd ; by some vague impulse .stirr'd, 
 Along the rocks of Naye 
 
 Past Sonchaud's piny flanks I gaze 
 And the blanch'd summit bare 
 Of Malatrait, to where in haze 
 The Valais opens fair, 
 
 And the domed Velan, with his snows. 
 Behind the upcrowding hills, 
 Doth all the heavenly opening close 
 Which the Rhone's murmur fills ; — 
 
 And glorious there, without a sound, 
 Across the glimmering lake. 
 High in the Valais-depth profound, 
 I saw the morning break. 1867. 
 
ROSSETTI 
 
 LIST OF REFERENCES 
 
 Editions 
 
 * Collected Works, with Preface and Notes by W. M. Rossetti, 2 vol- 
 umes, Ellis tfcEIvey, London (The standard edition ; issued in America by 
 Roberts Bros.) Poems, Siddal Edition, 7 volumes, 1900-1901. Poems, 
 Handy Volume Edition, 2 volumes, Little, Brown & Co. Family Letters, 
 editecl with Memoir by W. M. Rossetti, 1895. Letters to William Ailing- 
 ham, 1854-1870, edited by G. B. Hill, 1897. For other Letters, Journals, 
 etc., see the first three titles below. 
 
 Biography axd Reminiscences 
 
 * Rossetti (W. M.), Ruskin, Rossetti, and Pre-Raphaelitism, 1899 ; 
 Pre-Raphaelite Diaries and Letters, 1900 ; Rossetti Papers 1862-1870, a 
 Compilation, 1903. (These three books bring the story of Rossetti's life, 
 and the publication of his papers, down to 1870.) Caine (T. XL), Recol- 
 lections of Rossetti, 1882. Stephens (F. G.), Dante Gabriel Rossetti 
 (dealing with Rossetti chiefly as a painter). Sharp (W.), Dante Gabriel 
 Rossetti : a Record and Study, 1882. Nicholson (P. W.), Dante Gabriel 
 Rossetti, Poet and Painter, 188G. * Knight (Joseph), Life of Dante 
 Gabriel Rossetti (Great Writers Series), 1887. Wood (Esther), Dante 
 Rossetti and the Pre-Raphaelite Movement, 1894. Cary (E. L.), The 
 Rossettis, 1900. Marillier (H. C), Record of Rossetti, 1901. Benson 
 (A. C), Rossetti (English Men of Letters Series), 1904. See also J. H. 
 Ingram's Life of Oliver Madox Brown ; Anne Gilchrist : Her Life and 
 Writings; and Percy H. Bate's History of the Pre-Raphaelite Movement. 
 
 Criticism 
 
 Buchanan (R.), The Fleshly School of Poetry, and other Phenomena 
 of the Day, 1872 (originally in the Contemporary Review, October, 1871). 
 Rossetti (D. G.), The Stealthy School of Criticism (originally in tlie 
 Athenaeum, December 16, 1871 ; now in his Collected Works). Hamilton 
 (W.), The ^Esthetic Movement in England, 1882 (also contains an answer 
 to Buchanan's attack). Dawson (W. J.), Makers of Modern English. 
 FoRMAN (H. B.), Our Living Poets. * Mabie (H. W), Essays in Literary 
 Interpretation. * Myers (F. W. H.), Essays Modern : Rossetti and the 
 Religion of Beauty. Nencioni (E.), Letteratura inglese. ** Pater (W.), 
 Appreciations. Oliphant (Margaret), Victorian Age of Literature. Pat- 
 more (C), Principle in Art. Sarrazin (G.), Poetes modernes de I'Angle- 
 terre. Scudder (V. D.), Life of the Spirit. Sharp (A.), Victorian Poets. 
 * Stedman (E. C), Victorian Poets. ** Swinburne, Essays and Studies. 
 
 i^ . 773 
 

 . o 
 
 ROSSETTI 
 
 MY SISTER'S SLEEP 
 
 She fell asleep on Christmas Eve : 
 At length the long-ungranted shade 
 Of weary eyelids overweigh'd 
 
 The i)ain nought else might yet relieve. 
 
 Our mother, who had leaned all day 
 Over the bed from chime to chiuie, 
 Then raised herself for the first time, 
 
 And as she sat her down, did pray. 
 
 Her little work-table was spread 
 With work to finish. For the glare 
 Made bv her candle, siie liad care 
 
 To work some distance from the bed. 
 
 Without, there was a cold moon up. 
 Of winter radiance slieer and thin ; 
 Tlie hollow lialo it was in 
 
 Was like an icy crystal cup. 
 
 Through the small room, with subtle 
 sound 
 Of flame, by vents the fireshine drove 
 And reddened. In its dim alcove 
 
 The mirror shed a clearness round. 
 
 I had been sitting up some nights, 
 
 And my tired mind felt weak and 
 
 blank ; 
 Like a sharp strengthening wine it 
 drank 
 The stillness and the broken lights. 
 
 Twelve struck. That sound, by dwin- 
 dling years 
 Heard in each hour, crejit off ; and 
 
 then 
 The ruffled silence spread again. 
 Like water that a pebble stirs. 
 
 Our mother rose from where she sat : 
 Her needles, as she laid them down, 
 Met lightly, and her silken gown 
 
 Settled : no other noise than that. 
 
 " Glory unto the Newly Born ! " 
 So, as said angels, she did say ; 
 
 Because we were in Christmas Day, 
 Though it would still be long till morn. 
 
 Just then in the room over us 
 
 Tiiere was a pushing back of chairs, 
 As some who had sat unawares 
 
 So late, now heard the hour, and rose. 
 
 AVitli anxious softly-stepping haste 
 Our mother went where Margaret lay, 
 Fearing the sounds o'erhead — should 
 they 
 
 Have broken her long watched-for rest ! 
 
 Slie stooped an instant, calm, and 
 turned ; 
 But suddenly turned back again : 
 And all her features seemed in pain 
 With woe, and her eyes gazed and 
 yearned. 
 
 For mv part. I but hid mj^ face. 
 
 And held mj-^ breath, and spoke no 
 
 word : 
 There was none spoken ; but I heard 
 
 The silence for a little space. 
 
 Our mother bowed herself and wept : 
 And both my arms fell, and I said, 
 "God knows I knew that she was 
 dead." 
 
 And there, all white, my sister slept. 
 
 Tlien kneeling, upon Christmas moi'n 
 A little after twelve oV-lock 
 AVe said, ere tlie first quarter struck, 
 
 " Cluist's blessing on the newlv born ! " 
 IS47' 1850. 
 
 THE BLESSED DAMOZEL 
 
 The blessed damozel leaned out 
 From the gold bar of Heaven ; 
 
 Her eyes were deej^er than the depth 
 Of waters stilled at even ; 
 
 She had three lilies in her hand. 
 
 And tlie star's in her hair were seven. 
 
 Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem, 
 No wrought flowers did adorn. 
 
 774 
 
 A 
 
 'f^(^- 
 
 r 
 
ROSSETTI 
 
 775 
 
 \ 
 
 But a white rose of Maiy's gift, 
 
 For service meetly worn ; 
 Her hair that lay along her back 
 
 Was yellow like ripe corn. 
 
 Herseemed she scarce had been a day 
 
 One of God's choristers ; 
 The wonder was not yet quite gone 
 
 From tliat still look of hers ; 
 Albeit, to them she left, her day 
 
 Had counted as ten years. 
 
 (To one, it is ten years of years. 
 
 . . . Yet now, and in this place, 
 Surely she leaned o'er me — her hair 
 
 Fell all about my face. . . . 
 Nothing : the autumn fall of leaves. 
 
 The whole year sets apace.) 
 
 It was the rampart of God's house 
 
 That slie was standing on ; 
 By God built over the sheer depth 
 
 The which is Space begun ; 
 So high, tliat looking downward thence 
 
 She scarce could see the sun. 
 
 It lies in Heaven, across the flood 
 
 Of ether, as a bridge. 
 Beneath the tides of daj^ and night 
 
 With flame and darkness ridge 
 The void, as low as where this earth 
 
 Spins like a fretful midge. 
 
 Around her, lovers, newly met 
 'Mid deathless love's acclaims, 
 
 Spoke evermore among themselves 
 Their heart-remembered names ; 
 
 And the souls mounting up to God 
 Went by her like thin flames. 
 
 And still she bowed herself and stooped 
 
 Out of the circling charm ; 
 Until her bosom must have made 
 
 The bar she leaned on warm, 
 And the lilies lay as if asleep 
 
 Along lier bended arm. 
 
 From the fixed place of Heaven she saw 
 Time like a pulse shake fierce 
 
 Through all the worlds. Her gaze still 
 strove 
 Within the gulf to pierce 
 
 Its path ; and now she spoke as when 
 The stars sang in their spheres. 
 
 The sun was gone now ; the curled naoon 
 
 Was like a little feather 
 Fluttering far down the gulf ; and now 
 
 She spoke through the still weatlier. 
 Her voice was like the voice the stars 
 
 Had when they sang together. 
 
 (Ah sweet! Even now, in that bird's 
 song. 
 
 Strove not her accents there. 
 Fain to be barkened ? When those bells 
 
 Possessed the mid-day air. 
 Strove not her steps to reach my side 
 
 Down all the echoing stair ?) 
 
 " I wish that he were come to me. 
 
 For he will come," she said. 
 " Have I not prayed in Heaven ? — on 
 earth. 
 
 Lord, Lord, has he not pray'd? 
 Are not two pra.yers a perfect strength ? 
 
 And shall I feel afraid ? 
 
 " When round his head the aureole 
 clings. 
 
 And he is clothed in white, 
 I'll take his hand and go witli him 
 
 To the deep wells of light ; 
 As unto a stream we will step down, 
 
 And bathe there in God's sight. 
 
 "We two will stand beside that shrine, 
 
 Occult, withheld, untrod, 
 Wiiose lamps are stirred continually 
 
 Witli prayer sent up to God : 
 And see our old prayers, granted, melt 
 
 Each like a little cloud. 
 
 " We two will lie i' the shadow of 
 
 That living mystic tree 
 Within wiiose secret growth tlie Dove 
 
 Is sometimes felt to be, 
 While every leaf that His plumes touch 
 
 Saith His Name audibly. 
 
 " And I myself will teach to him, 
 
 I myself, Ij^ing so. 
 The songs I sing here ; which his voice 
 
 Shall pause in. huslied and slow. 
 And find some knowledge ateacli pause, 
 
 Or some new thing to know." 
 
 (Alas ! We two, we two. thou say'st ! 
 
 Yea, one wast thou with me 
 Tliat once of old. But shall God lift 
 
 To endless unity 
 The soul whose likeness with thy soul 
 
 Was but its love for thee ?) 
 
 "We two," she said, "will seek the 
 groves 
 AVhere the lady Mary is, 
 Witli her five handmaidens, whose 
 names 
 Are five sweet symphonies, 
 Cecily, Gertrude, Magdalen, 
 Margaret and Rosalys. 
 
776 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 " Circlewise sit they, with bound locks 
 
 And foreheads garlanded ; 
 Into the fine cloth white like flame 
 
 Weaving the golden thread, 
 To fashion the birth-robes for them 
 
 Who are just born, being dead. 
 
 " He shall fear, haply, and be dumb : 
 
 Then will I lay my cheek 
 To his, and tell about our love, 
 
 Not once abashed or weak : 
 And the dear Mother will approve 
 
 My pride, »nd let me speak. 
 
 " Herself shall bring us, hand in hand, 
 To Him round whom all souls 
 
 Kneel, the clear-ranged unnumbered 
 heads 
 Bowed with their aureoles : 
 
 And angels meeting us shall sing 
 To their citherns and citoles. 
 
 " There will I ask of Christ the Lord 
 Thus much for liim and me : — 
 
 Only to live as once on earth 
 With Love, only to be, 
 
 As then awliile. for ever now. 
 Together, I and lie." 
 
 She gazed and listened and then said. 
 Less sad of speech than mild, — 
 
 " All this is when he comes." She 
 ceased. 
 The light thrilled towards her, fiU'd 
 
 With angels in strong level flight. 
 Her eyes prayed, and she smil'd. 
 
 (I saw her smile.) But soon their path 
 Was vague in distant spheres : 
 
 And then she cast lier arms along 
 The golden barriers. 
 
 And laid her face between her hands, 
 And wept. (I heard her tears.) 
 
 ISJtl. 1850. 
 
 AUTUMN SONG 
 
 Know'st thou not at the fall of the leaf 
 How the heart feels a languid grief 
 
 Laid on it for a covering ; 
 
 And how sleep seems a goodly thing 
 In Autumn at the fall of tlie leaf ? 
 
 And how the swift beat of the brain 
 
 Falters because it is in vain, 
 
 In Autumn at the fall of the leaf 
 Knowest thou not ? and how the chief 
 
 Of joys seems — not to suffer pain ? 
 
 Know'st thou not at the fall of the leaf 
 How the soul feels like a dried sheaf 
 Bound up at lengtli for harvesting. 
 And how death seems a comely thing 
 In Autumn at the fall of the leaf ? 
 
 1884.1 
 
 THE PORTRAIT 
 
 This is her pictui'e as she was : 
 
 It seems a thing to wonder on, 
 As though mine image in the glass 
 
 Sliould tarry when myself am gone. 
 I gaze until she seems to stir, — 
 Until mine eyes almost aver 
 
 That now, even now, the sweet lips 
 part 
 
 To breathe the words of the sweet 
 lieart : — 
 And yet the earth is over her. 
 
 Alas ! even such the thin-drawn ray 
 That makes the prison-depths more 
 rude, — 
 
 The drip of water night and day 
 Giving a tongue to solitude. 
 
 Yet only this, of love's whole prize, 
 
 Remains ; save what in mournful guise 
 Takes counsel with my soul alone, — 
 Save what is secret and unknown, 
 
 Below the earth, above the skies. 
 
 In painting lier I shrined lier face 
 
 'Mid mystic trees, where light falls in 
 
 Hardly at all ; a covert place 
 Where you might think to find a din 
 
 Of doubtful talk, and a live flame 
 
 Wandering, and many a shape whose 
 name 
 Not itself knoweth, and old dew, 
 And your own footsteps meeting you, 
 
 And all things going as they came. 
 
 A deep dim wood : and there she stands 
 
 As in that wood that day : for so 
 Was the still movement of her hands 
 
 And such the pure line's gracious 
 flow. 
 And passing fair the type must seem, 
 Unknown the presence and the dream. 
 
 'T is she : though of herself, alas ! 
 
 Less than her sliadow on the grass 
 Or than her image in the stream. 
 
 That day we met there, I and she 
 
 One with the other all alone ; 
 And we were blithe ; yet memory 
 
 1 W. M. Rossetti classes this among the earliest 
 poems, in date of writing. It was published as 
 a song in 1884, and in the Poetical Works, 1886. 
 
ROSSETTI 
 
 777 
 
 Saddens those hours, as when the 
 moon 
 Looks upon daylight. And with her 
 I stooped to drink the spring-svater, 
 
 Athirst where other waters sprang ; 
 
 And where the echo is, she sang, — 
 My soul another echo there. 
 
 But when that hour my soul won 
 strength 
 
 For words whose silence wastes and 
 kills. 
 Dull raindrops smote us, and at lejigth 
 
 Thundered the heat within the hills. 
 That eve I spoke those words again 
 Beside the pelted window-pane ; 
 
 And there she harkened what I said. 
 
 With under-glances that surveyed 
 The empty pastures blind with rain. 
 
 Next day the memories of these things, 
 Like leaves through which a bird has 
 flown. 
 
 Still vibrated with Love's warm wings ; 
 Till I must make them all my own 
 
 And paint this picture. So, 'twixt ease 
 
 Of talk and sweet long silences. 
 She stood among the plants in bloom 
 At windows of a summer i-oom. 
 
 To feign the shadow of the trees. 
 
 And as I wrought, while all above 
 And all around was fragrant air, 
 
 In the sick burthen of my love 
 
 It seemed each sun-thrilled blossom 
 tliere 
 
 Beat like a heart among the leaves. 
 
 O heart that never beats nor lieaves, 
 In that one darkness lying still. 
 What now to thee my love's great will. 
 
 Or the fine web the sunshine weaves ? 
 
 For now doth daylight disavow 
 
 Those days, — nought left to see or hear. 
 Only in solemn whispers now 
 
 At night-time these things reach mine 
 ear, 
 When the leaf -shadows at a breath 
 Shrink in the road, and all the heath. 
 
 Forest and water, far and wide. 
 
 In limpid starlight glorified. 
 Lie like the mystery of death. 
 
 Last night at last I could have slept. 
 
 And yet delayed my sleep till dawn. 
 Still wandering. Then it was I wept : 
 
 For unawares I came upon 
 Those glades where once she walked 
 with me ; 
 
 And as I stood there suddenlj% 
 All wan with traversing the night, 
 Upon the desolate verge of light 
 
 Yearned loud the iron-bosomed sea. 
 
 Even so, where Heaven holds breath and 
 hears 
 
 The beating heart of Love's own 
 breast, — 
 Where round the secret of all spheres 
 
 All angels lay their wings to rest, — 
 How shall my soul stand rapt and awed, 
 When, by the new birth borne abroad 
 
 Throughout the music of the suns, 
 
 It enters in her soul at once 
 And knows the silence there for God ! 
 
 Here with her face doth memory sit 
 Meanwhile, and wait the day's decline, 
 
 Till other eyes shall look from it. 
 Eyes of the spirit's Palestine. 
 
 Even than the old gaze tenderer : 
 
 Wliile hopes and aims long lost with her 
 Stand round her image side by side. 
 Like tombs of pilgrims that have died 
 
 About the Holy Sepulchre. 1S47. 1870. 
 
 THE CARD-DEALER 
 
 Could you not drink her gaze like wine ? 
 
 Yet though its splendor swoon 
 Into the silence languidly 
 
 As a tune into a tune, 
 Those eyes unravel the coiled night 
 
 And know the stars at noon. 
 
 The gold that's heaped beside her hand. 
 
 In truth rich prize it were ; 
 And rich the dreams that wreathe her 
 brows 
 
 With magic stillness there ; 
 And he were rich who should unwind 
 
 That woven golden hair. 
 
 Around her, whei'e she sits, the dance 
 Now breathes its eager heat ; 
 
 And not more lightly or more true 
 Fall there the dancers' feet 
 
 Than fall her cards on the bright board 
 As 'twere an heart that beat. 
 
 Her fingers let them softly through, 
 Smootii polished silent things ; 
 
 And each one as it falls reflects 
 In swift light-shadowiTigs, 
 
 Blood-red and purple, green and blue. 
 The great eyes of her rings. 
 
 Whom plays she with ? With thee, 
 who lov'st 
 
778 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Those gems upon her liand ; 
 "With me, who searcli lier secret brows ; 
 
 With all men, bless'd or banii'd. 
 We play together, she and we, 
 
 Within a vain strange land : 
 
 A land without any order, — 
 
 Day even as night, (one saith,) — 
 
 Where who lieth down ariseth not 
 Nor the sleeper awakeneth ; 
 
 A land of darkness as darkness itself 
 And of the shadow of death. 
 
 What be her cards, you ask ? Even 
 these :■ — 
 
 The heart, that doth but crave 
 More, having fed ; the diamond, 
 
 Skilled to make base seem lirave ; 
 The club, for smiting in the dark ; 
 
 Tiie spade, to dig a grave. 
 
 And do you ask what game she plays? 
 
 Witli me 'tis lost or won ; 
 AVith thee it is playing still ; with him 
 
 It is not well begun ; 
 But 'tis a game she plays with all 
 
 Beneath the sway o' the sun. 
 
 Thou seest the card that falls, she knows 
 
 The card that followeth : 
 Her game in thj^ tongue is called Life, 
 
 As ebbs thy daily breath : 
 When she shall speak, thou'lt learn her 
 tongue 
 
 And know she calls it Death. 1870. 
 
 AT THE SUNRISE IN 1848 
 
 God said, Let there be light ! and there 
 
 was light. 
 Then heard we sounds as though the 
 
 Earth did sing 
 And the Earth's angel cried upon the 
 
 wing : 
 We saw priests fall together and turn 
 
 white : 
 And covered in the dust from the sun's 
 
 sight, 
 A king was spied, and yet another king. 
 We said : "The round world keeps its 
 
 balancing ; 
 On this globe, they and we are opposite, — 
 If it is day with us, with them "t is night. 
 Still, Man, in thy just pride, remember 
 
 this : 
 Thou hadst not made that thy sons' 
 
 sons sliall ask 
 What tlie word king may mean in their 
 
 day's task. 
 
 But for the light that led : and if light is, 
 It is because God said, Let there be 
 light." 1S4S. 1886. 
 
 ON REFUSAL OF AID BETWEEN 
 NATIONS 
 
 Not that the earth is changing, O my 
 
 God! 
 Nor that the seasons totter in their 
 
 walk, — 
 Not that the virulent ill of act and talk 
 Seethes ever as a winepi'ess ever trod, — 
 Not tliereforeare we certain that the rod 
 Weighs in thine hand to smite thy 
 
 world ; though now 
 Beneath thine hand so many nations 
 
 bow, 
 So many kings : — not therefore, O my 
 
 God !— 
 But because Man is parcelled out in men 
 To-daj' ; because, for any wrongful blow, 
 No man not stricken asks, " I would be 
 
 told 
 Why thou dost thus ; " but his heart 
 
 whispers then, 
 " He is he. I am I." By this we know. 
 That the earth falls asunder, being old. 
 1S4S or 1849. 1870. 
 
 MARY'S GIRLHOOD 
 
 {For a Picture) 
 
 This is that blessed Mary, pre-elect 
 God's Virgin. Gone is a great while, 
 
 and she 
 Dwelt young in Nazareth of Galilee. 
 Unto God's will she brought devout 
 
 respect. 
 Profound simplicity of intellect. 
 And supreme patience. From her 
 
 mother's knee 
 Faithful and hopeful ; wise in charity ; 
 Strong in grave peace ; in pity circum- 
 spect. 
 So held she through her girlhood ; as it 
 
 were 
 An angel-watered lily, that near God 
 Grows and is quiet. Till, one dawn at 
 
 home 
 She woke in her white bed, and had no 
 
 fear 
 At all. — yet wept till sunshine, and felt 
 
 awed : 
 Because the fulness of the time was 
 
 come. 
 
ROSSETTI 
 
 779 
 
 These are the symbols. On that clotli 
 
 of red 
 I' the centre is the Tripoint : perfect each, 
 Except the second of its points, to teach 
 That Clirist is not yet born. The books 
 
 — whose head 
 Is golden Charity, as Paul hath said — 
 Tliose virtues are wherein the soul is 
 
 rich : 
 Therefore on them the lily standeth, 
 
 which 
 Is Innocence, being interpreted. 
 The seven-thorn "d briar and the palm 
 
 seven-leaved 
 Are her great sorrow and her great 
 
 reward. 
 Until the end be full, the Holy One 
 Abides without. She soon shall have 
 
 achieved 
 Her perfect purity : yea, God the Lord 
 Shall soon vouchsafe His Son to be her 
 
 Son. IS^, 1S50. 1849, 1870. 
 
 FOR A VENETIAN PASTORAL 
 By Giorgione 
 {In the Louvre) 
 
 Water, for anguish of the solstice : — 
 
 nay. 
 But dip the vessel, slowly, — nay, but 
 
 lean 
 And hark liow at its verge the wave 
 
 sighs in 
 Reluctant. Hush I Beyond all depth 
 
 away 
 The heat lies silent at the brink of day : 
 Now the hand trails upon tlie viol-string 
 That sobs, and the brown faces cease to 
 
 sing. 
 Sadwitli the wliole of pleasure. Whitlier 
 
 stray 
 Her eyes now, from wliose mouth the 
 
 slim pipes creep 
 And leave it pouting, while the shadowed 
 
 grass 
 Is cool against her naked side ? Let be : — 
 Say nothing now unto her lest she weep. 
 Nor name this ever. Be it as it was. — 
 Life touching lips with Immortality. 
 
 1850. 
 
 THE SEA-LIMITS 
 
 Consider the sea's listless chime : 
 Time's self it is, made audible, — 
 The murmur of the earth's own shell. 
 
 Secret continuance sublime 
 
 Is the sea's end : our sight may pass 
 No furlong furtiier. Since time was, 
 
 Tins sound hath told the lapse of time. 
 
 No quiet, which is death's, — it hath 
 The mournfulness of ancient life. 
 Enduring always at dull strife. 
 
 As the world's heart of rest and wrath. 
 Its painful pulse is in tlie sands. 
 Last utterly, the whole sky stands, 
 
 Gray and not known, along its path. 
 
 Listen alone beside the sea. 
 
 Listen alone among the woods ; 
 
 Tliose voices of twin solitudes 
 Shall have one sound alike to tliee : 
 
 Hark where the murmurs of thronged 
 men 
 
 Surge and sink back and surge again, — 
 Still the one voice of wave and tree. 
 
 Gather a shell from the strown beach 
 And listen at its lips : they sigh 
 The same desire and mystery. 
 
 The echo of the whole sea's speech. 
 And all mankind is thus at heai't 
 Not anything but what thou art : 
 
 And Earth, Sea, Man, are all in each. 
 
 1850. 
 
 THE MIRROR 
 
 She knew it not, — most perfect pain 
 To learn : this too she knew not. Strife 
 For me, calm hers, as from the first. 
 'T was but another bvibble burst 
 Upon the curdling draught of life, — 
 My silent patience mine again. 
 
 As who, of forms that crowd unknown 
 Within a distant mirror's shade, 
 Deems such an one himself, and 
 
 makes 
 Some sign ; but when the image 
 shakes 
 No whit, he finds his thought betray'd. 
 And must seek elsewhere for his own. 
 1850. 1886. 
 
 A YOUNG FIR-WOOD 
 
 These little firs to-day are things 
 To clasp into a giant's cap, 
 Or fans to suit his lady's lap. 
 
 From many winters many springs 
 Shall cherish them in strength ajid sap, 
 Till they be marked upon the map, 
 
 A wood for the wind's wanderings. 
 
780 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 All seed is in the sower's liauds : 
 
 And what at first was trained to spread 
 Its shelter for some single head, — 
 
 Yea, even such fellowship of wands, — 
 May hide the sunset, and the shade 
 Of its great multitude be laid 
 
 Upon the earth and ejder sands. 
 
 November, 1S50. 1870. 
 
 PENUMBRA 
 
 I DID not look upon her eyes, 
 (Thougli scarcely seen, with no surprise, 
 'Mid many eyes a single look.) 
 Because they should not gaze rebvike. 
 At niglit, from stars in sky and brook. 
 
 I did not take her by the hand, 
 (Though little was to understand 
 From touch of hand all friends might 
 
 take,) 
 Because it should not prove a flake 
 Burnt in my palm to boil and ache. 
 
 I did not listen to lier voice, 
 (Though none had note<i, where at clioice 
 AH might rejoice in listening,) 
 Because no such a tiling should cling 
 In the wood's moan at evening. 
 
 I did not cross her shadow once, 
 (Tliough from the hollow west the sun's 
 Last shadow runs along so far,) 
 Because in Jime it should not laar 
 My ways, at noon when fevei'S ai'e. 
 
 Tliey told me she was sad that day, 
 (Though wherefoi'e tell what love's sooth- 
 say. 
 Sooner than they, did register ?) 
 And my heart leapt and wept to her. 
 And yet I did not speak nor stir. 
 
 So shall the tongues of the sea's foam 
 (Tliough many voices therewith come 
 From drouned hope's home to cry to 
 
 me,) 
 Bewail one hour the more, when sea 
 And wind are one with memory. 1870. 
 
 SISTER HELEN 
 
 " Why did j'ou melt your waxen man, 
 
 Sister Helen ? 
 To-day is the third since you began." 
 " The time was long, yet the time ran, 
 Little brother." 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 Three daijs to-day, between Hell and 
 Heaven !) 
 
 " But if you have done your work aright, 
 
 Sister Helen, 
 You'll let me play, for you said I might." 
 " Be very still in your play to-night. 
 Little brother." 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 Third night, to-night, betiveen Hell and 
 Heaven !) 
 
 " You said it must melt ere vesper-bell, 
 
 Sister Helen ; 
 If now it be molten, all is well." 
 " Even so, — nay, peace ! you cannot tell, 
 Little brother." 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 O lohat is this, betiveen Hell and Heaven ?) 
 
 " Oh the waxen knave was plump to-day, 
 
 Sister Helen ; 
 How like dead folk he has dropped 
 
 away ! " 
 " Nay now, of the dead what can you 
 say. 
 
 Little brother?" 
 (0 Mother, Mary Mother, 
 Wliat of the dead, between Hell and 
 Heaven 9) 
 
 " See, see, the sunken pile of wood. 
 
 Sister Helen, 
 Shines through the thinned wax red as 
 
 blood ! •' 
 " Nay now, when looked you yet on 
 blood, , 
 
 Little brother ? " 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 Hotv x"^^^ ^^^^ *'^' between Hell and 
 Heaven !) 
 
 "Now close your eyes, for they're sick 
 and sore. 
 
 Sister Helen, 
 And I'll play without the gallery door." 
 " Aye, let me rest, — I'll lie on the floor, 
 Little brother.'" 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 What rest to-night, betiveen Hell and 
 Heaven f) 
 
 '• Here high up in the balcony. 
 
 Sister Helen, 
 The moon flies face to face with me." 
 " Aye, look and say whatever j'ou see. 
 Little brother." 
 (O Mother. Mary Mother, 
 What sight to-night, betiveen Hell and 
 Heaven ?) 
 
 " Outside it's merry in the wind's wake, 
 Sister Helen ; 
 
ROSSETTl 
 
 781 
 
 In the shaken trees the chill stars 
 
 shake." 
 " Hush, heard you a horse-tread as you 
 spake, 
 
 Little brother ? " 
 (O Mother, Mary Motlier. 
 Wliat sound to-night, betiveen Hell and 
 Heaven 9) 
 
 " I hear a horse-tread, and I see, 
 
 Sister Helen, 
 Three horsemen that ride terribl}-." 
 " Little brother, whence come tlie three. 
 Little bi-other V " 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 Wlience shoidd they come, betiveen Hell 
 and Heaven ?) 
 
 •'They come by the hill-verge from 
 Boyne Bar, 
 
 Sister Helen, 
 And one draws nigh, but two are afar." 
 •'Look, look, do you know tliem who 
 they are, 
 
 Little brother ? " 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 Who shoidd they be, betiveen Hell and 
 Heaven ?) 
 
 " Oh, it's Keith of Eastholm rides so fast. 
 
 Sister Helen, 
 Fori know the white mane on the blast." 
 " The hour has come, has come at last, 
 Little brother ! " 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 Her hour at last, betiveen Hell and 
 Heaven !) 
 
 " He has made a sign and called Halloo! 
 
 Sister Helen, 
 And he says that lie would speak with 
 
 you." 
 " Oil tell liim I fear the frozen dew, 
 Little brother." 
 {O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 Why laughs she thas, between Hell and 
 Heaven /) 
 
 "The wind is loud, but I hear him cry. 
 
 Sister Helen, 
 That Keith of Ewern's like to die." 
 " And he and thou, and thou and I, 
 Little brotiier." 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 And they and tve, betiveen Hell and 
 Heaven ! ) 
 
 " Three days ago, on his marriage-morn. 
 
 Sister Helen, 
 He sickened, and lies since then forlorn." 
 
 ' For bridegroom's side is the bride a 
 thorn, 
 
 Little brother ? " 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 Cold bridal cheer, between Hell and 
 Heaven ! ) 
 
 •'Three days and nights he has lain 
 abed, 
 
 Sister Helen, 
 And he prays in torment to be dead." 
 •• The thing may chance, if lie have 
 prayed, 
 
 Little brother ! " 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 If he have prayed, betiveen Hell and 
 Heaven !) 
 
 '• But he has not ceased to cry to-day. 
 
 Sister Helen, 
 That you should take your cur.se away." 
 ••My prayer was heard, — he need but 
 pray 
 
 Little brother ! " 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 Shall God not hear, between Hell and 
 Heaven ?) 
 
 " But he says, till you take back your 
 ban. 
 
 Sister Helen, 
 His soul would pass, yet never can." 
 '• Nay then, shall I slay a living man, 
 Little brother ? " 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 A living soul, betiveen Hell and Heaven!) 
 
 " But he calls for ever on your name, 
 
 Sister Helen, 
 And says that he melts before a flame." 
 ••Mylieart for his pleasure fared the 
 same, 
 
 Little brother. " 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 Fire at the heart, between Hell and 
 Heaven ! ) 
 
 •' Here's Keith of Westholm riding fast, 
 
 Sister Helen, 
 For I know the white plume on the 
 
 blast." 
 " The hour, the sweet hour I forecast. 
 Little brother ! " 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 Is the hour sweet, betiveen Hell and 
 Heaven ?) 
 
 "He .stops to speak, and he stills his 
 horse. 
 
 Sister Helen ; 
 
782 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 But his words are drowned in the wind's 
 
 course." 
 " Nay hear, nay hear, you must hear 
 perforce, 
 
 Little brother ! " 
 (O Mother, Mai-y Mother, 
 What word now heard, between Hell and 
 Heaven ?) 
 
 " Oil he says that Keith of Ewern's crj"-, 
 
 Sister Helen, 
 Is ever to see you ere he die." 
 " In all tliat his soul sees, there am I, 
 Little brother ! " 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 The souVs one sight, betiveen Hell and 
 Heaven !) 
 
 " He sends a ring and a broken coin, 
 
 Sister Helen, 
 And bids you mind the banks of Boyne." 
 " What else he broke will he ever join. 
 Little brotlier ? " 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 No, never joined, between Hell and 
 Heaven !) 
 
 " He yields you these and craves full fain. 
 
 Sister Helen, 
 You pardon him in his mortal pain." 
 "■ Wliat else he took will he give again. 
 Little brother ? " 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 Not ttvice to give, between Hell and 
 Heaven !) 
 
 " He calls your name in an agony, 
 Sister Helen, 
 That even dead Love must weep to see." 
 " Hate, born of Love, is blind as he, 
 Little brother ! " 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 Love turned to hate, between Hell and 
 Heaven !) 
 
 " Oh it's Keith of Keith now that rides 
 fast. 
 
 Sister Helen, 
 For I know the white hair on the blast." 
 " The short, short hour will soon be past, 
 Little brother ! " 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 Will soon be past, between Hell and 
 Heaven !) 
 
 " He looks at me and he tries to speak. 
 
 Sister Helen, 
 But oh ! his voice is sad and weak ! " 
 " What here should the mighty Baron 
 seek, 
 
 Little brother ? " 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 Is this theend, betiveen Hell and Heaven ?) 
 
 " Oh his son still cries, if j^ou forgive. 
 
 Sister Helen, 
 The body dies, but the soul shall live." 
 " Fire shall foi'give me as I forgive. 
 Little brother ! " 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 As she forgives, betiveen Hell and 
 Heaven !) 
 
 " Oh he prays you, as his lieart would 
 rive. 
 
 Sister Helen, 
 To save his dear son's soul alive." 
 " Fire cannot slay it. it shall thrive, 
 Little brother ! " 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 Alas, alas, between Hell and Heaven !) 
 
 " He cries to you, kneeling in the road, 
 
 Sister Helen, 
 To go with hini for the love of God ! " 
 '■ The way is long to his son's abode, 
 Little brother." 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 The way is long, between Hell and 
 Heaven !) 
 
 " A lady's here, by a dark steed brought, 
 
 Sister Helen, 
 So darkly clad, I saw her not." 
 " See her now or never see aught, 
 Little brotlier ! " 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 What more to see, betiveen Hell and 
 Heaven ?) 
 
 " Her hood falls back, and the moon 
 shines fair. 
 
 Sister Helen. 
 On the Lady of Ewern's golden hair." 
 '* Blest hour of my power and her des^jair, 
 Little brother ! " 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 Hour blest and bann'd, between Hell and 
 Heaven !) 
 
 " Pale, pale her cheeks, that in pride 
 did glow, 
 
 Sister Helen, 
 'Neath the bridal-wreath three da3'S ago." 
 " One morn for pride and three days for 
 woe. 
 
 Little brother ! " 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 Three days, three nights, between Hell 
 and Heaven !) 
 
ROSSETTI 
 
 783 
 
 " Her clasped liands stretch from her 
 bending liead, 
 
 Sister Helen ; 
 With tlie loud wind's wail her sobs are 
 
 wed." 
 " What wedding-strains hath her bridal- 
 bed, 
 
 Little brother ? " 
 (O Mother, Marii Mother, 
 Wliat strain bat death's, between Hell 
 and Heaven f) 
 
 " She may not speak, she sinks in a 
 swoon. 
 
 Sister Helen, 
 She lifts her lips and gasps on the moon." 
 " Oh ! might I but hear her soul's blithe 
 tune, 
 
 Little brother ! " 
 (O Mother. Mary Mother, 
 Her looe's dumb cry, between Hell and 
 Heaven !) 
 
 •' They've caught her to Westholm's 
 saddle-bow, 
 
 Sister Helen, 
 And her moonlit hair gleams white in 
 
 its flow." 
 " Let it turn whiter than winter snow. 
 Little brother ! " 
 (O Mother. Mary Mother, 
 Woe-withered gold, between Hell and 
 Heaven !) 
 
 " O Sister Helen, you heard the bell, 
 
 Sister Helen ! 
 More loud than the vesper-cliime it fell." 
 " No vesper-chime, but a dying knell, 
 Little brother ! " 
 (O Mother. Mary Mother. 
 His dying knell, between Hell and 
 Heaven !) 
 
 " Alas ! but I fear the heavy sound. 
 
 Sister Helen : 
 Is it in the sky or in the ground ? " 
 " Say, have they turned their horses 
 round. 
 
 Little brother?" 
 (O Mother. Mary Mother, 
 ^Mlat would she more, between Hell and 
 Heaven 9) 
 
 "They have raised the old man from his 
 knee, 
 
 Sister Helen, 
 And they ride in silence liastily." 
 " More fast the naked soul doth flee, 
 Little brother ! " 
 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 The naked soul, between Hell and 
 Heaven !) 
 
 "Flank to fiank are the three steeds 
 gone, 
 
 Sister Helen, 
 But the lady's dark steed goes alone." 
 " And lonely her bridegroom's .soul hath 
 flown, 
 
 Little brotlier." 
 {O Mother, Mary Mother. 
 The lonely ghost, bettveen Hell and 
 Heaven !) 
 
 ' ' Oh the wind is sad in the iron chill. 
 
 Sister Helen. 
 And weary sad they look by the lull." 
 " But he and I are sadder still. 
 
 Little brother ! " 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother, 
 Most sad of all, between Hell and 
 Heaven !) 
 
 " See, see, the wax has dropped from its 
 place. 
 
 Sister Helen, 
 And the flames are winning up apace ! " 
 '• Yet here tliey burn but for a space. 
 Little brother ! " 
 (O Mother, Mary Mother 
 Here for a space, between Hell ana 
 Heaven !) 
 
 •' Ah ! what white thing at tlie door has 
 cross'd, 
 
 Sister Helen ? 
 Ah ! wliat is tliis that sighs in tlie frost ? " 
 '■ A soul that's lost as mine is lost. 
 Little brother ! " 
 {O Mother. Mary Mother. 
 Lost, lost, all lotit, between Hell and 
 Heaven!) 1870. 
 
 THE BURDEN OF NINEVEH 
 
 In our Museum galleries 
 
 To-da}^ I lingered o'er tlie prize 
 
 Dead Greece vouchsafes tolivingej^es, — 
 
 Her Art foi- ever in fresh wise 
 
 From hour to hour rejoicing me. 
 Sighing I turned at last to win 
 Once more the London dirt and din ; 
 And as I made tlie swing-door spin 
 And issued, they were hoisting in 
 
 A winged beast from Nineveh. 
 
 A human face the creature wore. 
 And hoofs behind aiul hoofs before, 
 And flanks with dark runes fretted o'er. 
 
7^4 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 'T was bull, 't was mitred Minotaur, 
 
 A dead disbovvelled mystery ; 
 The mummy of a buried faith 
 Stark from tlie charnel without scathe, 
 Its wings stood for the light to bathe, — 
 Such fossil cerements as might swathe 
 The very corpse of Nineveh. 
 
 The print of its first rush-wrapping. 
 Wound ere it dried, still ribbed the 
 
 thing. 
 What song did the brown maidens sing, 
 From purple mouths alternating, 
 
 When tliat was woven languidly ? 
 What vows, what rites, what prayers 
 
 preferr'd. 
 What songs has the strange image 
 
 heard ? 
 In what blind vigil stood interr'd 
 For ages, till an English word 
 Broke silence first at Nineveh ? 
 
 Oh when upon each sculptured court, 
 Where even the wind might not re- 
 sort, — 
 O'er whicli Time passed, of like import 
 With the wild Arab boys at sport, — 
 
 A living face looked in to see : — 
 Oh seemed it not — the spell once broke — 
 As though the carven warriors woke. 
 As though the shaft the string forsook, 
 Tlie cymbals clashed, the chariots shook. 
 
 And there was life in Nineveh ? 
 
 On London stones our sun anew 
 The beast's recovered shadow threw. 
 (No shade that plague of darkness knew. 
 No light, no shade, while older grew 
 
 By ages the old earth and sea.) 
 Lo thou ! could all thy priests have 
 
 shown 
 Such proof to make thy godhead known? 
 From their dead Past thou liv'st alone 
 And still thy shadow is thine own 
 
 Even as of yoi"e in Nineveh. 
 
 That day whereof we keep record. 
 When near thy city-gates the Lord 
 Sheltered his Jonah with a gourd, 
 This sun, (I said) here present, pour'd 
 
 Even thus this shadow that I see. 
 This shadow has been shed the same 
 From sun and moon, — from lamps which 
 
 came 
 For praj-er, — from fifteen days of flame, 
 Tlie last, while smouldered to a name 
 
 Sardanapalus' Nineveh. 
 
 Within thy shadow, haply, once 
 Sennacherib has knelt, whose sons 
 
 Smote him between the altar-stones : 
 Or pale Semiramis her zones 
 
 Of gold, her incense brought to thee, 
 In love for grace, in war for aid : . . . 
 Ay, and who else? . . . till 'neath thy 
 
 shade 
 Within his trenches newly made 
 Last year the Christian knelt and 
 pray'd — 
 
 Not to thy strength — in Nineveh. 
 
 Now, thou poor god, within this liall 
 Where the blank windows blind the wall 
 From pedestal to pedestal, 
 The kind of light shall on thee fall 
 
 Which London takes the day to be : 
 While school-foundations in the act 
 Of holiday, three files compact, 
 Shall learn to view thee as a fact 
 Connected with that zealous tract : 
 
 "Rome, — Babylon and Nineveh." 
 
 Deemed they of this, those worshippers, 
 When, in some mythic chain of verse 
 Which man shall not again rehearse. 
 The faces of thy ministers 
 
 Yearned pale with bitter ecstasy ? 
 Greece, Egypt, Eome, — did any god 
 Before whose feet men knelt unshod 
 Deem that in this unblest abode 
 Another scarce more unknown god 
 
 Should house with him, from Nineveh? 
 
 Ah ! in what quarries lay the stone 
 From which this pygmy pile has grown. 
 Unto man's need how long unknown, 
 Since thy vast temples, court and cone, 
 
 Rose far in desert history ? 
 Ah ! what is here that does not lie 
 All strange to thine awakened eye ? 
 Ah ! what is here can testify 
 (Save that dumb presence of the sky) 
 
 Unto thy day and Nineveh ? 
 
 Why, of those mummies in the room 
 Above, there might indeed have come 
 One out of Egypt to thy home. 
 An alien. Nay, but were not some 
 
 Of these thine own " antiquity " ? 
 And now, — the}^ and their gods and thou 
 All relics here together, — now 
 Whose profit ? whether bull or cow, 
 Isis or Ibis, who or how, 
 
 Whether of Thebes or Nineveh ? 
 
 The consecrated metals found, 
 And ivory tablets, underground. 
 Winged teraphimand creatures crown'd 
 When air and daylight filled the mound. 
 
ROSSETTI 
 
 785 
 
 Fell into dust immediately. 
 And even as these, the images 
 Of awe and worship, — even as these, — 
 So, smitten with tlie sun's increase, 
 Her glory mouldered and did cease 
 
 From immemorial Nineveh. 
 
 The day her builders made their lialt. 
 Those cities of the lake of salt 
 Stood firmly 'stablished without fault, 
 Made prouti with pillars of basalt. 
 
 With sardonyx and porphyry. 
 The day tliat Jonah bore abroad 
 To Nineveh the voice of God, 
 A brackish lake lay in his road. 
 Where erst Pride fixed her sui'e abode, 
 
 As then in royal Nineveh. 
 
 The day wlien he. Pride's lord and Man's, 
 Showed all the kingdoms at a glance 
 To Him before whose countenance 
 The years recede, the j^ears advance. 
 
 And said, Fall down and worship me : — 
 'Mid all the pomp beneath that look. 
 Then stirred there, haply, some rebuke. 
 Where to the wind tlie salt pools shook. 
 And in those tracts, of life forsook. 
 
 That knew thee not, O Nineveh ! 
 
 Delicate harlot ! On thy throne 
 Thou with a world beneath thee prone 
 In state for ages sat'st alone ; 
 And needs were years and lustres flown 
 
 Ere strength of man could vanquish 
 thee : 
 Whom even thy victor foes must bring. 
 Still royal, among maids that sing 
 As with doves' voices, taboring 
 Upon their breasts, unto the King, — 
 
 A kingly conquest, Nineveh ! 
 
 Here woke my thought. The 
 
 wind's slow sway 
 Had waxed ; and like the human play 
 Of scorn that smiling spreads away, 
 The sunshine shivered off the day ; 
 
 The callous wind, it seemed to me, 
 Swept up the shadow from the ground : 
 And pale as whom the Fates astound, 
 The god forlorn stood winged and 
 
 crown'd ; 
 Within I knew the cry lay bound 
 Of the dumb soul of Nineveh. 
 
 And as I turned, my sense half shut 
 Still saw the crowds of kerb and rut 
 Go past as marshalled to the strut 
 Of ranks in gypsum quaintly cut. 
 It seemed in one same pageantry 
 
 5° 
 
 Tliey followed forms which had been 
 
 erst ; 
 To pass, till on my sight should burst 
 That future of the best or worst 
 When some may question which was 
 
 first. 
 Of London or of Nineveh. 
 
 For as that Bull-god once did stand 
 And watched the burial-clouds of sand, 
 Till these at last without a hand 
 Rose o'er his eyes, another land, 
 
 And blinded him with destiny : — 
 So may he stand again ; till now. 
 In sliips of unknown sail and prow, 
 Some tribe of the Australian plough 
 Bear him afar, — a relic now 
 
 Of London, not of Nineveh ! 
 
 Or it may chance indeed that when 
 Man's age is hoary among men, — 
 His centuries threescore and ten, — 
 His furthest cliildhood shall seem then 
 
 More clear than later times may be : 
 Wiio, finding in this desert place 
 This form, shall hold us for some race 
 That walked not in Christ's lowly ways. 
 But bowed its pride and vowed its praise 
 
 Unto the god of Nineveh. 
 
 The smile rose first, — anon drew nigh 
 The thought : . . . Those heavy wings 
 
 spi-ead high 
 So sure of flight, which do not fly ; 
 That set gaze never on tlie sky ; 
 
 Those scriptured flanks it cannot see ; 
 Its crown, a brow-contracting load ; 
 Its planted feet which trust the sod : . . . 
 (So grew the image as I trod :) 
 O Nineveh, was tliis thy God, — 
 
 Thine also, mighty Nineveh? 1856. 
 
 MARY MAGDALENE 
 
 AT THE DOOR OF SIMON THE PHARISEE 
 
 {For a Drmving ^) 
 
 " Why wilt thou cast the roses from thine 
 hair ? 
 
 Nay, be thou all a rose, — wreath, lips, 
 and cheek. 
 
 Nay, not this house, — that banquet- 
 house we seek ; 
 
 See how they kiss and enter ; come thou 
 there. 
 
 ' In the drawing Mary has left a festal proces- 
 sion, and is ascending; by a sudden impulse the 
 steps of the house where she sees Christ. Her 
 lover has followed her and is trying to turn her 
 back. 
 
786 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 This delicate day of love we two will 
 
 share 
 Till at our ear love's whispering niglit 
 
 shall speak. 
 What, sweet one. — ^^hold'st thou still the 
 
 foolish freak ? 
 Nay, when I kiss tliy feet they '11 leave 
 
 the stair.'" 
 " Oh loose nie ! See'st thou not m}' 
 
 Bridegroom's face 
 That draws nie to Him? For His feet 
 
 my kiss, 
 My hair, my tears He craves to-day : — 
 
 and oil ! 
 What words can tell what other day and 
 
 place 
 Shall see me clasp those blood-stained 
 
 feet of His ? 
 He needs me, calls me, loves me : let me 
 
 go ! " 1S56-7. 
 
 ASPECTA MEDUSA 
 
 1870. 
 
 {For a Draiving) 
 
 Andromeda, by Perseus saved and wed. 
 Hankered each day to see the Gorgon's 
 
 head : 
 Till o'er a foxmt he held it, bade her lean. 
 And mirrored in the wave was safely 
 
 seen 
 Tliat deatli she lived by. 
 
 Let not thine eyes know 
 Any forbidden thing itself, althuugli 
 It once should save as well as kill : but 
 
 ■ be 
 Its shadow upon life enough for thee. 
 
 1870. 
 
 LOVE'S NOCTURN 
 
 Master of tlie murmuring courts 
 
 Wliere tlie sliapes of sleep convene ! — 
 
 Lo ! my spirit here exhorts 
 All the powers of thy demesne 
 For their aid to woo my queen. 
 
 What reports 
 Yield thy jealous courts unseen ? 
 
 Vaporous, unaccountable, 
 
 Dreamland lies forloiui of light, 
 
 Hollow like a breathing shell. 
 
 Ah ! that from all dreams I might 
 Choose one dream and guide its flight ! 
 
 I know well 
 What her sleep should tell to-night. 
 
 There the dreams are multitudes : 
 Some tliat will not wait for sleep. 
 
 Deep witliin tlie August woods ; 
 Some that hum while rest may steep 
 
 Weary labor laid a-lieap ; 
 
 Interludes, 
 Some, of grievous moods that weep. 
 
 Poets' fancies all are there : 
 
 Tliere the elf-girls flood with wings 
 Valleys full of plaintive air ; 
 There breathe perfumes ; there in 
 
 rings 
 Whirl the foam -bewildered springs ; 
 
 Siren there 
 Winds her dizzy hair and sings. 
 
 Thence the one dream mutually 
 
 Dreamed in bridal unison, 
 Less than waking ecstasy ; 
 
 Half-formed visions tliat make moan 
 
 In the house of birth alone ; 
 And what we. 
 
 At death's wicket, see, unknown. 
 
 But for mine own sleep, it lies 
 
 In one gracious form's control, 
 Fair with honorable eyes, 
 
 Lamps of a translucent soul ; 
 
 O their glance is loftiest dole, 
 Sweet and wise. 
 
 Wherein Love descries his goal. 
 
 Reft of her, my dreams are all 
 
 Clammy trance that fears the sky : 
 Changing footpaths shift and fall ; 
 
 From polluted coverts nigh. 
 
 Miserable phantoms sigh : 
 Quakes the pall, 
 
 And the funeral goes by. 
 
 Master, is it soothly said 
 
 That, as echoes of man's speech 
 Far in secret clefts are made. 
 
 So do all men's bodies reach 
 
 Shadows o'er thy sunken beach, — 
 Shape or shade 
 
 In those halls portrayed of each ? 
 
 Ah ! might I. by thy good grace 
 
 Groping in the windy stair, 
 (Darkness and the breath of space, 
 
 Like loud waters everywhere), 
 
 Meeting mine own image there 
 Face to face, 
 
 Send it from that place to her ! 
 
 Nay, not I : but oh ! do thou. 
 Master, from thy shadow kind 
 
 Call my bodj^'s phantom now : 
 Bid it bear its face declin'd 
 Till its flight her slumbers find, 
 
 And her brow 
 Feel its presence bow like wind. 
 
ROSSETTI 
 
 787 
 
 Wlieie ill groves Mie gracile Spring 
 
 Trembles, with luule orison 
 Coiifidentl}' strengtlieuiiig. 
 
 Water's voice and winds as one 
 
 Shed au echo in the sun. 
 Soft as Spring, 
 
 Master, bid it sing and moan. 
 
 Song shall tell how glad and strong 
 
 Is the nigiit slie soothes alvvaj' ; 
 Moan shall grieve with that pai'clied 
 tongue 
 Of the brazen liours of daj' : 
 Sounds as of the springtide they, 
 
 Moan ;ind song. 
 While the chill months long for Maj". 
 
 Not the prayers which with all leave 
 
 The world's fluent woes prefer, — 
 Not the pi'aise the world doth give, 
 
 Dulcet fulsome whisperer ; — 
 
 Let it yield my love to lier. 
 And achieve 
 
 Strength that shall not grieve or err. 
 
 Wlieresoe'er my dreams befall. 
 
 Both at night-watch (let it say), 
 And wliere round the sun-dial 
 
 The reluctant hours of day. 
 
 Heartless, liopeless of their way. 
 Rest and call ; 
 
 Tiiere her glance doth fall and stay. 
 
 Suddenly her face is there ; 
 
 So do mounting vapors wreathe 
 Subtle-scented transports wliere 
 
 Tiie black fir-wood sets its teeth. 
 
 Part the boughs and look beneath,— 
 Lilies share 
 
 Secret waters there, and breathe. 
 
 Master, bid my shadow bend 
 
 Whispering thus till birth of liglit, 
 Lest new shapes that sleep may send 
 
 Scatter all its work to flight ; — 
 
 Master, master of the night. 
 Bid it spend 
 
 Speech, song, prayer, and end ariglit. 
 
 Yet, ah me ! if at her head 
 There another phantom lean 
 
 Murmuring o'er tiie fragrant bed, — 
 Ah ! and if my spirit's queen 
 Smile those alien words between, — 
 
 Ah ! poor shade ! 
 Shall it strive, or fade unseen ? 
 
 How should love's own messenger 
 
 Strive with love and be love's foe? 
 Master, nay ! If thus, in her, 
 
 Sleep a wedded heart should show, — • 
 Silent let mine image go. 
 
 Its old share 
 Of tliy spell-bound air to know. 
 
 Like a vapor wan and mute. 
 
 Like a flame, so let it pass ; 
 One low sigh across her lute. 
 
 One dull breath against her glass ; 
 
 And to my sad soul, alas ! 
 One salute 
 
 Cold as when death's foot shall pass. 
 
 Then, too, let all hopes of mine, 
 
 All vain lioi)es by night and day, 
 Slowlj' at th,y summoning sign 
 
 Rise up pallid and obey. 
 
 Dreams, if this is thus, were they : — 
 Be they thine. 
 
 And to dreamworld pine away. 
 
 Yet from old time, life, not death, 
 
 blaster, in thy rule is rife : 
 Lo ! through thee, with mingling breath, 
 
 Adam woke beside his wife. 
 
 O Love bring me so. for strife, 
 Force and faith, 
 
 Bring me so not death but life ! 
 
 Yea. to Love himself is pour'd 
 This frail song of hope and fear. 
 
 Thou art Love, of one accord 
 
 With kind Sleep to bring her near. 
 Still-eyed, deep-eyed, ah how dear ! 
 
 Master. Lord, 
 In her name implor'd, O hear ! 1870. 
 
 FIRST LOVE REMEMBERED 
 
 Peace in her chamber, wlieresoe'er 
 
 It be. a holy place : 
 
 The thought still brings my soul such 
 grace 
 As morning meadows wear. 
 
 Whether it still be small and light, 
 A maid's who dreams alone. 
 As from her orchard-gate the moon 
 
 Its ceiling showed at night : 
 
 Or whether, in a shadow dense 
 As nuptial hymns invoke. 
 Innocent maidenhood awoke 
 
 To married innocence : 
 
 There still the thanks unheard await 
 The unconscious gift bequeathed ; 
 For there my soul this hour has 
 breathed 
 
 An air inviolate. 1870. 
 
788 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 PLIGHTED PROMISE 
 
 In a soft-complexioned sky. 
 
 Fleeting rose and kindling gray, 
 Have you seen Aurora fly 
 
 At the break of day ? 
 So my maiden, so my plighted may 
 
 Blushing cheek and gleaming eye 
 Lifts to look my way. 
 
 Where the inmost leaf is stirred 
 With the heart-beat of the grove, 
 
 Have you lieard a hidden bird 
 Cast her note above ? 
 
 So my lady, so niA' lovely love. 
 Echoing Cupid's prompted word, 
 Makes a tune thereof. 
 
 Have you seen, at heaven's mid-height. 
 
 In the moon-rack's ebb and tide, 
 Venus leap forth burning white, 
 
 Dian pale and hide ? 
 So my briglit breast-jewel, so my bride. 
 One sweet night, when fear takes 
 flight, 
 Shall leap against my side. 1870. 
 
 SUDDEN LIGHT 
 
 I HAVE been here before, 
 
 But when or how I cannot tell : 
 I know the grass beyond tlie door. 
 The sweet keen smell, 
 The sighing sound, the lights around 
 the shore. 
 
 You have been mine before, — 
 How long ago I may not know : 
 
 But just when at tliat swallow's soar 
 Your neck turned so, 
 Some veil did fall, — I knew it all of j^ore. 
 
 Has this been thus before ? 
 
 And shall not thus time's eddying 
 flight 
 Still with our lives our loves restore 
 In death's despite, 
 And day and night yield one delight 
 once more? 1870. 
 
 THE WOODSPURGE 
 
 The wind flapped loose, the wind was 
 
 still, 
 Shaken out dead from tree and liill : 
 I had walked on at tlie wind's will, — 
 I sat now, for tlie wind was still. 
 
 Between mj^ knees my forehead was, — 
 My lips, drawn in, said not Alas ! 
 
 Mj'- hair was over in the grass. 
 My naked ears heard tlie day pass. 
 
 My eyes, wide open, had the run 
 Of some ten weeds to fix upon ; 
 Among those few, out of the sun. 
 The woodspurge flowered, tliree cups in 
 one. 
 
 From perfect grief there need not be 
 Wisdom or even memory : 
 One thing then learnt remains to me. — 
 The woodspurge has a cup of tliree. 1870. 
 
 THE HONEYSUCKLE 
 
 I PLUCKED a honeysuckle where 
 Tlie hedge on high is quick with thorn, 
 And climbing for the prize, was torn. 
 
 And fouled my feet in quag-w^ater ; 
 And by the thorns and b^"^ the wind 
 The blossom that I took was thinn'd 
 
 And yet I found it sweet and fair. 
 
 Thence to a richer growth I came. 
 Where, nursed in mellow intercourse, 
 The honeysuckles sprang by scores. 
 
 Not liarried like my single stem, 
 All virgin lamps of scent and dew. 
 So from iiij'^ hand that first I tlirew. 
 
 Yet plucked not any more of them. 1870. 
 
 A LITTLE WHILE 
 
 A LITTLE wliile a little love 
 
 Tlie hour yet bears for thee and me 
 Who have not drawn tlie veil to see 
 
 If still our heaven be lit above. 
 
 Thou merely, at the day's last sigh. 
 Hast felt thy soul prolong the tone, 
 
 And I have heard the niglii-wind cry 
 And deemed its s^jeech mine own. 
 
 A little while a little love 
 Tl>e scattering autumn hoards for us 
 Wliose bower is not yet ruinous 
 
 Nor quite un leaved our songless grove. 
 
 Only across the shaken bouglis 
 We hear the flood-tides seek the sea. 
 
 And deep in both our hearts they rouse 
 One wail for thee and me. 
 
 A little while a little love 
 May yet be ours who have not said 
 The word it makes our eyes afraid 
 
 To know that each is thinking of. 
 
 Not yet the end : be our lips dumb 
 In smiles a little season yet : 
 
 I'll tell thee, when the end is come. 
 
 How we may best forget. 1870. 
 
ROSSETTI 
 
 789 
 
 TROY TOWN 
 
 Heavenborn Helen, Sparta's queen, 
 
 (O Troy Toion !) 
 Had two breasts of heavenly sheen, 
 Tlie sun and moon of tlie heart's desire 
 All Love's lordship lay between. 
 
 (O Troll's down, 
 Tall Troy's on fire !) 
 
 Helen knelt at Venus' shrine, 
 
 {O Troy Town!) 
 
 Sa.ying ''A little gift is mine, 
 
 A little gift for a heart's desii'e. 
 
 Hear me speak and make me a sign ! 
 (O Troy's down. 
 Tall Troy's on fire!) 
 
 " Look, I bring thee a carven cup ; 
 (O Troy Town!) 
 See it here as I hold it up, — 
 Shaped it is to tlie heart's desire. 
 Fit to fill when the gods would sup. 
 (O Troy's down. 
 Tall Troy's on fire!) 
 
 " It was moulded like my breast ; 
 
 (0 Troy Town!) 
 He that sees it may not rest, 
 Rest at all for his heart's desire. 
 O give ear to my heart's behest ! 
 
 (O Troy's down. 
 
 Tall Troy's on fire!) 
 
 " See my breast, how like it is ; 
 
 {O Troy Town!) 
 
 See it bare for the air to kiss ! 
 
 Is the cup to thy lieart's desire ? 
 
 O for the breast, O make it his ! 
 (O Troi/'s doion. 
 Tall Troy's on fire !) 
 
 " Yea, for my bosom here I sue : 
 (O Troy Town!) 
 
 Thou must give it where 't is due. 
 
 Give it there to the heart's desire. 
 
 Whom do I give my bosom to':* 
 
 {O Troy's down, 
 Tall Troy's on fire !) 
 
 " Each twin breast is an apple sweet ! 
 
 (O Troy Town!) 
 Once an apple stirred the beat 
 Of thy heart with tlie heart's desire : 
 Say, who brought it then to thy feet? 
 (O Troy's down. 
 Tall Troy's on fire !) 
 
 " They that claimed it thenwei'e three 
 
 (O Troy Totmi !) 
 For thy sake two hearts did he 
 
 Make forlorn of the heart's desire. 
 
 Do for him as he did for thee ! 
 
 (O Troy's down. 
 Tall Troy's on fire!) 
 
 " Mine are apples grown to the south, 
 
 (O Troy Town!) 
 Grown to taste in the days of drouth. 
 Taste and waste to tlie heart's desire : 
 Mine are apples meet for his mouth ! " 
 (O Troy's down. 
 Tall Troy's on fire !) 
 
 Venus looked on Helen's gift, 
 
 (O Troy Town!) 
 Looked and smiled with subtle drift. 
 Saw the work of her heart's desire : — 
 " There thou kneel'st for Love to lift ! " 
 (O Trnifs dowm.. 
 Tall Troy's on fire!) 
 
 Venus looked in Helen's face. 
 
 (O Troy Town !) 
 
 Knew far off an hour and place, 
 
 And fire lit from the heart's desire ; 
 
 Laughed and said, "Thy gift hath 
 grace !/' 
 
 (O Troy's down. 
 Tall Troy's on. fire!) 
 
 Cupid looked on Helen's breast, 
 
 ( O Troy Town !) 
 Saw the heart within its nest. 
 Saw the flame of the heart's desire, — 
 Marked his arrow's burning crest. 
 (O Troy's down. 
 Tall Troy's on fire!) 
 
 Cupid took anothei" dart, 
 
 (O Troy Town!) 
 
 Fledged it for another heart. 
 
 Winged the shaft with the heart's desire, 
 
 Di'ew the string and said, " Depart ! " 
 (O Troy's doirn. 
 Tall Troy's on fire !) 
 
 Paris turned upon his bed, 
 
 (O Troy Town!) 
 Turned upon his bed and said. 
 Dead at heart with the heart's desire, — • 
 " O to clasp her golden head ! " 
 
 (O Troy's doion. 
 Tall Troy's on fire!) 
 1870. 
 
 THE STREAM'S SECRET 
 
 What thing unto mine ear 
 Wouldst thou convey, — what secret 
 thing, 
 O wandering water ever whispering ? 
 
79° 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Surely tliy speech shall he of her. 
 Thou water, O thou whispering wan- 
 derer, 
 What message dost thou bring ? 
 
 Say, hath not Love leaned low 
 Tliis hour beside th}' far well-head, 
 And there through jealous hollowed 
 fingers said 
 The thing that most I long to know, — 
 Murmuring with curls all dabbled in thy 
 flow 
 And washed lips rosy red ? 
 
 He told it to thee there 
 Where tli,y voice hath a louder tone ; 
 But where it welters to this little moan 
 
 His will decrees that I should liear. 
 Now speak : for with tiie silence is no 
 fear. 
 And I aui all alone. 
 
 Shall Time not still endow 
 One hour witli life, and I and she 
 Slake in one kiss tlie thirst of memory? 
 Say, stream ; lest Love should disavow 
 Thy service, and the bird upon the 
 bougli 
 Sing first to tell it me. 
 
 What whisperest thou ? Nay, why 
 Name the dead hours? I mind them 
 well. 
 Their ghosts in many darkened door- 
 ways dwell 
 With desolate eyes (o know them bj'. 
 Tliat hour must still be born ere it can 
 die 
 Of that I"d have tliee tell. 
 
 But hear, before thou speak ! 
 Withhold. I pray, the vain behest 
 That while the maze hath still its bower 
 for ijuest 
 My burning heart should cease to seek. 
 Be sure that Love ordained for souls 
 more meek 
 His roadside dells of re.st. 
 
 Stream, when this silver thread 
 In flood-time is a torrent brown. 
 May any bulwark bind thy foaming 
 ci'own ? 
 Shall not the waters surge and spread 
 And to the crannied boulders of their 
 bed 
 Still shoot the dead drift down? 
 
 Let no rebuke find place 
 In speech of thine : or it shall prove 
 
 Tliat tliou dost ill expound the words of 
 Love. 
 Even as thine eddy's rippling race 
 Would blur the perfect image of his face 
 I will have none thereof. 
 
 O learn and understand 
 That "gainst the wrongs himself did 
 wreak 
 Love sought her aid ; until her shadowy 
 cheek 
 And eyes beseeching gave command ; 
 And compassed in her close compassion- 
 ate hand 
 M}' heart must burn and speak. 
 
 For then at last we spoke 
 What eyes so oft had told to eyes 
 Througli that long-lingering silence 
 wliose half-sighs 
 Alone tlie buried secret bi'oke. 
 Which with snatched hands and lips' re- 
 verberate stroke 
 Then from the heart did rise. 
 
 But she is far away 
 Now ; nor the hours of night grown 
 hoar 
 Bring yet to me, long gazing from the 
 door, 
 The wind-stirred robe of roseate gray 
 And rose-crown of the hour that leads 
 the day 
 When we shall meet once more. 
 
 Dark as thy blinded wave 
 When brimming midnight floods the 
 glen,— 
 Bright as the laughter of thy runnels 
 when 
 The dawn j-ields all tlie light they 
 crave ; 
 Even so these hours to wound and that 
 to save 
 Are sisters in Love's ken. 
 
 Oh sweet her bending grace . 
 Then when I kneel beside her feet ; 
 And sweet her eyes' o'erhanging 
 heaven ; and sweet 
 The gathering folds of her embrace ; 
 And her fall'n hair at last shed round 
 my face 
 When breaths and tears shall meet. 
 
 Beneath her .sheltering hair. 
 In the warm silence near lier breast, 
 Our kisses and our sobs shall sink forest ; 
 As in some still trance made aware 
 
ROSSETTI 
 
 791 
 
 I 
 
 That day and niglit have wrought to 
 fulness there 
 And Love has built our nest. 
 
 And as in the dim grove, 
 When the rains cease that hushed 
 them long, 
 'Mid glistening boughs the song-birds 
 wake to song, — 
 So from our hearts deep-shrined in 
 love. 
 While the leaves throb beneath, around, 
 above, 
 The quivering notes shall throng. 
 
 Till tenderest words fovind vain 
 Draw back to wonder mute and deep. 
 And closed lips in closed arms a silence 
 keep, 
 Subdued by memory's circling strain,— 
 The wind-rapt sound that the wind 
 brings again 
 While all tlie willows weep. 
 
 Then by her summoning art 
 Shall memory conjure back the sere 
 Autumnal Springs, from many a dying 
 year 
 Born dead ; and, bitter to the heart. 
 The very ways where now we walk apart 
 Who then shall cling so near. 
 
 And with each thought new-grown. 
 Some sweet c^aress or some sweet name 
 Low-breathed shall let me know her 
 thought the same : 
 JIaking me rich with every tone 
 And touch of the dear heaven so long 
 unknown 
 That filled my dreams with flame. 
 
 Pity and love shall burn 
 In her pressed cheek and cherishing 
 hands ; 
 And from the living spirit of love that 
 stands 
 Between her lips to sootlie and yearn. 
 Each separate breath shall clasp me 
 round in turn 
 And loose my spirit's bands. 
 
 Oh passing sweet and dear. 
 Then when the worshipped form and 
 face 
 Are felt at length in darkling close em- 
 brace ; 
 Round which so oft the sun shone clear, 
 With mocking light and pitiless atmo- 
 spliere. 
 In many an hour and place. 
 
 Ah me ! with what proud growth 
 Shall that ]ioui"'s thirsting race be run ; 
 While, for each several sweetness still 
 begun 
 Afresh, endures love's endless drouth ; 
 Sweet hands, sweet hair, sweet cheeks, 
 sweet eyes, sweet mouth. 
 Each singly wooed and won. 
 
 Yet most with the sweet soul 
 Shall love's espousals tlien be knit ; 
 What time tlie governing cloud slieds 
 peace from it 
 O'er tremulous wings that touch the 
 goal. 
 And on the unmeasured height of Love's 
 control 
 The lustral fii-es are lit. 
 
 Therefore, when breast and cheek 
 Now part, from long embraces free, — 
 Eat'h on the otlier gazirig shall but see 
 
 A self that has no need to speak : 
 All things unsought, yet nothing more 
 to seek, — 
 One love in unity. 
 
 O water wandering past, — 
 Albeit to thee I speak this thing, 
 O water, thou that wanderest whispering. 
 
 Thou keep'st thy counsel to the last. 
 What spell upon thy bosom should Love 
 cast. 
 Its secret thence to wring ? 
 
 Nay, must tliou hear the tale 
 Of the past days, — the heavy debt 
 Of life that obdurate time withholds, — 
 ere yet 
 To win thine ear these prayers prevail. 
 And by thy voice Love's self with high 
 All-hail 
 Yield up the amulet ? 
 
 How should all this be told ? — 
 All the sad sum of wayworn days ; — 
 Heart's anguish in the impenetrable 
 maze ; 
 And on the waste uncolored wold 
 The visible burthen of the sun grown 
 cold 
 And the moon's laboring gaze? 
 
 Alas ! shall hope be nurs'd 
 On life's all-succoring breast in vain, 
 And made so perfect only to be slain ? 
 Or shall not rather the sweet thirst 
 Even yet rejoice the heart with warmth 
 dispersed 
 And strength grown fair again ? 
 
792 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Stands it not by the door — 
 Love's Hour — till she and I shall meet 
 With bodiless form and unapparent feet 
 
 That cast no shadow yet before, 
 Though round its head the dawn begins 
 to pour 
 The breath that makes day sweet? 
 
 Its eyes invisible 
 Watch till the dial's thin-thrown shade 
 Be born, — yea, till the journeying line 
 be laid 
 Upon the point that wakes the spell, 
 And there in lovelier light than tongue 
 can tell 
 Its presence stand array'd. 
 
 Its soul remembers yet 
 Those sunless hours that passed it by ; 
 And still it hears the night's disconso- 
 late cry, 
 And feels the branches wringing wet 
 Cast on its brow, that may not once for- 
 get. 
 Dumb tears from the blind sky. 
 
 But oh ! when now lier foot 
 Draws near, for wliose sake night and 
 day 
 Were long in weary longing sighed 
 away, — 
 The hour of Love, 'mid airs grown 
 mute. 
 Shall sing beside the door, and Love's 
 own lute 
 Thrill to the passionate lay. 
 
 Thou know'st, for Love has told 
 Within thine ear, O stream, how soon 
 That song shall lift its sweet appointed 
 tune. 
 O tell me, for my lips are cold, 
 And in my veins the blood is waxing 
 old 
 Even while I beg the boon. 
 
 So, in that hour of sighs 
 Assuaged, shall we beside this stone 
 Yield thanks for grace ; while in thy 
 mirror shown 
 The twofold image softly lies, 
 Until we kiss, and each in other's eyes 
 Is imaged all alone. 
 
 Still silent ? Can no art 
 Of Love's then move thy pity ? Nay, 
 To thee let nothing come that owns his 
 sway : 
 Let happy lovers have no pai t 
 
 With thee ; nor even so sad and poor a 
 heart 
 As thou hast spurned to-day. 
 
 To-day ? Lo ! night is here. 
 The glen grows heavy with some veil 
 Risen from the earth or fall'n to make 
 earth pale ; 
 And all stands hushed to eye and ear. 
 Until the night-wind shake the shade 
 like fear 
 And every covert quail. 
 
 Ah ! by another wave 
 On other airs the hour must come 
 Which to tl)y heart, my love, shall call 
 me home. 
 Between the lips of the low cave 
 Against that night the lapping waters 
 lave, 
 And the dark lips are dumb . 
 
 But there Love's self doth stand. 
 And with Life's weary wings far flown, 
 And with Death's eyes that make the 
 water moan, 
 (lathers the water in his hand : 
 And they that drink know nought of 
 sky or land 
 But only love alone. 
 
 O soul-sequestered face 
 Far off, — O were that night but now ! 
 So even beside that stream even I and 
 thou 
 Through thirsting lips should draw 
 Love's grace. 
 And in the zone of that supreme embrace 
 Bind aching breast and brow, 
 
 O water whispering 
 Still through the dark into mine ears, — 
 As with nnne eyes, is it not now with 
 liers ? — 
 Mine eyes that add to thy cold spring, 
 Wan water, wandering water weltering, 
 This hidden tide of tears. 1870. 
 
 LOVE-LILY 
 
 Betw^een the hands, between the brows. 
 
 Between the lips of Love-Lily, 
 A spirit is born whose birth endows 
 
 My blood with fire to burn through 
 me ; 
 Who breathes upon my gazing eyes. 
 
 Who laughs and murmurs in mine ear. 
 At whose least touch my color flies. 
 
 And whom my life grows faint to hear. 
 
ROSSETTI 
 
 793 
 
 Within the voice, within the heart, 
 Within the mind of Lov«-Lily, 
 
 (A spirit is born who lifts apart 
 His tremulous wings and looks at me ; 
 Who on my mouth liis finger lays, 
 And shows, wliile wiiispering lutes 
 confer, 
 That Eden of Love's watered ways 
 Whose winds and spirits worship her. 
 Brows, hands, and lips, heart, mind, 
 and voice, 
 Kisses and words of Love-Lily, — 
 Oh ! bid me with your joy rejoice 
 Till riotous longing rest in me ! 
 Ah ! let not hope be still distraught. 
 
 But find in her its gracious goal. 
 Whose speech Truth knows not from 
 her thought 
 Nor Love lier body from lier soul. 
 
 1870. 
 
 THE HOUSE OF LIFE 
 
 THE SONNET 
 
 A Sonnet is a moment's moniunent, — 
 
 Memorial from the SouVs eternitij 
 
 To one dead deathless hour. Look that 
 
 it he, 
 Wliether for lustral rite or dire portent , 
 Of its own arduous fidness reverent : 
 Carve it in ivory or in eboiijj, 
 As Day or Night may rule; and let 
 
 Time see 
 Its flowering crest impearled and orient. 
 A Sonnet is a coi)i : its face reveals 
 The Soul,^ts converse, to what Power 
 
 'tis due : — 
 Whether for tribute to the a ugust appe(ds 
 Of Life, or doiver in Love's high retinxr. 
 It serve : or ''mid the dark wharf's cav- 
 ernous breath. 
 In Charon's palm it pay the toll to 
 Death. 
 
 PART I. YOUTH AND CHANGE 
 
 I. LOVE ENTHRONED 
 
 I MARKED all kindred Powers the heart 
 
 finds fair : — 
 Truth, with awed lips ; and Hope, with 
 
 eyes upcast ; 
 And Fame, whose loud wings fan the 
 
 ashen Past 
 To signal-fires, Oblivion's flight to scare ; 
 And Youth, with still some single golden 
 
 hair 
 
 Unto his shoulder clinging, since the 
 
 last 
 Embrace wherein two sweet arms held 
 
 him fast ; 
 And Life, .still wreathing flowers for 
 
 Deat4i to wear. 
 Love's tlirone was not with these ; but 
 
 far above 
 All passionate wind of welcome and 
 
 farewell 
 He sat in breatliless bowers they dream 
 
 not of ; 
 Though Truth foreknow Love's heart, 
 
 and Hope foretell, 
 And Fame be for Love's sake desiraV)le, 
 And Youth be dear, and Life be sweet 
 
 to Love. 
 
 H. BRIDAL BIRTH 
 
 As when desire, long darkling, dawns, 
 
 and first 
 The mother looks upon the new-born 
 
 chihl, 
 Even so my Lady .stood at gaze and 
 
 smiled 
 When her .soul knew at length tlie Love 
 
 it nurs'd. 
 Born with lier life, creature of poignant 
 
 thirst 
 And exquisite hunger, at her heart 
 
 Love lay 
 Quickening in darkne.ss, till a voice tliat 
 
 tlay 
 Cried on him, and the bonds of birth 
 
 wei'e burst. 
 Now, shadowed by his wings, our faces 
 
 yearn 
 Together, as his fullgrown feet now 
 
 range 
 The grove, and his warm iiands our 
 
 couch prepare : 
 Till to his song our bodiless souls in turn 
 Be born his cliildren, when Deatli's nup- 
 tial change 
 Leaves us for light the halo of his hair. 
 
 III. love's TESTAMENT 
 
 O THOU who at Love's hour ecstatically 
 
 Unto my heart dost ever more present. 
 
 Clothed with his fire, thy heart his tes- 
 tament ; 
 
 Whom I have neared and felt thy breath 
 to be 
 
 Tlie inmost incense of his sanctuary : 
 
 Who without speecli hast owned him, 
 and. intent 
 
 Upon his will, thy life with mine hast 
 blent. 
 
794 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 
 And murmured, " I am tliiiie, thou 'rt 
 
 one witli me ! " 
 O what from thee the grace, to me the 
 
 prize. 
 And what to Love the glory, — when the 
 
 whole 
 Of the deep stair thou tread'st to the 
 
 dim shoal 
 And weary water of the place of sighs, 
 And there dost work deliverance, as 
 
 thine eyes 
 Draw up mj^ prisoned spirit to tliy soul ! 
 
 IV. LOVESIGHT 
 
 When do I see thee most, beloved one? 
 When in tlie light the spirits of mine eyes 
 Before tliy face, tlieir altai, solemnize 
 The worship of that Love through thee 
 
 made known ? 
 Or when in the dusk hours, (we two 
 
 alone,) 
 Close-kissed and eloquent of still replies 
 Thy twilight-hidden glimmering visage 
 
 lies, 
 And my soul only sees thy soul its own ? 
 O love, my love ! if I no more sliould see 
 Thyself, nor on the earth tlie shadow of 
 
 thee, 
 Nor image of thine eyes in any spring, — 
 How then should sound u|[)on Life's 
 
 darkening slope 
 The ground-whirl of the perished leaves 
 
 of Hope, 
 The wind of Death's imperishable wing? 
 
 V. heart's hope 
 
 By what word's power, tlie key of paths 
 
 untrod, 
 Shall I tlie difficult deeps of Love explore. 
 Till parted waves of Song yield up the 
 
 shore 
 Even as that sea which Israel crossed 
 
 dryshod ? 
 For lo ! in some poor rhythmic period. 
 Lady, I fain would tell how evermore 
 Thy soul I know not from thy body, nor 
 Thee from myself, neither our love from 
 
 God. 
 Yea, in God's name, and Love's, and 
 
 thine, would I 
 Draw from one loving lieart such 
 
 evidence 
 As to all hearts all things shall signify ; 
 Tender as dawn's first hill-fire, and in- 
 tense 
 As instantaneous penetrating sense. 
 In Spring's birth-hour, of other Springs 
 
 gone by. 
 
 VIII. LOVES LOVERS 
 
 Some ladies love the jewels in Love's 
 zone 
 
 And gold-tipped darts he hath for pain- 
 less play 
 
 In idle scornful hours he flings away ; 
 
 And some that listen to his lute's soft 
 tone 
 
 Do love to vaunt the silver praise their 
 own ; 
 
 Some prize his blindfold sight ; and 
 there be they 
 
 Who kissed his wings which bi'ought 
 him yesterday 
 
 And thank his wings to-day that he is 
 flown. 
 
 My lady only loves tlie lieart of Love : 
 
 Therefore Love's heart, my lady, hath 
 for thee 
 
 His bower of unimagined flower and 
 tree : 
 
 There kneels he now, and all-anhun- 
 gered of 
 
 Thine eyes gray-lit in shadowing hair 
 above, 
 
 Seals with thy mouth his immortality. 
 
 IX. PASSION AND WORSHIP 
 
 One flame-winged Ijroxight a white- 
 winged harji-player 
 
 Even where my lady and I lay all alone ; 
 
 Saying: " Behold, this minstrel is un- 
 known ; 
 
 Bid him depart, for I am minstrel here : 
 
 Only my strains are to Love's dear ones 
 dear." 
 
 Then said I : " Through thine hautboy's 
 rapturous tone 
 
 Unto my lady still this harp makes 
 moan , 
 
 And still she deems the cadence deep 
 and clear." 
 
 Then said my lady : " Thou art Passion 
 of Love, 
 
 And this Love's Worship : both he 
 plights to me. 
 
 Tliy mastering music walks the sunlit 
 sea : 
 
 But wliere wan water trembles in the 
 grove 
 
 And the wan moon is all the light there- 
 of. 
 
 This harp still makes my name its vol- 
 untary." 
 
 X. the PORTRAIT 
 
 O Lord of all compassionate control. 
 O Love ! let this my lady's picture glow 
 
ROSSETTI 
 
 795 
 
 Under my hand to praise lier name, and 
 
 show 
 Even of her inner self the perfect whole: 
 That he who seeks her beauty's furtliest 
 
 goal, 
 Beyond the light that the sweet glances 
 
 throw 
 And refluent wave of the sweet smile, 
 
 may know 
 The very sky and sea-line of her soul. 
 Lo ! it is done. Above the enthroning 
 
 throat 
 The mouth's mould testifies of voice and 
 
 kiss. 
 The shadowed eyes remember and fore- 
 see; 
 Her face is made her shrine. Let all men 
 
 note 
 That in all years (O Love, tliy gift is 
 
 this !) 
 They that would look on her must come 
 
 to me. 
 
 XI. THE LOVE-LETTER 
 
 Warmed by her hand and shadowed by 
 her hair 
 
 As close she leaned and poured her heart 
 through thee, 
 
 Whereof the articulate throbs accom- 
 pany 
 
 The smooth black stream that makes thj' 
 whiteness fair, — ■ 
 
 Sweet fluttering sheet, even of her 
 breath aware, — 
 
 Oh let thy silent song disclose to me 
 
 Tliat soul wherewith her lips and eyes 
 agree 
 
 Like married music in Love's answering 
 air. 
 
 Fain had I watched her when, at some 
 fond thought, 
 
 Her bosom to the writing closelier 
 press'd, 
 
 And her breast's secrets peered into her 
 breast ; 
 
 Wlien, through eyes raised an instant, 
 her soul sought 
 
 My soul, and from the sudden confluence 
 caught 
 
 The words that made her love the love- 
 liest. 
 
 XII. THE lovers' walk 
 
 Sweet twining hedgeflowers wind-stir- 
 red in no wise 
 
 On this June day ; and hand that clings 
 in hanil :— 
 
 Still glades ; and meeting faces scarcely 
 
 fann'd : 
 An osier-odoi'ed stream that draws the 
 
 skies 
 Deep to its heart ; and mirrored eyes in 
 
 eyes : — 
 Fresh hourly wonder o'er the Summer 
 
 land 
 Of light and cloud ; and two souls softly 
 
 spann'd 
 With one o'erarching heaven of smiles 
 
 and sighs : — 
 Even such their path, whose bodies lean 
 
 unto 
 Each other's visible sweetness amor- 
 ously , — 
 Whose passionate hearts lean by Love's 
 
 high decree 
 Together on his heart for ever true, 
 As the cloud-foaming firmamental blue 
 Rests on the blue line of a foamless sea. 
 
 XIII. youth's antiphony 
 
 " I LOVE you, sweet : how can you ever 
 learn 
 
 How much I love you?" '' You I love 
 even so. 
 
 And so I learn it." " Sweet, you can- 
 not know 
 
 How fair you are." " If fair enougli to 
 earn 
 
 Your love, so much is all my love's con- 
 cern." 
 
 " My love grows hourly, sweet." " Mine 
 too dotli grow. 
 
 Yet love seemed full so many hours 
 ago ! " 
 
 Thus lovers speak, till kisses claim their 
 turn. 
 
 Ah ! happy they to whom such words as 
 these 
 
 In youth have served for speech the 
 whole day long. 
 
 Hour after hour, remote from the world's 
 throng. 
 
 Work, contest, fame, all life's confe- 
 derate pleas, — 
 
 What while Love breathed in sighs and 
 silences 
 
 Through two blent souls one rapturous 
 undersong. 
 
 XIV. youth's spring-tribute 
 
 On this sweet bank your head thrice 
 
 sweet and dear 
 I lay, and spi-ead your hair on either 
 
 side. 
 
796 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 And see the newborn vvoodflowers bash- 
 ful-eyed 
 
 Look through the golden tresses here 
 and there. 
 
 On these debateable borders of the year 
 
 Spring's foot half falters ; scarce she j'et 
 may knou' 
 
 The leafless blackthorn-blossom from 
 the snow ; 
 
 And through lier bowers the wind's way 
 still is clear. 
 
 But April's sun strikes dow^n the glades 
 to-day ; 
 
 So shut your eyes upturned, and feel my 
 kiss 
 
 Creep, as the Spring now thrills througli 
 every spray, 
 
 Up your warm throat to your warm 
 lips ; for this 
 
 Is even the liour of Love's sworn suit- 
 service, 
 
 With whom cold hearts are counted 
 castaway. 
 
 XV. THE BIRTH-BOND 
 
 Have jou not noted, in some familj- 
 Where two were born of a first marriage- 
 bed. 
 How still they own their gracious bond, 
 
 though fed 
 And iiursed on tlie forgotten V)reast and 
 
 knee ? — 
 How to their fatiier's children they sliall 
 
 be 
 In act and tiiought of one goodwill ; but 
 
 each 
 Shall for the other have, in silence 
 
 speecii, 
 And in a word complete community ? 
 Even so, when first I saw you, seemed 
 
 it, love. 
 That among souls allied to mine was yet 
 One nearer kindred than life hinted of. 
 O born witii me somewhere that men 
 
 forget, 
 And though in years of sight and sound 
 
 unmet, 
 Known for iny soul's birth-partner well 
 
 enough ! 
 
 XVII. beauty's pageant 
 
 What dawn-pulse at the heart of heaven, 
 or last 
 
 Incarnate flower of culminating tlay, — 
 
 Wliat marshalled marvels on the skirts 
 of May, 
 
 Or song full-quired, sweet June's enco- 
 miast ; 
 
 What glory of change by nature's hand 
 
 amass'd 
 Can vie with all those moods of varying 
 
 grace 
 Which o'er one loveliest woman's form 
 
 and face 
 Within this hour, within this room, 
 
 have pass'd ? 
 Love's very A-esture and elect disguise 
 Was each fine movement, — wonder nevv- 
 
 begot 
 Of lily or swan or swan-stemmed galiot ; 
 Joy to his sight wlio now the sadlier 
 
 sighs. 
 Parted again, and sorrow yet for eyes 
 Unborn, that read these words and saw 
 
 her not. 
 
 XVIII. GENIUS IN BEAUTY 
 
 Beauty like hers is genius. Not the call 
 
 Of Homer's or of Dante's heart sub- 
 lime, — 
 
 Not Michael's hand furrowing the zones 
 of time, — 
 
 Is more with compassed mysteries musi- 
 cal ; 
 
 Nay, not in Spring's or Summer's sweet 
 footfall 
 
 More gathered gifts exuberant Life be- 
 qvieathes 
 
 Than doth tliis sovereign face, whose 
 love-sjjell breathes 
 
 Even from its shadowed contour on the 
 wall. 
 
 As many men are poets in their youth, 
 
 But for one sweet-strung soul tiie wires 
 prolong 
 
 Even thi-ough all change the indomi- 
 table song ; 
 
 So in like wise the envenomed years, 
 whose tooth 
 
 Rends shallower grace with ruin void of 
 ruth. 
 
 Ui^on this beauty's power shall wreak 
 no wrong. 
 
 XIX. SILENT NOON 
 
 Your hands lie ojjen in the long, fresli 
 
 grass, — 
 The finger-points look through like rosy 
 
 blooms : 
 Your ej'es smile peace. The pasture 
 
 gleams and glooms 
 'Neath billowing skies that scatter and 
 
 amass. 
 All round our nest, far as the eye can 
 
 pass, 
 
 I 
 
ROSSETTI 
 
 797 
 
 Are golden kingcup-fields with silver 
 edge 
 
 Where the cow-parsley skirts the haw- 
 thorn hedge. 
 
 'T is visible silence, still as the hour- 
 glass. 
 
 Deep in the sun-searclied growths the 
 dragon-fly 
 
 Hangs like a blue thread loosened from 
 the sky. — 
 
 So this wing'd hour is dropped to us 
 from above. 
 
 Oh ! clasp we to our hearts, for death- 
 less dower. 
 
 Tills close-companioned inarticulate 
 hour 
 
 When twofold silence was the song of 
 love. 
 
 XXI. LOVE-SWEETNESS 
 
 Sweet dimness of her loosened hair's 
 
 downfall 
 About thy face ; her sweet liands round 
 
 thy head 
 In gracious fostering union garlanded ; 
 Her tremulous smiles ; her glances' 
 
 sweet recall 
 Of love ; her murmviring siglis memo- 
 rial ; 
 Her mouth's culled sweetness by thy 
 
 kisses shed 
 On cheeks and neck and eyelids, and so 
 
 led 
 Back to her mouth, which answers there 
 
 for all :— 
 What sweeter than these things, except 
 
 the thing 
 In lacking which all these would lose 
 
 their sweet : — 
 The confident heart's still fervor : the 
 
 swift beat 
 And soft subsidence of the spirit's 
 
 wing. 
 Then when it feels, in cloud-girt way- 
 faring. 
 The breatli of kindred jjlumes against 
 
 its feet ? 
 
 XXIV. PRIDE OF YOUTH 
 
 Even as a child, of sorrow tiiat we give 
 The dead, but little in liis lieart can 
 
 find. 
 Since without need of thought to his 
 
 clear mind 
 Their turn it is to die and his to live :— 
 Even so the winged New Love smiles to 
 
 receive 
 
 Along liis eddying plumes the auroral 
 
 wind. 
 Nor, forward glorying, casts one look 
 
 behind 
 Where niglit-rack shrouds the Old Love 
 
 fugitive. 
 Tiiere is a change in eA'ery hour's recall, 
 And the last cowslip in the fields we see 
 On the same day with the first corn- 
 poppy. 
 Alas for hourly change ! Alas for nil 
 The loves that from his luiiid proud 
 
 Youth lets fall. 
 Even as the beads of a told rosar}' ! 
 
 XXVI. MID-RAPTURE 
 
 Thou lovely and beloved, thou my love ; 
 
 Whose kiss seems still the first ; whose 
 summoning eyes, 
 
 Even now, as for our love-world's new 
 sunrise. 
 
 Shed very dawn ; whose voice, attuned 
 above 
 
 All modulation of the deep-bo wered 
 dove. 
 
 Is like a liand laid softly on tlie soul ; 
 
 Whose lumd is like a sweet voice to con- 
 trol 
 
 Those worn tired brows it hath the keep- 
 ing of : — 
 
 AVliat word can answer to thy word^ 
 what gaze 
 
 To thine, wliich now absorbs within its 
 sphere 
 
 My worshipping face, till I am mirrored 
 tiiere 
 
 Light- circ^led in a heaven of deep-drawn 
 rays ? 
 
 What clasp, wliatkiss mine inmost heart 
 can prove, 
 
 O lovely and beloved, O mj' love? 
 
 XXVII. heart's compass 
 
 Sometimes thou seem'st not as thyself 
 
 alone, 
 But as the meaning of all tilings tliat 
 
 are ; 
 A breatldess wonder, shadowing forth 
 
 afar 
 Some heavenly solstice hushed and hal- 
 cyon ; 
 Whose unstirred lips ai-e music's visible 
 
 tone ; 
 Wliose eyes the sun-gate of tlie soul 
 
 unbar, 
 Being of its furthest fires oracular — 
 Tiie evident heart of all life sown and 
 
 mown. 
 
798 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Even such love is ; and is not tlij' name 
 
 Love ? 
 Yea, by thy hand the Love-god rends 
 
 apart 
 All gathering clouds of Night's anibigu- 
 
 ovis art ; 
 Flings them far down, and sets thine 
 
 eyes above ; 
 And simply, as some gage of flower or 
 
 glove, 
 Stakes with a smile the world against 
 
 th}' heart. 
 
 XXXI. HER GIFTS 
 
 High grace, the dower of queens ; and 
 therewithal 
 
 Some wood-born wonder's sweet sim- 
 plicity ; 
 
 A glance like water brimming with the 
 sky 
 
 Or hjacinth-light where forest-shadows 
 fall : 
 
 Such thrilling pallor of cheek as doth 
 enthral 
 
 The heart ; a mouth whose passionate 
 forms imply 
 
 All music and all silence held thereby ; 
 
 Deep golden locks, lier sovereign coronal; 
 
 A round reared neck, meet column of 
 Love's shrine 
 
 To cling to when the heart takes sanc- 
 tuary ; 
 
 Hands which for ever at Love's bidding 
 be, 
 
 And soft-stirred feet still answering to 
 his sign : — 
 
 These are her gifts, as tongue may tell 
 them o'er. 
 
 Breathe low her name, my soul ; for 
 that means more. 
 
 XXXII. EQUAL TROTH 
 
 Not by one measure mayst tliou mete 
 our love : 
 
 For liow should I be loved as I love thee ? — 
 
 I, graceless, joyless, lacking absolutely 
 
 All gifts that with thy queensliip best 
 behove ; — - 
 
 Thou, throned in every heart's elect al- 
 cove, 
 
 And crowned with garlands culled from 
 every tree. 
 
 Which for no head but thine, by Love's 
 decree, 
 
 All beauties and all mysteries interwove. 
 
 But here tliine eyes and lii^s yield soft 
 rebuke : — 
 
 " Tlien only," (say'st thou) "could I 
 
 love tliee less, 
 When thou couldst doubt my love's 
 
 equality." 
 Peace, sweet ! If not to sum but worth 
 
 we look. 
 Thy heart's transcendence, not rnj- heart's 
 
 excess, — 
 Then more a thousandfold thou lov'st 
 
 than I. 
 
 XXXIII. VENUS VICTRIX 
 
 Could Juno's self more sovereign pres- 
 ence wear 
 
 Tlian thou, 'mid other ladies tlironed 
 in grace ? — 
 
 Or Pallas, when thou bend'st with soul- 
 stilled face 
 
 O'er poet's page gold-shadowed in thy 
 hair ? 
 
 Dost thou than Venus seem less heavenly 
 fair 
 
 When o'er the sea of love's tumultuous 
 trance 
 
 Hovers thy smile, and mingles with 
 tliy glance 
 
 That sweet voice like the last wave mur- 
 muring there ? 
 
 Before such triune loveliness divine 
 
 Awestruck I ask, which goddess here 
 most claims 
 
 The prize that, howsoe'er adjudged, is 
 thine ? 
 
 Then Love breathes low the sweetest of 
 thy names ; 
 
 And Venus Victrix to my heart doth 
 bring 
 
 Herself, the Helen of her guerdoning. 
 
 XXXIV. THE DARK GLASS 
 
 Not I myself know all my love for thee : 
 How should I reach so far, who cannot 
 
 weigh 
 To-morrow's dower by gage of yesterday ? 
 Shall birth and deatli, and all dark names 
 
 that be 
 As doors and windows bared to some 
 
 loud sea, 
 Lash deaf mine ears and blind my face 
 
 with spray ; 
 And shall my sense pierce love, — the 
 
 last relay 
 And ultimate outpost of eternity? 
 Lo ! what am I to Love, the loixl of all? 
 One murmuring shell he gathers from 
 
 the sand. 
 One little heart-flame sheltered in his 
 
 hand. 
 
ROSSETTI 
 
 799 
 
 Yet through tliine eyes he grants me 
 
 clearest call 
 And veriest touch of powers primordial 
 That any hour-girt life may understand. 
 
 XL. SEVERED SELVES 
 
 Two separate divided silences, 
 
 Which, brought together, would find 
 
 loving voice ; 
 Two glances wliich together would re- 
 joice 
 In love, now lost like stars beyond dark 
 
 trees ; 
 Two iiands apart whose touch alone gives 
 
 ease ; 
 Two bosoms which, heart-shrined with 
 
 mutual flame, 
 Would, meeting in one clasp, be made 
 
 the same ; 
 Two souls, the shores wave-mocked of 
 
 sundering seas : — 
 Such are we now. Ah ! may our hope 
 
 forecast 
 Indeed one hour again, when on this 
 
 stream 
 Of darkened love once more tlie liglit 
 
 sliall gleam ? — 
 An lioiu" how slow to come, how quickl}' 
 
 past,— 
 Which blooms and fades, and oidy leaves 
 
 at last. 
 Faint as shed flowers, the attenuated 
 
 dream. 
 
 XLI. THROUGH DEATH TO LOVE 
 
 Like labor-laden moonclouds faint to flee 
 From winds that sweep the winter- 
 bitten wold, — 
 Like multiform circumfluence manifold 
 Of night's flood-tide, — like terrors tluit 
 
 agree 
 Of hoarse-tongued fire and inarticulate 
 
 sea, — 
 Even such, within some glass dimmed 
 
 by our breath. 
 Our hearts discern wild images of Death, 
 Shadows and shoals that edge eternity. 
 Hovvbeit athwart Death's imminent 
 
 shade doth soar 
 One Power, than flow of stream or flight 
 
 of dove 
 Sweeter to glide around, to brood above. 
 Tell me, my heart, — what angel-greeted 
 
 door 
 Or threshold of wing-winnowed thresli- 
 
 ing-floor 
 Hatli guest fire-fledged as thine, whose 
 
 lord is Love ? 
 
 XLVIIL DEATH-IN-LOVE 
 
 There came an image in Life's retinue 
 That had Love's wings and bore his 
 
 gonfalon : 
 Fair was the web, and nobly wrought 
 
 thereon , 
 
 soul-sequestered face, thy form and 
 
 hue ! 
 Bewildering sounds, such as Spring 
 
 wakens to. 
 Shook in its folds ; and through my 
 
 heart its power 
 Sped trackless as the iinmemorable hour 
 When birth's dark portal groaned and 
 
 all was new. 
 But a veiled woman followed, and she 
 
 caught 
 The banner round its staff, to, furl and 
 
 cling, — 
 Then plucked a feather from the bearer's 
 
 wing. 
 And held it to his lips that stirred it not, 
 And said to me, " Behold, there is no 
 
 breath : 
 
 1 and this Love are one, and I am Death." 
 
 XLIX. WILLOW WOOD— I 
 
 I SAT with Love upon a woodside well, 
 Leaning across the water, I and he ; 
 Nor ever did lie speak nor looked at me. 
 But touched his lute wherein was audible 
 The certain secret thing he had to tell : 
 Only our mirrored eyes met silently 
 In the low wave ; and that sound came 
 
 to be 
 The passionate voice I knew ; and ray 
 
 tears fell. 
 And at their fall, his eyes beneath grew 
 
 hers ; 
 And with his foot and with his wing- 
 feathers 
 He swept the spring that watered my 
 
 heart's drouth. 
 Then tlie dark ripples spread to waving 
 
 hair. 
 And as I stooped, her own lips rising 
 
 til ere 
 Bubbled with brimming kisses at my 
 
 mouth. 
 
 L. WILLOWWOOD — II 
 
 And now Love sang : but his was such 
 
 a song. 
 So meshed with half-remembrance hard 
 
 to free. 
 As souls disused in death's sterility 
 May sing when the new birthday tarries 
 
 long. 
 
8oo 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 And I was made aware of a dumb throng 
 That stood aloof, one form by every tree, 
 All mournful forms, for eacli was I or she, 
 The shades of those our days that had 
 
 no tongue. 
 They looked on us, and knew us and 
 
 were known ; 
 While fast together, alive from the abyss. 
 Clung the soul-wrung imislacable close 
 
 kiss ; 
 And pity of self through all made 
 
 broken moan 
 Wliich said, " For once, for once, for 
 
 once alone ! " 
 And still Love sang, and what he sang 
 
 was this : — 
 
 LI. WILLOWWOOD — III 
 
 " O YE, all ye that walk in Willowwood, 
 That walk with hollow faces burning 
 
 white ; • 
 What fathom-depth of soul-struck 
 
 widowhood. 
 What long, what longer hours, one life- 
 long night. 
 Ere ye again, who so in vain have wooed 
 Your last hope lost, wlio so in vain invite 
 Your lips to that their unforgotten food, 
 Ere ye, ere ye again shall see tlie light ! 
 Alas ! the bitter banks in Willowwood. 
 With tear-spurge wan, with blood- wort 
 
 burning red : 
 Alas ! if ever svich a pillow could 
 Steej) deep the soul in sleep till she were 
 
 dead, — 
 Better all life forget her than this thing. 
 That Willowwood should hold her wan- 
 dering ! " 
 
 LII. WILLOWWOOD— IV 
 
 So sang he : and as meeting rose and 
 rose 
 
 Together cling through the wind's well- 
 away 
 
 Nor change at once, yet near the end of 
 day 
 
 The leaves drop loosened where the 
 heart-stain glows, — 
 
 So when the song died did the kiss un- 
 close ; 
 
 And her face fell back drowned, and was 
 as gray 
 
 As its gray eyes ; and if it ever may 
 
 Meet mine again I know not if Love 
 knows. 
 
 Only I know that I leaned low and drank 
 
 A long draught from the water where 
 she sank. 
 
 Her breath and all her tears and all her 
 
 soul : 
 And as I leaned, I know I felt Love's 
 
 face 
 Pressed on my neck with moan of pity 
 
 and grace, 
 Till both our heads were in his aureole. 
 
 LIII. WITHOUT HER 
 
 What of her glass without her? The 
 
 blank gray 
 There where the pool is blind of the 
 
 moon's face. 
 Her dress without her? The tossed 
 
 empty space 
 Of cloud-rack whence the moon has 
 
 passed away. 
 Her paths without her ? Day's appointed 
 
 sway 
 Usurped by desolate night. Her pil- 
 lowed place 
 Without her? Tears, ah me ! for love's 
 
 good grace. 
 And cold forgetfulness of night or day. 
 What of the heart without her ? Nay, 
 
 poor heart, 
 Of thee what word remains ere speech 
 
 be still ? 
 A wayfarer by barren ways and chill, 
 Steep ways and weary, without her thou 
 
 art, 
 Whei'e the long cloud; the long wood's 
 
 counterpart. 
 Sheds doubled darkness up the laboring 
 
 hill. 
 
 LV. STILLBORN LOVE 
 
 The hour which might have been yet 
 
 might not be. 
 Which man's and woman's heart con- 
 ceived and bore 
 Yet whereof life was barren, — on what 
 
 sliore 
 Bides it the breaking of Time's weary 
 
 sea? 
 Bondchild of all consummate joys set 
 
 free. 
 It somewhere sighs and serves, and 
 
 mute before 
 The house of Love, hears through the 
 
 echoing door 
 His hours elect in choral consonancy. 
 But lo ! what wedded souls now hand in 
 
 hand 
 Together tread at last the immortal 
 
 strand 
 With eyes where burning memory lights 
 
 love home ? 
 
ROSSETTI 
 
 8oi 
 
 Lo ! how the little outcast hour has 
 
 turned 
 And leaped to them and in their faces 
 
 yearned : — 
 " I am your child : O parents, ye have 
 
 come ! " 
 
 LVI. TRUE WOMAN— I. ITERSELF 
 
 To be a sweetness more desired than 
 Spring ; 
 
 A bodily beauty more acceptable 
 
 Than the wild rose-tree's arch that 
 crowns the fell ; 
 
 To be an essence more envii-oning 
 
 Than wine's drained juice; a music 
 ravishing 
 
 More than the passionate pulse of Phil- 
 omel ; — 
 
 To be all this 'neath one soft bosom's 
 swell 
 
 That is the flower of life : — how strange 
 a tiling ! 
 
 How strange a thing to be what Man 
 can know 
 
 But as a sacred secret ! Heaven's own 
 screen 
 
 Hides her soul's purest depth and loveli- 
 est glow ; 
 
 Closely withlield, as all things most un- 
 seen, — 
 
 Tlie wave-bowered pearl, — the heart- 
 shaped seal of green 
 
 That flecks the snowdrojJ underneath the 
 snow. 
 
 LVII. TRUE WOMAN— II. HER LOVE 
 
 She loves him ; for her inlinite soul is 
 
 Love, 
 And he her lodestar. Passion in lier is 
 A glass facing his fire, where the bright 
 
 bliss 
 Is mirrored, and the heat returned. Yet 
 
 move 
 That glass, a stranger's amorous flame to 
 
 prove, 
 And it shall turn, by instant contraries, 
 Ice to the moon ; while her pure fire to 
 
 Ins 
 For whom it burns, clings close i' the 
 
 heart's alcove. 
 Lo ! they are one. With wifely breast 
 
 to breast 
 And circling arms, she welcomes all 
 
 command 
 Of love, — lier soul to answeinng ardors 
 
 fann'd : 
 Yet as morn springs or twilight sinks to 
 
 rest, 
 
 51 
 
 Ah ! who shall say she deems not love- 
 liest 
 The hour of sisterly sweet hand-in-hand ? 
 
 LVIII. TRUE WOMAN — HI. HER HEAVEN 
 
 If to grow old in Heaven is to grow 
 
 young, 
 (As the Seer saw and said,) then blest 
 
 were he 
 With youtli for evermore, whose heaven 
 
 should be 
 True Woman, she whom these weak 
 
 notes have sung, 
 Here and hereafter, — choir-strains of her 
 
 tongue, — 
 Sky-spaces of her eyes, — sweet signs 
 
 that flee 
 About her soul's immediate sanctuary, — 
 Were Paradise all uttermost worlds 
 
 among. 
 The sunrise blooms and withers on the 
 
 hill 
 Like any hillflower ; and the noblest 
 
 ti'oth 
 Dies here to dust. Yet shall Heaven's 
 
 promise clothe 
 Even yet those lovers who have cherished 
 
 still 
 This test for love : — in every kiss sealed 
 
 fast 
 To feel the first kiss and f orbode the last. 
 
 LIX. love's last GIFT 
 
 Love to his singer held a glistening leaf, 
 And said : " The rose-tree and the apple- 
 tree 
 Have fruits to vaunt or flowers to lure 
 
 the bee ; 
 And golden shafts are in the feathered 
 
 sheaf 
 Of the great harvest-marshal, the year's 
 
 chief. 
 Victorious Summer ; aye, and 'neath 
 
 warm sea 
 Strange secret grasses lurk inviolably 
 Between the filtering channels of sunk 
 
 reef. 
 All are my blooms ; and all sweet blooms 
 
 of love 
 To thee I gave while Spring and Summer 
 
 sang ; 
 But Autumn stops to listen, with some 
 
 pang 
 From those worse tilings the wind is 
 
 moaning of. 
 Only this laurel dreads no winter days : 
 Take my last gift ; thy heart hath sung 
 
 my praise." 
 
8o2 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 PART II. CHANGE AND FATE 
 
 LX. TRANSFIGURED LIFE 
 
 As growth of form or momentary glance 
 
 In a child's features will recall to mind 
 
 The father's with the mother's face com- 
 bin'd, — 
 
 Sweet intercliange that memories still 
 enhance : 
 
 And yet, as childhood's yeai's and youth's 
 advance, 
 
 The gradual mouldings leave one stamp 
 behind. 
 
 Till in the blended likeness now we find 
 
 A separate man's or woman's counte- 
 nance : — 
 
 So in the Song, the singer's Joy and Pain, 
 Its very parents, evermore expand 
 
 To bid the passion's fullgrown birth re- 
 main. 
 
 By Art's transfiguring essence subtly 
 spann'd ; 
 
 And from that song-cloud shaped as a 
 man's hand 
 
 There comes the sound as of abundant 
 rain, 
 
 LXI. THE SONG-THROE 
 
 By thine own tears thy song must tears 
 
 beget, 
 O Singer ! Magic mirror thou hast none 
 Except thy manifest heai't ; and save 
 
 thine own 
 Anguish or ardor, else no amulet. 
 Cisterned in Pride, verse is the feathery 
 
 jet 
 Of soulless air-flung fountains ; nay, 
 
 more dry 
 Than the Dead Sea for throats that thirst 
 
 and sigh, 
 Tliat song o'er which no singer's lids 
 
 grew wet. 
 The Song-god — He the Sun-god — is no 
 
 slave 
 Of thine : thy Hunter he, who for thj- soul 
 Fledges his shaft : to no august control 
 Of thy skilled hand his quivered store he 
 
 gave : 
 But if thy lips' loud cry leap to his 
 
 smart, 
 The inspir'd recoil shall pierce thy 
 
 brother's heart. 
 
 LXV. KNOWN IN VAIN 
 
 As two whose love, first foolish, widen- 
 ing scope. 
 Knows suddenly, to music high and soft, 
 
 The Holy of holies ; who because they 
 
 scoff'd 
 Are now amazed with shame, nor dare 
 
 to cope 
 With the whole truth aloud, lest heaven 
 
 should ope ; 
 Yet, at their meetings, laugh not as they 
 
 laugh 'd 
 In speech ; nor speak, at length ; but 
 
 sitting oft 
 Togetlier, within hopeless sight of hope 
 For hours are silent : — So it happeneth 
 When Work and Will awake too late, to 
 
 gaze 
 After their life sailed by, and hold their 
 
 breath. 
 Ah ! who shall dare to search through 
 
 what sad maze 
 Thenceforth their incommunicable ways 
 Follow the desultory feet of Death ? 
 
 LXVI. THE HEART OP THE NIGHT 
 
 From child to youth ; from youth to 
 
 arduous man ; 
 From lethargy to fever of the heart ; 
 From faithful life to dream-dowered 
 
 days ajjart ; 
 From trust to doubt ; from doubt to 
 
 brink of ban ; — 
 Thus much of change in one swift cycle 
 
 ran 
 Till now. Alas, the soul ! — how soon 
 
 must slie 
 Accept her primal immortality, — 
 The flesh resume its dust whence it be- 
 gan ? 
 O Lord of work and peace ! O Lord of 
 
 life ! 
 O Lord, the awful Lord of will ! though 
 
 late. 
 Even yet renew this soul with duteous 
 
 breath : 
 That when the peace is garnered in from 
 
 strife, 
 The work retrieved, the will regenerate, 
 This soul may see thy face, O Lord of 
 
 death ! 
 
 LXVII. THE landmark 
 
 Was that the landmark? What — the 
 foolish well 
 
 Whose wave, low down, I did not stoop 
 to drink. 
 
 But sat and flung the pebbles from its 
 brink 
 
 In sport to send its imaged skies pell- 
 mell. 
 
ROSSETTI 
 
 803 
 
 (And mine owu image, liad I noted 
 
 well !)— 
 Was that my point of turning? — I liad 
 
 thought 
 The stations of my course should rise un- 
 
 souglit, 
 As altar-stone or ensigned citadel. 
 But lo ! the path is missed, I must go 
 
 back, 
 And thirst to drink when next I reach 
 
 tlie spring 
 Wliich once I stained, which since may 
 
 have grown black. 
 Yet though no light be left nor bird now 
 
 sing 
 As hei-e I turn, I'll thank God, hasten- 
 ing, 
 That the same goal is still on the same 
 
 track. 
 
 LXX. THE HILL SUMMIT 
 
 This feast-day of the sun, his altar there 
 In the broad west has blazed for vesper- 
 song ; 
 And I have loitered in the vale too long 
 And gaze now a belated worshipper. 
 Yet may I not forget that I was 'ware, 
 So journeying, of his face at intervals 
 Transfigured where the fringed horizon 
 
 falls,— 
 A fiery bush with coruscating hair. 
 And now that I have climbed and won 
 
 this height, 
 I nuist tread downward through the 
 
 sloping shade 
 And travel the bewildered tracks till 
 
 night. 
 Yet for this hour I still may here be 
 
 stayed 
 And see the gold air and the silver fade 
 And the last bird fly into the last light. 
 
 LXXI. THE choice— I 
 
 Eat thou and drink ; to-morrow thou 
 
 shalt die. 
 Surely the earth, that's wise being very 
 
 old, 
 Needs not our help. Then loose me, 
 
 love, and hold 
 Thy sultry hair up from my face ; that I 
 May pour for thee this golden wine, 
 
 brim-high, 
 Till round the glass thy fingers glow 
 
 like gold. 
 We'll drown all hours : thy song, while 
 
 liours are toll'd, 
 Shall leap, as fountains veil the chang- 
 ing sky. 
 
 Now kiss, and think that there are really 
 
 those. 
 My own high-bosomed beauty, who 
 
 increase 
 Vain gold, vain lore, and yet might 
 
 choose our way ! 
 Through many years they toil ; then on 
 
 a day 
 They die not, — for their life was death, 
 
 — but cease ; 
 And round their narrow lips the mould 
 
 falls close. 
 
 LXXII. THE CHOICE — II 
 
 Watch tliou and fear ; to-morrow thou 
 
 shalt die. 
 Or art thou sure thou shalt have time 
 
 for death ? 
 Is not the day which God's word promis- 
 
 eth 
 To couie man knows not when ? In 
 
 yonder skj, 
 Now while we speak, the sun speeds 
 
 forth : can I 
 Or thou assure him of his goal? God's 
 
 breath 
 Even at this moment liaply quickeneth 
 The air to a flame ; till spirits, always 
 
 nigh 
 Though screened and hid, shall walk 
 
 the daylight here. 
 And dost thou prate of all that man 
 
 shall do ? 
 Canst thou, who hast but plagues, pre- 
 sume to be 
 Glad in liis gladness that comes after 
 
 thee ? 
 Will his strength slay thy worm in Hell? 
 
 Go to : 
 Cover thy countenance, and watch, and 
 
 fear, 
 
 LXXIII. THE CHOICE — III 
 
 Think thou and act ; to-morrow thou 
 
 shalt die. 
 Outstretched in the sun's warmth upon 
 
 the shore. 
 Thou say 'st: "Man's measured path is 
 
 all gone o'er : 
 Up all his years, steeply, with strain 
 
 and sigh, 
 Man clomb until he touched the truth ; 
 
 and I, 
 Even I, am he whom it was destined 
 
 for." 
 How should this be ? Art thou then so 
 
 much more 
 
8o4 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Than they who sowed, that thou shouldst 
 
 reap theiebj' ? 
 Nay, coine up hither. From this wave- 
 washed inound 
 Unto the furtliest flood-brim look with 
 
 me ; 
 Then reacii on with tliy thought till it be 
 
 drown'd. 
 Miles and miles distant tliough the last 
 
 line be, 
 And though thy soul sail leagues and 
 
 leagues beyond, — 
 Still, leagues beyond those leagues, there 
 
 is more sea. 
 
 LXXIV. OLD AND NEW ART — I 
 
 ST. LUKE THE PAINTER 
 
 Give honor unto Luke Evangelist ; 
 F(n- he it was (the aged legends say) 
 Who first taught Art to fold her hands 
 
 and pray. 
 Scarcely at once she dared to rend the 
 
 mist 
 Of devious symbols ; but soon having 
 
 wist 
 How sky-breadth and field-silence and 
 
 tins day 
 Are symbols also in some deeper way. 
 She looked through these to God and 
 
 was God's priest. 
 And if, past noon, her toil began to irk. 
 And she sought talismans, and turned 
 
 in vain 
 To soulless self-reflections of man's 
 
 skill,— 
 Yet now, in this tlie twilight, she might 
 
 still 
 Kneel in the latter grass to pray again. 
 Ere the night cometh and she may not 
 
 w'ork. 
 
 LXXV. OLD AND NEM^ ART— II 
 
 NOT AS THESE 
 
 "I AM not as these are," the poet saith 
 In youtli's pride, and the painter, among 
 
 men 
 At bay, where never pencil comes nor 
 
 pen, 
 And shut about with his own frozen 
 
 breath. 
 To others, for whom only rhj'me wins 
 
 faith 
 As poets, — only paint as painters, — then 
 He turns in the cold silence ; and again 
 Shrinking, " I am not as these are," he 
 
 saith. 
 And say that this is so, what follows it ? 
 
 For were thine eyes set backwards in 
 
 thine head. 
 Such words were well ; but they see on, 
 
 and far. 
 Unto the lights of the great Past, new-lit 
 Fair for the Future's track, look thou 
 
 instead, — 
 Say thou instead, " I am not as these 
 
 are." 
 
 LXXVI. OLD AND NEW ART— III 
 
 THE HUSBANDMAN 
 
 Though God, as one that is an house- 
 holder. 
 
 Called tiiese to labor in his vineyard first, 
 
 Before the husk of darkness was well 
 burst 
 
 Bidding them grope their way out and 
 bestir, 
 
 (Who, questioned of their wages, ans- 
 wered, "Sir, 
 
 Unto each man a penny : ") though the 
 worst 
 
 Burthen of heat was theirs and the dry 
 thirst 
 
 Though God hath since found none such 
 as these were 
 
 To do tlieir work like them : — Because 
 of this 
 
 Stand not ye idle in the market-place. 
 
 Wliich of ye knoweth he is not tliat last 
 
 Who may be first by faith and will ? — 
 yea, his 
 
 The hand which after the appointed 
 d ays 
 
 And hours shall give a Future to their 
 Past? 
 
 Lxxvii. soul's beauty 
 
 (Sibylla Pahnifera) 
 
 Under the arch of Life, where love and 
 
 death. 
 Terror and mystery, guard her shrine, I 
 
 saw 
 Beauty enthroned ; and though her gaze 
 
 struck awe, 
 I drew it in as simply as my breath. 
 Hers are the eyes which, over and 
 
 beneath. 
 The sky and sea bend on thee, — which 
 
 can diaw% 
 By sea or sky or woman, to one law, 
 The allotted bondman of her palm and 
 
 wa'eatii. 
 This is that Lady Beauty, in whose praise 
 Thy voice and hand shake still; — long 
 
 known to thee 
 
ROSSETTI 
 
 805 
 
 By flying hair and fluttering hem, — the 
 
 beat 
 Following lier daily of thy heart and 
 
 feet, 
 How passionately and irretrievably, 
 In wliat fond flight, how many ways 
 
 and days ! 
 
 Lxxviii. body's beauty 
 (LUith) 
 
 Of Adam's first wife, Lilith. it is told 
 (The witcli he loved before the gift of 
 
 Eve,) 
 That, ere the snake's, lier sweet tongue 
 
 could deceive, 
 And her enchanCed hair was the first 
 
 gold. 
 And still she sits, young while the earth 
 
 is old, 
 And, subtly of herself contemplative, 
 Draws men to watch the bright web 
 
 slie can weave. 
 Till heart and body and life are in its 
 
 hold. 
 The rose and poppy are her flowers ; for 
 
 wliere 
 Is he not found, O Lilith, whom shed 
 
 scent 
 And soft-slied kisses and soft sleep shall 
 
 snare ? 
 Lo ! as that youtli's eyes burned at 
 
 tliine, so went 
 1 Thy spell through him, and left his 
 
 r straight neck bent 
 
 And round his heart one strangling 
 golden hair. 
 
 LXXXI. MEMORIAL THRESHOLDS 
 
 What place so strange, — though unre- 
 
 vealed snow 
 With unimaginable fires arise 
 At the earlii's end, — wliat passion of 
 
 surprise 
 Like frost-bound fire-girt scenes of long 
 
 ago ? 
 Lo ! this is none but I this hour ; and lo ! 
 This is the very place which to mine 
 
 eyes 
 Tiiose nioital houi's in vain immortalize, 
 'Mid hurrying crowds, with what alone 
 
 I know. 
 Cit3% of thine a single simple door, 
 By some new Power reduplicate, must 
 
 be 
 Even yet my life-porch in eternity, 
 Even with one presence filled, as once 
 
 of yore : 
 
 Or mocking winds whirl round a chafl'- 
 
 strown floor 
 Thee and thy years and these my words 
 
 and me. 
 
 LXXXII. HOARDED JOY 
 
 I SAID : " Nay, pluck not, — let the first 
 
 fruit be ; 
 Even as tliou sayest, it is sweet and red. 
 But let it ripen still. The tree's bent 
 
 head 
 Sees in tlie stream its own fecundity 
 And bides the day of fulness. Shall 
 
 not we 
 At the sun's hour that day possess the 
 
 shade. 
 Ami claim our fruit before its ripeness 
 
 fade. 
 And eat it from the branch and praise 
 
 the tree ? " 
 I say : " Alas ! our fruit hath wooed the 
 
 sun 
 Too long, — 't is fallen and floats adown 
 
 the stream. 
 Lo, the last clusters ! Pluck them 
 
 every one, 
 And let us sup with summer ; ere the 
 
 gleam 
 Of autumn set the year's pent sorrow 
 
 free. 
 And the woods wail like echoes from 
 
 the sea." 
 
 LXXXIII. BARREN SPRING 
 
 Once more the changed year's turning 
 wheel returns : 
 
 And as a girl sails balanced in the wind, 
 
 And now before and now again behind 
 
 Stoops as it swoops, with cheek that 
 laugi)S and burns. — 
 
 So Spring comes merry towards me here, 
 but earns 
 
 No answering smile from me, whose life 
 is twin'd 
 
 With the dead boughs that winter still 
 must bind, 
 
 And wlioni to-day the Spring no more 
 concerns. 
 
 Behold, this crocus is a withering flame ; 
 
 This snowdrop, snow ; this apple-blos- 
 som's part 
 
 To breed the fruit that breeds the ser- 
 pent's art. 
 
 Nay, for tliese Spring-flowers, turn thy 
 face from them , 
 
 Nor stay till on the year's last lily-stem 
 
 The white cup shrivels round the golden 
 heart. 
 
8o6 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 LXXXIV. FAREWELL TO THE GLEN 
 
 Sweet stream-fed glen, why say " fare- 
 well " to thee 
 Who far'st so well and find'st for ever 
 
 smooth 
 The brow of Time where man may read 
 
 no ruth ? 
 Nay, do thou rather say " farewell " to 
 
 me, 
 Who now fare forth in bitterer fantasy 
 Than erst was mine where other shade 
 
 might soothe 
 By other streams, what while in fragrant 
 
 youth 
 The bliss of being sad made melanchol^^ 
 And yet, farewell ! For better shalt thou 
 
 fare 
 When children bathe sweet faces in thy 
 
 flow 
 And happy lovers blend sweet sliadows 
 
 there 
 In hovxrs to come, than when an hour 
 
 ago 
 Thine echoes had but one man's sighs to 
 
 bear 
 And thy trees whispered wliat he feared 
 
 to know. 
 
 LXXXVL LOST DAYS 
 
 The lost days of my life until to-day, 
 What were they, could I see them on 
 
 the street 
 Lie as they fell ? Would they be ears of 
 
 wheat 
 Sown once for food but trodden into 
 
 clay ? 
 Or golden coins squandered and still to 
 
 pay? 
 Or drops of blood dabbling the guilty 
 
 feet? 
 Or such spilt water as in dreams must 
 
 cheat 
 The undying throats of Hell, athirst 
 
 alway ? 
 I do not see them here : but after death 
 God knows I know the faces I sliall see. 
 Each one a murdered self, with low 
 
 last breath. 
 " I am thyself, — what hast thou done 
 
 to me ? " 
 " And I — and I — thyself," (lo ! each one 
 
 saith,) 
 " And thou thyself to all eternity ! " 
 
 LXXXIX. THE TREES OF THE GARDEN 
 
 Ye who have passed Deatli's haggard 
 hills ; and ye 
 
 Whom trees that knew your sires shall 
 
 cease to know 
 And still stand silent : — is it all a show, — 
 A wisp that laughs upon tlie wall ? — 
 
 decree 
 Of some inexorable supremacj* 
 Which ever, as man strains his blind 
 
 surmise 
 From depth to ominous depth, looks 
 
 past Jiis ej^es, 
 Sphinx-faced with unabaslied augury? 
 Nay, rather question the Earth's self. 
 
 Invoke 
 The storm-felled forest-trees moss-grown 
 
 to-day 
 Whose roots are liillocks where the 
 
 cliildren plaj' ; 
 Or ask the silver sapling 'neath what 
 
 yoke 
 Those stars, his spray-crown's clustering 
 
 gems, shall wage 
 Their journey still when his boughs 
 
 shrink with age. 
 
 XC. ' ' RETRO ME, SATHAN A ! " 
 
 Get thee behind me. Even as, heavy- 
 curled , 
 
 Stooping against the wind, a charioteer 
 
 Is snatched from out his chariot by the 
 hair, 
 
 So shall Time be ; and as the void car, 
 hurled 
 
 Abroad by reinless steeds, even so the 
 world : 
 
 Yea, even as chariot-dust upon the air. 
 
 It shall be souglit and not found any- 
 where. 
 
 Get thee behind me, Satan. Oft un- 
 furled. 
 
 Thy perilous wings can beat and break 
 like latli 
 
 Much mightiness of men to win thee 
 praise. 
 
 Leave these weak feet to tread in narrow 
 waj's. 
 
 Thou still, upon the broad vine-shel- 
 tered path, 
 
 Mayst wait the turning of tlie phials of 
 wrath 
 
 For certain years, for certain months 
 and days. 
 
 XCI. LOST ON BOTH SIDES 
 
 As when two men have loved a woman 
 
 well. 
 Each hating each, througli Love's and 
 
 Death's deceit ; 
 
ROSSETTI 
 
 807 
 
 Since not for eitlier this stark marriage- 
 sheet 
 
 And the long pauses of this wedding- 
 bell ; 
 
 Yet o'er her grave the night and day 
 dispel 
 
 At last their feud forlorn, with cold and 
 heat 
 
 Nor other than dear friends to death 
 may fleet 
 
 The two lives left that most of her can 
 tell :— 
 
 So separate hopes, which in a soul had 
 wooed 
 
 The one same Peace, strove with each 
 other long, 
 
 And Peace before their faces perished 
 since : 
 
 So through that soul, in restless brother- 
 hood. 
 
 They roam together now, and wind 
 among 
 
 Its bye-streets, knocking at the dusty 
 inns. 
 
 XCIV. MICHELANGELO'S KISS 
 
 Great Michelangelo, with age grown 
 bleak 
 
 And uttermost labors, having once o'er- 
 said 
 
 All grievous memories on his long life 
 shed, 
 
 This worst regret to one true heart could 
 speak : — 
 
 Tiiat when, with sorrowing love and re- 
 verence meek. 
 
 He stooped o'er sweet Colonna's dying 
 bed. 
 
 His Muse and doniinant Lady, spirit- 
 wed, — 
 
 Her hand he kissed, but not her brow or 
 cheek. 
 
 O Buonarrotti, — good at Art's fire- 
 wheels 
 
 To ui'ge her chariot ! — even thus the 
 Soul, 
 
 Touching at length some sorely-chast- 
 ened goal, 
 
 Earns oftenest but a little : her appeals 
 
 Were deep and mute, — lowly her claim. 
 Let be : 
 
 What holds for her Death's garner ? 
 And for thee ? 
 
 XCVI. LIFE THE BELOVED 
 
 As thy friend's face, witli shadow of soul 
 
 o'erspread, [hath been 
 
 Somewhile unto thy sight perchance 
 
 Ghastly and strange, yet never so is 
 seen 
 
 In thought, but to all fortunate favor 
 wed ; 
 
 As thy love's death-bound features never 
 dead 
 
 To memory's glass return, but con- 
 travene 
 
 Frail fugitive days, and alway keep, I 
 ween, 
 
 Than all new^ life a livelier lovelihead : — 
 
 So Life herself, tliy spirit's friend and 
 love. 
 
 Even still as Spring's authentic har- 
 binger 
 
 Glows with fresh hours for hope to glorify; 
 
 Though pale she lay when in the winter 
 grove 
 
 Her funeral flowers were snow-flakes 
 shed on her 
 
 And the red wings of frost-fire rent the 
 sky. 
 
 XCVII. A SUPERSCRIPTION 
 
 Look in my face ; my name is Might- 
 have-been ; 
 
 I am also called No-more, Too-late, Fare- 
 well ; 
 
 Unto thine ear I hold the dead-sea shell 
 
 Cast up thy Life's foam-fretted feet be- 
 tween ; 
 
 Unto thine eyes the glass where that is 
 seen 
 
 Which had Life's form and Love's, but 
 by my spell 
 
 Is now a shaken shadow intolerable. 
 
 Of ultimate things unuttered the frail 
 screen. 
 
 Mark me, how still I am ! But should 
 there dart 
 
 One moment through thy soul the soft 
 surprise 
 
 Of that winged Peace which lulls the 
 breath of siglis, — 
 
 Then shalt thou see me smile, and turn 
 apart 
 
 Thy visage to mine ambush at thy heart 
 
 Sleepless with cold commemorative eyes. 
 
 XCIX. NEWBORN DEATH— I 
 
 To-day Death seems to me an infant 
 
 child 
 Which her worn mother Life upon my 
 
 knee 
 Has set to grow my friend and play with 
 
 me ; 
 If haply so my heart might be beguil'd 
 To find no terrors in a face so mild, — 
 
8o8 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 If haply so luy weary Iieart might be 
 Unto the newborn milky eyes of thee, 
 
 Death, before resentment reconcird. 
 How long, O Death ? And shall thy feet 
 
 depart 
 Still a young child's with mine, or wilt 
 
 thou stand 
 Fullgrown the helpful daughter of my 
 
 heart, 
 What time with thee indeed I reach the 
 
 strand 
 Of the pale wave which knows thee 
 
 what thou art, 
 And drink it in the hollow of thy hand ? 
 
 C. NEWBORN DEATH— II 
 
 And thou, O Life, the lady of all bliss, 
 With whom, when our first heart beat 
 fviU and fast, 
 
 1 wandered till the haunts of men were 
 
 pass'd. 
 And in fair places found all bowers amiss 
 Till only woods and waves might hear 
 
 our kiss, 
 While to the witids all thought of Death 
 
 we cast : — 
 Ah, Life ! and must I have from thee at 
 
 last 
 No smile to greet me and no babe but 
 
 this ? 
 Lo ! Love, the child once ours ; and 
 
 Song, whose hair 
 Blew like a flame and blossomed like a 
 
 wreath ; 
 And Art, whose eyes were worlds by 
 
 God found fair ; 
 These o'er the book of Nature mixed their 
 
 breath 
 With neck-twined arms, as oft we 
 
 watched them there : 
 And did these die that thou mightst 
 
 bear me Death? 
 
 CI. THE ONE HOPE 
 
 When vain desire at last and vain re- 
 gret 
 
 Go hand in hand to death, and all is 
 vain, 
 
 Wiiat shall assuage the unforgotten pain 
 
 And teach tlie unforgetful to forget ? 
 
 Shall Peace be still a sunk stream long 
 unmet, — 
 
 Or may the soul at once in a green plain 
 
 Stoop througli the s^iray of some sweet 
 life-fountain 
 
 And cull the dew-drenched flowering 
 amulet ? 
 
 Ah ! when the wan soul in that golden 
 
 air 
 Between the scriptured petals sof ly 
 
 blown 
 Peers breathless for the gift of grace 
 
 unknown. 
 Ah ! let none other alien spell soe'er 
 But only the one Hope's one name be 
 
 there, — 
 Not less nor more, but even that word 
 
 alone. 1869, 1870, 1881. i 
 
 THE CLOUD CONFINES 
 
 The day is dark and the night 
 
 To him tliat would searcii their heart ; 
 
 No lips of cloud that will part 
 Nor morning song in the light : 
 
 Only, gazing alone. 
 
 To liim wild shadows are shown, 
 
 Deep under deep unknown 
 And height above unknown height. 
 
 Still we say as we go, — 
 
 " Strange to think by the way, 
 
 Whatever there is to know, 
 That shall we know one day." 
 
 The Past is over and fled ; 
 
 Named new, we name it the old ; 
 
 Thereof some tale hath been told. 
 But no word comes from the dead ; 
 
 Whether at all they be. 
 
 Or whetlier as bond or free, 
 
 Or whether they too were we, 
 Or by what spell they have sped. 
 
 Still we say as we go,— 
 
 " Strange to think by the way. 
 
 Whatever there is to know. 
 That shall we know one day." 
 
 What of the heart of hate 
 
 That beats in thy breast, O Time? — 
 
 Red strife from the furthest prime, 
 And anguish of fierce debate ; 
 
 War that shatters her slain, 
 
 And i)eace that grinds tiiem as grain. 
 
 And eyes fixed ever in vain 
 On the jiitiless ej'es of Fate. 
 
 Still we say as Ave go, — 
 
 " Strange to think by the way, 
 
 1 Sixteen Sonnets, Numbers 25, 39, 47, 49-52, 63, 
 65, 67, 86, 91, 97, 99, and 100, were published in the 
 Fortitighily Review. 1869. Fifty Sonnets (for the 
 exact list see W. BI. Rossetti's edition of the 
 Collected Works, I, 517) were published, witli 
 eleven lyrics, as " Sonnets and Songs towards a 
 work to be entitled The House of Life,'" in the 
 Poems. 1870. The House of Life, as it now stands, 
 cnisistlng of sonnets only, was published in 
 Ballads and Soimets, 1881. 
 
ROSSETTI 
 
 809 
 
 I 
 
 Wliatever there is to kuow, 
 That shall we know oiie day." 
 
 Wliat of the heart of love 
 That bleeds in thy breast. O Man ? 
 Tliy kisses snatclied 'neatli tlie ban 
 
 Of fangs that mock them above : 
 Tliy bells prolonged unto knells, 
 Thy Iiope that a breatli dispels, 
 Tiiy l)itter forlorn farewells 
 
 And the empty echoes thereof ? 
 
 Still we say as we go, — 
 
 " Strange to think by the way, 
 
 Wliatever there is to know, 
 Tliat shall we know one day." 
 
 The sky leans dumb on tlie sea, 
 Aweary with all its wings ; 
 And oh ! the song tlie sea sings 
 
 Is dark everlastingly. 
 Our past is clean forgot. 
 Our jiresent is and is not. 
 Our future's a sealed seed plot. 
 
 And what betwixt them are we ? — 
 
 We who say as we go, — 
 
 "Strange to think by tlie way, 
 
 Wliatever there is to know, 
 That shall we know one day." 
 1872. 
 
 THREE SHADOWS 
 
 I LOOKED and saw your eyes 
 
 In the shadow of your hair. 
 As a traveller sees the stream 
 
 In the shadow of the wood ; 
 And I said, " My faint heart sighs, 
 
 Ah me ! to linger there, 
 To drink deep and to dream 
 
 In that sweet solitude." 
 
 I looked and saw your lieart 
 
 In the shadow of your eyes, 
 As a seeker .sees the gold 
 
 III the sliadow of the stream ; 
 And I said, '" Ah me? wliat art 
 
 Should win the immortal prize, 
 Whose want must make life cold 
 
 And Heaven a hollow dream ? " 
 
 I looked and saw your love 
 
 In the shadow of your heart, 
 As a diver sees the pearl 
 
 In the shadow of the sea ; 
 And I murmured, not above 
 
 My breath, but all apart, — 
 " All ! you can love, true girl, 
 
 And is your love for me ? " 
 
 1881, 
 
 INSOMNIA 
 
 Thin are the night-skirts left behind 
 By daybreak hours that onward creep, 
 And thin, alas ! the shred of sleep 
 
 That wavers with the sjiirit's wind : 
 
 But in half-dreams that shift and roll 
 And still remember and forget, 
 
 My soul this hour has drawn your .soul 
 A little nearer yet. 
 
 Our lives, most dear, are never near, 
 Our thoughts are never far apart, 
 Though all that draws us heart to heart 
 
 Seems fainter now and now more clear. 
 
 To-night Love claims his full control, 
 And with desire and with regret 
 
 My soul this hour has drawn your soul 
 A little nearer yet. 
 
 Is there a home where heavy earth 
 Melts to bright air that breathes no 
 
 pain. 
 Where water leaves no thirst again 
 And s[>ringing fire is Love's new birth? 
 If faith long bound to one true goal 
 May there at length its hope beget. 
 My soul that hour shall draw your soul 
 For ever nearer yet. 1881. 
 
 CHIMES 
 
 Honey-flowers to the honey-comb 
 And the honey-bees from iionie. 
 
 A honey-comb and a honey-flower, 
 And the bee shall have his hour. 
 
 A honeyed heart for the honey-comb, 
 And the humming bee flies home. 
 
 A lieavy heart in the honey-flower, 
 And the bee has iiad his hour. 
 
 A honey-cell's in the honeysuckle, 
 And the honey-bee knows it well. 
 
 The honey-comb has a heart of honey, 
 And the humming bee 's so bonny. 
 
 A honey-flower 's the honeysuckle, 
 And the bee 's in the honey-bell. 
 
 The honeysuckle is sucked of honey, 
 And the bee is heavy and bonny. 
 
8io 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Brown shell first for the butterfly 
 And a bright wing by and by. 
 
 Butterfly, good-by to ,your shell. 
 And, bright wings, speed you well. 
 
 Bright lamplight for tlie butterfly 
 And a burnt wing by and by. 
 
 Butterfly, alas for your shell, 
 And, bright wings, fare you well. 
 
 Lost love-labor and lullaby, 
 And lowly let love lie. 
 
 Lost love-morrow and love-fellow 
 And love's life lying low. 
 
 Lovelorn labor and life laid by 
 And lowly let love lie. 
 
 Late love-longing and life-sorrow 
 And love's life lying low. 
 
 Beauty's body and benison 
 With a bosom-flower new-blown. 
 
 Bitter beavity and blessing bann'd 
 With a breast to burn and brand. 
 
 Beauty's bower in the dust o'erblown 
 With a bare white breast of bone. 
 
 Barren beauty and bower of sand 
 With a blast on either hand. 
 
 VI 
 
 Buried bars in the breakwater 
 And bubble of the brimming weir. 
 
 Body's blood in the breakwater 
 And a buried body's bier. 
 
 Buried bones in the breakwater 
 And bubble of the brawling weir. 
 
 Bitter tears in the breakwater 
 And a breaking heart to bear. 
 
 Hollow heaven and the hurricane 
 And hurry of the heavy rain. 
 
 Hurried clouds in the hollow heaven 
 And a heavy rain hard-driven. 
 
 The heavy rain it hurries amain 
 And heaven and the hurricane. 
 
 Hurrying wind o'er the heaven's hollow 
 And the heavy rain to follow. 1881. 
 
 SOOTHSAY 
 
 Let no man ask thee of anything 
 
 Not yearborn between Spring and 
 
 Spring. 
 More of all worlds than he can know, 
 Each day the single sun doth show." 
 A trustier gloss than thou canst give 
 From all wise scrolls demonstrative. 
 The sea doth sigh and the wind sing. 
 
 Let no man awe thee on any height 
 
 Of earthly kingship's mouldering might. 
 
 The dust his heel holds meet for thy 
 
 brow 
 Hath all of it been what both are now ; 
 And thou and he ma}' plague together 
 A beggar's eyes in some dusty weather 
 When none that is now knows sound or 
 
 sight. 
 
 Crave thou no dower of earthly things 
 
 Unworthy Hope's imaginings. 
 
 To have brought true birth of Song to be 
 
 And to have won hearts to Poesy, 
 
 Or anywhere in the sun or rain 
 
 To have loved and been beloved again. 
 
 Is loftiest reach of Hope's bright wings. 
 
 Tlie wild waifs cast up by the sea 
 
 Are diverse ever seasonably. 
 
 Even so the soul-tides still may land 
 
 A different drift upon the sand. 
 
 But one the sea is evermore : 
 
 And one be still, 'twixt shore and shore. 
 
 As the sea's life, th}' soul in thee. 
 
 Say, hast thou pride ? How then may fit 
 Thj^ mood witli flatterer's silk-spun wit? 
 Haply tlie sweet voice lifts thy crest, 
 A breeze of fame made manifest. 
 Nay, but then chaf 'st at flattery ? Pause : 
 Be sure thy wrath is not because 
 It makes thee feel thou lovest it. 
 
 Let thy soul strive that still the same 
 
 Be early friendship's sacred flame. 
 
 The affinities have strongest i>art 
 
 In youth, and draw men heart to heart: 
 
 As life wears on and finds no rest, 
 
 The individual in each breast 
 
 Is tyrannous to sunder them. 
 
 In the life-drama's stern cue-call, 
 A friend 's a part well- prized bj' all : 
 
ROSSETTI 
 
 And if tliou meet an enemy, 
 
 Wliat art thou that none such should be ? 
 
 Even so : but if the two parts run 
 
 Into each other and grow one, 
 
 Then comes the curtain's cue to fall. 
 
 Whate'er by other's need is claimed 
 More than isy thine, — to him unblamed 
 Resign it : and if he should hold 
 What more than he thou lack'st, bread, 
 
 gold, 
 Or any good whereby we live, — 
 To thee such substance let him give 
 Freely : nor he nor thou be sluuned. 
 
 Strive that thy works prove equal : lest 
 That work which thou hast done the best 
 Should come to be to thee at length 
 (Even as to envy seems the strength 
 Of others) hateful and abhorr'd, — 
 Thine own above thyself made lord, — 
 Of self-i'ebuke the bitterest. 
 
 Unto the man of yearning thought 
 And aspiration, to do nought 
 Is in itself almost an act, — 
 Being chasm-fire and cataract 
 Of the soul's utter depths unseal'd. 
 Yet woe to tliee if once thou yield 
 Unto tlie act of doing nought ! 
 
 H(jw callous seems beyond revoke 
 The clock with its last listless stroke ! 
 How much too late at length ! — to trace 
 The hour on its forewarning face. 
 The thing thou hast not dared to do ! . . . . 
 Behold, this may be thvis ! Ere true 
 It prove, arise and bear thy yoke. 
 
 Let lore of all Theology 
 
 Be to thy soul what it can be : 
 
 But know, — the Power that fashions man 
 
 Measured not out thy little span 
 
 For thee to take the meting-rod 
 
 In turn, and so approve on God 
 
 Thy science of Theometry. 
 
 To God at best, to Chance at worst. 
 Give thanks for good things, last as first. 
 But windstrown blossom is that good 
 Whose apple is not gratitude. 
 Even if no prayer uplift thy face. 
 Let the sweet right to render grace 
 As thy soul's cherished child be nurs'd. 
 
 Didst ever say, " Lo, I forget? " 
 Such thought was to I'emember yet. 
 As in a gravegarth. count \,o see 
 Tlie monuments of memory. 
 
 Be this thy soul's appointed scope : — 
 Gaze onward without claim to hope, 
 Nor, gazing backward, court regret. 
 
 1881. 
 ON BURNS 
 
 In whomsoe'er, since Poesj'' began, 
 A Poet most of all men we may scan. 
 Burns of all poets is the most a Man . 
 
 1886. 
 
 FIVE ENGLISH POETS 
 
 I. THOMAS CHATTERTON 
 
 With Shakespeare's manhood at a boy's 
 wild heart, — 
 
 Through Hamlet's doubt to ShakespeSre 
 near allied, 
 
 And kin to Milton through his Satan's 
 pride. — 
 
 At Death's sole door he stooped, and 
 craved a dart ; 
 
 And to the dear new bower of England's 
 art, — 
 
 Even to that shrine Time else had dei- 
 fied. 
 
 The unuttered heart that soared against 
 his side, — 
 
 Drove the fell point, and smote life's 
 seals apart. 
 
 Thy nested home-loves, noble Chatter- 
 ton ; 
 
 The angel-trodden stair thy soul could 
 trace 
 
 Up Redcliffe's spire : and in the world's 
 armed space 
 
 Thy gallant sword-play : — these to many 
 an one 
 
 Are sweet for ever ; as thy grave un- 
 known 
 
 And love-di-eam of thine unrecorded 
 face. 
 
 II. WILLIAM BLAKE 
 
 (To Frederick Shields, on his Sketch of 
 Blake's work-room and death-room, 3 ForN- 
 TAiN Court, Strand.) 
 
 This is the place. Even here the daunt- 
 less soul. 
 
 The unflinching hand, wrouglit on ; till 
 in that nook, 
 
 As on that very bed, his life partook 
 
 New birth, and passed. Yon river's 
 dusky shoal. 
 
 Whereto the close-built coiling lanes 
 unroll. 
 
 Faced his work-window, whence his 
 eyes would stare, 
 
8l2 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Thought- wandering, unto nouglit that 
 
 met them there, 
 But to tlie unfettered irreversible goal. 
 This cupboard, Holy of Holies, held the 
 
 cloud 
 Of his soul writ and limned ; this other 
 
 one. 
 His true wife's charge, full oft to their 
 
 abode 
 Yielded for daily bread the martyr's 
 
 stone, 
 Ere yet their food might be that Bread 
 
 alone, 
 The words now home-speecli of the 
 
 mouth of God. 
 
 *II1. SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 
 
 His Soul fared forth (as from the deep 
 home-grove 
 
 The father-songster plies the hour-long 
 quest,) 
 
 To feed liis soul-brood hungei'ing in the 
 nest ; 
 
 But his warm Heart, the mother-bird, 
 above 
 
 Tlieir callow fledgling progeny still hove 
 
 With tented roof of wings and fostering 
 breast 
 
 Till the Soul fed the soul-brood. Richly 
 blest 
 
 From Heaven their growth, whose food 
 was Human Love. 
 
 Yet ah ! Like desert pools that show 
 the stars 
 
 Once in long leagues. — even such the 
 scarce-snatched hours 
 
 Which deepening pain left to his lord- 
 liest powers :— 
 
 Heaven lost tlirougli sj)ider-trammelled 
 prison-bars. 
 
 Six years, from sixty saved ! Yet kin- 
 dling skies 
 
 Own tliem, a beacon to our centuries. 
 
 IV. JOHN KEATS 
 
 The weltering London ways where chil- 
 dren weep 
 
 And girls whom none call maidens 
 laugh, ^ — strange road 
 
 Miring his outward steps, who inly 
 trode 
 
 The bright Castalian brink and Latmos' 
 steep : — 
 
 Even such his life's cross-paths ; till 
 deathly deep 
 
 He toiled til rough sands of Lethe; and 
 long pain, 
 
 Weary with labor spurned and love 
 found vain, 
 
 In dead Rome's sheltering shadow wrap- 
 ped his sleep. 
 
 pang-dowered Poet, whose reverber- 
 
 ant lips 
 
 And heart-strung lyre awoke the Moon's 
 eclipse, — 
 
 Thou wlioin tlie daisies glor/ in grow- 
 ing o'er. — 
 
 Their fragrance clings around thy name, 
 not writ 
 
 But rumor'd in water, while the fame 
 of it 
 
 Along Time's flood goes echoing ever- 
 more. 
 
 V. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 
 
 (INSCRIPTION FOR THE COUCH, STILL PRESERVED, 
 ON WHICH HE PASSED THE LAST NIGHT OF HIS 
 LIFE.) 
 
 'TwiXT those twin worlds, — the world of 
 
 Sleep, which gave 
 No dream to warm, — the tidal world of 
 
 Death, 
 Which the earth's sea, as the earth, re- 
 
 plenisheth, — 
 Shelley, Song's orient sun, to breast the 
 
 wave. 
 Rose from this couch that morn. Ah ! 
 
 did he brave 
 Only tlie sea? — or did man's deed of hell 
 Engulf his bark 'mid mists impene- 
 trable? . . . 
 No eye discerned, nor any power might 
 
 save. 
 When that mist cleared, O Shelley ! 
 
 what dread veil 
 Was rent for thee, to whom far-darkling 
 
 Truth 
 Reigned sovereign guide through thy 
 
 brief ageless youtli ? 
 AVas the Truth thy Truth, Shelley?— 
 
 Hush ! All-Hail, 
 Past doubt, thou gav'st it ; and in 
 
 Truth's bright sphere 
 Art first of praisers, being most praised 
 
 here. 1881. 
 
 THE KING'S TRAGEDY 
 
 James I of Scots.— 20th February, 
 1437. 
 
 1 Catherine am a Douglas born, 
 A name to all Scots dear ; 
 
 And Kate Barlass they've called me now 
 Through many a waning year. 
 
ROSSETTi 
 
 813 
 
 This old arm's withered now. 'T was 
 once 
 
 Most deft 'mong maidens all 
 To rein the steed, to wing the shaft, 
 
 To smite the palm-play ball. 
 
 In hall adown the close-linked dance 
 
 It lias shone most white and fair ; 
 It lias been the rest for a true lord's head, 
 And many a sweet babe's nnrsing-bed, 
 And the bar to a King's cliambere. 
 
 Aye, lasses, draw round Kate Barlass, 
 
 And hark with bated brenth 
 How good King James, King Robert's 
 son, 
 
 Was foully done to death. 
 
 Through all the days of liis gallant youth 
 Tlie princel}^ James was pent. 
 
 By his friends at first and tlien by his 
 foes. 
 In long imprisonment. 
 
 For the elder Prince, the kingdom's heir, 
 Bj' treason's murderous brood 
 
 Was slain ; and the fatlier quaked for 
 the child 
 With the royal mortal blood. 
 
 I' the Bass Rock fort, by his father's care. 
 
 Was his childhood's life assured ; 
 And Henry the subtle Bolingbroke, 
 Proud England's King, 'neatli the south- 
 ron yoke 
 His youth for long years immured. 
 
 Yet in all things meet for a kingly man 
 
 Himself did he approve ; 
 And the nightingale through his prison- 
 wall 
 
 Taught him both lore and love. 
 
 For once, wiienthe bird's song drew him 
 close 
 
 To the opened window-pane. 
 In her bowers beneath a lady stood, 
 A light of life to his sorrowful mood. 
 
 Like a lily amid the rain. 
 
 And for her sake, to the sweet bird's note. 
 
 He framed a sweeter Song, 
 More sweet than ever a poet's heart 
 
 Gave yet to the English tongue. 
 
 She w^as a lady of royal blood ; 
 
 And when, past sorrow and teen. 
 He stood where still through his crown- 
 less years 
 
 His Scottish realm had been, 
 
 At Scone were the happy lovers crowned, 
 A lieart-wed King and Queen. 
 
 But the bird may fall from the bough of 
 youth, 
 And song be turned to moan, 
 And Love's storm-cloud be the shadow 
 
 of Hate, 
 When the tempest-waves of a troubled 
 State 
 Are beating against a throne. 
 
 Yet well they loved ; and the god of Love, 
 Whom well the King had sung, 
 
 Blight find on the earth no truer hearts 
 His lowliest swains among. 
 
 From the days when first she rode abroad 
 With Scottish maids in her train, 
 
 I Catherine Douglas won the trust 
 Of my mistress, sweet Queen Jane. 
 
 And oft she sighed, "To be born a 
 King I " 
 
 And oft along the way 
 Wlien slie saw the homely lovers pass 
 
 She has said, " Alack the day ! " 
 
 Years waned, — the loving and toiling 
 years : 
 Till England's wrong renewed 
 Drove James, by outrage cast on his 
 crown. 
 To the open field of feud. 
 
 'T was when the King and liishost were 
 met 
 
 At the leaguer of Roxbro' hold. 
 The Queen o' the sudden sought his camp 
 
 With a tale of dread to be told. 
 
 And she showed him a secret letter writ 
 Tliat spoke of treasonous strife. 
 
 And how a band of his noblest lords 
 Were sworn to take his life. 
 
 " And it may be here or it may be tliere, 
 In the camp or the court," she said : 
 
 " But for my sake come to your people's 
 arms 
 And guard your royal head." 
 
 Quoth he, " 'T is the fifteenth day of the 
 siege. 
 And the castle 's nigh to yield." 
 " O face your foes on your throne," she 
 cried, 
 "And show the power you wield ; 
 And under j^our Scottish jieople's love 
 You sliall sit as under your shield." 
 
;i4 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 At the fair Queen's side I stood that day 
 When lie bade them raise the siege, 
 
 And back to liis Court he sped to know 
 How the lords would meet their Liege. 
 
 But when he summoned his Parliament, 
 The louring brows hung round. 
 
 Like clouds tliat circle the mountain- 
 head 
 Ere the first low thunders sound. 
 
 For he had tamed the nobles' lust 
 And curbed their power and pride, 
 
 And reached out an arm to right the 
 poor 
 Through Scotland far and wide ; 
 
 And many a lordly wa-ong-doer 
 By the headsman's axe had died. 
 
 'T was then upspoke Sir Robert Graeme, 
 The bold o'ermastering man : — 
 
 " O King, in the name of your Three 
 Estates 
 I set you under their ban ! 
 
 " For, as your lords made oath to you 
 
 Of service and fealty. 
 Even in likewise you pledged your oath 
 
 Tlieir faithful sire to be : — 
 
 " Yet all we here that are nobly sprung 
 Have mourned dear kith and kin 
 
 Since first for the Scottish Barons' curse 
 Did your bloody rule begin." 
 
 Witli that he laid his hands on his 
 King :— 
 " Is this not so, my lords ?" 
 But of all who had sworn to league with 
 him 
 Not one spake back to his words. 
 
 Quoth the King : — " Thou speak'st but 
 for one Estate, 
 Nor doth it avow thy gage. 
 Let my liege lords hale this traitor 
 hence ! " 
 The Greeme fired dark with rage : — 
 " Who works for lesser men than liimself , 
 He earns but a witless wage ! " 
 
 But soon from the dungeon where he lay 
 
 He won by privy plots, 
 And forth he fled with a price on his 
 head 
 
 To the country of the Wild Scots. 
 
 And word there came from Sir Robert 
 Graeme 
 To the King at Edinbro' : — 
 
 " No Liege of mine thou art ; but I see 
 From this day forth alone in thee 
 God's creature, my mortal foe. 
 
 " Through thee are my wife and children 
 lost, 
 
 My heritage and lands ; 
 And when my God shall show me a way, 
 Thyself my mortal foe will I slay 
 
 With these my proper hands." 
 
 Against the coming of Cliristmastide 
 That year the King bade call 
 
 I' the Black Friars' Charterhouse of Perth 
 A solemn festival. 
 
 And we of his household rode with him 
 
 In a close-ranked company ; 
 But not till the sun liad sunk from his 
 throne 
 
 Did we reach the Scottish Sea. 
 
 That eve was clenched for a boding storm, 
 'Neath a toilsome moon half seen ; 
 
 The cloud stooped low and the surf 
 rose liigh : 
 
 And where tliere was a line of the sky, 
 Wild wings loomed dark between. 
 
 And on a rock of the black beach-side, 
 B\^ the veiled moon dimly lit, . 
 
 There was something seemed to heave 
 with life 
 As tlie King drew nigh to it. 
 
 And was it only the tossing furze 
 Or brake of the waste sea- wold ? 
 
 Or was it an eagle bent to the blast ? 
 
 When near we came, we knew it at last 
 For a woman tattered and old. 
 
 But it seemed as though by a fire within 
 Her writhen limbs were wrung ; 
 
 And as soon as the King was close to her. 
 She stood up gaunt and strong. 
 
 'T was then the moon sailed clear of the 
 rack 
 
 On high in her hollow dome ; 
 And still as aloft with hoary crest 
 
 Each clamorous wave rang home, 
 Like fire in snow the moonlight blazed 
 
 Amid the champing foam. 
 
 And the woman held his eyes with her 
 eyes : — 
 " O King, thou art come at last ; 
 But thy wraith has haunted the Scottish 
 Sea 
 To my sight for four years past. 
 
ROSSETTI 
 
 815 
 
 " Four years it is since first I met, 
 'Twixt the Duchray and the Dhii, 
 
 A shape whose feet chmg close in a 
 shroud, 
 And that shape for thine I knew. 
 
 " A year again, and on Inchkeith Isle 
 I saw thee pass in the breeze, 
 
 With the cerecloth risen above thy feet 
 And wound about thy knees, 
 
 " And yet a year, in the Links of Forth, 
 
 As a wanderer without rest, 
 Thou cam'st with both tliine arms i' 
 the shroud 
 
 That clung high up thy breast. 
 
 " And in this hour I find thee here, 
 And well mine eyes maj^ note 
 
 That the winding-sheet hath passed thy 
 breast 
 And risen around thy throat. 
 
 " And when I meet thee again, O King, 
 
 That of death hast sucli sore drouth, — 
 
 Except thou turn again on this shore, — 
 
 The winding-sheet shall have moveil 
 
 once more 
 
 And covered thine eyes and mouth. 
 
 "O King, whom poor men bless for 
 their King, 
 Of thy fate be not so fain ; 
 But these my words for God's message 
 
 take. 
 And turn thy steed, O King, for her sake 
 Who rides beside thy rein ! " 
 
 While the w^oman spoke, the King's 
 horse reared 
 As if it would breast the sea. 
 And the Queen turned pale as she heard 
 on the gale 
 The voice die dolorously. 
 
 When the woman ceased, the steed was 
 still, 
 
 But the King gazed on her yet. 
 And in silence save for the wail of the sea 
 
 His eyes and her eyes met. 
 
 At last he said : — " God's ways are His 
 own; 
 
 Man is but shadow and dust. 
 Last night I prayed by His altar-stone ; 
 To-night I wend to the feast of His Son ; 
 
 And in Him I set my trust. 
 
 " I have held my people in sacred charge. 
 And have not feared the sting 
 
 Of proud men's hate, — to His will resign'd 
 Who has but one same death for a hind 
 And one same death for a King. 
 
 • ' And if God in His wisdom have brought 
 close 
 
 The dax when I must die. 
 That day by water or fire or air 
 My feet shall fall in the destined snare 
 
 Wherever my road may lie. 
 
 " What man can say but the Fiend hath 
 set 
 
 Thy sorcery on my path, 
 yiy heart with the fear of death to fill, 
 And turn me against God's very will 
 
 To sink in His burning wrath ? " 
 
 The woman stood as the train rode past, 
 And moved nor limb nor eye ; 
 
 And when we were shipped, we saw her 
 there 
 Still standing against the sky. 
 
 As the ship made way, the moon once 
 more 
 Sank slow in her rising pall ; 
 And I thought of the shrouded wraith 
 of the King, 
 And I said, " The Heavens know all." 
 
 And now, ye lasses, must ye hear 
 How mj' name is Kate Barlass : — 
 
 But a little thing, when all the tale 
 Is told of the weary mass 
 
 Of crime and woe which in Scotland's 
 realm 
 God's will let come to pass. 
 
 'T was in the Charterhouse of Perth 
 That the King and all his Court 
 
 Were met, the Christmas Feast being 
 done. 
 For solace and disport. 
 
 'T was a wind-wild eve in February, 
 And against the casement-pane 
 
 The branches smote like summoning 
 hands 
 And muttered the driving rain. 
 
 And when the wind swooped over the 
 lift 
 
 And made the whole heaven frown, 
 It seemed a grip was laid on the walls 
 
 To tug the housetop down. 
 
 And the Queen was there, more stately 
 fair 
 Than a lily in garden set ; 
 
8i6 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 And the king was lotli to stir from her 
 
 side ; 
 For as on the day when slie was liis bride, 
 Even so he loved her yet. 
 
 And the Earl of Athole, the King's false 
 friend, 
 
 Sat with him at the board ; * 
 And Robert Stuart the clianiberlain 
 
 Who had sold his sovereign Lord. 
 
 Yet the traitor Christopher Chaumber 
 there 
 Would fain have told him all,. 
 And vainly four times that night he 
 strove 
 To reach the King through the hall. 
 
 But the wine is bright at the goblet's 
 briin 
 
 Though the poison lurk beneath ; 
 And the apples still are red on tlie tree 
 Within whose shade may the adder be 
 
 That sliall turn thy life to death. 
 
 There was a knight of the King's fast 
 friends 
 
 Whom he called the King of Love ; 
 And to sucli bright clieer and courtesy 
 
 That name might best behove. 
 
 And the King and Queen both loved 
 him well 
 For his gentle knightliness ; 
 And with him the King, as that eve 
 woi-e on, 
 Was playing at the chess. 
 
 And the King said, (for he thouglit to 
 jest 
 
 And soothe the Queen thereby ;) — 
 *' In a book 't is writ that this same year 
 
 A King shall in Scotland die. 
 
 " And I have pondered the matter o'er, 
 And this have I found. Sir Hugh, — 
 
 There are but two Kings on Scottish 
 ground. 
 And tliose Kings are I and you. 
 
 " And I have a wife and a newborn heir, 
 And you are yourself alone ; 
 
 So stand you stark at my side with me 
 To guard our double throne. 
 
 *' For here sit I and my wife and child. 
 As well your heart shall approve. 
 
 In full surrender and soothfastness, 
 Beneath your Kingiloni of Love." 
 
 And the Knight lauglied, and the Queen 
 too smiled ; 
 But I knew her heavy thought, 
 And I strove to find in the good King's 
 jest 
 What cheer might thence be wrought. 
 
 And I said, "My Liege, for the Queen's 
 dear love 
 Now sing the song that of old 
 You made, when a captive Prince j'ou 
 
 lay, 
 And the nightingale sang sweet on the 
 spray. 
 In Windsor's castle-hold." 
 
 Then he smiled the smile I knew so well 
 When he thought to please the Queen ; 
 
 The smile which under all bitter frowns 
 Of hate that rose between. 
 
 For ever dwelt at the poet's heart 
 Like the bird of love unseen. 
 
 And he kissed lier hand and took his 
 harp. 
 And the music sweetly rang ; 
 And when tlie song burst fortli, it 
 seemed 
 'T was the nightingale that sang. 
 
 " Wors]ii2), ye lovers, on this May : 
 Of bliss your kalends are begun : 
 Sing with us, Airay. Winter, away ! 
 Come, Summer, the sweet season and 
 
 sun ! 
 Awake for slianie, — your heaven is 
 icon, — 
 A7id <(mo7-ously your heads lift all : 
 Tliunk Love, that you to his grace doth 
 call ! " 
 
 But when he bent to the Queen, and 
 sang 
 The speech whose praise was hers. 
 It seemed his voice was tlie voice of the 
 Spring 
 And the voice of the bygone years. 
 
 " The fairest and the freshest flotver 
 That ever I saw before that hour. 
 The which o' the sudden made to start 
 The bloi>d of my body to my heart. 
 ****** 
 
 Ah stveet, are ye a ivorldly creature 
 Or heavenly thing in form of nature ? " 
 
 And the song was long, and richly stored 
 
 Witli wonder and beauteous things : 
 And tlie harp was tuned to every change 
 
ROSSETTl 
 
 817 
 
 Of iiiiustrel mini.sterings ; 
 But wlien he spoke of tlie Queen at the 
 hist. 
 Its strings were his own heart-strings. 
 
 " Umoorthy hat only of her grace. 
 
 Upon Love's rock thaVs easy and sure, 
 
 III guerdon of all my love's space 
 She took ine her hiuable creature. 
 Thus fell my blissfnl aventure 
 
 In youth of love that from day to day 
 
 Flowereth aye new, and further I say. 
 
 " To reckon all the circumstance 
 As it happed when lessen gan my sore. 
 
 Of my rancor and wofnl chance. 
 It were too long, — I have done therefor. 
 And of this flower I say no more 
 
 Bid unto my help her heart hath tended 
 
 And even from death her man defended.'' 
 
 "Aye, even from death," to myself I 
 said ; 
 For I thought of the day wlien she 
 Had borne him the news, at Roxbro' 
 siege. 
 Of the fell confederacy. 
 
 But Death even then took aim as he sang 
 
 With an arrow deadly bright ; 
 And the grinning skull lurked grimly 
 
 aloof, 
 Antl tlie wings were spread far over the 
 roof 
 More dark than the winter night. 
 
 Yet truly along the amorous song 
 Of Love's high pomp and state, 
 
 There were words of Fortune's trackless 
 doom 
 And the dreadful face of Fate. 
 
 And oft have I lieard again in dreams 
 
 The voice of dire appeal 
 In which the King then sang of the pit 
 
 That is under Fortune's wlieel. 
 
 " And under the tvheel beheld I there 
 An ugly Pit as deep as hell. 
 
 That to behold I quaked for fear : 
 And this I heard, thai wJio therein fell 
 Came no more up, tidings to tell : 
 
 Whereat, astoiind of the fearfid sight, 
 
 I loist not lohat to do for fright.''' 
 
 And oft has my thought called up again 
 These words of the changeful song : — 
 " Wist thou thy pain and thy travail 
 To come, ivell might'st thou weep and 
 wail ! " 
 And our wail, O God ! is long. 
 
 52 
 
 But tlie song's end was all of his love ; 
 
 And well his lieart was grac'd 
 With her smiling lips and her tear-bright 
 eyes 
 
 As his arm went round her waist. 
 
 And on the swell of her long fair throat 
 
 Close clung the necklet-chain 
 As he bent her pearl-tir'd head aside, 
 And in the warmtli of his love and pride 
 He kissed her lips full fain. 
 
 And her ti'ue face was a rosy red, 
 
 Tlie very red of the rose 
 Tliat, couched on tlie liappy garden-bed, 
 
 In the summer sunlight glows. 
 
 And all the wondrous things of love 
 That sang so sweet through the song 
 
 Were in the look that met in their eyes, 
 And the look was deep and long. 
 
 "T was then a knock came at the outer 
 gate. 
 And the visher sought the King. 
 "The woman you met by the Scottish 
 Sea, 
 My Liege, would tell you a thing ; 
 And she says that her present need for 
 speech 
 Will bear no gainsaying." 
 
 And the King said : — "The hour is late ; 
 To-morrow will serve, I ween." 
 Then he charged the usher strictly, and 
 said : 
 " No woi'd of this to the Queen." 
 
 But the usher came again to the King, 
 " Sliall I call her back? "quoth he : 
 
 " For as she went on her way, she cried, 
 • Woe ! Woe ! then the thing must 
 be!'" 
 
 And the King paused, but he did not 
 speak. 
 
 Then he called for the Voidee-cup : 
 And as we heard tlie twelfth hour strike. 
 There by true lips and false lips alike 
 
 Was the draught of trust drained up. 
 
 So with reverence meet to King and 
 Queen, 
 
 To bed went all from the board ; 
 And tlie last to leave of the courtly ti'ain 
 Was Robert Stuart the chamberlain 
 
 Who had sold his sovereign lord. 
 
 And all tlie locks of the eliainber-door 
 Had the traitor riven and brast ; 
 
8i8 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 And tliat Fate might win sure way from 
 
 afar, 
 He had drawn out every bolt and bar 
 Tliat made the entrance fast. 
 
 And now at midnight he stole his way 
 To the moat of the outer wall, 
 
 And laid strong liurdles closely across 
 Where the traitors' tread should fall. 
 
 But we that were the Queen's bower- 
 maids 
 Alone were left behind ; 
 And with heed we drew the curtains 
 close 
 Against the winter wind. 
 
 And now that all was still through the 
 hall, 
 
 More clearly we heard the rain 
 That clamored ever against the glass 
 
 And the boughs that beat on the pane. 
 
 But the fire was bright in the ingle-nook, 
 
 And through empty space around 
 The shadows cast on tlie arras'd wall 
 'Mid the pictured kings stood sudden and 
 tall 
 Like spectres sjirung from the ground. 
 
 And the bed was dight in a deep alcove ; 
 
 And as he stood by the fire 
 The king was still in talk witli the Queen 
 
 While he doffed his goodly attire. 
 
 And the song had brought the image 
 back 
 Of many a bygone year ; 
 And many a loving word they said 
 With hand in hand and head laid to 
 head ; 
 And none of us went anear. 
 
 But Love was weeping outside the house, 
 
 A child in the piteous rain ; 
 And as he watched the arrow of Death, 
 He wailed for his own shafts close in the 
 sheath 
 
 That never should fly again. 
 
 And now beneath the window arose 
 
 A wild voice suddenly : 
 And the King reared straight, but the 
 Queen fell back 
 
 As for bitter dule to dree ; 
 And all of us knew the woman's voice 
 
 Who spoke by the Scottish Sea. 
 
 " O King," she cried, "in an evil hour 
 They drove me from thy gate ; 
 
 And yet my voice must rise to thine 
 ears ; 
 But alas ! it comes too late ! 
 
 " Last night at mid-watch, by Aberdour, 
 When tlie moon was dead in the skies 
 
 O King, in a death-light of thine own 
 I saw thy shape arise. 
 
 " And in full season, as erst I said, 
 The doom had gained its growth ; 
 
 And the shroud had risen above tliy neck 
 And covered thine eyes and mouth. 
 
 " And no moon woke, but the pale dawn 
 broke, 
 And still tliy soul stood there ; 
 And I thought its silence cried to mj' 
 soul 
 As the first rays crowned its hair. 
 
 " Since then have I journeyed fast and 
 fain 
 In very despite of Fate, 
 Lest Hope might still be found in God's 
 will : 
 But they drove me from thy gate. 
 
 " For every man on God's ground, O 
 King, 
 His death grows up from his birth 
 In a sliadow-plant perpetually ; 
 And thine towers high, a black yew- 
 tree. 
 O'er the Charterhouse of Perth ! " 
 
 That room was built far out from the 
 house ; 
 
 And none but we in the room 
 Might liear the voice that rose beneath, 
 
 Nor the tread of the coming doom. 
 
 For now there came a torchlight-glare, 
 And a clang of arms there came ; 
 
 And not a soul in that space but thought 
 Of the foe Sir Robert Graeme. 
 
 Yea. from the country of the Wild Scots, 
 O'er mountain, valley, and glen. 
 
 He had brought with him in mvirderous 
 league 
 Three hundred armed men. 
 
 The King knew all in an instant's flash, 
 And like a King did he stand ; 
 
 But there was no armor in all the room, , 
 Nor weapon lay to his hand. 
 
 And all we women flew to the door 
 And thought to have made it fast : 
 
ROSSETTI 
 
 819 
 
 But tlie bolts were gone and tlie bars 
 were gone 
 And the locks were riven and brast. 
 
 And he caught the pale queen in his 
 arms 
 As tlie iron footsteps fell, — 
 Tlien loosed her, standing alone, and 
 said, 
 " Our bliss was our farewell ! " 
 
 And 'twixt his lips he murmured a 
 prayer, 
 
 And lie crossed his brow and breast ; 
 And proudly in royal hardihood 
 Even so with folded arms lie stood, — 
 
 Tlie prize of the bloody quest. 
 
 Then on me leaped the Queen like a 
 deer : 
 " Catherine, help ! " she cried. 
 And low at his feet we clasped his knees 
 
 Together side by side. 
 " Oh ! even a King, for his people's 
 sake. 
 From treasonous death must hide ! " 
 
 "For her sake most!" I cried, and I 
 marked 
 The pang that my words would wring. 
 And the iron tongs from the chimnej'- 
 nook 
 I snatched and held to the King : — 
 '"Wrench up the plank ! and the vault 
 beneath 
 Shall yield safe harboring." 
 
 With brows low-bent, from mj"^ eager 
 hand 
 The heavy heft did he take ; 
 And the plank at his feet he wrenched 
 
 and tore ; 
 And as he frowned through the open 
 floor, 
 Again I said, " For her sake ! " 
 
 Then he cried to the Queen, " God's will 
 be done ! " 
 For her hands were clasped in prayer. 
 And down he sprang to the inner crypt ; 
 And straight we closed the plank he had 
 ripp'd 
 And toiled to smoothe it fair. 
 
 (Alas ! in that vault a gap once was 
 Wlierethro' the King might have fled ; 
 
 But three days since close- walled had it 
 been [therein 
 
 By his will ; for the ball would roll 
 When without at the palm he play'd.) 
 
 Then the Queen cried, " Catherine, keep 
 the door, 
 And I to this will suffice ! " 
 At her word I rose all dazed to my 
 feet, 
 And my heart was fire and ice. 
 
 And louder ever the voices grew, 
 
 And the tramp of men in mail ; 
 
 Until to my brain it seemed to be 
 
 As thougli I tossed on a ship at sea 
 
 In the teeth of a crasliing gale. 
 
 Then back I flew to the rest ; and hard 
 
 We strove with sinews knit 
 To force the table against the door ; 
 
 But we might not compass it. 
 
 Then my wild gaze sped far down the 
 hall 
 To the place of the hearthstone-sill ; 
 And the Queen bent ever above tiie 
 floor, 
 For the plank was rising still. 
 
 And now the rush was heard on the 
 stair. 
 
 And " God, what help? " was our cry. 
 And was I frenzied or was I bold ? 
 I looked at each empty stanchion-hold. 
 
 And no bar but my arm had I ! 
 
 Like iron felt my arm, as through 
 
 The staple I made it pass : — 
 Alack ! it was flesh and bone — no more ! 
 'T was Catherine Douglas sprang to the 
 door, 
 
 But I fell back Kate Barlass. 
 
 With that they all thronged into the 
 hall. 
 
 Half dim to my failing ken ; 
 And the space that was but a void before 
 
 Was a crowd of wrathful men. 
 Behind the door I had fall'n and lay. 
 
 Yet my sense was wildly aware. 
 And for all the pain of my shattered 
 arm 
 
 I never fainted there. 
 
 Even as I fell, my eyes wei-e cast 
 
 Where the King leaped down to the 
 pit ; 
 And lo ! the plank was smootli in its 
 place. 
 And the Queen stood far from it. 
 
 And under the litters and through the 
 bed 
 And within the presses all 
 
820 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 The traitors sought for the King, and 
 pierced 
 The arras around the wall. 
 
 And through the chamber they ramped 
 and stormed 
 Like lions loose in the lair, 
 And scarce could trust to their very 
 eyes.— 
 For beliold ! no King was there. 
 
 Than one of tliem seized the Queen, and 
 cried. — 
 " Now tell us, where is thy lord ? " 
 And he lield tlie sharp point over lier 
 lieart : [start. 
 
 She drooped not her eyes nor did she 
 But she answered never a word. 
 
 Then the sword half pierced the true 
 true breast : 
 But it was the Graeme's own son 
 Cried, " This is a woman, — we seek a 
 man ! " 
 And away from her girdle-zone 
 He struck the point of the murderous 
 steel ; 
 And that foul deed was not done. 
 
 And forth flowed all the throiig like a 
 sea, 
 And 't was'empty space once more ; 
 And my e)^es sought out the wounded 
 Queen 
 As I lay behind the door. 
 
 And I said : " Dear Lady, leave me here. 
 
 For I cannot help j^ou now ; 
 But fly wliile you may, and none shall 
 reck 
 
 Of my place here lying low." 
 
 And she said, " My Catherine, God help 
 
 thee ! " 
 
 Then she looked to the distant floor. 
 
 And clasping her hands, " Oh God help 
 
 him," 
 
 She sobbed, " for we can no more ! " 
 
 But God He knows what help may mean. 
 
 If it mean to live or to die ; 
 And wliat sore sorrow and mighty moan 
 On earth it may cost ere yet a throne 
 
 Be filled in His house on high. 
 
 And now tlie ladies fled with the Queen i 
 
 And through the open door 
 The night-wind wailed round the empty 
 room 
 
 And the rushes shook on tlie floor. 
 
 And the bed drooped low iu the dark re- 
 cess 
 Whence the arras was rent away ; 
 And the firelight still siione over the 
 space 
 Where our hidden secret lay. 
 
 And tlie rain had ceased, and the moon- 
 beams lit 
 The window higli in the wall, — 
 Bright beams that on tlie pUink tliat I 
 knew 
 Through the painted pane did fall 
 And gleamed with tiie splendor of 
 Scotland's crow^n 
 And shield armorial. 
 
 But then a great wind swept up the skies, 
 And the climbing moon fell back ; 
 
 And the royal blazon fled from the floor. 
 And nought remained on its track ; 
 
 And high in the darkened window-pane 
 The sliield and the crown were black. 
 
 And what I say next I partly saw 
 
 And partly I heard in sooth, 
 And jiartly since from the murderers' 
 lips 
 
 Tlie torture wrung the truth. 
 
 For now again came the armed tread 
 And fast through the liall it fell ; 
 
 But the throng was less ; and ere I saw, 
 By the voice without I could tell 
 
 That Robert Stuart Iiad come with them 
 Who knew that chamber well. 
 
 And over the space the Graeme strode 
 dark 
 
 With his mantle round him flung ; 
 And in his eye was a flaming light 
 
 But not a word on his tongue. 
 
 And Stuart held a torch to the floor. 
 And he found the thing he souglit ; 
 
 And tliey slashed the plank away with 
 tlieir swords ; 
 And O God ! I fainted not ! 
 
 And the traitor held liis torch in tlie gap. 
 All smoking and smouldering ; 
 
 And through the vapor and fire, beneath 
 In the dark crypt's narrow ring, 
 
 With a shout that pealed to the room's 
 higii roof 
 Tliey saw their naked King, 
 
 Half naked he stood, but stood as one 
 Who yet could do and dare : 
 
ROSSETTI 
 
 821 
 
 With the crown, the King was stript 
 
 away, — ■ 
 Tlie Kuigiit was reft of his battle- 
 
 aira}', — 
 But still the Man was there. 
 
 From the rout then stepped a villain 
 forth,— 
 Sir John Hall was his name ; 
 With a knife unsheathed he leapt to the 
 vault 
 Beneath the torchlight-flame. 
 
 Of liis person and stature was the King 
 
 A man right manly strong. 
 And miglitily by tlie shoulder-blades 
 
 His foe to "his feet he flung. 
 
 Then the traitor's brother, Sir Thomas 
 Hall, 
 Sprang down to work his worst ; 
 And the King caught the second man 
 by the neck 
 And flung him above the first. 
 
 And he smote and trampled them 
 under him ; 
 And a long month thence they bare 
 All black their throats vi^ith the grip of 
 his hands 
 When the hangman's hand came there. 
 
 And sore he strove to have had their 
 knives. 
 But the sharp blades gashed his hands. 
 Oh James ! so armed, thou hadst battled 
 there 
 Till lielp had come of thy bands ; 
 And oh ! once more thou hadst iield ovir 
 throne 
 And ruled thy Scottish lands ! 
 
 But while the King o'er his foes still 
 raged 
 AVith a heart that nought could tame. 
 Another man sprang down to the crypt ; 
 And with his sword in his hand hard- 
 gripp'd 
 There stood Sir Robert Graeme. 
 
 (Now shame on the recreant traitor's 
 heart 
 
 Who durst not face his King 
 Till the body unarmed was wearied out 
 
 With two-fold combating ! 
 
 Ah ! well might the people sing and say. 
 
 As oft ye liave heard aright : — 
 " O Robert Grceme, O Robert Gvceme, 
 
 Who slew our King, God give thee 
 shame ! " 
 For he slew him not as a knight.) 
 
 And the naked King turned round at bay. 
 
 But his strengtli had passed the goal, 
 
 And he could but gasp : — " Mine hour is 
 
 come ; 
 But oil ! to succor thine own soul's 
 doom , 
 Let a priest now shrive my soul ! " 
 
 And the traitor looked on the King's 
 spent streiigtii, 
 And said : — " Have I kept my word ? — 
 Yea, King, the mortal pledge that I 
 
 gave ? 
 No black friar's shrift thy soul shall save, 
 But the shrift of this red sword ! " 
 
 With that he smote his King through 
 the breast ; 
 And all they three in that pen 
 Fell on him and stabbed and stabbed him 
 there 
 Like merciless murderous men. 
 
 Yet seemed it now that Sir Robert 
 Grteme, 
 Ere the King's last breath was o'er. 
 Turned sick at heart with the deadly 
 sight 
 And would have done no more. 
 
 But a crj^ came from the troop above : 
 
 " If him thou do not slay. 
 The price of his life that thou dost spare 
 
 Thy forfeit life shall pay ! " 
 
 O God ! what more did I hear or see. 
 Or how should I tell the rest ? 
 
 But there at length our King lay slain 
 With sixteen wounds in his breast. 
 
 O God ! and now did a bell boom forth, 
 
 And the murderers tvu-ned and fled ; — 
 Too late, too late, O God, did it sound ! — 
 And I heard the true men mustering 
 round. 
 And the cries and the coming tread. 
 
 But ere they came to the black death- 
 gap 
 Somewise did I creep and steal ; 
 And lo ! or ever I swooned away. 
 Through the dusk I saw where the white 
 face lay 
 In the Pit of Fortune's Wheel. 
 
822 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 And now, ye Scottish maids who have 
 heard 
 
 Dread things of the days grown old, — 
 Even at the last, of true Queen Jane 
 
 May somewhat yet be told, 
 And how she dealt for her dear lord's sake 
 
 Dire vengeance manifold. 
 
 'T was in the Charterhouse of Perth, 
 In the fair-lit Death-chapelle, 
 
 That the slain King's corpse on bier was 
 lain 
 With chant and requiem-knell. 
 
 And all with royal wealth of balm 
 
 Was the body purified : 
 And none could trace on the brow and 
 lips 
 
 The death that he had died. 
 
 In his robes of state he lay asleep 
 With orb and sceptre in hand ; 
 
 And by the crown he wore on his throne 
 Was his kingly forehead spann'd. 
 
 And, girls, "t was a sweet sad thing to see 
 How the curling golden hair, 
 
 As in the day of the poet's youth. 
 
 From the King's crown clustered there. 
 
 And if all had come to pass in the brain 
 
 That throbbed beneath those curls, 
 Then Scots had said in the days to come 
 That this their soil was a different home 
 And a different Scotland, girls ! 
 
 And the Queen sat by him night and day, 
 
 And oft she knelt in prayer. 
 All wan and pale in the widow's veil 
 
 That shrouded her shining hair. 
 
 And I had got good help of my hurt : 
 
 And only to me some sign 
 She made ; and save the priests tliat 
 were there 
 
 No face would she see but mine. 
 
 And the month of March wore on apace ; 
 
 And now fresh couriers fared 
 Still from the country of the Wild Scots 
 
 With news of the traitors snared. 
 
 And still as I told her day by day, 
 Her pallor changed to sight, 
 
 And the frost grew to a furnace-flame 
 That burnt her visage white. 
 
 And evermore as I brought her word. 
 She bent to her dead King James, 
 
 And in tlie cold ear with fire-drawn 
 breath 
 She spoke the traitors' names. 
 
 But when the name of Sir Robert Graeme 
 Was the one she had to give, 
 
 I ran to hold her up from the floor ; 
 
 For the froth was on her lips, and sore 
 I feared that she could not live. 
 
 And the month of March wore nigh to 
 its end. 
 And still was the death-pall spread : 
 For she would not biuy her slaughtered 
 lord 
 Till his slayers all were dead. 
 
 And now of their dooms dread tidings 
 came. 
 And of torments fierce and dire ; 
 And nought she sjjake, — she had ceased 
 to speak, — 
 But her eyes were a soul on fire. 
 
 Bvit when I told her tlie bitter end 
 Of tiie stern and just award. 
 
 She leaned o'er the bier, and thrice 
 three times 
 Slie kissed the lips of her lord. 
 
 And then she said, — " My King, they are 
 dead ! " 
 And she knelt on the chapel-floor. 
 And whispered low with a strange proud 
 smile, — 
 " James, James, they suffered more ! " 
 
 Last she stood uj) to her queenly height. 
 
 But she shook like an autumn leaf. 
 As though the fire wherein she burned 
 Then left her body, and all were turned 
 To winter of life-long grief. 
 
 And "O James!" she said, — "My 
 James ! " she said. — 
 
 " Alas for the woful thing. 
 That a poet true and a friend of man, 
 In desperate days of bale and ban. 
 
 Should needs be born a King ! " 1881. 
 
e>^ • '^ x/ ' c ^ •■ // •- ^-^s ^^ 
 
 ^ - .^-r:, , ^-S? _.4^ ^ . ^-C~ . ^ ' -^ 
 
 
 MORRIS 
 
 LIST OF REFERENCES 
 
 Editions 
 
 * Poetical Works of William Morris, 11 volumes, Longmans, Green & 
 Co., 1896-8. The Earthly Paradise, 1 volume. Reeves & Turner, 1890. 
 Tlie Defence of Guenevere, Kelmscott Press, 1892. The Life and Death 
 of Jason, Kelmscott Press, 1895. The Earthly Paradise, 8 volumes, 
 1896-7. Poems by the Way, Kelmscott Press, 1891. (The four beauti- 
 ful editions last mentioned are now practically unobtainable.) 
 
 Biography 
 
 * Mackail (J. W.), Life of William Morris, 2 volumes, 1899 (The 
 standard biography). Vallance (Aymer), The late William Morris, 
 1896. * Vallance (Aymer), William Morris ; His Art, his Writings and 
 his Public Life. A Record, 1897. Cary (E. L.), William Morris : Poet, 
 Craftsman, Socialist, 1902. Clarke (William), William Morris, A Sketch 
 of the Man ; in F. W. Lee's William Morris, Poet, Artist, Socialist — A 
 Selection froui his Writings. See also S. C. Cockerell's History of the 
 Kelmscott Press, Percy H. Bate's History of the Pre-Raphaelite Move- 
 ment, and the other biographical references under Rossetti. 
 
 Criticism 
 
 Cazalis (H.) (" Jean Labor "), William Morris et le Mouvement nou- 
 veau de I'Art decoratif. Chestertox (G. K.), Twelve Types : William 
 Morris and his School. Crane (Walter), William Morris, in Scribner's 
 Magazine, July, 1897. Dowden (E.), Transcripts and Studies : Victorian 
 Literature. Forjian (H. B.), Our Living Poets. Hewlett (M.), Wil- 
 liam Morris; in The National Review, August, 1891. * Hubbard (E.), 
 The Philistine, Vol. IX, No. 4. Hubbard (E.), Little Journeys to the 
 Homes of English Authors. Lang (A.), The Poetry of William Morris ; 
 in the Contemporary Review, August, 1882. Lang (A.), William Morris's 
 Poems ; in Longman's Magazine, October, 1896. Lovett (R. M.), Wil- 
 liam Morris ; in the Harvard Monthly, 1891 ; Vol. XII, p. 149. Mackail 
 (J. W.), William Morris : An address. Myers (F. W. H.), William Mor- 
 ris and the Meaning of Life; in The Nineteenth Century, January, 1893. 
 Nordley (C. H.), Influence of Old Norse Literature upon English Litera- 
 
 823 
 
824 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 tare. Xortox (C. E.), The Life and Death of Jason ; in Tlie Nation, 
 August 22, 18G7. Faynk (W. M.), in Warner's Library of the World's 
 Best Literature. * Saintsbuky (G.), Corrected Impressions. * Suarp 
 (AV.), William Morris : The jNlan and his Work ; in The Atlantic Monthly, 
 December, 1896. Shaav (G. B.), ^Morris as Actor and Dramatist ; in The 
 Saturday Review, October 10, 1896. Shaw (G. Ix), William Morris asm 
 Socialist; in The Daily Chronicle, October 6, 1896. Stedman (E. C), 
 Victorian Poets. ** Swi:nburxe (A. C), Essays and Studies : Morris's 
 Life and Death of Jason. Symoxs (Arthur), Studies in two Literatures. 
 Watts-Duxton (T.), AVilliani Morris ; in The Athenaeum, October 10, 
 1896. Wyzewa (T. de), Ecrivains etrangers. Yeats (W. B.), Ideas of 
 Good and Evil ; The happiest of the Poets. 
 
 Dawson (W. J.), Makers of ]Modern English. Day (L. F.), Decorative 
 Art of William Morris. Galtox (A.), Urbana Scripta. Oliphaxt (Mar- 
 garet), The Victorian Age of Literature. Riegel (Julius), Die Quellen 
 von William JMorris's Dichtung " The Earthly Paradise," Erlanger Bei- 
 trage zur Englischen Philologie. Scudder (V. D.), Life of the Spirit in 
 Modern English Poetry. Sharp (Amy), Victorian Poets. 
 
 Bibliography 
 
 * Scott (Temple), A Bibliography of the Works of William Morris. 
 * FoRMAx (H. B.), The books of William Morris. 
 
 MORRIS 
 
 WINTER WEATHER 
 
 We rode together 
 
 In the winter weather 
 
 To the broad mead under the hill ; 
 Though the skies did shiver 
 With the cold, the river 
 
 Ran, and was never still. 
 
 No cloud did darken 
 
 The niglit ; we did harken 
 
 The hound's bark far away. 
 It was solemn midniglit 
 In that dread, dread night. 
 
 In the years that have pass'd for aye. 
 
 Two rode beside me, 
 My banner did hide me. 
 
 As it drooped adown from my lance ; 
 With its deep blue trapjiing. 
 The mail over-lapping. 
 
 My gallant horse did prance. 
 
 So ever together 
 
 In the sparkling weather 
 
 Moved my Ijanner and lance ; 
 And its laurel trap])ing, 
 Tlie steel over-lapping, 
 
 The stars saw quiver and dance. 
 
 We met together 
 
 In the winter weatlier 
 
 B}' the town-walls under the hill ; 
 His mail rings came clinking. 
 They broke on my thinking, 
 
 For the night was husliYl and still. 
 
 Two rode beside him. 
 His banner did liide liim. 
 
 As it drooped down straight from his 
 lance ; 
 With its blood-red trapping. 
 The mail over-lap]iing. 
 
 His mighty horse did prance. 
 
MORRIS 
 
 825 
 
 And ever together 
 
 In tlie solemn weatlier 
 
 Moved his banner and lance ; 
 And the holly trapping. 
 The steel over-lapping. 
 
 Did shimmer and shiver, and dance. 
 
 Back reined the squires 
 Till tliey saw the spires 
 
 Over the city wall ; 
 Ten fathoms between us. 
 No dames could have seen us 
 
 Tilt from the city wall. 
 
 There we sat upright 
 Till the full midnight 
 
 Should be told from the city's chimes ; 
 Sharp from the towers 
 Leaped fortli the showers 
 
 Of the many clanging rhymes. 
 
 'Twas the midnight hour. 
 Deep from the tower 
 
 Boom'd the following bell ; 
 Down go our lances. 
 Shout for the lances ! 
 
 The last toll was his knell. 
 
 There he lay, dying ; 
 He had, for his lying, 
 
 A spear in his traitorous mouth ; 
 A false tale made he 
 Of my true, true lady ; 
 
 But the spear went through his mouth. 
 
 In the winter weather 
 We rode back together 
 
 From the broad mead under tlie hill : 
 And the cock sung his warning 
 As it grew toward morning, 
 
 But the far-off hound was still. 
 
 Black grew his tower 
 As we rode down lower. 
 
 Black from the barren hill ; 
 And our horses strode 
 Up tlie winding road 
 
 To the gateway dim and still. 
 
 At the gate of his tower, 
 In the quiet hour, 
 
 We laid his body there ; 
 But his helmet broken, 
 We took as a token ; 
 
 Shout for my lady fair ! 
 
 We rode back together 
 In tlie wintry weatlier 
 
 From the broad mead under the hill ; 
 
 No cloud did darken 
 
 The night ; we did liurken 
 
 How the hound bay'd from the hill. 
 January, 1856.1 
 
 RIDING TOGETHER 
 
 For many, many days together 
 
 The wind blew steady from the East ; 
 
 For man_y days hot grew the weather. 
 About the time of our Lady's Feast. 
 
 For many days we rode together. 
 Yet met we neither friend nor foe ; 
 
 Hotter and clearer grew the weather. 
 Steadily did the East wind blow. 
 
 We saw the trees in the hot, bright 
 weatlier, 
 
 Clear-cut, with sliadows very black. 
 As freely we rode on together 
 
 With helms unlaced and bridles slack. 
 
 And often as we rode together, 
 
 We, looking down tiie green-bank'd 
 stream. 
 
 Saw flowers in the sunny weather, 
 And saw the bubble-making bream. 
 
 And in the night lay down together. 
 
 And hung al)Ove our heads the rood. 
 Or watch'd night-long in the dewy 
 weather. 
 The while the moon did watch the 
 Avood . 
 
 Our spears stood bright and thick to- 
 gether. 
 Straight out the banners streamed 
 behind. 
 As we gallop'd on in the sunnv^ weather, 
 With faces turn'd towards the wind. 
 
 Down sank our threescore spears to- 
 gether. 
 
 As thick we saw the pagans ride : 
 His eager face in the clear fresh weather, 
 
 Shone out that last time by my side. 
 
 Up the sweep of the bridge we dash'd 
 together. 
 It rock'd to the crash of the meeting 
 spears, 
 
 1 The dates for Blorris's poems have been com- 
 piled with the help of Mr. Temple Scott's excel- 
 lent BiblioRi-aphy of the AVorks of William 
 Jlorris, and Mr. Formaa's^The Books of William 
 Morris. 
 
826 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Down lain'd the buds of the dear spring 
 weather, 
 The elm-tree flowers fell like tears. 
 
 There, as we rolFd and writhed together, 
 I threw my arms above my head. 
 
 For close by my side, in the lovely 
 weather, 
 I saw h im reel and fall back dead. 
 
 I and the slayer met together, 
 He waited the death-stroke there in 
 his place, 
 With thoughts of death, in the lovely 
 weather, 
 Gapingly mazed at my madden'd face. 
 
 Madly I fought as we fought together ; 
 
 In vain : the little Christian band 
 The pagans drown'd, as in stormj- 
 weather. 
 
 The river drowns low-lying land. 
 
 They bound my blood-stain'd hands to- 
 gether. 
 They bound his corpse to nod by mj^ 
 side : 
 Then on we rode, in the bright March 
 weather. 
 With clash of cymbals did we ride. 
 
 We ride no more, no more together ; 
 
 My prison-bars are thick and strong, 
 I take no lieed of any weather, 
 
 The sweet Saints grant I live not long. 
 May, 1856. 
 
 THE CHAPEL IN LYONESS 
 
 Sir Ozaxa le Cure Hardy. Sir 
 Galahad. Sir Bors de Ganys. 
 
 Sir Ozana. All day long and every day. 
 From Christmas-Eve to Whit-Sunday, 
 Within tliat Chapel-aisle I lay, 
 And no man came a-near. 
 
 Naked to the waist was I, 
 And deep within my breast did lie, 
 Though no man any blood could spy. 
 The truncheon of a spear. 
 
 No meat did ever pass my lips 
 Those days. Alas ! the sunlight slips 
 From off the gilded parclose, dips, 
 And night comes on apace. 
 
 My arms lay back behind my head ; 
 Over my raised-up knees was spread 
 A samite cloth of white and red ; 
 A ro.se lay on my face. 
 
 Many a time I tried to shout ; 
 But as in dream of battle-rout. 
 My frozen speech would not well out ; 
 I could not even weep. 
 
 With inward sigh I see the sun 
 Fade off the pillars one by one. 
 My heart faints when tlie day is done, 
 Because I cannot sleep. 
 
 Sometimes strange thoughts pass 
 
 through my head ; 
 Not like a tomb is this my bed. 
 Yet oft I think that I am dead ; 
 That rovmd my tomb is writ, 
 
 " Ozana of the hardy heart, 
 
 Knight of the Table Round. 
 Pray for liis soul, lords, of your jmrt ; 
 
 A true knight he was found." 
 
 Ah ! me, I cannot fathom it. [He sleeps. 
 
 Sir Galahad. All day long and every day, 
 Till his madness pass'd away, 
 I watch'd Ozana as he lay 
 Within the gilded screen. 
 
 All my singing moved him not ; 
 As I sung my heart grew hot. 
 Witli the thought of Launcelot 
 Far away, I ween. 
 
 So I went a little space 
 From out the cliapel, bat lied my face 
 In the stream that iims apace 
 By the churchyard wall. 
 
 There I pluck'd a faint wild rose, 
 Hard by wiiere the linden grows, 
 Sighing over .silver rows 
 Of the lilies tall. 
 
 I laid the flower across his mouth ; 
 
 The sparkling drops seem'd good for 
 
 drouth ; 
 He smiled, turn'd round towards the 
 
 south. 
 Held up a golden tress. 
 
 Tlie light smote on it from the west ; 
 He drew the covering from his breast, 
 Against his heart that hair he pressed ; 
 Death him soon will bless. 
 
 Sir Bors. I eiiter'd by the western door; 
 
 I saw a knighfs helm lying there ; 
 I raised my eyes from off the floor, 
 
 And caught the gleaming of his haii-. 
 
MORRIS 
 
 827 
 
 I stept full softly vip to him ; 
 I laid my chiil upon his head ; 
 I felt him smile ; my eyes did swim, 
 I was so glad he was not dead. 
 
 I heard Ozana murmur low. 
 
 " There comes no sleep nor an 3- love." 
 But Galahad stoop'd and kiss'd his brow : 
 
 He shiver'd ; I saw his pale lips move. 
 
 Sir Ozana. There comes no sleep nor 
 any love ; 
 
 Ah me ! I sliiver with delight. 
 I am so weak I cannot move ; 
 
 God move me to thee, dear, to-night ! 
 Christ help ! I have but little wit : 
 Mj^ life went wrong ; I see it writ, 
 
 " Ozana of the hardy heart. 
 
 Knight of the Table Round. 
 Pray for his soul, lords, on your part ; 
 
 A good knight lie was found." 
 
 Now I begin to fathom it. [He dies. 
 
 Sir Bors. Galahad sits dreamily : 
 What strange things may his eyes see, 
 Gi'eat blue eyes fix'd full on me ? 
 On his soul, Lord, have mercy. 
 
 Sir Galahad. Ozana, shall I pray for 
 thee ? 
 
 Her cheek is laid to thine ; 
 No long time hence, also I see 
 
 Thy wasted fingers twine 
 
 Within the tresses of her hair 
 
 That shineth gloriously. 
 Thinly outspread in the clear air 
 
 Against the jasper sea. 
 
 September, 1856. 
 
 SUMMER DAWN 
 
 Pray but one prayer for me 'twixt tln^ 
 
 closed lips ; 
 Think but one thought of me up in the 
 
 stars. 
 The summer night waneth, the morning 
 
 light slips. 
 Faint and gray 'twixt the leaves of the 
 
 aspen, betwixt the cloud-bars. 
 That are patiently waiting there for the 
 
 dawn : 
 Patient and colorless, though Heaven's 
 
 gold 
 Waits to float through them along with 
 
 the sun. 
 Far out in the meadows, above the young 
 
 corn, 
 
 The heavy elms wait, and restless and 
 cold 
 The uneasy wind rises ; the roses are 
 
 dun ; 
 They pray the long gloom through for 
 
 daylight new born. 
 Round the lone house in the midst of 
 the corn. 
 Speak but one word to me over the 
 
 corn, 
 Over the tender, bow'd locks of the 
 corn. October, 1856. 
 
 HANDS 
 
 "Twixt the sunlight and the shade 
 Float up memories of my maid : 
 
 God, remember Guendolen ! 
 
 Gold or gems she did not wear, 
 But her yellow rippled hair. 
 
 Like a veil, hid Guendolen ! 
 
 Twixt the sunlight and the shade, 
 ily rough hands so strangely made. 
 Folded Golden Guendolen. 
 
 Hands used to grip the sword-hilt hard, 
 Framed her face, while on the sward 
 
 Tears fell down fi'om Guendolen. 
 
 Guendolen now speaks no word. 
 Hands fold round aljout the sword : 
 Now no more of Guendolen. 
 
 Only "twixt the light and shade 
 Floating memories of my maid 
 
 Make me pray for Guendolen . 
 
 1856. 
 
 GOLD HAIR 
 
 Is it not true that everj' day 
 She climbeth up the same strange way. 
 Her scarlet cloak spread broad and gay, 
 Over my golden hair ? 
 
 When I undo the knotted mass. 
 Fathoms below tlie shadows pass 
 Over my hair along tlie grass. 
 O my golden hair ! 
 
 See on the marble parapet, 
 I lean my brow, strive to forget 
 That fathoms below my hair grows wet 
 With the dew, my golden hair. 
 
 See on the marble parapet, 
 The faint red stains witli tears are wet ; 
 The long years pass, no help comes yet 
 To free my golden hair. 
 
828 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 And yet : but I am growing old. 
 For want of love my lieart is cold : 
 Years pass, the wliile I loose and fold 
 The fathoms of mv hair. 
 
 1858.1 
 
 THE DEFENCE OF GUENEVERE 
 
 But, knowing now that they would have 
 
 her speak, 
 She threv^r iier wet liair backward from 
 
 her brow, 
 Her hand close to her mouth touching 
 
 her cheek. 
 
 As though she had liad there a shameful 
 
 blow, 
 And feeling it .shameful to feel aught 
 
 but sliame 
 All tlirough her heart, yet felt her cheek 
 
 burned so, 
 
 She must a little touch it ; like one lame 
 She w^alked away from Gauwaine, with 
 
 her head 
 Still lifted up ; and on her cheek of 
 
 flame 
 
 The tears dried quick ; she stopped at 
 
 last and said : 
 " O knights and lords, it seems but little 
 
 skill 
 To talk of well-known things past now 
 
 and dead. 
 
 " God wot I ought to say, T have done ill. 
 And praj' you all forgiveness heartily ! 
 Because you must be right, such great 
 lords ; still 
 
 " Listen, suppose your time were come 
 
 to die, 
 And you were quite alone and very 
 
 weak ; 
 Yea, laid a dying while very mightily 
 
 "The wind was ruffling up the narrow 
 streak 
 
 Of river through your broad lands run- 
 ning well : 
 
 Suppose a liush sliould come, then some 
 one speak : 
 
 " ' One of these cloths is heaven, and one 
 is hell, 
 
 ^ The precpdins, poem, Hands, published 
 under tliat title in the Oxford and Cambridge 
 Magazine, 18.=)6, and the lyric stanzas to which I 
 have here given tlie title Gold Hair, both form 
 part of Rapanzcl in the Guenevere volume, 1858. 
 
 Now clioose one cloth for ever ; which 
 they be, 
 
 . I will not tell you, you must somehow 
 ^ tell 
 
 " ' Of your own strength and mightiness ; 
 
 here, see ! ' 
 Yea, j'ea, my lord, and you to ope your 
 
 eyes. 
 At foot of your familiar bed to see 
 
 "A great God's angel standing, with 
 
 such dyes, 
 Not known on earth, on liis great wings, 
 
 and hands. 
 Held out two ways, light from the inner 
 
 skies 
 
 "Showing him well, and making his 
 
 com mands 
 Seem to be God's commands, moreover, 
 
 too, 
 Holding within his hands the cloths on 
 
 wands ; 
 
 " And one of these strange choosing 
 
 cloths was blue, 
 Wavy and long, and one cut short and 
 
 red ; 
 No man could tell the better of the two. 
 
 " After a shivering half-hour j'ou said : 
 ' God help ! heaven's color, the blue ; ' 
 
 and he said, ' hell.' 
 Perhaps j'^ou vsrould then roll upon your 
 
 bed, 
 
 " And cry to all good men that loved 
 
 you well, 
 ' Ah Christ ! if only I had known, 
 
 known, known ; ' 
 Launcelot went aw^ay, then I could tell, 
 
 " Like wisest man how all things would 
 
 be, moan, 
 And roll and hurt myself, and long to die. 
 And yet fear much to die for what was 
 
 sow^n. 
 
 " Nevertheless you, O Sir Gauwaine, lie, 
 Wliatever may have happened through 
 
 the.se years, 
 God knows I speak truth, saying that 
 
 you lie." 
 
 Her voice was low at first, being full of 
 
 tears, 
 But as it cleared, it grew full loud and 
 
 si 1 rill. 
 Growing a windy shriek in all men's 
 
 ears. 
 
MORRIS 
 
 829 
 
 A ringing in their startled brains, until 
 She said tliat Gauwaine lied, then her 
 
 voice sunk. 
 And her great eyes began again to fill, 
 
 Though still she stood right up, and 
 
 never slirunk. 
 But spoke on bravely, glorious lady fair ! 
 Whatever tears her full lips may have 
 
 drunk, 
 
 She stood, and seen\ed to think, and 
 
 wrung her hair, 
 Spoke out at last with no more trace of 
 
 shame. 
 With passionate twisting of her body 
 
 there : 
 
 " It chanced upon a day that Launcelot 
 came 
 
 To dwell at Arthur's court : at Christ- 
 mastime 
 
 This happened ; when tlie heralds sung 
 his name, 
 
 " Son of King Ban of Benwick, seemed 
 
 to chime 
 Along with all the bells that rang that 
 
 day. 
 O'er the white roofs, with little change 
 
 of rhyme. 
 
 " Christmas and whitened winter passed 
 
 away, 
 And over me the April sunshine came. 
 Made very awful with black hail-clouds, 
 
 yea 
 
 " And in the Summer I grew white with 
 
 flame. 
 And bowed my head down : Autumn, 
 
 and the sick 
 Sure knowledge things would never be 
 
 the same, 
 
 " However often Spring inight be most 
 
 thick 
 Of blossoms and buds, smote on me, and 
 
 I grew 
 Careless of most things, let the clock 
 
 tick, tick, 
 
 " To my unhappy pulse, tliat beat right 
 
 through 
 My eager body ; while I laughed out loud, 
 And let my lips curl up at false or true, 
 
 '• Seemed cold and shallow without any 
 cloud. 
 
 Behold, my judges, then the cloths were 
 
 brought ; 
 While I was dizzied thus, old thoughts 
 
 would crowd, 
 
 '' Belonging to the time ere I was bought 
 By Artluir's great name and his little 
 
 love : 
 Must I give up for ever then, I thought, 
 
 "That which I deemed would ever 
 
 round me move 
 Glorifying all things ; for a little word. 
 Scarce ever meant at all, must I now 
 
 prove 
 
 "Stone-cold for ever? Pray you, does 
 
 the Lord 
 Will that all folks should be quite happy 
 
 and good ? 
 I love God now a little, if this cord 
 
 " AVere broken, once for all what striving 
 
 could 
 Make me love an}'thing in earth or 
 
 heaven ? 
 So day by day it grew, as if one should 
 
 "Slip slowly down some path worn 
 
 smooth and even, 
 Down to a cool sea on a summer day ; 
 Yet still in slipping there was some 
 
 small leaven 
 
 " Of stretched hands catching small 
 
 stones by the way, 
 Until one surely reached the sea at last, 
 And felt strange new joy as the worn 
 
 head lay 
 
 "Back, with the hair like sea-weed; 
 
 yea all past 
 Sweat of the forehead, dryness of the lips, 
 Washed utterly ovit by the dear waves 
 
 o'ercast, 
 
 " In the lone sea, far off from any sliips ! 
 Do I not know now of a day in Spring? 
 No minute of that wild day ever slips 
 
 " From out my memory ; I hear thrushes 
 
 sing. 
 And wheresoever I may be, straightway 
 Thoughts of it all come up with most 
 
 fresh sting : 
 
 " I was half mad with beauty on that 
 
 day. 
 And went without my ladies all alone, 
 In a quiet garden walled round every 
 
 way; 
 
830 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 " I was right joyful of that wall of stone, 
 That shut the flowers and trees up with 
 
 the sky, 
 And trebled all the beauty : to the bone, 
 
 "Yea right through to my heart, grown . 
 
 very shy 
 With wary thoughts, it pierced, and 
 
 made me glad ; 
 Exceedingly glad, and I knew verily, 
 
 " A little thing just then had made me 
 
 mad ; 
 I dared not think, as I was wont to do. 
 Sometimes, upon my beauty ; If I had 
 
 " Held out my long hand up against the 
 
 blue. 
 And, looking on the tenderly darken'd 
 
 lingers, 
 Thought that by rights one ought to see 
 
 quite through, 
 
 "There, see you, where the soft still 
 
 light yet lingers. 
 Round by the edges ; what should I have 
 
 done. 
 If this had joined with yellow spotted 
 
 singers, 
 
 " And startling green drawn upward by 
 
 the sun ? 
 But shouting, loosed out, see now ! all 
 
 my hair. 
 And trancedly stood watching the west 
 
 wind run 
 
 "With faintest half -heard breathing 
 
 sound : why there 
 I lose my head e'en now in doing this ; 
 But shortly listen : In that garden fair 
 
 " Came Launcelot walking ; this is true, 
 
 the kiss 
 Wherevvitli we kissed in meeting that 
 
 spring day, 
 I scai'ce dare talk of the remember'd bliss, 
 
 " When both our mouths went wander- 
 ing in one way, 
 
 And aching sorely, met among the 
 leaves ; 
 
 Our hands being left behind strained 
 far away. 
 
 "Never within a yard of my bright 
 
 sleeves 
 Had Launcelot come before : and now 
 
 so nigh ! 
 After that day why is it Guenevere 
 
 grieves ? 
 
 " Nevertheless you, O SirGauwaine, lie, 
 Whatever happened on through all 
 
 those years, 
 God knows I speak truth, saying that 
 
 you lie. 
 
 " Being such a lady could I weep these 
 
 tears 
 If this were true ? A great queen sucli as I 
 Having siiin'd this way, straight her 
 
 conscience sears ; 
 
 " And afterwards she liveth liatefully. 
 Slaying and poisoning, certes never 
 
 weeps : 
 Gauwaine be friends now, speak ine 
 
 lovingly. 
 
 " Do I not see how God's dear pity creeps 
 All tlirough your frame, and trembles in 
 
 your mouth '? 
 Remember in what grave your mother 
 
 sleeps, 
 
 "Buried in some place far down in the 
 
 south 
 Men are forgetting as I speak to you ; 
 By her headsever'd in that awful drouth 
 
 " Of pity that drew Agravaine's fell blow. 
 I pray your pity ! let me not scream out 
 Foi- ever after, when the shrill winds blow 
 
 "Through half your castle-locks! let 
 
 me not shout 
 For ever after in the winter night 
 When you ride out alone I iii battle-rovit 
 
 '' Let not my rusting tears make your 
 
 sword light ! 
 Ah ! God of mercy, how he turns away ! 
 So, ever must I dress me to the fight, 
 
 " So : let God's jvistice work ! Gauwaine, 
 
 I say. 
 See me liew down your proofs : yea all 
 
 men know 
 Even as you said how Mellyagraunce one 
 
 day, 
 
 " One bitter day in la Fausse Garde, for so 
 All good kniglits held it after, saw : 
 Yea, sirs, by cursed unknightly outrage ; 
 though 
 
 " You, Gauwaine, held liis word without 
 a flaw. 
 
 Not so. fair lords, even if tlie world 
 should end 
 
MORRIS 
 
 831 
 
 " This very day, and you were judges 
 
 here 
 Instead of God. Did you see IMellya- 
 
 graunce 
 When Launcelot stood by liim ? what 
 
 white fear 
 
 '•Curdled his blood, and how his teeth 
 
 did dance, 
 His side sink in ? as my kniglit cried and 
 
 said : 
 ' Slayer of unarni'd men, here is a chance ! 
 
 " ' Setter of traps, I pray you guard your 
 
 head. 
 By God I am so glad to fight witli you. 
 Stripper of ladies, that my hand feels lead 
 
 "'For driving weight; hurrah now! 
 
 draw and do, 
 For all my wounds are moving in my 
 
 breast. 
 And I am getting mad with waiting so.' 
 
 " He struck his hands togetlier o'er tlie 
 
 beast. 
 Who fell down flat, and grovell'd at liis 
 
 feet. 
 And groan'd at being slain so young : 
 
 ' At least,' 
 
 " My knight said, ' Rise you, sir, who are 
 
 so fleet 
 At catching ladies, half-arin'd will I 
 
 light. 
 My left side all uncovered ! ' tlien I weet, 
 
 " Up sprang Sir Mellyagraunce with 
 
 great delight 
 Upon his knave's face ; not until just 
 
 then 
 Did I quite hate him, as I saw my knight 
 
 " Along the lists look to my stake and 
 
 pen 
 With such a joyous smile, it made me 
 
 sigh 
 From agony beneath my waist-chain, 
 
 when 
 
 " The fight began, and to me they drew 
 
 nigh ; 
 Ever Sir Launcelot kept him on the right. 
 And traversed warily, and ever high 
 
 " And fast leapt caitiff's sword, until my 
 
 knight 
 Sudden threw up his sword to liis left 
 
 hand. 
 Caught it and swung it ; tliat was all the 
 
 fight ; 
 
 " Except a spout of blood on the hot land ; 
 For it was liottest summer ; and I know 
 I wonder'd ]io\v tlie fire, while I should 
 stand, 
 
 " And burn, against the heat, would 
 quiver so, 
 
 Yards above my head ; thus these mat- 
 ters went ; 
 
 Which tilings were only warnings of 
 the woe 
 
 " That fell on me. Yet Mellyagraunce 
 
 was shent. 
 For Mellyagraunce had fought against 
 
 tlie Lord ; 
 Therefore, my lords, take heed lest you 
 
 be blent 
 
 " With all his wickedness ; s'ay no rash 
 
 word 
 Against me, being so beautiful ; my eyes 
 Wept all away to gray, may bring some 
 
 sword 
 
 "To drown you in your blood ; see my 
 breast rise, 
 
 Like waves of purple sea, as liere I stand ; 
 
 And how my arms are moved in won- 
 derful wise, 
 
 " Yea also at my full lieart's strong com- 
 mand, 
 
 See through my long throat how the 
 words go up 
 
 In ripples to my moutli ; how in my hand 
 
 " The shadow lies like wine within a cup 
 Of marvellously coloi'd gold ; j'ea now. 
 Tliis little wind is rising, look you up, 
 
 " And wonder how the light is falling so 
 Within my moving tresses : will you dai"e 
 When you have looked a little on my 
 brow, 
 
 "To say this thing is vile ? or will j^ou 
 
 care 
 For any plausible lies of cunning woof, 
 Wlien you can see my face with no lie 
 
 there 
 
 " For ever ? am I not a gracious proof ? — 
 ' But in your clianiber Launcelot was 
 
 found ' — 
 Is there a good knight then would stand 
 
 aloof, 
 
 " When a queen says with gentle 
 queenly sound : 
 
832 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 ' O true as steel, come now and talk with 
 
 me, 
 I love to see your step upon the ground 
 
 " ' Unwavering, also well I love to see 
 That gracious smile light up your face, 
 
 and hear 
 Your wonderful words, that all mean 
 
 verily 
 
 " ' The thing they seem to mean : good 
 
 friend, so dear 
 To me in everything, come here to-night. 
 Or else tlie hours will pass most dull and 
 
 drear ; 
 
 " ' If you come not, I fear this time I 
 
 might 
 Get thinking over much of times gone 
 
 by, 
 
 When I was young, and green hope was 
 in sight : 
 
 " ' For no man cares now to know wh}' I 
 
 sigh ; 
 And no man comes to sing me pleasant 
 
 songs. 
 Nor any brings me the sweet flowers 
 
 that lie 
 
 " ' So thick in the gardens ; therefore 
 
 one so longs 
 To see you, Launcelot.; that we may be 
 Like children once again, free from all 
 
 w^rongs 
 
 " ' Just for one night.' Did he not come 
 
 to me 'i 
 What thing could keep true Launcelot 
 
 away 
 If I said, ' Come ? ' there was one less 
 
 than three 
 
 " In my quiet room that night, and we 
 
 were gay ; 
 Till sudden I rose up, weak, pale, and 
 
 sick, 
 Because a bawling broke our dream up, 
 
 yea 
 
 " I looked at Launcelot's face and could 
 
 not speak. 
 For he looked helpless too, for a little 
 
 while ; 
 Then I rejnember how I tried to shriek, 
 
 " And could not, but fell down ; from 
 
 tile to tile 
 The stones the,f threw up rattled o'er 
 
 my head [while 
 
 And made nie dizzier ; tdl within a 
 
 " My maids were all about me, and m\' 
 head 
 
 On Launcelot's breast was being soothed 
 away 
 
 From its white chattering, until Launce- 
 lot said : . . . 
 
 " By God ! I will not tell you more to- 
 day. 
 
 Judge any waj^ vou will : what matters 
 it? 
 
 You know quite well the stoiy of that 
 fray, 
 
 " How Launcelot still'd their bawling, 
 
 the mad fit 
 That caught up Gauwaine, all, all, 
 
 verily , 
 But just that which would save me ; 
 
 these things flit. 
 
 " Nevertheless you. O Sir Gauwaine, lie. 
 Whatever may have ha^jpeu'd these long 
 
 years, 
 God knows I speak truth, saying that 
 
 you lie ! 
 
 " All I have said is truth, by Christ's 
 
 dear tears." 
 She would not speak another word, but 
 
 stood 
 Turn'd sideways ; listening, like a man 
 
 who hears 
 
 His brother's trumpet sounding through 
 
 the wood 
 Of his foes' lances. She leaned eagerly, 
 And gave a slight spring sometimes, as 
 
 she could 
 
 At last hear something really ; joyfully 
 Her cheek grew crimson, as the head- 
 long speed 
 Of the roan charger drew all men to see. 
 The knight who came was Launcelot at 
 good need. 1858. 
 
 THE GILLIFLOWER OF GOLD 
 
 A golden gilliflower to-day 
 I wore upon my helm alway. 
 And won the prize of this tourney. 
 Hall ! halt! la belle jaune giroflee. 
 
 However well Sir Giles might sit, 
 His sun was weak to wither it. 
 Lord Miles's blood was dew on it : 
 Hah ! hah ! la belle jaune giroflee. 
 
MORRIS 
 
 833 
 
 Althougli my spear in splinters flew. 
 From John's steel-coat, my eye was 
 
 true ; 
 I wlieel'd about, and cried for you. 
 Hah ! hah! la belle jaune giroflee. 
 
 Yea, do not douVit my heart was good. 
 Tliough my sword flew like rotten wood, 
 To shout, although I scarcely stood. 
 Hah ! hah ! la belle Jaune giroflee. 
 
 My hand was steady too, to take 
 My axe from round my neck, and break 
 John's steel-coat up for my love's sake. 
 Hah ! hah ! la belle jaune giroflee. 
 
 Wlien I stood in my tent again. 
 Arming afresh, I felt a pain 
 Take hold of me. I was so fain — 
 
 Hah ! hah! la belle jaune giroflee — 
 
 To liear : Honnenr aux fils fZe.s prcN.r / 
 Right in mj- ears again, and shew 
 The gilliflower blossom'd new. 
 
 HaJh ! hah ! la belle jaune giroflee. 
 
 The Sieur Guillaume against me came, 
 His tabard bore three points of flame 
 From a red lieart ; with little blame. — 
 Hah! hah! labelle jaune giroflee, — 
 
 Our tough spears crackled up like straw ; 
 He was the first to turn and draw 
 His sword, that had nor speck nor flaw ; 
 Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee. 
 
 But I felt weaker than a maid. 
 And my brain, dizzied and afraid, 
 Within my helm a fierce tune play'd. 
 Hah! hah! labelle jaune giroflee. 
 
 Until I thouglit of your dear head, 
 Row'd to the gilliflower bed. 
 The yellow flowers stain'd with red ; 
 Hah ! hah ! la belle jaune giroflee. 
 
 Crash ! how the swords met : giroflee ! 
 Tlie fierce tune in my helm would play. 
 La belle! la belle! jaune giroflee! 
 
 Hah ! hah! la belle jaune giroflee. 
 
 Once more the great swords met again : 
 
 " La belle ! la belle ! '" but wlio fell then ? 
 
 Le Sieur Guillaume, who struck down 
 
 ten ; 
 
 Hall ! hah ! la belle jaune giroflee. 
 
 And as with mazed and unarm'd face. 
 Toward my own crown and the Queen's 
 place, 
 
 S3 
 
 They led me at a gentle pace. — 
 
 Hah! hah! la belle jaune giroflee, — 
 
 I almost saw j'our quiet head 
 Bow'd o'er the gilliflower bed. 
 The yellow flowers stain'd with red. 
 Hah! hall! la belle Jaime giroflee. 
 
 IS.IS. 
 
 SHAMEFUL DEATH 
 
 There were four of us about that bed ; 
 
 The mass-priest knelt at the side. 
 I and his mother stood at the head. 
 
 Over his feet lay the bride ; 
 We were quite sure that he was dead, 
 
 Tiiougli his eyes were open wide. 
 
 He did not die in the night. 
 
 He did not die in the day. 
 But in the morning twilight 
 
 His spirit passM away. 
 When neither sun nor moon was bright, 
 
 And tlie trees were merely gray. 
 
 He was not slain with the sword. 
 Knight's axe, or the knightly spear, 
 
 Yet spoke he never a word 
 After he came in here ; 
 
 I cut awa^' the cord 
 
 From tlie neck of my brother dear. 
 
 He did not strike one blow. 
 
 For the recreants came behind, 
 
 In a place where the hornbeams grow, 
 A path right hard to find. 
 
 For the hornbeam boughs swing so. 
 That the twilight makes it blind. 
 
 Thev liglited a great torch then. 
 
 When his arms were pinion'd fast. 
 Sir John the knight of tlie Fen, 
 
 Sir Guy of the Dolorous Blast, 
 With knights tlireescore and ten, 
 
 Hung brave Lord Hugh at last. 
 
 I am threescore and ten. 
 
 And my hair is all turn'd gray. 
 
 But I met Sir John of the Fen 
 Long ago on a summer day. 
 
 And am glad to think of the moment 
 when 
 I took his life away. 
 
 I am threescore and ten, 
 
 And my strength is mostly pass'd. 
 But long ago I and my men, 
 
 Wlien tlie sky was overcast. 
 And tlie smoke roU'd over tlie reeds of 
 the fen, 
 
 Slew Guy of tlie Dolorous Blast, 
 
834 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 And now, knights all of you, 
 I pray you pray for Sir Hugh, 
 
 A good kniglit and a true, 
 
 And for Alice, liis wife, pra}'^ too. 
 
 1858. 
 
 THE EVE OF CRECY 
 
 Gold on her head, and gold on Jier feet. 
 And gold where the hems of her kirtle 
 
 meet. 
 And a golden girdle round my sweet ; 
 Ah ! qiCelle est belle La Marguerite. 
 
 Margaret's maids are fair to see, 
 Freshly dress'd and pleasantly ; 
 Margai'et's hair falls down to "her knee ; 
 Ah! qiCelle est belle La Marguerite. 
 
 If I were rich I would kiss her feet ; 
 I would kiss the place where the gold 
 
 hems meet, 
 And the golden kirtle round my sweet : 
 Ah ! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite. 
 
 All me ! I have never touch'd her liand ; 
 When the arriere-ban goes through the 
 
 land, 
 Six basnets under my pennon stand ; 
 Ah ! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite. 
 
 And many an one grins under his hood : 
 Sir Lambert du Bois, with all his men 
 
 good, 
 Has neither food nor firewood ; 
 
 Ah ! qu'elle e.^t belle La Marguerite. 
 
 If I were rich I would kiss her feet, 
 And the golden girdle of my sweet. 
 And thereabouts where the gold hems 
 ineet ; 
 Ah ! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite. 
 
 Yet even now it is good to think. 
 While ni}^ poor varlets grumble and 
 
 drink 
 In my desolate hall, where the fires 
 
 sink, — 
 Ah ! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite. — 
 
 Of Margaret sitting glorious thei'e, 
 In glor)-^ of gold and glorv of hair. 
 And glory of glorious face most fair ; 
 ^4/i, .' qu'elle est belle La Marguerite. 
 
 Likewise to-night I make good clieer. 
 Because this battle draweth near : 
 For what have I to lose or fear? 
 
 Ah ! quelle est belle La Marguerite. 
 
 For, look you, my horse is good to prance 
 A riglit fair measure in this wai'-dance, 
 Before the eyes of Philip of France ; 
 Ah ! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite. 
 
 And sometime it may hap, perdie, 
 Wliile my new towers stand up three 
 
 and three, 
 And my hall gets painted fair to see — 
 Ali! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite — 
 
 That folks may say : Times change, by 
 
 the rood. 
 For Lambert, banneret of the wood. 
 Has heaps of food and firewood ; 
 
 Ah ! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite. 
 
 And wonderful ej'es, too, under the hood 
 Of a damsel of right noble blood. 
 St. Ives, for Lambert of tlie Wood ! 
 
 Ah ! qu'elle est belle La Marguerite. 
 
 1858. 
 
 THE SAILING OF THE SWORD 
 
 Across the empty garden-beds, 
 When the Sword ivent out to sea, 
 
 I scarcely saw my sisters' heads 
 Bowed each beside a tree. 
 
 I could not see the castle leads, 
 Wlieii the Sivo7'd went out to sea. 
 
 Alicia wore a scarlet gown, 
 
 Wlieu the Sword icent out to sea. 
 
 But Ursula's was russet brown : 
 For the mist we could not see 
 
 The scarlet roofs of the good town, 
 117/ CH the Sirord ivent out to sea. 
 
 Green holly in Alicia's hand, 
 
 W]ieii the Sword went out to sea ; 
 
 With sere oak-leaves did Ursula stand ; 
 Oil ! yet alas for me ! 
 
 I did but bear apeel'd white wand. 
 When the Sivord ivent out to sea. 
 
 O, russet brown and scarlet bright, 
 When the Sword went out to sea. 
 
 My sisters wore ; I wore but white : 
 Red, brown, and white, are three; 
 
 Three damozels ; each had a knight, 
 When the Sword tcent out to sea. 
 
 Sir Robert shouted loiul, and said ; 
 
 Mlien the Sword went out to sea, 
 ' Alicia, while I see thy heail. 
 
 What shall I bring for thee? ' 
 " O, my sweet Lord, a ruby red :" 
 
 The Sword ivent out to sea. 
 
MORRIS 
 
 835 
 
 Sir Miles said, while tlie sails hung down, 
 When the Sword ivent oat to sea, 
 
 " O, Ursula ! while I see tlie town, 
 What shall I bring for thee ? " 
 
 " Dear knight, bring back a falcon 
 brown : " 
 The Sword went out to Sea. 
 
 But my Roland, no word he said 
 When the Sivord went out to sea, 
 
 But only turn'd away his head : 
 A quick shriek came from me : 
 
 "Come back, dear loi'd, to your white 
 maid ! " 
 The Sword went out to sea. 
 
 The hot sun bit the garden-beds 
 
 Mlien the Sioord came hack from sea ; 
 
 Beneath an apple-tree our heads 
 Stretched out toward the sea ; 
 
 Gray gleamed the thirsty castle-leads. 
 When the Sword came hack from sea. 
 
 Lord Robert brought a ruby red, 
 
 W hen the Sword caine back from sea ; 
 
 He kissed Alicia on the head : 
 " I am come back to thee ; 
 
 'T is time, sweet love, that we were 
 wed. 
 Now the Sword is back from sea ! " 
 
 Sir Miles he bore a falcon brown, 
 
 When the Sword came back from sen ; 
 
 His arms went round tall Ursula's gown : 
 " What joy, O love, but thee? 
 
 Let us be wed in the good town, 
 Nolo the Sword is back from sea ! " 
 
 Mj' heart grew sick, no more afraid. 
 When the Sword came back from sea ; 
 
 Upon the deck a tall white maid 
 Sat on Lord Roland's knee ; 
 
 His chin was press'd upon her head. 
 When the Sword came back from sea! 
 
 1858. 
 
 THE BLUE CLOSET 
 
 The Damozels 
 
 Lady Alice, lady Louise, 
 Between the wash of the tumbling seas 
 We are ready to sing, if so ye please : 
 So lay your long hands on tiie ke^^s ; 
 
 "Sing, Laiidate pueri." 
 
 And ever the great bell overhead 
 Boom'd in the icind a knell for f lie dead. 
 Though, no one toWd it, a knell for the 
 dpad. 
 
 Lady Louise 
 
 Sister. let the measure swell 
 Not too loud ; for you sing not well 
 If you drown the faint boom of the bell ; 
 He is weary, so am I. 
 
 And ever the chevron overhead 
 Fkqip'd on the banner of the dead ; 
 ( Was lie asleep, or was he dead ?) 
 
 Lady Alice 
 
 Alice tlie Queen, and Louise the Queen, 
 Two damzels wearing purple and green, 
 Four lone ladies dwelling here 
 From day to day and year to year ; 
 And there is none to let us go ; 
 To break the locks of the doors below. 
 Or sliovel away the heaped-up snow ; 
 And when we die no man will know 
 That we are dead ; but they give us 
 
 leave. 
 Once every year on Christmas-eve, 
 To sing in the Closet Blue one song ; 
 And we should be so long, so long, 
 If we dared, in singing ; for dream on 
 
 dream. 
 They float on in a happy stream ; 
 Float from the gold strings, float from 
 
 the keys 
 Float from the open'd lips of Louise ; 
 But, alas ! the sea-salt oozes through 
 The chinks of the tiles of the Closet 
 
 Blue ; 
 
 And ever the great bell overhead 
 Booms in tlie wind a knell for the dead. 
 The wind plays on it a knell fur the 
 dead. 
 
 They Sing all Together 
 
 How long ago was it, how long ago. 
 He came to this tower with hands full of 
 snow ? 
 
 " Kneel down, O love Louise, kneel 
 
 down ! " he said. 
 And sprinkled the dusty snow over my 
 
 head. 
 
 He watch 'd the snow melting, it ran 
 
 through niy hair, 
 Ran over my shoulders, white shoulders 
 
 and bai'e. 
 
 "I cannot weep for thee, poor love 
 
 Louise, 
 For my tears are all hidden deep under 
 
 the seas ; 
 
836 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 " In a gold and blue casket she keeps all 
 
 my tears, 
 But my eyes are no longer blue, as in old 
 
 years ; 
 
 " Yea, tliey grow gray with time, grow 
 
 small and dry, 
 I am so feeble now, would I might die." 
 
 And in truth the great hell overhead 
 Left off his jiedllug for the dead. 
 Perchance, because the zvind was dead. 
 
 Will he come back again, or is he dead ? 
 O ! is he sleeping, my scarf round his 
 head ? 
 
 Or did they strangle him as he la}" there. 
 With the long scarlet scarf I used to 
 wear ? 
 
 Only I pray thee, Loi-d, let hina come 
 
 here ! 
 Both his soul and his body to me are 
 
 most dear. 
 
 Dear Lord, that loves me, I wait to re- 
 ceive 
 
 Either body or spirit this wild Christmas- 
 eve. 
 
 Through the floor shot up a lily red. 
 With a patch of earth from the land of 
 
 the dead. 
 For he was .strong in the land of the dead. 
 
 What matter that his cheeks were pale. 
 His kind kiss'd lips all gray ? 
 
 " O, love Louise, have you waited long ? " 
 " O, my lord Arthur, yea." 
 
 What if his hair that brushed her cheek 
 
 Was stiff with frozen rime ? 
 His eyes were grown quite blue again. 
 
 As in the happy time. 
 
 " O, love Louise, this is the key 
 
 Of the happy golden land ! 
 O, sisters, cross the bridge with me. 
 
 My eyes are full of sand. 
 What matter that I cannot see. 
 
 If ye take me by the hand ? " 
 
 And ever the great hell overhead. 
 
 And the tumbling seas mourn'd for the 
 
 dead ; 
 For their song ceased, and they icere 
 
 dead ! 1858. 
 
 THE HAYSTACK IN THE FLOODS 
 
 Had she come all the way for this, 
 To part at last without a kiss ? 
 Yea, had she borne the dirt and rain 
 That lier own eyes might see him slain 
 Beside the haystack in the floods ? 
 
 Along the dripping leafless woods, 
 Tlie stirrup touching either shoe, 
 She rode astride as troojDers do ; 
 Witli kirtle kilted to her knee, 
 To which the mud splash'd wretchedly ; 
 And the wet dripp'd from every tree 
 Upon her head and heavy hair, 
 And on her eyelids broad and fair ; 
 The tears and rain ran down her face. 
 
 By fits and starts they rode apace, 
 And very often was his place 
 Far off from her ; he had to ride 
 Ahead, to see what might betide 
 When the roads cross'd ; and sometimes, 
 
 when 
 There I'ose a murmuring from his men, 
 Had to turn back with promises. 
 Ah me ! she had but little ease ; 
 And often for pure doubt and di'ead 
 She sobb'd, made giddy in the head 
 By the swift riding ; while, for cold. 
 Her slender fingers scarce could hold 
 The wet reins ; yea, and scarcely, too, 
 Slie felt the foot within her shoe 
 Against the stirrup : all for this. 
 To part at last without a kiss 
 Beside the haystack in the floods. 
 
 For when they near'd that old soak'd 
 
 hav, 
 They saw across the only way 
 That Judas, Godmar, and the three 
 Red running lions dismally 
 Grinn'd from his pennon, under which 
 In one straight line along the ditch. 
 They counted thirty heads. 
 
 So then 
 Wliile Robert turn'd round to his men. 
 She saw at once the wretched end, 
 And, stooping down, tried hard to rend 
 Her coif the wrong way from her head, 
 And hid her eyes ; while Robert said : 
 " Nay, love, 'tis scarcely two to one ; 
 At Poictiers where w^e made thein run 
 So fast — why, sweet my love, good 
 
 cheer. 
 The Gascoji frontier is so near, 
 Nought after us." 
 
 But : " O ! " she said, 
 " My God ! my God ! I have to tread 
 
MORRIS 
 
 837 
 
 The long way back without you ; then 
 The court at Paris ; those six men ; 
 The gratings of the Chatelet ; 
 TJie swift Seine on some rainy day 
 Like tJiis, and people standing by, 
 And laughing, widle my weak hands 
 
 try 
 To recollect how strong men swim. 
 All tliis, or else a life with liim, 
 For which I sliould be damned at last, 
 Would God that this next hour were 
 
 past ! " 
 
 He answer'd not, but cried his cry. 
 " SL. George for Marny ! "' clieerily ; 
 And laid his hand upon her rein. 
 Alas ! no man of all his train 
 Gave back that ciieery cry again ; 
 And, while for rage his thumb beat fast 
 Upon his sword-hilt, some one cast 
 About his neck a kerchief long. 
 And bound him. 
 
 Then they went along 
 To Godmar ; who said : •' Now, Jeliane, 
 Your lover's life is on the wane 
 So fast, that, if this very hour 
 You yield not as my paramour, 
 He will not see the rain leave off : 
 Nay, keep your tongue from gibe and 
 
 scoff 
 Sir Robert, or I slay you now." 
 
 Slie laid her liand upon her brow. 
 Then gazed upon tiie p;dm. as though 
 She thougiit her forehead bled, and : 
 
 "No!" 
 She said, and turn'd her head away, 
 As there whs notliing else to say. 
 And everything was settled : red 
 Grew Godmar's face from chin to head : 
 " Jehane, on yonder liill there stands 
 My castle, guarding well my lands ; 
 What hinders me from taking you. 
 And doing that I list to do 
 To your fair wilful body, while 
 Your knight lies dead ? " 
 
 A wicked smile 
 Wrinkled her face, her lips grew thin, 
 A long way out she thrust her chin : 
 •'You know that I should strangle you 
 While you were sleeping ; or bite through 
 Your thi'oat, by God's help : ali ! " she 
 
 said, 
 " Lord Jesus, pity your poor maid ! 
 For in such wise they liem me in, 
 I cannot choose but sin and sin, 
 Whatever happens : yet I think 
 They could not make me eat or drink, 
 And so should I just reach my rest." 
 
 '• Nay, if you do not my behest, 
 
 O Jehane ! though I love you well," 
 
 Said Godmar, " would I fail to tell 
 
 All that I know V " "Foul lies," she 
 
 said. 
 " Eh? lies, my Jehane ? by God's head, 
 At Paris folks w^ould deem them true ! 
 Do you know, Jehane, they cry for you : 
 ' Jehane the brown ! Jeliane the brown ! 
 Give us Jehane to burn or drown ! ' 
 Eh ! — gag me Robert ! — sweet my friend, 
 This were indeed a piteous end 
 F(3r tiiose long fingers, and long feet. 
 And long neck, and smooth shoulders 
 
 sweet ; 
 An end that few men would forget 
 That saw it. So, an hour yet : 
 Consider, Jehane, which to take 
 Of life or death ! " 
 
 So, scarce awake, 
 Dismounting, did she leave that place, 
 And totter some yards : with her face 
 Turn'd upward to the sky she lay. 
 Her head on a wet heap of hay. 
 And fell asleep : and while she slept. 
 And did not dream, the minutes crept 
 Round to the twelve again ; hut she, 
 Being waked at last, sigh'd quietly. 
 And strangely childlike came, and said: 
 •' I will not." Straightway Godmar's 
 
 head. 
 As though it hung on strong wires, 
 
 turn'd 
 Most sharply round, and his face burn'd. 
 
 For Robert, both his eyes were dry. 
 He could not weep, but gloomily 
 He seem'd to watch the rain ; yea. too. 
 His lips were firm ; he tried once more 
 To touch her lips ; she reach'd out, sore 
 And vain desire so tortured them, 
 The poor gray lips, and now the hem 
 Of his sleeve brush'd them. 
 
 With a start 
 Up Godmar rose, thrust them apart ; 
 From Robert's throat he loosed the 
 
 bands 
 Of silk and mail ; with empty Jiands 
 Held out. she stood and gazed, and saw, 
 The long bright blade without a flaw 
 Glide out from Godmar's sheath, his 
 
 hand 
 In Robert's hair ; she saw liim bend 
 Back Robert's head ; she saw him send 
 The thin steel down ; the blow told well. 
 Right backward the knight Robert fell. 
 And moaned as dogs do, being half dead, 
 Unwitting, as I deem : so then 
 Godmar turn'd grinning to his men, 
 
838 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Wlio ran, some five or six, and beat 
 His liead to pieces at their feet. 
 
 Then Godmar turn'd again and said : 
 " So, Jehane, the first fitte is read ! 
 Take note, my lady, that your way 
 Lies backward to the Cliatelet ! " 
 She shook lier head and gazed awhile 
 At her cold hands with a rueful smile, 
 As though this thing had made her mad. 
 
 This was the parting that they had 
 Beside the haystack in the floods. 
 
 1858. 
 
 TWO RED ROSES ACROSS THE 
 MOON 
 
 There was a lady lived in a hall, 
 Large of her eyes and slim and tall ; 
 And ever she sung from noon to noon, 
 Two red roses across the moon. 
 
 There was a knight came riding by 
 In early spring, when the roads were dry ; 
 And he heard that lady sing at the noon. 
 Two red roses acr^oss the moon. 
 
 Yet none the more he stopp'd at all, 
 But he rode a-gallop past the hall ; 
 A!id left tliat lady singing at noon, 
 Two red roses across tJie moon. 
 
 Because, forsooth, the battle was set, 
 And the scarlet and blue had got to be 
 
 met. 
 He rode on the spur till the next warm 
 
 noon : 
 Tivo red roses across the moon. 
 
 But the battle was scatter'd from hill 
 
 to hill. 
 From the windmill to the watermill ; 
 And he said to himself, as it near'd the 
 
 noon, 
 Two red roses across the moon. 
 
 You scarce could see for the scarlet and 
 
 blue, 
 A golden helm or a golden shoe : 
 So he cried, as the fight grew thick at 
 
 tlie noon, 
 Two red roses across the moon ! 
 
 Verily then the gold bore through 
 
 The huddled spears of the scarlet and 
 
 blue ; 
 And they cried, as they cut them down 
 
 at the noon. 
 Two red roses across the moon! 
 
 I trow lie stopp'd when he rode again 
 By the hall, though draggled .sore with 
 
 the rain ; 
 And his lips were pinch'd to kiss at the 
 
 noon 
 Two red roses across the moon. 
 
 Under the may she stoop'd to the crown' 
 All was gold, there vv-as nothing of brown. 
 And the horns blew up in the hallat noon, 
 Two red roses across the moon. 1858. 
 
 SIR GILES' WAR-SONG 1 
 
 Ho ! is there ami rinll ride witJi. me. 
 Sir Giles, le bon des barrieres '/ 
 
 The clink of arms is good to hear, 
 Tlie flap of pennons fair to see : 
 Ho I is there any loill ride wifJi, me. 
 Sir Giles, le bon des barrieres ? 
 
 The leopards and lilies are fair to see ; 
 St. George Guienne ! right good to hear : 
 Ho! is til ere any irill ride n'ith me ; 
 Sir Giles, le bon des barrieres ? 
 
 I stood by the barrier. 
 My coat being blazon "d fair to see ; 
 Ho! is there any will ride ivith me. 
 Sir Giles, le bon des barrieres f 
 
 Clisson put out his head to see. 
 And lifted his basnet up to hear ; 
 I pull'd him through the bars to ME, 
 Sir Giles, le bon des barrieres. 
 1858. 
 
 NEAR AVALON 
 
 A SHIP with shields before the sun. 
 Six maidens round the mast, 
 A red-gold crown on every one, 
 A green gown on the last. 
 
 Tlie fluttering green banners there 
 
 Are wrought with ladies' heads most 
 
 fair. 
 And a portraiture of Guenevere 
 The middle of each sail dotli beai". 
 
 A ship which sails before the wind, 
 And round the helm six knights, 
 
 ' Browning: wrote to Morris, on the appearance 
 of the Earthly Paradise : " It is a double deliglit 
 to nie to i-ead such poetry, and know you, of all 
 the world, wrote it, — you wliose sonars I used 
 to sing while galloping" liy Fiesole in old days, - 
 ' Ho. is there any will ri(le with me ? ' "—(J. W. 
 Mackail's Life of William Morris, Vol. I., p. 133.) 
 
MORRIS 
 
 839 
 
 Their heaumes are on, whereby, lialf 
 
 blind, 
 They pass by many siglits. 
 
 The tatter'd scarlet banners there, 
 Right soon will leave the spear-heads 
 
 bare. 
 Those six knights sorrowfully bear, 
 In all their heaumes some yellow hair. 
 
 1858. 
 
 IN PRISON 
 
 Wearily, drearily, 
 Half tlie day long. 
 Flap the great banners 
 High over the stone ; 
 Strangely and eerily 
 Sounds the wind's song. 
 Bending the banner-poles. 
 
 While, all alone. 
 
 Watching tlie loophole's spark. 
 
 Lie I, with life all dark. 
 
 Feet tether'd. hands fetter'd 
 
 Fast to the stone, 
 
 The grim wall, square letter'd 
 
 With prison 'd men's groan. 
 
 Still strain the banner-poles 
 Through the wind's song. 
 Westward tlie banner rolls 
 Over my wrong. 1858. 
 
 FROM THE LIFE AND DEATH OF 
 JASON 
 
 TO THE SEA 
 
 O BITTER sea, tumultuous sea. 
 Full many an ill is wrought by thee ! — 
 Unto the wasters of the land 
 Tliou boldest out thy wrinkled hand ; 
 And when they leave the conquered 
 
 town, 
 Whose black smoke makes thy surges 
 
 brown. 
 Driven betwixt thee and the sun. 
 As the long day of blood is done. 
 From many a leagvie of glittering waves 
 Thou smilest on them and their slaves. 
 
 Tlie thin bright-eyed Plio3nician 
 Thou drawest to thy waters wan. 
 With ruddy eve and golden morn 
 Thou temptest him, until, forlorn, 
 Unburied, under alien skies 
 Cast up ashore his body lies. 
 
 Yea, whoso sees thee from his door, 
 Must ever long for more and more ; 
 Nor will the beechen bowl suffice, 
 
 Or homespun robe of little price, 
 Or hood well-woven from tlie fleece 
 Undyed, or unspiced wine of Greece ; 
 So sore his heart is set upon 
 Purple, and gold, and cinnamon ; 
 For as tliou cravest, so he craves, 
 Until he rolls beneath thy waves. 
 Nor in .some landlocked, unknown bay, 
 Can satiate thee for one day. 
 
 Now, therefore, O thou bitter sea. 
 With no long words we pray to thee, 
 But ask thee, hast thou felt before 
 Such strokes of tlie long ashen oar ? 
 And hast thou yet seen sucli a prow 
 Thy rich and niggard waters plough ? 
 
 Nor yet, O sea, shalt tliou be cursed, 
 If at thy hands we gain tlie worst, 
 And, wrapt in water, roll about 
 Blind-eyed, unheeding song or shout, 
 Within thine eddies far from shore, 
 Warmed by no sunlight any more. 
 
 Therefore, indeed, we joy in thee. 
 And praise thy greatness, and will we 
 Take at thy hands both good and ill, 
 Yea, what thou wilt, and praise thee still, 
 Enduring not to sit at home, 
 And wait until the last days come. 
 When we no more may care to hold 
 White bosoms under crowns of gold, 
 And our dulled hearts no longer are 
 Stirred by the clangorous noise of war. 
 And hope within our souls is dead. 
 And no joy is remembered. 
 
 So. if thou hast a mind to slay, 
 Fair prize thou hast of us to-day ; 
 And if thou hast a mind to save. 
 Great praise and honor shalt thou have ; 
 But whatsc; thou wilt do with us, 
 Our end sliall not be piteous, _ 
 Because our memories shall live 
 When folk forget the way to drive 
 The black keel through the heaped-up 
 
 sea. 
 And half dried up thy waters be. 1867. 
 
 THE NYMPH'S SONG TO HYLAS ^ 
 
 I know a little garden close 
 Set thick with lilj' and red rose. 
 Where I would wander if I might 
 From dewy dawn to dewy night. 
 And have one with me wandering. 
 
 And though within it no birds sing. 
 And though no pillared house is there, 
 
 ' This songr reappears under the titled Garden 
 by the Sen in " Poems by the Way," 1891, with 
 slight variations in the text, the most important 
 of which is noted below. 
 
840 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 And though the apple boughs are bare 
 Of fruit and blossom, would to God, 
 Her feet upon the green grass trod, 
 And I beheld them as before. 
 
 There comes a murmur from the shore, 
 And in tlie place two fair streams are, 
 Drawn from the purple hills afar. 
 Drawn down unto tlie restless sea ; 
 The hills whose flowers ne'er fed the bee. 
 The shore no sliip has ever seen. 
 Still beaten by the billows green, 
 Whose murmur comes unceasingly 
 Unto the ]>lace for which I cry. 
 
 For whicli I cry both day and night, 
 For wliich I let slip all delight. 
 That maketh me both deaf and blind. 
 Careless to win, unskilled to find, . 
 And quick to lose wliat all men seek. 
 
 Yet tottering as I am, and weak. 
 Still have I left a little breath 
 To seek within the jaws of death 
 An entrance to that happy place, 
 To seek the unforgotten face 
 Once seen, once kissed, once reft from 
 
 me 
 Anigh tlie murmuring of the sea. 1867. 
 
 ORPHEUS' SONO OF TRIUMPH 
 
 O death, that niakest life so sweet, 
 O fear, with mirtli before thj^ feet. 
 What liave ye yet in store for us. 
 The conquerors, the glorious? 
 
 Men say : ' " For fear tliat thou shouldst 
 
 die 
 To-morrow, let to-day jiass by 
 Flower-crowned and singing," yet liavo 
 
 we 
 Passed our to-day upon the sea. 
 Or in a poisonous unknown land. 
 With fear and death on either hand, 
 And listless when the day was done 
 Have scarcely lioped to see tlie sun 
 Dawn on the morrow of the earth. 
 Nor in our hearts have thought of 
 
 mirth. 
 And while the world lasts, scarce again 
 Shall any sons of men bear pain 
 Like we have borne, yet be alive. 
 So surely not in vain we strive 
 Like other men for our reward ; 
 Sweet peace and deep, the checkered 
 
 sward 
 Beneath the ancient mulberry trees, 
 The smooth-paved gilded palaces, 
 
 ' In J Garden by the Sea, these three lines 
 read : 
 Dark hills whose heath-bloom feeds no bee, 
 Dark shore no ship has ever seen, 
 Tormented by the billows green. 
 
 Wliere the shy tliin-clad damsels sweet 
 Make music with their gold-ringed feet. 
 The fountain court amidst of it. 
 Where tlie short-haired slave-maidens 
 
 sit. 
 While on the veined pavement lie 
 The lionied things and spicery 
 Their arms have borne from out the 
 town. 
 
 The dancers on the thymy down 
 In summer twiliglit, when the earth 
 Is still of all things but their mirth, 
 And echoes borne upon the wind 
 Of others in like way entwined. 
 
 The merchant-town's fair market- 
 place. 
 Where over many a changing face 
 The pigeons of tlie temple flit. 
 And still the outland merchants sit 
 Like kings above their merchandise, 
 Lying to foolish men and wise. 
 
 Ah ! if they lieard that we were come 
 Into the bay, and bringing home 
 That which all men have talked about. 
 Some men with rage, and some with 
 
 doubt. 
 Some with desire, and some with praise ; 
 Then would the people throng the wajs, 
 Nor heed the outland merchandise. 
 Nor any talk, from fools or wise. 
 But tales of our accomplished quest. 
 
 What soul witliin tlie house shall rest 
 When we come home ? The wily king 
 Shall leave his throne to see the thing ; 
 No man shall keep the landward gate, 
 The liurried traveller sliall wait 
 Until our bulwarks graze the quaj"^ ; 
 Unslain the milk-white bull shall be 
 Beside the quivering altar-flame ; 
 Scarce shall the maiden clasp for shame 
 Over her breast the raiment thin 
 The morn that Argo cometh in. 
 
 Then cometh happy life again 
 That payeth well our toil and pain 
 In that sweet hour, when all our woe 
 But as a pensive tale we know. 
 Nor yet remember deadly fear ; 
 For surely now if death be near, 
 Untliought-of is it, and unseen 
 When sweet is, that hath bitter been. 
 
 1867. 
 
 SONGS OF ORPHEUS AND THE SIRENS 
 
 Sirens 
 
 O HAPPY seafarers are ye. 
 
 And surely all j'our ills are past, 
 
 And toil uixm tlie land and sea. 
 Since ye are brought to us at last. 
 
MORRIS 
 
 841 
 
 To you the fashion of the world. 
 
 Wide lands laid waste, fair cities 
 burned, 
 And plagues, and kings from kingdoms 
 hurled, 
 Are nought, since hitlier ye have 
 turned. 
 
 For as upon this beach we stand, 
 And o'er our heads tlie sea-fowl flit, 
 
 Our eyes behold a glorious land, 
 And soon shall ye be kings of it. 
 
 Or2)hens 
 
 A little more, a little more. 
 
 O carriers of the Golden Fleece, 
 A little labor with the oar. 
 
 Before we reach the land of Greece. 
 
 E'en now perchance faint rumors reach 
 Men's ears of this our victory. 
 
 And draw them down unto the beach 
 To gaze across the empty sea. 
 
 But since the longed-for day is nigh, 
 And scarce a God could stay us now, 
 
 Why do ye hang your heads and sigli, 
 Hindering for nought our eager prow ? 
 
 Sirens 
 
 All. had ye chanced to reach the home 
 On which youi' fond desires were set. 
 
 Into what troubles had ye come ? 
 Short love and joy, and long regret. 
 
 But now, but now, when ye have lain 
 
 Asleep with us a little while 
 Beneath the washing of the main. 
 
 How calm shall be your waking smile ! 
 
 For ye shall smile to think of life 
 That knows no troublous change or 
 fear. 
 
 No un vailing bitter strife. 
 That ere its time brings trouble near. 
 
 Orpheus 
 
 Is there some murmur in your ears, 
 That all that we have done is nought, 
 
 And nothing ends our cares or fears. 
 Till the last fear is on us brought ? 
 
 Sirens 
 
 Alas ! and will ye stop your ears. 
 
 In vain desire to do aught. 
 And wish to live 'mid cares and fears, 
 
 Until the last fear makes you nought ? 
 
 OrjJheus 
 
 Is not the May-time now on earth. 
 When close against the city wall 
 The folks are singing in their mirth. 
 While on their heads the Mav-flowers 
 fall ? 
 
 Sirens 
 
 Yes, IMay is come, and its sweet Ijreath 
 Siiall well-nigh make you weep to-da}'. 
 
 And jjensive with swift-coming death. 
 Shall ye be satiate of the May. 
 
 Shall not July bring fresh delight. 
 As underneath green trees ye sit. 
 
 And o'er some damsel's body white 
 The noontide shadows change and 
 flit ? 
 
 Sirens 
 
 No new delight July shall bring 
 But ancient fear and fresh desire, 
 
 And spite of every lovely thing. 
 Of July surely shall you tire. 
 
 Orjiheus 
 
 And now, when August comes on thee, 
 And 'mid the golden sea of corn 
 
 The merry reapers thou mayst see, 
 Wilt thou still think the earth forlorn ? 
 
 Sirens 
 
 Set flowers upon thy short-lived head, 
 And in thine heart forgetful ness 
 
 Of man's hard toil, and scanty bread. 
 And weary of those days no less. 
 
 Orjilietis 
 
 Or wilt thou climb the sunny hill. 
 
 In the October afternoon. 
 To watch the purple eartli's blood till 
 
 The gray vat to the maiden's tune? 
 
 Sirens 
 
 When thou beginnest to grow old. 
 Bring back remembrance of thy bliss 
 
 With tliat the shining cup doth hold, 
 And weary helplessly of this. 
 
 OrpJieus 
 
 Or pleasureless shall we pass by 
 The long cold night and leaden day, 
 
 That song, and tale, and minstrelsy 
 Shall make as merry as the May ? 
 
842 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Sirens 
 
 List tlien. to-night, to some old tale 
 Until the tears o'erflow thine eyes ; 
 
 But what shall all these tilings avail. 
 When sad to-morrow comes and dies ? 
 
 OrjjJieiis 
 
 And when the world is horn again, 
 And with some fair love, side by side, 
 
 Thou wanderest 'twixt the sun and rain, 
 In that fresli love-begetting tide ; 
 
 Then, when the world is born again. 
 And the sweet world before tliee lies, 
 
 Shall thy .heart think of coming pain, 
 Or vex itself with memories ? 
 
 Sirens 
 
 Ah ! then the world is born again 
 Witii burning love unsatisfied. 
 
 And new desires fond and vain. 
 And weary days from tide to tide. 
 
 Ah ! when the world is born again, 
 
 A little day is soon gone by, 
 When thou, unmoved by sun or rjiin. 
 
 Within a cold straight house shalt lie. 
 
 Ah. will ye go, and whither then 
 Will ye go from us, soon to die. 
 
 To fill your three-score years and ten, 
 With many an unnamed miser}' ? 
 
 And this the wretchedest of all, 
 Tliat when upon your lonely eyes 
 
 The last faint heaviness sliall fall 
 Ye shall bethink you of our cries. 
 
 Come back, nor grown old, seek in vain 
 To hear us sing across tlie sea. 
 
 Come back, come back, come back again. 
 Come back, O fearful Minyae ! 
 
 Oi'j)1ieus 
 
 Ah, once again, ah, once again. 
 The black prow plunges through the 
 sea. 
 
 Nor yet shall all vour toil be vain, 
 Nor yet forgot,"^0 Minyae. 1867. 
 
 INVOCATION TO CHAUCER 
 
 (From the last hook of the Life and Death 
 of Jason ) 
 
 So ends the winning of tlie Golden 
 Fleece — 
 
 So ends the tale of that sweet i-est and 
 
 peace 
 That unto Jason and his love befell ; 
 Another story now my tongue must tell, 
 And tremble in the telling. Would 
 
 that I 
 Had but some portion of that mastery 
 That from the rose-hung lanes of woody 
 
 Kent 
 Through these five hundred years such 
 
 songs liave sent 
 To us, wlro meshed within this smoky 
 
 net 
 Of unrejoicing labor, love them j^et. 
 And tliou, O Master ! — Yea, my Master 
 
 still, 
 Whatever feet have scaled Parnassus' 
 
 hill, 
 Since like thy measures, clear and sweet 
 
 and strong, 
 Thames' stream scarce fettered drave the 
 
 dace along 
 Unto tlie bastioned bridge, his only 
 
 chain. — 
 
 Master, pardon me, if yet in vain 
 Tliou art my Master, and I fail to bring 
 Before men's ej'es the image of the thing 
 My lieart is filled with : thou whose 
 
 dreamy eyes 
 Beheld tlie flush to Cressid's cheeks arise, 
 When Troilus rode up tlie i^raising street. 
 As clearly as they saw thy townsmen 
 
 meet [stood 
 
 Those who in vineyards of Poictou with- 
 Tlie glittering horror of the steel-topped 
 
 wood. 1867. 
 
 AN APOLOGY 
 
 PROLOGUE OF THE EARTHLY PARADISE 
 
 Of Heaven or Hell I have no power to 
 sing, 
 
 1 c!annot ease the burden of your fears. 
 Or make quick-coming death a little 
 
 thing, 
 Or bring again the pleasure of past years. 
 Nor for my words shall ye forget your 
 
 tears. 
 Or hope again for avight that I can say, 
 The idle singer of an empty day. 
 
 But rather, when aweary of your mirth. 
 From full hearts still unsatisfied ye sigh, 
 And, feeling kindly unto all the eartli, 
 Grudge everj' minute as it passes b}'. 
 Made the more mindful that tlie sweet 
 
 days die — 
 — Remember me a little then I pray, 
 Tlie idle singer of an enijity day. 
 
MORRIS 
 
 843 
 
 The heavy trouble, the bewildering care 
 That weighs us down who live and earn 
 
 our bread, 
 These idle verses have no power to bear ; 
 So let me sing of names remembered, 
 Because they, living not, can ne'er be 
 
 dead. 
 Or long time take their memory quite 
 
 away 
 From us poor singers of an empty day. 
 
 Dreamer of dreams, born out of my due 
 
 time. 
 Why should I strive to set the crooked 
 
 straight ? 
 Let it suffice me that my murmuring 
 
 rhyme 
 Beats with light wing against the ivory 
 
 gate. 
 Telling a tale not too importunate 
 To those who in the sleepy region stay, 
 Lulled by the singer of an einpty day. 
 
 Folk say, a wizard to a northern king 
 
 At Christmas-tide such wondrous things 
 
 did show, 
 That tln-ough one window men beheld 
 
 the spring, 
 And through another saw the summer 
 
 glow, 
 And through a third the fi'uited vines 
 
 a-row, 
 While still, unheard, but in its wonted 
 
 way. 
 Piped the drear wind of that December 
 
 day. 
 
 So with this Earthly Paradise it is. 
 If ye will read arigiit. and pardon me, 
 Who strive to build a shadowy isle of 
 
 bliss 
 Midmost the beating of the steely sea. 
 Where tossed about all hearts of men 
 
 must be ; 
 Whose ravening monsters mighty men 
 
 shall slay, 
 Not the poor singer of an empty day. 
 
 1868. 
 
 ATALANTA'S RACE 
 
 ARGUMENT 
 
 Atalanta, daughter of King SchcBneus, not willing to lose her virgin's estate, made it a law to all 
 suitors that they should run a race with her in the public place, and if they failed to over- 
 come her should die unrevenged ; and thus many brave men perished. At last' came Milanion, 
 the son of Amphidamas, who, outrunning her with the help of Venus, gained the virgin anil 
 wedded her. 
 
 Through thick Arcadian woods a hunter 
 
 went, 
 Following the beasts upon a fresh spring 
 
 day; 
 But since his horn-tipped bow but seldom 
 
 bent. 
 Now at the noontide nought had happed 
 
 to slay. 
 Within a vale he called his hounds away, 
 Harkening the echoes of his lone voice 
 
 cling 
 About the cliffs and through the beech- 
 
 1 trees ring. 
 
 *' But when they ended, still awhile he 
 stood. 
 And but the sweet fainiliar thrush could 
 hear. 
 And all tlie day-long noises of the wood, 
 And o'er the dry leaves of the vanished 
 
 year 
 His hounds' feet pattering as they drew 
 anear, 
 
 And heavy breathing from their heads 
 
 low hung. 
 To see the mighty cornel bow unstrung. 
 
 Then smiling did he turn to leave the 
 
 place. 
 But with his first step some new fleeting 
 
 thought 
 A shadow cast across his sun-bunit 
 
 face ; 
 I think the golden net that April 
 
 brought 
 From some warm world his wavering 
 
 soul had caught ; 
 For, sunk in vague sweet longing, did lie 
 
 go 
 Betwixt the trees with doubtful steps 
 
 and slow. 
 
 Yet howsoever slow he went, at last 
 The trees grew sparser, and tlie wood 
 was done ; [ciist, 
 
 Whereon one farewell backward look he 
 
844 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Tlien, turning round to see what place 
 
 was won, 
 With shaded eyes looked underneath the 
 
 sun, 
 And o'er green meads and new-turned 
 
 furrows brown 
 Beheld the gleaming of King Schoeneus' 
 
 town. 
 
 So thitherward he turned, and on each 
 
 side 
 The folk were busy on the teeming 
 
 land, 
 And man and maid from the brown fur- 
 rows cried, 
 Or midst the newlj' blossomed vines did 
 
 stand, 
 And as the rustic weapon pressed the 
 
 hand 
 Thought of the nodding of the well-filled 
 
 ear, 
 Or how the knife the heavy buncli should 
 
 shear. 
 
 Merry it was : about him sung the 
 
 birds, 
 Tlie spring flowers bloomed along the 
 
 firm dr\- road, 
 Tlie sleek-skinned mothers of tlie sliarp- 
 
 horned herds 
 Now for the barefoot milking-maidens 
 
 lowed ; 
 While from the freshness of his blue 
 
 abode. 
 Glad his death-bearing arrows to forget. 
 The broad sun blazed, nor scattered 
 
 plagues as yet. 
 
 Through such fair things unto the gates 
 
 he came, 
 And found them open, as though peace 
 
 were there ; 
 Wherethrough, unquestioned of his 
 
 race or name. 
 He entered, and along the streets 'gan 
 
 fare, 
 Which at the first of folk were well-nigh 
 
 bare ; 
 But pressing on, and going more hastily, 
 Men hurrying too he 'gan at last to see. 
 
 Following t]ie last of these he still 
 pressed on, 
 
 Until an open space he came unto. 
 
 Where wreaths of fame had oft been lost 
 and won. 
 
 For feats of strength folks there were 
 wont to do. 
 
 And now our hunter looked for some- 
 thing new, 
 
 Because the whole wide space was bare, 
 
 and stilled 
 The high seats were, with eager people 
 
 filled. 
 
 Tliere with the others to a seat he gat, 
 Whence he beheld a broidered canopy, 
 'Neath which in fair array King Shoeneus 
 
 sat 
 Upon his throne witli councillors 
 
 thereby : 
 And underneath his well-wrought seat 
 
 and high, 
 He saw a golden image of the sun, 
 A silver image of the Fleet-foot One. 
 
 A brazen altar stood beneath thtii- feet 
 Whereon a thin flame flicker'd in the 
 
 wind ; 
 Nigh this a herald clad in raiment meet 
 Made ready even now his horn to wind, 
 By whom a huge man held a sword , 
 
 entwin'd 
 With j^ellow flowers ; these stood a little 
 
 space 
 From off the altar, nigh the starting 
 
 place. 
 
 And there two runners did the sign 
 
 abide. 
 Foot set to foot, — a young man slim and 
 
 fair, 
 Crisp-Jiair'd, well knit, with firm limbs 
 
 often tried 
 In places where no man his strengtli may 
 
 spare : 
 Dainty liis tliin coat was, and on his hair 
 A golden circlet of renown lie wore, 
 And in his hand an olive garland bore. 
 
 But on this day with whom shall lie con- 
 tend ? 
 
 A maid stood by him like Diana clad 
 
 When in the woods she lists her bow to 
 bend, 
 
 Too fair for one to look on and be glad, 
 
 Who scarcely yet has thirty summers 
 had. 
 
 If he must still lieliold her from afar ; 
 
 Too fair to let the world live free from 
 war. 
 
 She seem'd all earthly matters to forget : 
 Of all toruaenting lines lier face was 
 
 clear ; 
 Her wide gray eyes upon the goal were 
 
 set 
 Calm and umov'd as though no soul were 
 
 near. 
 
MORRIS 
 
 845 
 
 But lier foe trembled as a man in fear, 
 Nor from her loveliness one moment 
 
 turn'd 
 His anxious face with fierce desire that 
 
 burn'd. 
 
 Now through the hush there broke the 
 
 trumpet's clang 
 Just as the setting sun made eventide. 
 Theu from light feet a spurt of dust 
 
 there sprang. 
 And swiftly were tliey running side by 
 
 side ; 
 But silent did the thronging folk abide 
 Until the turning-post was reach'd at 
 
 last, 
 And round about it still abreast they 
 
 passed. 
 
 But wlien the people saw how close they 
 
 ran, 
 Wlien half-way to the starting-point 
 
 they were, 
 A cry of joy broke forth, whereat the 
 
 man 
 Headed the white-foot runner, and drew 
 
 near 
 Unto tlie very end of all his fear ; 
 And scarce his straining feet the ground 
 
 could feel, 
 And bliss unhop'd for o'er his heart 'gan 
 
 steal. 
 
 But 'midst the loud victorious shouts he 
 
 heard 
 Her footsteps drawing nearer, and the 
 
 sound 
 Of fluttering raiment, and thereat 
 
 afeai'ed 
 His flusli'tl and eager face he turn'd 
 
 around, 
 And even then he felt her past him 
 
 bound 
 Fleet as the wind, but scarcely saw her 
 
 there 
 Till on the goal she laid her fingers fair. 
 
 Tiiere stood she breathing like a little 
 
 child 
 Amid some warlike clamor laid asleep. 
 For no victorious jo\^ her red lips smil'd. 
 Her cheek its wonted freshness did but 
 
 keep : 
 No glance lit up her clear gray eyes and 
 
 deep. 
 Though some divine thought soften 'd all 
 
 her face 
 As once more rang tiie trumpet through 
 
 the place. 
 
 But her late foe stopp'd short amidst his 
 
 course, 
 One moment gaz'd upon her piteously. 
 Then with a groan his lingering feet did 
 
 force 
 To leave the spot whence he her eyes 
 
 could see ; 
 And, changed like one who knows his 
 
 time must be 
 But short and bitter, without any word 
 He knelt before tlie bearer of the sword ; 
 
 Tlien high rose up the gleaming deadly 
 
 blade, 
 Bar'd of its flowers, and through the 
 
 crowded place 
 Was silence now, and midst of it the 
 
 maid 
 Went bj' the poor wretch at a gentle 
 
 pace, 
 And he to hers upturn'd his sad white 
 
 face ; 
 Nor did his eyes behold another sight 
 Ere on his soul there fell eternal light. 
 
 So was the pageant ended, and all folk 
 
 Talking of this and tliat familiar thing 
 
 In little groups from tliat sad concourse 
 broke. 
 
 For now the shrill bats were upon the 
 wing. 
 
 And soon dark night would slay the 
 evening. 
 
 And in dark gardens sang the nightin- 
 gale 
 
 Her little-heeded, oft-repeated tale. 
 
 And with the last of all the hunter went. 
 Who, wondering at the strange sight he 
 
 had seen. 
 Prayed an old man to tell him what it 
 
 meant. 
 Both why the vanquished man so slain 
 
 had been. 
 And if the maiden were an earthly 
 
 queen. 
 Or rather what much more slie seemed 
 
 to be, 
 No sharer in this world's mortality. 
 
 " Stranger," said he, " I pray she soon 
 
 may die 
 Whose lovely youth has slain so many 
 
 an one I 
 King Schoeneus' daughter is she verily. 
 Who wlien lier eyes first looked upon the 
 
 sun 
 Was fain to end lier life but new begun, 
 
846 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 For he had vowed to leave but men 
 
 alone 
 Sprung from his loins vi'hen he from 
 
 earth was gone. 
 
 ♦' Therefore he bade one leave her in 
 
 the wood. 
 And let wild things deal with her as 
 
 they might, 
 But this being done, some cruel god 
 
 thovight good 
 To save lier beauty in the woi'ld's 
 
 despite ; 
 Folk say that lier, so delicate and wliite 
 As now she is, a rough root-grubbing 
 
 bear 
 Amidst her shapeless cubs at first did 
 
 rear. 
 
 " In course of time the woodfolk slew 
 her nurse, 
 
 And to their rude abode the youngling 
 brought. 
 
 And reared her up to be a kingdom's 
 curse ; 
 
 Who grown a woman, of no kingdom 
 thought, 
 
 But armed and swift, 'mid beasts de- 
 struction wrought, 
 
 Nor spared two shaggy centaur kings to 
 slay 
 
 To whom lier body seemed an easy prey. 
 
 " So to this city, led by fate, she came 
 Whom known by signs, wliereof I 
 
 cannot tell, 
 King Schoeneus for his child at last did 
 
 claim. 
 Nor otlierwhere since that day doth she 
 
 dwell 
 Sending too many a noble soul to hell — 
 What ! thine eyes glisten ! what tlien, 
 
 thinkest thou 
 Her shining head unto the yoke to bow ? 
 
 " Listen, my son, and love some other 
 
 maid 
 For she the saffron gown will never 
 
 wear, 
 And on no flower-strewn couch shall 
 
 she be laid. 
 Nor shall her voice make glad a lover's 
 
 ear : 
 Yet if of Death thou hast not any fear. 
 Yea, rather, if thou lov'st him utterly, 
 Tliou still may'st woo her ere thou 
 
 com'st to die, 
 
 " Like him that on this day thou sawest 
 lie dead ; 
 
 For, fearing as I deem the sea-born one. 
 
 The maid has vowed e'en sucli a man to 
 wed 
 
 As in tlie course her swift feet can out- 
 run. 
 
 But wlioso fails herein, his days are 
 done : 
 
 He came the nigliest that was slain to- 
 day, 
 
 Although with him I deem she did but 
 play. 
 
 " Behold, such mercy Atalanta gives 
 To those that long to win her loveliness ; 
 Be wise ! be sure that many a maid there 
 
 lives 
 Gentler than she, of beauty little less. 
 Whose swimming eyes thy loving words 
 
 shall bless. 
 When in some garden, knee set close to 
 
 knee. 
 Thou sing'st the song that love may 
 
 teach to thee." 
 
 So to the hunter spake that ancient man. 
 
 And left him for his own home pre- 
 sently : 
 
 But he turned round, and through the 
 moonlight wan 
 
 Reached tlie thick wood, and there 
 'tu'ixt tree and tree 
 
 Distraught he passed the long night 
 feverishly, 
 
 'Twixt sleep and waking, and at dawn 
 ai'ose 
 
 To wage hot war against his speechless 
 foes. 
 
 Tliere to the hart's flank seemed liis 
 
 shaft to grow. 
 As panting down the broad green glades 
 
 lie flew, 
 There by his horn the Dryads well might 
 
 know 
 His tlirust against the bear's heart had 
 
 been true, 
 And there Adonis' bane his javelin slew. 
 But still in vain through rough and 
 
 smooth he went. 
 For none the more his restlessness was 
 
 spent. 
 
 So wandering, he to Argive cities came, 
 And in the lists with valiant men he 
 
 stood, 
 And by great deeds he won him praise 
 
 and fame. 
 And heajis of wealth for little-valued 
 
 blood ; 
 
MORRIS 
 
 847 
 
 But none of all these things, or life, 
 
 seemed good 
 Unto liis heart, wliere still unsatisfied 
 A ravenous longing warred with fear 
 
 and pride. 
 
 Therefore it happed when but a month 
 
 had gone 
 Since he had left King Schoeneus' city 
 
 old. 
 In hunting-gear again, again alone 
 The forest-bordered meads did he behold, 
 Where still mid thoughts of August's 
 
 quivering gold 
 Folk hoed the wheat, and clipped the 
 
 vine in trust 
 Of faint October's purple-foaming must. 
 
 And once again he passed the peaceful 
 
 gate, 
 While to his beating heart his lips did 
 
 lie. 
 That owning not victoriovis love and fate, 
 Said, half aloud, " And here too must I 
 
 try, 
 To win of alien men the mastery, 
 And gather for my head fresh meed of 
 
 fame 
 And cast new glory on my father's 
 
 name." 
 
 In spite of that, how beat his heart, 
 
 when first 
 Folk said to him, "And art thou come 
 
 to see 
 That which still makes our city's name 
 
 accurst 
 Among all mothers for its cruelty ? 
 Then know indeed that fate is good to 
 
 thee 
 Because to-morrow a new luckless one 
 Against the whitefoot maid is pledged 
 
 to run." 
 
 So on the morrow with no curious eyes 
 As once he did, that piteous sight he 
 
 saw. 
 Nor did that wonder in his heart arise 
 As toward the goal the conquering maid 
 
 'gan di'aw. 
 Nor did he gaze upon her eyes with awe, 
 Too full the pain of longing filled his 
 
 heart 
 For fear or wonder there to have a part. 
 
 But O, how long the night was ere it 
 
 went ! 
 How long it was before the dawn begun 
 Showed to the wakening birds the sun's 
 
 intent 
 
 Tliat not in darkness sliould the world 
 
 be done ! 
 And then, and then, how long before 
 
 the sun 
 Bade silently the toilers of the earth 
 Get fortli to fruitless cares or empty 
 
 mirth ! 
 
 And long it seemed that in tlie market- 
 place 
 
 He stood and saw the chaffering folk 
 go by. 
 
 Ere froni the ivory throne King Schoe- 
 neus' face 
 
 Looked down upon the murmur royally. 
 
 But then came trembling that the time 
 was nigli 
 
 When he midst pitying looks his love 
 must chiim. 
 
 And jeering voices must salute his name. 
 
 But as the throng lie pierced to gain tiie 
 
 throne, 
 His alien face distraught and anxious 
 
 told 
 What hopeless errand he was bound 
 
 upon. 
 And, each to eacli, folk wliispered to 
 
 behold 
 His godlike limbs ; nav, and one woman 
 
 old 
 As he went by must jiluck him by the 
 
 sleeve 
 And pray liim jet tliat wretched love to 
 
 leave. 
 
 For sidling up slie said, "' Canst thou 
 
 live twice. 
 Fair son ? canst thou have joyful youth 
 
 again. 
 That thus thou goest to the sacrifice 
 Tliy self tbe victim ? nay then, all in vain 
 Thy mother bore her longing and her 
 
 pain, 
 And one more maiden on the earth must 
 
 dwell 
 Hopeless of joy, nor fearing death and 
 
 hell. 
 
 '' O, fool, thou knowest not the compact 
 
 then 
 That with the three-formed goddess she 
 
 has made 
 To keep her from the loving lips of men, 
 And in no saffron gown to be arrayed. 
 And therewithal with glory to be paid. 
 And love of her the moonlit river sees 
 Wliite 'gainst the shadow of the formless 
 
 trees. 
 
BRITISH POETS 
 
 " Come back, and I myself will piay 
 
 for thee 
 Unto the sea-born framer of delights, 
 To give thee her who on the earth may be 
 The fairest stirrer up to death and fights, 
 To quencli with hopeful da5'S and joyous 
 
 nights 
 The flame that doth thy youthful heart 
 
 consume : 
 Come back, nor give thy beauty to the 
 
 tomb." 
 
 How should he listen to her earnest 
 
 speech ? 
 Words, such as he not once or twice had 
 
 sjiid 
 Unto himself, wiiose nieaning scarce 
 
 could reach 
 Tlie firm abode of that sad hardihead — 
 He turned about, and through the 
 
 marketstead 
 Swiftly he passed, until before the 
 
 throne 
 In the cleared space he stood at last 
 
 alone. 
 
 Then said the King, "Stranger, what 
 
 dost thou here ? 
 Have any of my folk done ill to thee ? 
 Or art thou of the forest men in fear ? 
 Or art thou of the sa<l fraternity' 
 Who still will strive my daughter's mates 
 
 to be, 
 Staking their lives to win an earthly 
 
 bliss, 
 The lonely maid, the friend of Artemis?" 
 
 '• O King," he said "thou sayest the 
 
 word indeed : 
 Nor will I quit tlie strife till I have won 
 My sweet delight, or death to end my 
 
 need. 
 And know that I am called Milanion, 
 Of King Amphidamas the well-loved 
 
 son : 
 So fear not that to thy old name. O King, 
 Much loss or shame my victory will 
 
 bring. " 
 
 "Nay, Prince," said Schoeneus, "wel- 
 come to this land 
 
 Thou wert indeecL, if thou wert here to 
 try 
 
 Thy strength 'gainst some one mighty 
 of his hand ; 
 
 Nor would we grudge thee well-won 
 mastery. 
 
 But no\v, why wilt tiiou come to me to 
 die. 
 
 And at my door lay down thy luckless 
 
 head. 
 Swelling the band of the unhappy dead, 
 
 " Wliose curses even now my heart doth 
 
 fear ? 
 Lo. I am old. and know what life can be, 
 And what a bitter thing is death anear. 
 O. Son ! be wise, anil harken unto me. 
 And if no otiier can be dear to thee, 
 At least as now, yet is the world full 
 
 wide. 
 And bliss in seeming hopeless hearts may 
 
 hide : 
 
 •• But if thou losest life, then all is 
 
 lost." 
 " Na}', King," Milanion said, "thy words 
 
 are vain. 
 Doubt not that I have counted well the 
 
 cost. 
 But sa}',_on what day wilt thou that I 
 
 gain 
 Fulfilled delight, or deatli to end my 
 
 pain. 
 Right glad were I if it could be to-day, 
 And all ni}' doubts' at rest for ever lay." 
 
 "Nay,'' said King Schoeneus, " thus it 
 
 shall not be. 
 But rather shalt thou let a month go by. 
 And weary with th}' praj'ers for victorj' 
 What god thou know'st the kindest and 
 
 most nigh. 
 So doing, still perchance thou shalt not 
 
 die: 
 And with my goodwill wouldst thou 
 
 liave the maid. 
 For of the equal gods I grow afraid. 
 
 " And until then, O Prince, be thou my 
 guest, 
 
 And all these troublous things awhile 
 forget." 
 
 " Nay," said he, "couldst thou give my 
 soul good rest. 
 
 And on mine head a sleepy garland set, 
 
 Tlien had I 'scai)ed the meshes of the 
 net, [word ; 
 
 Nor shouldstthou hear from me another 
 
 But now, make sharp thy fearful head- 
 ing-sword. 
 
 " Yet will I do what son of man may do. 
 And promise all the gods may most 
 
 desire. 
 That to myself I may at least be true : 
 And on that day my heart and limbs so 
 
 tire, 
 
MORRIS 
 
 849 
 
 Witli utmost strain and measureless de- 
 sire, 
 That, at the worst, I may but fall asleep 
 When in the sunlight round that sword 
 shall sweep." 
 
 He went therewith, nor anywhere would 
 
 bide. 
 But unto Argos restlessly did wend ; 
 And there, as one who la^^s all hope aside. 
 Because the leech has said his life must 
 
 end, 
 Silent farewell he bade to foe and friend. 
 And took his way unto the restless sea, 
 ' For there he deemed his rest and help 
 
 .aight be. 
 
 Upon the shore of Ai'golis there stands 
 A temple to the goddess that he sought, 
 That, turned unto the lion-bearing lands. 
 Fenced from the east, of cold winds hath 
 
 no thought, 
 Tliough to no homestead there the 
 
 sheaves are brought, 
 No groaning press torments the close- 
 clipped murk, 
 Lonely the fane stands, far from all men's 
 , work. 
 
 Pass through a close, set thick with 
 
 myrtle-trees, 
 Through the brass doors that guard the 
 
 lioly place, 
 And entering, hear the washing of the 
 
 seas 
 That twice a-day I'ise high above the base, 
 And with the •south-west urging them, 
 
 embrace 
 The marble feet of her that standeth 
 
 there 
 Tliat shrink not, naked though they be 
 
 and fair. 
 
 Small is the fane through which the sea- 
 wind sings 
 
 About Queen Venus' well-wrought image 
 white. 
 
 But hung around are many precious 
 tilings, 
 
 The gifts of those who, longing for de- 
 light. 
 
 Have hung them there within the god- 
 dess' sight, 
 
 And in return have taken at her hands 
 
 Tlie living treasures of the Grecian lands. 
 
 And thither now has come Milanion, 
 And sliowed unto the priests' wide open 
 
 eyes 
 
 54 
 
 Gifts fairer than all those that there 
 
 have shone. 
 Silk cloths, inwrought wMth Indian 
 
 fantasies, 
 And bowls inscribed with sayings of the 
 
 wise 
 Above the deeds of foolish living things ; 
 And mirrors fit to be the gifts of kings. 
 
 And now before the Sea-born One he 
 stands, 
 
 By the sweet veiling smoke made dim 
 and soft. 
 
 And while the incense trickles from his 
 hands, 
 
 And while the odorous smoke-wreaths 
 hang aloft, 
 
 Thus doth he pray to her: '• O Thou, 
 who oft 
 
 Hast holpen man and maid in their dis- 
 tress 
 
 Despise me not for this my wretchedness ! 
 
 " O goddess, among us who dwell below, 
 Kings and great men, great for a little 
 
 while, 
 Have pity on the lowly heads that bow, 
 Nor iiate the hearts that love them with- 
 out guile ; 
 Wilt thou be worse than these, and is 
 
 thy smile 
 A vain device of him wlio set thee here, 
 An empty dream of some artificer ? 
 
 "O great one, some men love, and are 
 ashamed ; 
 
 Some men are weary of the bonds of love ; 
 
 Yea, and by some men lightly art thou 
 blamed, 
 
 That from thy toils their lives they can- 
 not move. 
 
 And 'mid tlie ranks of men their man- 
 hood prove. 
 
 Alas ! O goddess, if thou slayest me 
 
 What new immortal can I serve but thee ? 
 
 " Think then, will it bring honor to thy 
 
 head 
 If folk say, ' Everything aside he cast 
 And to all fame and honor was he dead, 
 And to his one hope now is dead at last, 
 Since all unholpen he is gone and past : 
 Ah, the gods love not man, for certainly. 
 He to his helper did not cease to cry.' 
 
 " Nay, but thou wilt help ; they who died 
 
 before 
 Not single-hearted as I deem came here. 
 Therefore unthanked they laid their 
 i gifts before 
 
850 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Thy stayiless feet, still shivering Avitli 
 
 tlieir fear, 
 Lest in their eyes their true tliought 
 
 might appear, 
 Who sought to be the lords of that fair 
 
 town. 
 Dreaded of men and winners of renown. 
 
 " O Queen, tliou knowest I pray not for 
 
 tliis : 
 O sat us down together in some place 
 Where not a voice can break our lieaven 
 
 of bliss. 
 Where nouglit but rocks and T can see 
 
 her face. 
 Softening beneatli the marvel of thy 
 
 . grace, 
 Where, not a foot our vanished steps can 
 
 track — 
 The golden age, the golden age come 
 
 back ! 
 
 " O fairest, hear me now who do tin' 
 
 will, 
 Plead for thy rebel tluit slie be not slain, 
 But live and love and be thv servant 
 
 still ; 
 Ah, give lier joy and take away my pain. 
 And thus two long-enduring servants 
 
 gain. 
 An easy tiling this is to do for me, 
 What need of my vain words to weary 
 
 thee. 
 
 " But none the less, this place will I not 
 
 leave 
 Until I needs must go my death to meet. 
 Or at thy hands some happy sign receive 
 Tliat in great joy we twain may one day 
 
 greet 
 Thy presence here and kiss thy silver feet. 
 Such as we deem thee, fair beyond all 
 
 words, 
 Victorious o'er our servants and our 
 
 lords." 
 
 Then from the altar back a space he 
 drew. 
 
 But from tlie Queen turned not his face 
 away. 
 
 But 'gainst a pillarleaned, until the blue 
 
 That arched the sky, a^ ending of tlie 
 day. 
 
 Was turned to ruddy gold and changing 
 giay, 
 
 And clear, but low, the nigli-ebbed 
 windless sea 
 
 In the still evening murmured cease- 
 lessly. 
 
 And tiiere he stood when all the sun was 
 down. 
 
 Nor had he moved, when the dim golden 
 light, 
 
 Like the far lustre of a godlike town. 
 
 Had left the world to seeming hopeless 
 night. 
 
 Nor would he move the more when wan 
 moonlight 
 
 Streamed thiough the pillars for a little 
 while, 
 
 And lighted up the white Queen's change- 
 less smile. 
 
 Nought noted he the shallow-flowing sea 
 
 As step b}' step it set the wrack a-swim . 
 
 The yellow torchlight nothing noted he 
 
 Wherein with fluttering gown and half- 
 bared limb 
 
 The temple damsels sung their midnight 
 hj'mn : 
 
 And nought the doubled stillness of the 
 fane 
 
 When they were gone and all was hushed 
 again. 
 
 But when the waves had touched tlie 
 
 marble base, 
 And steps the fish swim over twice a-day,' 
 The dawn beheld him sunken in his 
 
 place 
 Upon the floor ; and sleeping there he 
 
 lay, 
 
 Not heeding aught the little jets of spra v 
 The roughened sea brought nigh, acros 
 
 him cast. 
 For as one dead all thought from him 
 
 had passed. 
 
 Yet long before the sun had showed his 
 
 head. 
 Long ere the varied hangings on the 
 
 wall 
 Had gained once more their blue and 
 
 green and red, 
 He rose as one some well-known sign 
 
 doth call 
 When war upon 'the city's gates doth 
 
 fall,. " 
 And scarce m^ )ne fresh risen out of 
 
 sleep. 
 He 'gan again his broken watch to keep. 
 
 Then he turned round ; not for the sea- 
 gull's cry 
 
 That wheeled above the temple in his 
 flight, 
 
 Not for the fresh south wind that lov- 
 ingly 
 
MORRIS 
 
 851 
 
 I 
 
 Breatlirtd on the new-born day and dying 
 
 niglit, 
 But some strange hope 'twixt fear and 
 
 great deliglit 
 Drew round his face, now flushed, now 
 
 pale and wan. 
 And still constrained his eyes the sea to 
 
 scan. 
 
 Now a faint light lit up the southern sky 
 N0I sun or moon, for all the world was 
 
 gray, 
 l!i;: tills a bright cloud seemed, tliat 
 
 drew anigli, 
 ' 'v-'iting the dull waves tliat beneath it 
 
 lay 
 '■ T oward the temple still it took its 
 
 way, 
 ■'. iiii still grew greater, till Milanion 
 ^i'.v nought for dazzling light that round 
 
 him shone. 
 
 !ir IS lie staggered with his arms out- 
 spread, 
 .'•;;i>'ious unnamed odors breathed 
 
 around. 
 , 'or languid liappiness he bowed liis liead . 
 Vrhi with wet eyes sank down upon tiie 
 ground, 
 'Nor wished for aught, nor any dream he 
 
 found 
 To give him reason for that ha])piness. 
 Or make him ask more knowledge of his 
 bliss. 
 
 ']| last his eyes were cleared, and he 
 
 could see 
 Through happy tears the goddess face to 
 
 face 
 Witli that faint image of Divinity, 
 Whose well-wrought smile and dainty 
 
 changeless grace 
 Until that morn so gladdened all the 
 
 place ; 
 Tlienhe, unwitting cried aloud her name 
 And covered up his eyes for fear and 
 
 shame. 
 
 But tlu-ough the stillness he her voice 
 could liear 
 
 Piercing his heart with joy scarce bear- 
 able. 
 
 That said. •' Mihiiiion, wherefore dost 
 tiiou feai', 
 
 I am nut hard to those wlio love me 
 well ; 
 
 List to^vhat I a second time will tell, 
 
 And tliou mayest hear perchance, and 
 live to save 
 
 The cruel maiden from a loveless grave. 
 
 '• See, by my feet three golden apples 
 
 lie- 
 Such fruit among the heavy roses falls, 
 Such fruit my watchful damsels care- 
 fully 
 Store up within the best loved of my 
 
 walls. 
 Ancient Damascus, wliere the lover calls 
 Above my unseen head, and faint and 
 
 liglit 
 Tiie rose-leaves flutter round me in the 
 night. 
 
 '• And note, that these are not alone most 
 fair 
 
 With heavenly gold, but longing strange 
 they bring 
 
 Unto the hearts of men, who will not 
 care 
 
 Beliolding these, for any once-loved thing 
 
 Till round the shining sides their fingers 
 cling. 
 
 And thou shalt see thy well-girt swift- 
 foot maid 
 
 By sight of these amidst her glory stayed. 
 
 '• For bearing these within a scrip with 
 . thee. 
 When first she heads thee from the 
 
 starting-place 
 Cast down the first one for her eyes to 
 
 see. 
 And when she turns aside make on 
 
 apace, 
 And if again she heads thee in the race 
 Spare not the other two to cast aside 
 If she not long enough behind will bide. 
 
 " Farewell, and wlien has come the 
 
 happy time 
 That she Diana's raiment must unbind 
 And all the world seems blessed with 
 
 Saturn's clime. 
 And tiiou with eager arms about her 
 
 twined 
 Beholdest first her gray eyes growing 
 
 kind. 
 Surely, O trembler, thou shalt scarcely 
 
 then 
 Forget the Helper of unhappy men." 
 
 ^Milanion raised his head at this last 
 word 
 
 For now so soft and kind she seemed to 
 be 
 
 No longer of her Godhead was he feared : 
 
 Too late he looked ; for nothing could 
 he see 
 
 But the white image glimmering doubt- 
 fully 
 
852 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 111 tlie departing twiliglit cold and graj', 
 And tlxose tliree apples on the step that 
 lay. 
 
 These then he caught up quivering with 
 
 delight, 
 Yet fearful lest it all might be a dream ; 
 And though aweary with the watchful 
 
 night, 
 And sleepless nights of longing, still did 
 
 deem 
 He could not sleep ; but yet the first 
 
 sunbeam 
 That smote the fane across the lieaving 
 
 deep 
 Shone on him laid in calm, untroubled 
 
 sleeiJ. 
 
 But little ere the noontide did he rise. 
 And why he felt so happy scarce could 
 
 tell 
 Until tlie gleaming apples met his ej'es. 
 Then leaving the fair place where this 
 
 befell 
 Oft he looked back as one who loved it 
 
 well. 
 Then homeward to the haunts of men, 
 
 'gan wend 
 To bring all things unto a happy end. 
 
 Now has the lingering month at last 
 
 gone by. 
 Again are all folk i-ound the running 
 
 place, 
 Nor other seems the dismal pageantrj"- 
 Than heretofore, but that another face 
 Looks o'er the smooth course read}' for 
 
 the race, 
 For now, beheld of all, Milanion 
 Stands on the spot he twice has look'd 
 
 ujion. 
 
 But yet — what change is this that holds 
 
 the maid ? 
 Does she indeed see in his glittering eye 
 Moi-e than disdain of the sharp shearing 
 
 blade, 
 Some happy hope of help and victory ? 
 The others seem'd to say, "We come to 
 
 die ; 
 Look down upon us for a little while. 
 That, dead, we may bethink us of thy 
 
 smile." 
 
 But he — what look of mastery was this 
 He cast on her? why were hislij^sso red ; 
 Why was his face so Unsh'd with hap- 
 piness ? 
 
 So looks not one who deems himself but 
 
 dead. 
 E'en if to death he bows a willing head ; 
 So rather looks a god well pleas'd to find 
 Some earthly damsel fashion'd to his 
 
 mind. 
 
 Why must she drop her lids before his 
 
 gaze, 
 And even as she casts adown her ej'es 
 Redden to note his eager glance of praise, 
 And wish that she were clad in other 
 
 guise ? 
 Why must the memoiy to her heart arise 
 Of things unnoticed when they first weie 
 
 heard, 
 Some lover's song, some answering 
 
 maiden's word ? 
 
 What makes these longings, vague, 
 
 without a name, 
 And this vain pity never felt before. 
 This sudden languor, this contempt of 
 
 fame, 
 This tender sorrow for the time past o'er, 
 These doubts that grow each minute 
 
 more and more ? 
 Why does she tremble as the time grows 
 
 near. 
 And weak defeat and woeful victory 
 
 fear ? 
 
 But while she seem'd to hear her beat- 
 ing heart. 
 
 Above their heads the trumpet blast rang 
 out 
 
 And forth they sprang, and she must 
 jilay her part ; 
 
 Then flew her white feet, knowing not a 
 doubt. 
 
 Though, slackening once, she turn'd her 
 head about. 
 
 But then she cried aloud and faster fled 
 
 Than e'er before, and all men deemed 
 him dead. 
 
 But with no sound he raised aloft his 
 
 hand. 
 And thence what seemed a ray of light 
 
 there flew 
 And past the maid rolled on along the 
 
 sand ; 
 Then trembling she her feet together 
 
 drew 
 And in her heart a strong desire there 
 
 grew 
 To have the toy ; some god she thought 
 
 iiad given [heaven. 
 
 That gift to her, to make of earth a 
 
MORRIS 
 
 853 
 
 Then from the course with eager steps 
 she ran, 
 
 And in her odorous bosom hiid the gold. 
 
 But when she turned again, the great- 
 limbed man. 
 
 Now well ahead she failed not to behold, 
 
 and mindful of her glory waxing cold, 
 
 Sprang up and followed him in hot 
 pursuit, 
 
 Though with one hand she touclied the 
 golden fruit. 
 
 \ote too, the bow that she was wont to 
 bear 
 le laid aside to grasp the glittering 
 prize, 
 ' nd o'er her shoulder from the quiver 
 
 fair 
 
 Three arrows fell and lay before her eyes 
 
 nnoticed, as amidst the people's cries 
 
 le sprang to head the strong Milanion, 
 
 WHio now the turning-post had well-nigh 
 
 won. 
 
 i^ut as he set his mighty hand oii it 
 
 '. ''hite fingers underneath his own were 
 
 laid. 
 And white limbs from his dazzled eyes 
 
 did flit, 
 Then he the second fruit cast by the 
 
 maid : 
 She ran awhile, and then as one afraid 
 Wavered and stopped, and turned and 
 
 made no stay. 
 Until the globe with its bright fellow 
 
 lay. 
 
 Then, as a troubled glance she cast 
 around. 
 
 Now far ahead the Argive could slie see. 
 
 And in her garment's hem one hand she 
 wound 
 
 To keep the double prize, and stren- 
 uously 
 
 Sped o'er tlie course, and little doul)t 
 had she 
 
 To win the day, tliough now but scanty 
 space 
 
 Was left betwixt liim and tlie winning 
 place. 
 
 Short was the way unto such winged 
 
 feet. 
 Quickly she gained upon him till at last 
 He turned about her eager eyes to meet 
 And from his hand the third fair apple 
 
 cast. 
 She wavered not, but turned and ran so 
 
 fast 
 
 After the prize that should her bliss ful- 
 fil. 
 Tliat in her hand it lay ere it was still. 
 
 Nor did she rest, but turned about to 
 
 win 
 Once more, an unblest woeful victory — 
 And yet — and yet — why does her breath 
 
 begin 
 To fail her, and her feet drag heavily ? 
 Why fails she now to see if far or nigh 
 The goal is ? why do her gray eyes grow 
 
 dim ? 
 Why do these ti'emors run through every 
 
 limb ? 
 
 She spreads her arms abroad some stay 
 
 to find 
 Else must slie fall, indeed, and findeth 
 
 this, 
 A strong man's arms about her body 
 
 twined. 
 Nor may she shudder now to feel his 
 
 kiss, 
 So wrapped she is in new unbroken 
 
 bliss : 
 Made happy that the foe the prize hath 
 
 won, 
 Slie weeps glad tears for all her glory 
 
 done. 
 
 Shatter the trumpet, hew adown the 
 
 posts ! 
 Upon tlie brazen altar break the sword, 
 And scatter incense to appease the 
 
 ghosts 
 Of those wlio died here by their own 
 
 award. 
 Bring forth the image of the mighty 
 
 Lord. 
 And her who unseen o'er the runners 
 
 liung. 
 And did a deed for ever to be sung. 
 
 Here are the gathered ft)llv; make no 
 
 delay. 
 Open King Scluwneus' well-filled trea- 
 sury. 
 Bring out the gifts long hid from light 
 
 of day. 
 The golden bowls o'erwrought with 
 
 imagery. 
 Gold chains, and unguents brought 
 
 from over sea, 
 The saffron gown the old Phoenician 
 
 brought. 
 Within the temple of the Goddess 
 
 wrought. 
 
854 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 O ye, O damsels, who shall never see 
 Her, that Love's servant, bringeth now 
 
 to 3'ou, 
 Returning from another victory, 
 In some cool bower do all that now is 
 
 due ! 
 Since she in token of lier service new 
 Shall give to Venus offerings rich enow. 
 Her maiden zone, her arrows and her 
 
 bow, 1868. 
 
 SONG FROM THE STORY OF CUPID 
 AND PSYCHE 
 
 O PENSIVE, tender maid, downcast and 
 
 shy. 
 Who turnest pale e'en at the name of 
 
 love. 
 And witli flushed face must pass the 
 
 elm-tree by, 
 Ashamed to hear the passionate gray 
 
 dove 
 Moan to his mate, thee too the god 
 
 shall move, 
 Thee too the maidens shall ungird one 
 
 day, 
 And with thy girdle put thy shame 
 
 away. 
 
 What, then, and shall white winter 
 ne'er be done 
 
 Because the glittering frosty morn is 
 fair ? 
 
 Because against the early-setting sun 
 
 Bright show the gilded boughs, though 
 waste and bare ? 
 
 Because the robin singeth free from 
 care ? 
 
 Ah ! these are memories of aibetter day^ 
 
 When on earth's face the lips of sum- 
 mer lay. 
 
 Come, then, beloved one, for such as 
 
 thee 
 LoAe loveth, and their hearts he know- 
 
 eth well. 
 Who hoard their moments of felicity. 
 As misers hoard the medals that they 
 
 tell. 
 Lest on the earth but paupers they 
 
 sliould dwell : 
 " We hide our love to bless another day ; 
 The world is hard, youth passes quick," 
 
 they say. 
 
 Ah, little ones, but if ye could forget 
 Amidst your outpoured love that j'ou 
 must die, [querors yet. 
 
 Then ye, my servants, were death's con- 
 
 Aiid love to you sl)ould be eternity, 
 How quick soever miglit the days go bj: 
 Yes, ye are made immortal on tlie day 
 Ye cease the dusty grains of time to 
 weigh. 
 
 Thou harkenest, love? O make no 
 
 semblance tlien 
 That thou art loved, but as thy custom 
 
 is 
 Turn thy gray eyes away from eyes of 
 
 men. 
 With hands down-dropped, that tremble 
 
 witli thy bliss. 
 With hidden eyes, take thy first lover's 
 
 kiss ; 
 Call this eternity wliich is to-day. 
 Nor dream tliat tliis our love can 7)ass 
 
 away. 1868. 
 
 JUNE 
 
 O June, O June, that we desired so. 
 Wilt thou not make us happy on this 
 
 day ? 
 Across the river thy soft breezes blow 
 Sweet with the scent of beanfielils far 
 
 awa3\ 
 Above our heads riistle the aspens gray, 
 Calm is the sky with harmless clouds 
 
 beset. 
 No thought of storm the morning vexes 
 
 yet. 
 
 See, we have left our liopes and fears be- 
 hind 
 
 To give our very hearts uj) unto thee ; 
 
 What better place than this then could 
 we find 
 
 By this sweet stream that knows not of 
 the sea. 
 
 That guesses not the city's misery. 
 
 This little stream whose hamlets scarce 
 have names, 
 
 This far-off, lonely mother of 11 le 
 Thames? 
 
 Here then, O June, thy kindness will 
 
 we take ; 
 And if indeed but pensive men we seem. 
 What should we do ? thou wouldst not 
 
 have us wake 
 From out the arms of this rare happy 
 
 dream 
 And wish to leave the murmur of the 
 
 stream. 
 The rustling boughs, the twitter of the 
 
 birds, 
 And all tliy thousand peaceful h;i])py 
 
 words. 1868. 
 
MORRIS 
 
 85s 
 
 AUGUST 
 
 Across the gap made by our English 
 
 hinds, 
 Amidst tlie Roman's liandiwork, behold 
 Far off the long-roofed church ; the 
 
 shepherd binds 
 .he withy round the hurdles of his fold, 
 I own in the foss the river fed of old. 
 That through long lapse of time has 
 
 grown to be 
 The little grassy valley that you see. 
 
 Rest here awhile, not yet the eve is 
 
 still. 
 The bees are wandering yet, and you 
 
 may hear 
 I he barley mowers on the trenched hill, 
 le sheep-bells, and the restless chang- 
 ing weir, 
 ' 1 little sounds made musical and clear 
 i nuieath the sky that burning August 
 
 gives, 
 V hile yet the thought of glorious Sum- 
 mer lives. 
 
 Ah, love! such happy days, such days 
 
 as these. 
 Must we still waste them, craving for 
 
 the best. 
 Like lovers o'er the painted images 
 Of those who once their yearning hearts 
 
 have blessed ? 
 Have we been happy on our day of 
 
 i"est ? 
 Thine eyes say "yes," — but if it came 
 
 again. 
 Perchance its ending would not seem so 
 
 vain. 1868. 
 
 SONG FROM OGIER THE DANE 
 
 In the white-fiowered hawthorn brake, 
 Love, be merry for my sake ; 
 Twine the blossoms in my hair, 
 Kiss me where I am most fair — 
 Kiss me, love ! for who knoweth 
 What thing cometh after death ? 
 
 Nay, the garlanded gold hair 
 Hides thee where thou art most fair ; 
 Hides the rose-tinged hills of snow — 
 Ah, sweet love, I have thee now ! 
 Kiss me. love ! for who knoweth 
 What thing cometh after death? 
 
 Shall we weep for a dead day, 
 
 Or set Sorrow in our way ? 
 
 Hidden by my golden hair. 
 
 Wilt thou weep that sweet days wear ? 
 
 Kiss me, love ! for who knoweth 
 
 What thing cometh after death ? 
 
 Weep, O Love, the days that flit. 
 Now, while I can feel thy breath ; 
 
 Then may I remember it 
 
 Sad and old, and near my death. 
 
 Kiss me, love ! for who knowetli 
 
 What thing cometh after death? 1868. 
 
 SONG FROM THE STORY OF ACON- 
 TIUS AND CYDIPPE 
 
 Fair is the night and fair the day, 
 Now April is forgot of j\lay, 
 Now into Jime May falls away ; 
 Fair day, fair night, Ogive me back 
 The tide that all fair things did lack 
 Except my love, except my sweet ! 
 
 Blow back, O wind ! thou art not kind. 
 Though thou art sweet ; thou hast no 
 
 mind 
 Her liair about my sweet to wind ; 
 
 flowery sward, though thou art bright, 
 
 1 ])raise thee not for thy deliglit, 
 Tliou hast not kissed her silver feet. 
 
 Thou know'st her not. O rustling tree, 
 What dost thou tlien to shadow me, 
 Wliose shade lier breast did n'ever see? 
 O flowers, in vain ye bow adown ! 
 Ye have not felt her odorous gown 
 Brush past your heads mj' lips to meet. 
 
 Flow on, great river — thou maA'st deem 
 Tliat far away, a summei" stream. 
 Thou sawest her limbs amidst tliee gleam 
 And kissed her foot, and kissed her knee. 
 Yet get thee swift unto the sea ! 
 With nought of true thou wilt me greet. 
 
 And thou that men call by my name, 
 O lielpless one. liast thou no shame 
 Tliat thou must even look the same. 
 As while agone, as while agone. 
 When thou and she were left alone. 
 And hands, and lips, and tears did meet ? 
 
 Grow weak and pine, lie down to die, 
 
 O body in thy misery. 
 
 Because short time and' sweet goes by ; 
 
856 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 O foolisli lieart. liovv weak tliou art ! 
 Break, break, because thou needs must 
 
 part 
 From thine own love, from thine own 
 
 sweet ! 1870. 
 
 L'ENVOI 
 
 THK EARTHLY PARADISE 
 
 Here are we for the last time face to 
 
 face, 
 Thou and I, Book, before I bid thee speed 
 Upon thy perilous journey to that place 
 For which I have done on thee pilgrims 
 
 weed, 
 Striving to get thee all things for thy 
 
 need — 
 — I love thee, whatso time or men may 
 
 say 
 Of the poor singer of an empty day. 
 
 Good reason why I love thee, e'en 
 
 if thou 
 Be mocked or clean forgot as time wears 
 
 on ; 
 For ever as thy fashioning did grow. 
 Kind word and praise because of thee I 
 
 won 
 From those without whom were my 
 
 world all gone. 
 My hope fallen dead, my singing cast 
 
 away. 
 And I set soothly in an empty daj'. 
 
 I love thee ; yet this last time must it be 
 That thou must hold thy peace and I 
 
 must speak. 
 Lest if thou babble I begin to see 
 Thy gear too thin, thy limbs and heart 
 
 too weak. 
 To find the land thou goest forth to 
 
 seek — 
 — Though wliat liarni if thou die upon 
 
 the way. 
 Tiiou idle singer of an empty day ? 
 
 But though this land desired thou never 
 
 I'each, 
 Yet folk who know it mayst tliou meet, 
 
 or deatli ; 
 Therefore a word unto thee would I teach 
 To answer these, who, noting thy weak 
 
 breath. 
 Thy wandering eyes, thy heart of little 
 
 faith. 
 May make thy fond desire a sport and 
 
 play 
 Mocking the singer of an empty day. 
 
 That land's name. sa}'*st thou ? and the 
 
 road thereto ? 
 Nay, Book, thou mockest, saying thou 
 
 know'st it not ; 
 Surely no book of verse I ever knew 
 But ever was tlie heart within him hot 
 To gain the Land of Matters Unforgot — 
 — Tliere. now we both laugh — as the 
 
 wliole world may. 
 At us poor singers of an empty day. 
 
 Nay, let it pass, and harken ! Hast 
 
 thou heard 
 That therein I believe I have a friend. 
 Of whom for love I may not be af eared ? 
 It is to him indeed I bid thee wend ; 
 Yea, he percliance may meet thee ere 
 
 thovi end. 
 Dying so far off from the hedge of bay, 
 Tliou idle singer of an empty day ! 
 
 Well, think of him, I bid thee, on the 
 
 road , 
 And if it hap tliat midst of thy defeat. 
 Fainting beneath thy follies' heavy load, 
 My Master, Geoffrey Chaucer, thou 
 
 do meet. 
 Then shalt tliou win a space of rest full 
 
 sweet ; 
 Then be thou bold, and speak tlie words 
 
 I say. 
 The idle singer of an emptj- day ! 
 
 " O Master. O thou great of heart and 
 
 tongue. 
 Thou well mayst ask me why I wander 
 
 here, 
 In raiment rent of stories oft besung ! 
 But of thy gentleness draw thou anear. 
 And tlien the heart of one who held thee 
 
 dear 
 Mayst thou behold ! So near as ttiat Hay 
 Unto the singer of an empty day. 
 
 " For this he ever said, who sent me 
 
 forth 
 To seek a place amid thy comjiany ; 
 Tliat liowsoever little was mj' wortli. 
 Yet was he worth e'en just so much as 
 
 I: 
 He said that rhyme hath little skill to 
 
 lie; 
 Nor feigned to cast his worser part away; 
 In idle singing for an empty day. 
 
 " I have beheld him tremble oft enough 
 At things he could not choose but trust 
 
 to me. 
 Althougli he knew the world was wise 
 
 and rough ; 
 
MORRIS 
 
 S57 
 
 And never did he fail to let nie see 
 His love, — liis folly and faithlessness, 
 
 maybe : 
 And still in turn I gave him voice to pray 
 Such prayers as cling about an empty 
 
 day. 
 
 "Thou, keen-eyed, reading me, mayst 
 
 read him tlirough. 
 For surely little is there left behind ; 
 No power great deeds unnameable to do ; 
 No knowledge for which words he may 
 
 not find. 
 No love of things as vague as autumn 
 
 wind — 
 — Earth of the earth lies hidden by my 
 
 clay. 
 The idle singer of an empty day ! 
 
 " Children we twain are, saith he, late 
 
 made wise 
 In love, but in all else most childish 
 
 still. 
 And seeking still the pleasure of our eyes. 
 And wliat our ears with sweetest sounds 
 
 may fill ; 
 Not fearing Love, lest these things he 
 
 should kill ; 
 Howe'er his pain by pleasure doth he lay. 
 Making a strange tale of an empty day. 
 
 "Death have we hated, knowing not 
 
 what it meant ; 
 Life have we loved, thi-ough green leaf 
 
 and through sere, 
 Though still the less we knew of its in- 
 tent ; 
 Tlie Eartii and Heaven through countless 
 
 year on year. 
 Slow changing, wei*e to us but curtains 
 
 fair. 
 Hung round about a little I'ooni, where 
 
 play 
 Weeping and laughter of man's empty 
 
 day. 
 
 " O Master, if thine heart could love us 
 
 yet. 
 Spite of things left undone, and wrongly 
 
 done. 
 Some place in loving hearts then should 
 
 we get. 
 For thou, sweet-souled, didst never 
 
 stand alone. 
 But knew'st the joy and woe of many an 
 
 one — 
 — By lovers dead, who live through thee, 
 
 we pray. 
 Help thou us singers of an empty day I "' 
 
 Fearest thou. Book, what answer thou 
 
 mayst gain 
 Lest he should scorn thee, and thereof 
 
 thou die ? 
 Nay, it shall not be. — Thou mayst toil 
 
 in vain. 
 And never draw the House of Fame 
 
 anigh ; 
 Yet he and his shall know whereof we 
 
 cry. 
 Shall call it not ill done to strive to lay 
 The ghosts that crowd about life's 
 
 empty day. 
 
 Then let the others go ! and if indeed 
 In some old garden thou and I have 
 
 wrought. 
 And made fresh flowers spring up from 
 
 hoarded seed. 
 And fragrance of old days and deeds 
 
 have brought 
 Back to folk weary ; all was not for 
 
 nought. 
 — No little part it was for me to play — 
 The idle singer of an empty day. 1870. 
 
 THE SEASONS 
 
 Spring. Spring am I. too soft of heart 
 Much to sjieak ere I depart : 
 Ask the Summer-tide to prove 
 The abundance of my love. 
 
 Siwimer, Summer looked for long am I ; 
 Much shall change or e"er I die 
 Prithee take it not amiss 
 Though I weary thee with bliss. 
 
 Autumn. Laden Autumn here I stand 
 Worn of lieart, and weak of hand : 
 Nought but rest seems good to uie. 
 Speak the word that sets me free. 
 
 Winter. I am Winter, that do keep 
 Longing safe amidst of sleep : 
 Who shall say if I were dead 
 What should be remembered ? 1871. 
 
 ERROR AND LOSS 1 
 
 Upon an eve I sat me down and wept. 
 Because the world to me seemed nowise 
 
 good ; 
 Still autumn was it, and the meadows 
 
 slept. 
 The misty hills dreamed, and tiip silent 
 
 wood [mood : 
 
 Seemed listening to the soriow of my 
 
 ' ( >ri.:j:iiially with the title The Durk M'uod. 
 
858 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 I knew not if tlie earth with nie did 
 
 grieve, 
 Or if it mock'd my grief that bitter eve. 
 
 Then ' twixt my tears a maiden did I see, 
 AVho drew anigh me on the leaf-strewn 
 
 grass, 
 Then stood and gazed upon me pitifully 
 With grief-worn eyes, until my woe did 
 
 pass 
 From me to her, and tearless now I was. 
 And she mid tears was asking me of one 
 She long had sought unaided and alone. 
 
 I knew not of him, and s]ie tui-ned away 
 Into the dark wood, and my own great 
 
 pain 
 Still held me there, till dark had slain 
 
 the day. 
 And perislied at the gray dawn's hand 
 
 again ; 
 Then from the wood a voice cried : "Ah, 
 
 in vain, 
 In vain I seek thee, O thou bitter-sweet ! 
 In what lone land are set thy longed-for 
 
 feet ? " 
 
 Then I looked up, and lo, a man tliere 
 
 came 
 From midst the trees, and stood i-egard- 
 
 ing me 
 Until m\' tears were dried for verj^ 
 
 shame ; 
 Then he cried out : " O mourner, wliere 
 
 is she 
 Whom I have souglit o'er every land and 
 
 sea ? 
 I love her and she loveth me, and still 
 AVe meet no more than green hill meet- 
 
 eth hill." 
 
 With that he passed on sadly, and I knew 
 That these had met and missed ni the 
 
 dark night, 
 Blinded by blindness of the world untrue. 
 That hideth love and maketli wrong of 
 
 right. 
 Tlien midst mj' pity for their lost delight, 
 Yet more with barren longing I grew 
 
 weak. 
 Yet more I mourned that I liad none to 
 
 seek. 1871. 
 
 THE DAY OF LOVE 
 
 (From LOVE is enough) 
 
 Dawn talks to-day 
 
 Over dew-gleaming flowers, 
 
 Night flies awaj' 
 
 Till the resting of hours : 
 Fresh are thy feet 
 And with dreams thine eyes glis- 
 tening. 
 Thy still lips are sweet 
 
 Though tlie world is a-listening. 
 O Love, set a word in my mouth for our 
 
 meeting. 
 Cast thine arms round about me to stay 
 my heart's beating ! 
 O fresh day, O fair day, O long day 
 made ours ! 
 
 Morn sliall meet noon 
 
 While the flower-stems yet move, 
 Though the wind dieth soon 
 And the clouds fade above. 
 Loved lips are thine 
 
 As I tremble and liarken ; 
 Bright thine e5'es shine, 
 Though the leaves tliy brow darken. 
 O Love, kiss me into silence, lest no word 
 
 avail me 
 Stay my head with thy bosom lest breath 
 and life fail me ! 
 O sweet day, O rich day, made long for 
 our love ! 
 
 Late day shall greet eve. 
 
 And the full blossoms shake, 
 For the wind will not leave 
 
 The tall tiees while they wake. 
 Eyes soft witli bliss. 
 
 Come nigher and nigher ! 
 Sweet mouth I kiss. 
 Tell me all thy desire ! 
 Let us speak, love, together some words 
 
 of our story, 
 Tluit our lips as they part may remember 
 the glory ! 
 O soft day, O calm day, made clear for 
 our sake ! 
 
 Eve sliall kiss night. 
 
 And the leaves stir like rain 
 As the wind stealeth light 
 
 O'er the grass of the plain. 
 Unseen are thine eyes 
 
 Mid the dreamy night's sleeping, 
 And on my mouth there lies 
 The dear rain of thy weeping. 
 Hold, silence, love, speak not of the 
 
 sweet day departed, 
 Cling close to me, love, lest I waken sad 
 hearted ! 
 O kind day, O dear day, short day, 
 come again ! 1873. 
 
MORRIS 
 
 8S9 
 
 FINAL CHORUS 
 (From LOVE is enough) 
 
 Love is enougli : lio ye who seek saving. 
 
 Go no farther ; come hither : tliere 
 
 have been who liave found it, 
 
 And these know the House of Fulfihnent 
 
 of Craving ; 
 
 These know the Cup with the roses 
 
 around it, 
 These know the World's Wound and 
 the bahn that liatli bound it : 
 Cry out, the World heedeth not, " Love, 
 lead us home ! " 
 
 He leadeth, He harkeneth, He cometh 
 to you- ward : 
 Set your faces as steel to the fears that 
 assemble 
 Round his goad for the faint, and his 
 scourge for tlie froward : 
 Lo his lips, how witli tales of last kisses 
 
 they tremble ! 
 Lo his e^'es of all sorrow that may not 
 dissemble ! 
 Cry out, for he heedeth, " O Love, lead 
 us home ! " 
 
 O harken the words of his voice of com- 
 passion : 
 " Come cling round about me. ye faith- 
 ful wlio siidven 
 Of the weary unrest and the world's 
 passing fashion ! 
 As the rain in mid-morning j-our 
 
 troubles shall thicken, 
 But surely witliin you soine Godhead 
 doth quicken. 
 As ye cry to me heeding, and leading 
 you home. 
 
 " Come— pain .ye shall have, and be blind 
 to the ending ! 
 Conre — -fear ye shall have, mid tlie 
 sky's overcasting ! 
 Come — change ye shall have, for fur are 
 ye wending ! 
 Come — no crown ye shall have for j'our 
 
 thirst and j'our fasting, 
 But the kissed lips of Love and fair 
 life everlasting ! 
 Cry out, for one heedeth, who leadeth 
 you home ! " 
 
 Is he gone? was he with us? — lio ye 
 wlio seek saving, 
 Go no further : come hither ; for have 
 we not found it? 
 
 Here is the House of Fulfilment of Crav- 
 ing ; 
 Here is the Cup with the roses around 
 
 it; 
 The World's Wound well healed, and 
 the balm that hath bound it : 
 Cry out! for he heedeth, fair Love that 
 led home. 1873. 
 
 THE VOICE OF TOIL 
 
 I HEARD men saying, Leave hope and 
 
 praying, 
 All days shall be as all have been ; 
 To-day and to-morrow bring fear and 
 
 sorrow. 
 The never ending toil between. 
 
 When Earth was younger mid toil and 
 
 hunger. 
 In hope we strove, and our hands were 
 
 strong ; 
 Then great men led us, with words they 
 
 fed us. 
 And bade us right the earthly wrong. 
 
 Go read in story their deeds and glory. 
 Their names amidst tlie nameless dead ; 
 Turn then from lying to us slow-dying 
 In that good world to wliich they led ; 
 
 Where fast and faster our iron master, 
 The thing we made, for ever drives. 
 Bids us grind treasure and fashion pleas- 
 ure 
 For other hopes and other lives. 
 
 Where home is a hovel and dull we 
 
 grovel. 
 Forgetting that the world is fair ; 
 Where no babe we cherish, lest its very 
 
 soul perish : 
 Where mirth is crime, and love a snare. 
 
 Who now shall lead us, what god shall 
 
 heed us 
 As we lie in the hell our hands have won ? 
 For us are no rulers but fools and be- 
 
 foolers. 
 The great are fallen, the wise men gone. 
 
 I heard men saying. Leave tears and 
 
 praying. 
 The sharp knife heedeth not the sheep ; 
 Are we not stronger than the rich and 
 
 the wronger. 
 When day breaks over dreams and sleep ? 
 
86o 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Come, slioiikler to shoulder, ere the | 
 
 world grows older ! 
 Help lies in nought l)ut thee and me : 
 Hope is before us, the long years that 
 
 bore us 
 Bore leaders more than men may be. 
 
 Let dead hearts tarry and trade and 
 
 marry. 
 And trembling nurse their dreams of 
 
 mirth. 
 While we the living our lives are giving 
 To bring the bright new world to birth. 
 
 Come, shoulder to shoulder, ere earth 
 
 grows older ! 
 The cause sprends over land and sea ; 
 Now the world shaketh, and fear 
 
 awaketh. 
 And joy at last for thee and me. 
 
 1884. 
 
 NO MASTER 
 
 Saith man to man, We've heard and 
 known 
 
 Tiiat we no master need 
 To live upon tliis earth our own, 
 
 In fair and manly deed. 
 The grief of slaves long passed away 
 
 For us hath forged the chain, 
 Till now each worker's ))atient day 
 
 Builds up the Hovise of Pain. 
 
 And we, shall we too, crouch and quail, 
 
 Ashamed, afraid of strife. 
 And lest our lives untimely fail 
 
 Embrace the Deatli in Life? 
 Nay, cry aloud, and have no fear, 
 
 We few against the world ; 
 Awake, arise ! the hope we bear 
 
 Against the curse is hurled. 
 
 It grows and grows — are we the same. 
 
 The feeble band, the few? 
 Or what are these with e.yes aflame. 
 
 And hands to deal and do? 
 This is tiie host that bears the word, 
 
 "NO MASTER HIGH OR LOW " — 
 
 A lightning flame, a shearing sword. 
 A storm to overthrow. 1884. 
 
 THE DAY IS COMING 
 
 Come hither, lads, andhai'ken. for a tale 
 
 there is to tell, 
 Of the wonderful days a-coniing, wjien 
 
 all shall be better than well. 
 
 And the tale shall be told of a country, 
 a land in the midst of the sea. 
 
 And folk sliall call it England in the 
 days that are going to be. 
 
 There more than one in a thousand in 
 tlie days that are j'et to come, 
 
 Shall have some hope of the morrow, 
 some joy of the ancient home. 
 
 For then, laugh not, but listen to this 
 
 strange tale of mine. 
 All folk that are in England shall be 
 
 better lodged than swine. 
 
 Then a man shall work and bethink him, 
 and rejoice in the deeds of his 
 hand, 
 
 Nor yet come home in the even too faint 
 and weary to stand. 
 
 j\len in that time a-coming shall work 
 
 and have no fear 
 For to-morrow's lack of earning and the 
 
 hunger- wolf anear. 
 
 I tell you this for a wonder, that no 
 
 man then shall be glad 
 Of his fellow's fall and mishap to snatch 
 
 at the work he had. 
 
 For that which the worker winneth shall 
 
 then be his indeed, 
 Nor shall half be reaped for nothing by 
 
 him that sowed no seed. 
 
 O strange new wonderful justice ! But 
 for whom shall we gather the gain? 
 
 For ourselves and for eacdt of our fellows, 
 and no hand shall labor in vain. 
 
 Then all Mine and all Thine shall be Ours, 
 and no more shall any man craA-e 
 
 For riches that serve for nothing but to 
 fetter a friend for a slave. 
 
 And what wealth then shall be left us 
 when none shall gather gold 
 
 To buy his friend in the market, and 
 pinch and pine the sold ? 
 
 Nay, what save the lovely city, and the 
 
 little house on the hill. 
 And the wastes and the woodland beauty, 
 
 and the happy fields we till ; 
 
 And the homes of ancient stories, tlie 
 tombs of the mighty dead : 
 
 And the wise men seeking out marvels, 
 and the poet's teeming head ; 
 
MORRIS 
 
 86i 
 
 And the painter's hand of vvondtn- ; and 
 tlie marvelous liddle-bovv, 
 
 And the banded choirs of music : all 
 tliose that do and know. 
 
 For all these shall be ours and all men's; 
 
 nor sliall any lack a share 
 Of the toil and the gain of living in the 
 
 days when the world grows fair. 
 
 Ah ! such are the days that shall be ! But 
 what are tlie deeds of to-day. 
 
 In the days of the years we dwell in, 
 that wear our lives away ? 
 
 Why, then, and for what are we wait- 
 ing? There are three words to 
 speak ; 
 
 We will it. and what is the foeman 
 but the dream-strong wakened 
 and weak ? 
 
 O why and for what are we waiting ? 
 
 while our brotiiers droop and die. 
 And on every wind of the heavens a 
 
 wasted life goes by. 
 
 How long shall they reproach us where 
 crowd on crowd tiiey dwell. 
 
 Poor ghosts of the wicked city, the gold- 
 crushed, hungry hell ? 
 
 Through squalid life they labored, in 
 
 sordid grief they died. 
 Those sons of a might}' mother, those 
 
 jjrops of England's pride. 
 
 They are gone ; there is none can undo 
 it, nor save our souls from the 
 curse ; 
 
 But many a million cometh, and shall 
 they be better or worse ? 
 
 It is we must answer and hasten, and 
 
 open wide the door 
 For the ricii man's hurrying terror, and 
 
 the slow-foot hope of the poor. 
 
 Yea, the voiceless wrath of the 
 wretched, and their unlearned dis- 
 content. 
 
 We must give it voice and wisdom till 
 the waiting-tide be spent. 
 
 Come, then, since all things call us, the 
 living and the dead, 
 
 And o'er tlie weltering tangle a glim- 
 mering light is shed. 
 
 Come, then, let us cast off fooling, and 
 
 put by ease and rest. 
 For the Cause alone is worthy till the 
 
 good days bring the best. 
 
 Come, join in the only battle wherein no 
 
 man can fail. 
 Where whoso fadeth and dieth, yet his 
 
 deed shall still prevail. 
 
 Ah ! come, cast off all fooling, for this, 
 
 at least, we know : 
 That the Dawn and the Daj' is coming, 
 
 and foi'th the Banners go. 1885. 
 
 THE DAYS THAT WERE 
 
 (motto of the house of the wolfings) 
 
 Whiles in the early winter eve 
 We pass amid the gathering night 
 Some homestead that we had to leave 
 Years past; and see its candles bright 
 Shine in the room beside the door 
 Where we were merry years agone. 
 But now must never enter more. 
 As still the dark road drives us on. 
 E'en so the world of men may turn 
 At even of some hurried day 
 And see the ancient glimmer burn 
 Across the waste that hath no way ; 
 Then, with tliat faint light in its eyes, 
 Awlule I bid it linger near 
 And nurse in waving memories 
 The bitter sweet of days that were. 
 
 1889. 
 
 THE DAY OF DAYS 
 
 Each eve earth falleth down the dark, 
 
 As though its hope were o'er ; 
 
 Yet lurks the sun when day is done 
 
 Behind to-morrow's door. 
 
 Gray grows the dawn while men-folk 
 
 sleep. 
 Unseen spreads on the light, 
 Till the thrush sings to the colored 
 
 things. 
 And earth forgets the night. 
 
 No otherwise wends on our Hope : 
 E'en as a tale that's told 
 Are fair lives lost, and all the cost 
 Of wise and true and bold. 
 
 We've toiled and failed ; we spake the 
 
 word ; 
 None barkened ; dumb we lie ; 
 Our Hope is dead, the seed we .spread 
 Fell o'er the earth to die. 
 
862 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 What's tliis ? For joy our hearts stand 
 
 still. 
 And life is loved and dear, 
 The lost and found the Cause hath 
 
 crowned, 
 The Day of Days is here. 1890. 
 
 THE BURGHERS' BATTLE 
 
 Thick rise the spear-shafts o'er the land 
 
 That erst tlie harvest bore ; 
 
 The sword is heavy in the hand, 
 
 And we return no more. 
 
 Tlie light wind waves the Ruddy Fox, 
 
 Our banner of tlie war, 
 
 And ripples in the Running Ox, 
 
 And loe return no more. 
 
 Across our stubble acres now 
 
 The teams go four and four ; 
 
 But out-worn elders guide the plough, 
 
 And loe return no more. 
 
 And now the women heavy-eyed 
 
 Turn through tlie open door 
 
 From gazing down the highway wide. 
 
 Where loe return no more. 
 
 The shadows of the fruited close 
 
 Dapple the feast-hall floor ; 
 
 There lie our dogs and dream and doze, 
 
 And loe return no more. 
 
 Down from the minster tower to-day 
 
 Fall the soft chimes of jore 
 
 Amidst the chattering jackdaws' play : 
 
 And we return no more. 
 
 But underneath the streets are still ; 
 
 Noon, and the market's o'er ! 
 
 Back go the goodwives o'er the hill ; 
 
 For we return no more. 
 
 What merchant to our gates shall come ? 
 
 What wise man bring us lore? 
 
 What abbot ride away to Rome, 
 
 Noio toe return no more f 
 
 Wliat mayor shall rule the hall we built ? 
 
 Whose scarlet sweep the floor ? 
 
 What judge shall doom the robber's 
 
 guilt, 
 l<!oio we return no more 9 
 New houses in the streets shall rise 
 Where builded we before. 
 Of other stone wrought otherwise ; 
 For we return no more. 
 And crops shall cover field and hill 
 Unlike what once they bore, 
 And all be done without our will, 
 Noio ice return no more. 
 Look up ! the arrows streak the sky. 
 The horns of battle roar ; 
 The long spears lower and draw nigh. 
 And we return no more. 
 Remember how beside the wain. 
 
 We spoke the word of war. 
 
 And sowed this harvest of the plain. 
 
 And loe return no more. 
 
 Lay spears about the Ruddy Fox ! 
 
 The days of old are o'er ; 
 
 Heave sword about the Running Ox ! 
 
 For u'e return no more. 1891. 
 
 AGNES AND THE HILL-MAN 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE DANISH 
 
 Agnes went through the meadows a- 
 
 weeping, 
 Foivl are a-singing. 
 There stood the hill-man heed thereof 
 
 keeping. 
 Agnes, fair Agnes ! 
 
 " Come to the hill, fair Agnes, with me, 
 The reddest of gold will I give unto 
 
 thee ! " 
 
 Twice went Agnes the hill round about. 
 Then wended within, left the fair world 
 without. 
 
 In the hillside bode Agnes, three j^ears 
 
 thrice told o'er, 
 For the green earth sithence fell she 
 
 longing full sore. 
 
 There she sat, and lullaby sang in her 
 
 singing, 
 And she heard how the bells of England 
 
 were ringing. 
 
 Agnes before her true-love did stand : 
 "May I wend to the church of the Eng- 
 lish Land ? " 
 
 " To England's Church well mayst thou 
 
 be gone, 
 So that no hand thou lay the red gold 
 
 upon. 
 
 " So that when thou art come the church- 
 yard anear 
 Thou cast not abroad thy golden hair. 
 
 " So that when thoustandest thechurth 
 
 within 
 To thy mother on bench thou never win. 
 
 " So that when thou hearest the high 
 
 God's name, 
 No knee unto earth thou bow to the 
 
 same." 
 
 Hand she laid on all gold that was there, 
 And cast abroad her golden hair. 
 
MORRIS 
 
 863 
 
 And when the cliurcli slu; stood within 
 To her niothei" on beiicli striiiglit did she 
 win. 
 
 And when she heard tiie hi<i,h God's 
 
 name, 
 Knee unto earth she bowed to the same. 
 
 When all the mass was sunj? to its end 
 Home witii her mother dear did she 
 wend. 
 
 " Come, Agnes, into the hillside to nie. 
 For thy seven small sons greet sorely for 
 thee 1 " 
 
 " Let tliem greet, let them greet, as 
 
 they will liave to do ; 
 For never again will I hearken thereto ! " 
 
 Weird laid he on her, sore sickness lie 
 
 wrought, 
 Fowl are a-singing. 
 That self -same hour to death was she 
 
 brought. 
 Agnes, fair Agnes. 1891. 
 
 ICELAND FIRST SEEN 
 
 Lo from our loitering ship a new land at 
 
 last to be seen ; 
 Toothed rocks down the side of the firth 
 
 on the east guard a weary wide lea, 
 And black slope the liill-sides above, 
 
 striped adown with tiieir desolate 
 
 green : 
 And a peak rises up on the west from 
 
 the meeting of cloud and of sea, 
 Foursquare from base unto point like 
 
 the building of Gods tliat have been. 
 The last of that waste of the mountains 
 
 all cloud-wreathed and snow-flecked 
 
 and gray, 
 And bright with the dawn tliat began 
 
 just now at tlie ending of day. 
 
 Ah ! what came we forth for to see that 
 
 our hearts are so hot witli desire ? 
 Is it enough for our rest the sight of this 
 
 desolate strand. 
 And the mountain-waste voiceless as 
 
 death but for winds that may sleep not 
 
 nor tire V 
 
 Why do we long to wend forth through 
 the length and breadth of a land, 
 
 Dreadful with grinding of ice, and 
 record of scarce hidden fire, 
 
 But that there 'mi<l the gray grassy dales 
 sore scarred by tiie ruining streams 
 
 Lives the tale of the Northland of old 
 and the undying glory of dreams ? 
 
 land, as some cave by the sea where 
 the treasures of old have been laid, 
 
 TJie sword it may be of a king whose 
 
 name was tlie turning of figlit ; 
 Or the staff of some wise of the world 
 
 that many things made and unmade. 
 Or the ring of a woman maybe whose 
 
 woe is grown wealtli and delight. 
 No wheat and no wine grows above it, 
 
 no orcliard for blossom and shade ; 
 The few ships that sail by its blackness 
 
 but deem it the mouth of a grave ; 
 Yet sure wiien tlie world shall awaken, 
 
 this too shall be mighty to save. 
 
 Or rather, O land, if a marvel it seemeth 
 
 that men ever sought 
 Thy wastes for a field and a garden ful- 
 filled of all wonder and doubt. 
 And feasted amidst of the winter when 
 
 the fight of the year had been fouglit. 
 Whose plunder all gathered together 
 
 was little to babble about : 
 Cry aloud from thy wastes, O thou 
 
 land, " Not for this nor for that was I 
 
 wrcHight 
 Amid waning of realms and of riches 
 
 and deatii of tilings worshipped and 
 
 sure, 
 
 1 abide here the spouse of a God, and I 
 made and I make and endure." 
 
 O Queen of the grief without know- 
 ledge, of the courage that may not 
 avail, 
 
 Of the longing tliat may not attain, of 
 the love that shall never forget. 
 
 More joy than the gladness of laughter 
 thy voice hath amidst of its wail : 
 
 More hope than of pleasure fulfilled 
 amidst of thy blindness is set ; 
 
 More glorious than gaining of all, thine 
 unfaltering hand that shall fail : 
 
 For what is the mark on thy brow but 
 the brand that thy Brynhild doth 
 bear ? 
 
 Lone once, and loved and undone by a 
 love that no ages outwear. 
 
 Ah ! when tliy Balder comes back, and 
 bears from the heart of the Sun, 
 
 Peace and the healing of pain, and the 
 wisdom that waiteth no more ; 
 
 And the lilies are laid on thy brow 
 
864 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 'mid the crown of the deeds thou 
 hast done ; 
 
 And tlie I'oses spring up bj' thy feet that 
 tlie rocks of the wilderness wore. 
 
 Ah ! when thy Balder conies back and 
 we gatlier the gains he hatii won, 
 
 Shall we not linger a little to talk of thy 
 sweetness of old, 
 
 Yea, turn back awhile to thy travail 
 whence the gods stood aloof to be- 
 hold ? 1891. 
 
 TO THE MUSE OF THE NORTH 
 
 O MUSE that swayest the sad Northern 
 
 Song, 
 Thy right hand full of smiting and of 
 
 wrong, 
 Thy left hand holding pity ; and thy 
 
 breast 
 Heaving with hope of that so certain 
 
 rest : 
 Thou, with the gray eyes kind and un- 
 afraid. 
 The soft lips trembling not, though they 
 
 have said 
 The doom of the World and those that 
 
 dwell therein. 
 Tiie- lips that smile not though thy 
 
 children win 
 The fated Love that draws the fated 
 
 Death. 
 O, borne adown the fresh stream of thy 
 
 breath, 
 Let some word reach my ears and touch 
 
 my heart, . 
 That, if it may be, I may have a part 
 
 In that great sorrow of thy children 
 
 dead 
 That vexed the brow, and bowed adown 
 
 the head. 
 Whitened the hair, made life a won- 
 drous dream. 
 And death the murmur of a restful 
 
 stream, 
 But left no stain vipon those son Is of 
 
 thine 
 Whose greatness through the tangled 
 
 world doth shine. 
 O Mother, and Love and Sister ail in 
 
 one. 
 Come thou ; for sure I am enough alone 
 That thou thine arms about ni}- lieart 
 
 shouldst throw. 
 And wrap me in the grief of long ago. 
 
 1891. 
 
 DRAWING NEAR THE LIGHT 
 
 Lo, when we wade the tangled wood. 
 In haste and hurry to be there. 
 Nought seem its leaves and blossoms 
 
 good, 
 For all that they be fashioned fair. 
 
 But looking up, at last we see 
 The glimmer of the open light. 
 From o'er the place where we would be; 
 Then grow the very brambles bright. 
 
 So now, amidst our day of strife, 
 With many a matter glad we ]>l;iv. 
 When once we see the light of life 
 Gleam through the tangle of to-dav. 
 
 1891. 
 
SWINBURNE 
 
 LIST OF REFERENCES 
 
 Editioxs 
 
 The first * collected edition of Swinburne, in 12 volumes, is now being 
 published (1904), and is issued in America by Harper & Bros. The best 
 editions of single works are published by Chatto & Windus, London. There 
 are many cheap American reprints of the poems, none of them complete. 
 
 Biography 
 
 See the International Encyclopaedia, etc.; Wratislaw (T.), Algernon 
 Charles Swinburne, a Study, 1900 (English Writers of To-day) ; and the 
 biographical references under Rossetti and Morris. 
 
 Criticism 
 
 Adams (Francis), Essays in Modernity : The Poetry and Criticism oi 
 Mr. Swinburne. Austin (A.), Poetry of the Period. Buchanan (R.), The 
 Fleslily School of Poetry, 1871. Courtney (W. L.), Studies New and 
 Old. FoRMAN (H. B.), Our Living Poets. * Gossk (E.) in The Century 
 Magazine, Vol. XLII, p. 101, May, 1902. Hallaru (J. H.), Gallica and 
 other Essays. Lowkll (J. R). My Study Windows : Swinburne's Tra- 
 gedies. Oliphant (Margaret), Victorian Age of Literature. Patmore 
 (C), Principle in Art. Payne (W. M.), in Warner's Library of the 
 World's Best Literature. Rossetti (W. M.), Swinburne''s Poems and 
 Ballads: A Criticism, 1866. Saintsbury (G.), Corrected Impressions. 
 Sharp (W.), In Pall Mall Magazine, Vol. XXV, p. 25, December, 1901. 
 * Stiedman (E. C), Victorian Poets. Swinburne, Notes on Poems and 
 Reviews (a reply to the early criticisms of Poems and Ballads, ^firat series), 
 1866. Swinburne, Under the Microscope (a reply to Buchanan), 1872. 
 WoLLAEGER, Studieu iiber Swinburne's poetischen Stil. Wratislaw 
 (T.), Algernon Charles Swinburne (English Writers of To-day). 
 
 Cheney (J. V.), Golden Guess. Dawson (W. J.), Makers of Modern 
 English. Franke (W.), Algernon Charles Swinburne als Dramatiker. 
 Friswell (J. H.), Modern Men of Letters honestly Criticized. Sarrazix 
 (G.), Poetes modernes de I'Angleterre. Scudder (V. D.), Life of the 
 Spirit. 
 
 Bibliography 
 
 NicoLL (W. R.) and Wise (T. J.), in Literary Anecdotes of the Nine- 
 teenth Century. * Shepherd (R. H.), The Bibliography of Swinburne, 
 1887. 
 
 55 ^^5 
 
c 
 
 
 
 ^ -^ b ^-X 
 
 J 
 
 ^ -^ ° 
 
 \ 
 
 SWINBURNE 
 
 ^. 
 
 A 
 
 A SONG IN TIME 
 
 OF OEDER 
 
 Push hard across the sand, 
 
 For the salt wind gathers breath ; 
 Shoulder and wrist and hand, 
 
 Push hard as the push of death. 
 
 Tlie wind is as iron that rings, 
 
 Tlie foam-heads loosen and flee ; 
 
 It swells and welters and swings, 
 The pulse of the tide of the sea. 
 
 And up on the j^ellow cliff 
 
 The long corn flickers and shakes ; 
 Push, for the wind holds stiff. 
 
 And the gunwale dips and rakes. 
 
 Good hap to the fresh fierce weather, 
 The quiver and beat of the sea ! 
 
 Wliile three men hold together 
 
 The kingdoms are less by three. 
 
 Out to the sea with her there, 
 
 Out with her over the sand, 
 Let the kings keep the earth for their 
 share ! 
 We have done with the sharers of 
 land. 
 
 They have tied the world in a tether, 
 They have bought over God with a 
 fee ; 
 
 While tliree men hold together, 
 
 The kingdoms are less by three. 
 
 We have done with the kisses that sting. 
 The thief's mouth red from the feast. 
 
 The blood on the hands of the king. 
 
 And the lie at the lips of the priest. 
 
 Will they tie the winds in a tether. 
 Put a bit in the jaws of the sea ? 
 
 While three men hold together, 
 
 The kingdoms are less by three. 
 
 Let our flag run out straight in the wind ! 
 The old red shall be floated again 
 
 When the ranks that are thin shall be 
 thinned, 
 When the names that were twenty 
 are ten ; 
 
 When the devil's riddle is mastered 
 
 And tiie galley-bench creaks with a 
 Pope, 
 
 We shall see Buonaparte the bastard 
 Kick heels with his throat in a rope. 
 
 While the shepherd sets wolves on his 
 sheep 
 
 And the emperor halters his Kine, 
 While Shame is a watchman asleep 
 
 And Faith is a keeper of swine. 
 
 Let the wind shake our flag like a 
 feather. 
 Like the plumes of the foam of the 
 sea ! 
 While three men hold together. 
 
 The kingdoms are less by three. 
 
 All the world has its burdens to bear. 
 From Cayenne to the Austrian 
 whips ; 
 
 Forth, with the rain in our hair 
 
 And the salt sweet foam in our Ups : 
 
 In the teeth of the hard glad weather. 
 In the blown wet face of the sea ; 
 
 While three men hold together. 
 
 The kingdoms are less by three. 
 
 1862. 
 
 CHORUSES FROM ATALANTA IN 
 CALYDON 
 
 THE YOUTH OP THE YEAR 
 
 When the hounds of spring are on 
 winter's traces. 
 The niother of months in meadow or 
 plain 
 Fills the shadows and windy places 
 With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain ; 
 
 866 
 
SWINBURNE 
 
 867 
 
 And the brow u bright nightingale amor- 
 ous 
 
 Is half assuaged for Itylus, 
 
 For the Thracian sliips and the foreign 
 faces, 
 The tougueless vigil, and all tiie pain. 
 
 Come with bows bent and with eniptjing 
 of quivers, 
 Maiden most perfect, lady of light, 
 Witii a noise of winds and many rivers, 
 With a clamor of waters, and witli 
 might ; 
 Bind on thy sandals, O thou most fleet, 
 Over the splendor and speed of thy feet ; 
 For the faint east quickens, the wan 
 west shivers. 
 Round the feet of the day and the feet 
 of the night. 
 
 Where shall we find her, how sliall we 
 sing to her. 
 Fold our hands round her knees, and 
 cling? 
 O that man's heart were as fire and could 
 spring to her, 
 Fire, or the strength of the streams 
 that spring ! 
 For the stars and the winds are unto her 
 As raiment, as songs of the harp-player ; 
 For the risen stars and the fallen cling 
 to lier, 
 And the southwest-wind and the west- 
 wind sing. 
 
 For winter's rains and ruins are over, 
 
 And all the season of snows and sins ; 
 The days dividing lover and lover. 
 
 The light that loses, the night tliat 
 wins ; 
 And time remembei'ed is grief forgotten. 
 And frosts are slain and flowers begotten. 
 And in green underw^ood and cover 
 Blossom by blossom the spring begins. 
 
 The full streams feed on flower of rushes. 
 Ripe grasses trammel a ti'a veiling foot, 
 The faint fresh flame of the young year 
 flushes 
 From leaf to flower and flower to fruit ; 
 And fruit and leaf are as gold and fire. 
 And the oat is heard above the lyre. 
 And the hoofed heel of a satyr crushes 
 The chestnut-husk at the chestnut 
 root. 
 
 And Fan by noon and Bacchus by niglit, 
 Fleeter of foot than tlie fleet-foot kid. 
 Follows with dancing and fills with de- 
 light 
 
 *rhe Maenad and the Bassarid ; 
 And .soft as lips that laugh and hide 
 The laughing leaves of the trees divide, 
 And screen from seeing and leave in 
 sight 
 
 The god pursuing, the maiden hid. 
 
 The ivy falls with the Bacchanal's hair 
 
 Over her e3^ebrows hiding her eyes ; 
 The wild vine slipping down leaves 
 bare 
 Her bright breast shoi'tening into 
 sighs ; 
 The wild vine slips with the weight of 
 
 its leaves. 
 But the berried ivy catches and cleaves 
 To the limbs that glitter, the feet that 
 scare 
 The wolf that follows, the fawn that 
 flies. 
 
 THE LIFE OF MAN 
 
 Before the beginning of years. 
 
 There came to the making of man 
 Time, with a gift of tears ; 
 
 Grief, with a glass that ran ; 
 Pleasure, with pain for leaven ; 
 
 Summer, witii flowers that fell ; 
 Remembrance fallen from heaven. 
 
 And madness risen from hell ; 
 Strength without hands to smite ; 
 
 Love that endures for a breath ; 
 Night, the shadow of light. 
 
 And life, the shadow of death. 
 
 And the high gods took in hand 
 
 Fire, and the falling of tears. 
 And a measure of sliding sand 
 
 From under the feet of the years ; 
 And froth and drift of the sea ; 
 
 And dust of tiie laboring earth ; 
 And bodies of tilings to be 
 
 In the houses of death and of birth ; 
 And wrought with weeping and laughter 
 
 And fashioned with loathing and love. 
 With life before and after 
 
 And death beneath and above, 
 For a day and a night and a morrow, 
 
 That his strength might endure for a 
 span 
 With travail and heavy sorrow. 
 
 The holy spirit of man. 
 
 From the winds of the north and the 
 south 
 
 They gathered as unto strife ; 
 They breathed upon his moutli. 
 
 They filled his body with life ; 
 
S68 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 E^'esight and speech they wrought 
 
 For tlie veils of the soul therein, 
 A time for labor and thought, 
 
 A time to serve and to sin ; 
 They gave liini light in his ways, 
 
 And love, and a space for delight. 
 And beauty and length of days. 
 
 And niglit, and sleep in the night. 
 His speech is a burning fire ; 
 
 With his lips he travailetli ; 
 In ids heart is a blind desire, 
 
 In his eyes foreknowledge of death ; 
 He weaves, and is clothed with derision; 
 
 Sows, and he shall not reap ; 
 His life is a watch or a vision 
 
 Between a sleep and a sleep. 
 
 LOVE AND love's MATES 
 
 We have seen thee, O Love, thou art 
 
 fair ; thou art goodly, O Love ; 
 Thy wings make light in the air as the 
 
 wings of a dove. 
 Thy feet are as winds that divide the 
 
 stream of the sea ; 
 Earth is thy covering to hide thee, the 
 
 garment of thee. 
 Thou art swift and subtle and blind as a 
 
 flame of fire ; 
 Before thee the laughter, behind thee the 
 
 tears of desire ; 
 And twain go fortli beside thee, a man 
 
 with a maid ; 
 Her eyes are the eyes of a bride whom 
 
 delight makes afraid ; 
 As the breatli in the buds tliat stir is lier 
 
 bridal breath : 
 But Fate is the name of her ; and his 
 
 name is Death. 
 
 NATURE 
 
 O that I now, I too were 
 By deep wells and water-floods, 
 Streams of ancient hills, and where 
 All the wan green places bear 
 Blossoms cleaving to the sod, 
 Fruitless fruit, and grasses fair, 
 Or such darkest ivy-buds 
 As divide thy yellow hair, 
 Bacchus, and their leaves that nod 
 Round thy fawnskin brush the bare 
 Snow-soft siioulders of a god ; 
 There the year is sweet, and tliere 
 Earth is full of secret springs, 
 And the fervent rose-cheeked hours. 
 Those that marry dawn and noon. 
 There are sunless, there look pale 
 In dim leaves and hidden air, 
 
 Pale as grass or latter flowers. 
 
 Or the wild vine's wan wet rings 
 
 Full of dew beneath the moon, 
 
 And all day the nightingale 
 
 Sleeps, and all night sings ; 
 
 There in cold remote recesses 
 
 That nor alien eyes assail, 
 
 Feet, nor imminence of wings, 
 
 Nor a wind nor any tune. 
 
 Thou, O queen and holiest, 
 
 Flower the whitest of all things. 
 
 With reluctant lengthening tresses 
 
 And with sudden splendid breast 
 
 Save of maidens unbeholden, 
 
 There art wont to enter, there 
 
 Thy divine swift limbs and golden 
 
 Maiden growth of unbound hair. 
 
 Bathed in waters white, 
 
 Shine, and many a maid's by thee 
 
 In moist woodland or the hilly 
 
 Flowerless brakes where wells abound 
 
 Out of all men's sight ; 
 
 Or in lower pools tliat see 
 
 All their marges clothed all round 
 
 With the innumerable lily. 
 
 Whence the golden-girdled bee 
 
 Flits through flowering rusii to fret 
 
 White or duskier violet, 
 
 Fair as those that in far years 
 
 With their buds left luminous 
 
 And their little leaves made wet 
 
 From the warmer dew of tears. 
 
 Mother's tears in extreme need. 
 
 Hid the limbs of lamus. 
 
 Of thy brother's seed ; 
 
 For his heart was piteous 
 
 Toward him, even as thine lieart now 
 
 Pitiful toward us ; 
 
 Thine, O goddess, tui'ning hither 
 
 A benignant blameless brow ; 
 
 Seeing enough of evil done 
 
 And lives withered as leaves wither 
 
 In the blasting of the sun ; 
 
 Seeing enough of lumters dead. 
 
 Ruin enough of all our year. 
 
 Herds and harvest slain and shed. 
 
 Herdsmen stricken many an one, 
 
 Fruits and flocks consumed together. 
 
 And great length of deadly days. 
 
 Yet with reverent lips and fear 
 
 Turn we toward thee, turn and praise 
 
 For this lightening of clear weather 
 
 And prosperities begun. 
 
 For not seldom, when all air 
 
 As bright water without breath 
 
 Shines, and when men fear not, fate 
 
 Without thunder unaware 
 
 Breaks, and brings down death. 
 
 Joy with grief ye great gods give, 
 
SWINBURNE 
 
 869 
 
 Good with bad, and overbear 
 All the pride of us that live, 
 All tlie high estate, 
 As ye long since overbore, 
 As in old time long before. 
 Many a strong man and a great, 
 All that were. 
 
 But do thou, sweet, otherwise. 
 Having heed of all our prayer. 
 Taking note of all our siglis ; 
 Webeseecli thee by thy light, 
 By thy bow, and thy sweet eyes, 
 And the kingdom of tlie night. 
 Be thou favorable and fair ; 
 By thine arrows and thy might 
 And Orion overthrown ; 
 By tlie maiden thy delight, 
 By the indissoluble zone 
 And the sacred hair. 
 
 Not as with sundering of the earth 
 
 Nor as with cleaving of the sea 
 Nor fierce foreshadovvings of a birth 
 
 Nor flying dreams of death to be. 
 Nor loosening of a large world's girth 
 And quickening of the body of night, 
 
 And sound of thunder in men's ears 
 And fire of lightning in men's sight. 
 
 Fate, mother of desires and feavs, 
 
 Boi'e unto men tlie law of tears ; 
 But sudden, an unfathered fiame. 
 
 And broken out of night, she shone, 
 She, without body, without name. 
 
 In days forgotten and foregone ; 
 And heaven rang round her as she came 
 Like smitten cymbals, and lay bare ; 
 
 Clouds and great stars, thunders and 
 snows. 
 
 The blue sad fields and folds of air. 
 The life that breathes, the life that 
 grows, 
 
 All wind, all fire, that burns or blows. 
 Even all these knew her : for she is great; 
 
 The daughter of doom, the mother of 
 death, 
 The sister of sorrow ; a lifelong weight 
 
 That no man's finger ligliteneth. 
 Nor any god can lighten fate ; 
 A landmark seen across the way 
 
 Where one race treads as tlie other 
 trod ; 
 An evil sceptre, an evil stay. 
 
 Wrought for a staff*, wrought for a rod. 
 
 The bitter jealousy of God. 
 
 For death is deep as the sea, 
 And fate as the waves thereof. 
 
 Shall the waves take i)ity on tliee 
 
 Or the south-wind offer thee love? 
 Wilt thou take the night for thy day 
 Or the darkness for light on thy way 
 Till thou say in thine heart, Enough? 
 
 Behold, thou art over fair, thou art 
 
 over wise : 
 The sweetness of spring in thine hair, 
 
 and the light in thine eyes. 
 The light of the spring in thine eyes, 
 
 and the sound in thine ears ; 
 Yet thine heart shall wax heavy with 
 
 sighs and thine eyelids with tears. 
 Wilt thou cover thine hair with gold ; 
 
 and with silver thy feet? 
 Hast thou taken the purple to fold thee, 
 
 and made thy mouth sweet ? 
 Behold, when thy face is made bare, he 
 
 that loved thee sliall hate ; 
 Thy face shall be no more fair at the 
 
 fall of thy fate. 
 For thy life shall fall as a leaf and be 
 
 shed as tlie rain ; 
 And the veil of thine head shall be grief ; 
 
 and the crown shall be pain. 
 
 THE DEATH OF MELEAGER 
 
 Meleager. Let your hands meet 
 Round the weight of my head. 
 Lift ye mj^ feet 
 
 As the feet of the dead ; 
 For the flesh of my body is molten, the 
 limbs of it molten as lead. 
 
 Chorus. O thy luminous face, 
 Thine imperious eyes ! 
 O the grief, O the grace. 
 As of day when it dies ! 
 Who is this bending over thee, lord, with 
 tears and suppression of sighs ! 
 
 Meleager. Is a bride so fair? 
 Is a maid so meek? 
 With unchapleted hair. 
 With unfilleted cheek. 
 Atalanta, the pure among women, whose 
 name is as blessing to speak. 
 
 Atalanta. I would that with feet, 
 Unsandalled, unshod, 
 Overbold, overfleet, 
 
 I had swum not nor ti'od 
 From Arcadia to Calydon. northward, a 
 blast of the envy of God. 
 
 3Iclea.ger. Unto each man his fate ; 
 Unto each as he saith 
 
870 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 In whose fingers the weight 
 Of the world is as breath ; 
 Yet I would that in clamor of battle 
 mine hands had laid hold upon 
 death. 
 
 Chorus. Not with cleaving of shields 
 And tlieir clash in thine ear, 
 When the lord of fought fields 
 Breaketh spearshaft from spear, 
 Thou art broken, our lord, thou art 
 broken, witii travail and labor 
 and fear. 
 
 Meleager. Would God he liad found me 
 Beneath fresh boughs ! 
 "Would God he liad bound me 
 Unawares in mine house. 
 With light in mine eyes and songs in my 
 lips, and a crown on my brows ! 
 
 Chorus. Whence art thou sent froni us ? 
 Whither thy goal ? 
 How art thou rent from us. 
 Thou that wert whole. 
 As with severing of eyelids and ej'es, as 
 with sundering of body and soul ! 
 
 Meleager. My heart is within me 
 As an ash in the fire ; 
 Whosoever hath seen me. 
 Without lute, without lyre. 
 Shall sing of me grievous things, even 
 things that were ill to desire. 
 
 Chorus. Wlio shall raise thee 
 From the house of tlie dead ? 
 Or what man praise thee 
 
 That thy praise may be said ? 
 Alas thy beauty ! alas thy body ! alas 
 thine head ! 
 
 .Meleager. But thou. O mother, 
 That dreamer of dreams. 
 Wilt tliou bring forth another 
 To feel the sun's beams 
 When I move among shadows a shadow, 
 and wail by impassable streams ? 
 
 CEneus. What thing wilt thou leave me 
 Now this thing is done ? 
 A man wilt thou give me, 
 A son for my son. 
 For the light of mine eyes, the desire of 
 my life, the desirable one ? 
 
 Chorus. Thou w-ert glad above others. 
 Yea, fair beyond word ; 
 Thou wert glad among mothers ; 
 
 For each man that heard 
 Of tliee, praise there was added unto thee, 
 as wings to the feet of a bird. 
 
 CEneus. Who shall give back 
 
 Thy face of old years, 
 
 With travail made black, 
 
 Grown gi'ay among fears. 
 
 Mother of sorrow, mother of cursing, 
 
 mother of tears ? 
 
 Meleager. Though thou art as fire 
 Fed with fuel in vain. 
 My deliglit, mj^ desire. 
 
 Is more chaste than the rain. 
 More inire than the dew fall, more holy 
 than stars are that live without 
 stain. 
 
 Atalanta. I would that as water 
 My life's blood had thawn, 
 Or as winter's wan daughter 
 Leaves lowland and lawn 
 Spring-stricken, or ever mine eyes had 
 beheld thee made dark in tliy 
 dawn. 
 
 Chorus. When thou dravest the men 
 Of the chosen of Thrace, 
 None turned him again 
 Nor endured he thy face 
 Clothed round with the blush of tlie 
 battle, with light from a terrible 
 place. 
 
 CEneus. Thou shouldst die as he dies 
 For whom none sheddeth tears ; 
 Filling thine ej'es 
 
 And fulfilling thine ears. 
 With the brilliance of battle, the bloom 
 and the beauty, the splendor of 
 spears. 
 
 Chorus. In the ears of the world 
 It is sung, it is told. 
 And the light thereof hurled 
 And the noise thereof rolled 
 From the Acroceraunian snow to the 
 ford of the fleece of gold. 
 
 Meleager. Would God ye could carry me 
 Forth of all these ; 
 Heap sand and bury me 
 By the Chersonese, 
 Where the tlumdering Bosphorus an- 
 swers the thunder of Pontic seas, 
 
 CEneus. Dost thou mock at our praise 
 And the singing begun 
 
SWINBURNE 
 
 871 
 
 And the men of strange days 
 Praising my son 
 In the folds of the hills of home, high 
 places of Calydon ? 
 
 Meleager. For the dead man no home is ; 
 Ah, better to be 
 What the flower of tlie foam is 
 In fields of the sea, 
 That the sea-waves might be as my rai- 
 ment, the gulf-stream a garment 
 for me. 
 
 Chorus. Who shall seek thee and bring 
 And restore thee thy day, 
 When the dove dipped her wing. 
 And the oars won their way 
 Where the narrowing Symplegades 
 whitened the straits of Propontis 
 with spray ? 
 
 Meleager. Will ye crown me my tomb 
 Or exalt me my name. 
 Now my spirits consume. 
 Now my flesh is a flame ? 
 Let the sea slake it once, and men speak 
 of me sleeping to praise me or 
 shame. 
 
 Chorus. Turn back now, turn thee, 
 As who turns him to wake ; 
 Though the life in thee burn thee, 
 Couldst thou bathe it and slake 
 Where the sea-ridge of Helle hangs 
 heavier, and east upon west waters 
 break ? 
 
 Meleager. Would the winds blow me 
 back 
 Or the waves hurl me home ? 
 Ah. to touch in the track 
 
 Where the pine learnt to roam 
 Cold girdles and crowns of the sea-gods, 
 cool blossoms of water and foam ! 
 
 Chorus. The gods may release 
 That they made fast ; 
 Tliy soul shall have ease 
 In thy limbs at the last ; 
 But what shall they give tliee for life, 
 sweet life that is overpast ? 
 
 Meleager. Not the life of men's veins. 
 Not of flesh that conceives ; 
 But the grace that remains. 
 The fair beauty that cleaves 
 To the life of the rains in the grasses, the 
 life of the dews on the leaves. 
 
 Chorus. Thou wert helmsman and chief ; 
 Wilt thou turn in an hour, 
 Thy limbs to the leaf, 
 Thy face to the flower, 
 Thy blood to the water, thy soul to the 
 gods who divide and devour? 
 
 Meleager. The years are hungry, 
 They wail all their days ; 
 The gods wax angry 
 And weary of praise ; 
 And who shall biidle their lips? and 
 who shall straighten their ways ? 
 
 Chorus. The gods guard over us 
 With sword and with rod ; 
 Weaving shadow to cover us. 
 Heaping the sod, 
 Tliat law may fulfil herself wholly, to 
 darken man's face before God. 
 
 FINAL CHORUS 
 
 Who shall contend with his lords 
 Or cross them or do them wrong ? 
 
 Who shall bind them as with cords ? 
 Who shall tame them as with song ? 
 
 Who shall smite tliem as with swords ? 
 For the hands of their kingdom are 
 strong. 1865. 
 
 SONGS FROM CHASTELARD 
 
 MARY BEATON'S SONG ^ 
 
 Le navire 
 Est a I'eau ; 
 Entends rire 
 Ce gros flot 
 Que fait luire 
 Et bruire 
 Le vieux sire 
 Aquilo. 
 
 Dans I'espace 
 Du grand air 
 Le vent passe 
 Comme un fer ; 
 Siffle et Sonne, 
 Tombe et tonne ; 
 Prend et donne 
 A la mer. 
 
 1 Probably no excuse is needed for including 
 here some examples of Swinburne's French verse, 
 both for its own liglit and exquisite beauty, and 
 because it so cliaracteristically represents him. 
 One of his chief distinctions is that of being pei'- 
 haps the only Englishman who ever really un- 
 derstood and appreciated French poetry. 
 
872 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Vols, la brise 
 Tourne au iiord, 
 Et la bise 
 Souffle et moid 
 Sur ta pure 
 Chevelure 
 Qui inurmure 
 Et se tord. 
 
 Le navire 
 Passe et luit, 
 Puis chavire 
 A grand bruit ; 
 Et sur Tonde 
 La plus blonde 
 Tete au monde 
 Flotte et fuit. 
 
 Moi, je rame, 
 Et I'amour, 
 C'est ma flanime, 
 Mon grand jour, 
 Ma chandelle 
 Blanche et belle, 
 Ma chapelle 
 De sejour. 
 
 Toi, mon anie 
 Et ma foi, 
 Sois ma dame 
 Et ma loi ; , 
 Sois ma mie, 
 Sois Marie, 
 Sois ma vie,. 
 Toute a moi ! 
 
 LOVE AT EBB 
 
 Between the sunset and the sea 
 My love laid hands and lips on me ; 
 Of sweet caine sour, of day came night. 
 Of long desire cdme brief deliglit : 
 Ah love, and what thing came of thee 
 Between the sea-downs and the sea? 
 
 Between the sea-mark and the sea 
 Juy grew to grief, grief grew to me ; 
 Love turned to tears, and tears to fire. 
 And dead delight to new desire ; 
 Love's talk, love's touch there seemed to 
 
 be 
 Between the sea-sand and the sea. 
 
 Between the sundown and the sea 
 Love watched one hour of love with me ; 
 Then down the all-golden water-ways 
 His feet flew after yesterday's ; 
 I saw tliem como and saw them flee 
 Between the sea-foam and the sea. 
 
 Between the sea-strand and the sea 
 Love fell on sleep, sleep fell on me ; 
 The first star saw twain turn to one 
 Between the moonrise and the sun ; 
 The next, that saw not love, saw me 
 Between the sea-banks and the sea. 
 
 THE queen's song 
 
 J'ai vu faner bien des choses, 
 Mainte feuille aller au vent. 
 En songeant aux vieilles roses, 
 J'ai pleure souvent. 
 
 Vois tu dans les roses mortes 
 Amour qui sourit cache ? 
 
 mon amant, a nos portes 
 L'as-tu vu co.uche ? 
 
 As-tu vu jamais au monde 
 Venus chasser etcourir? 
 Fille de I'onde, avec I'onde 
 Doit-elle mourir ? 
 
 Aux jours de neige et de givre 
 L'amour s'effeuille et s'endort ; 
 Avec mai doit-il revivre, 
 Ou bien est-il mort ? 
 
 Qui salt ou s'en vont les roses ? 
 Qui salt ou s'en va le vent ? 
 En songeant a telles choses, 
 J'ai pleure souvent. 1865. 
 
 HYMN TO PROSERPINE 
 
 (after the proclamation in ROME OF 
 THE CHRISTIAN FAITH) 
 
 Vicisti, Galilcee 
 
 1 HAVE lived long enough, having seen 
 
 one thing, that love hath an end ; 
 Goddess and maiden and queen, be near 
 
 me now and befriend. 
 Thou art more than the day or the mor- 
 row, the seasons that laugh or that 
 
 weep ; 
 For these give joy and sorrow ; but thou, 
 
 Proserpina, sleep. 
 Sweet is the treading of wine, and sweet 
 
 the feet of the dove ; 
 But a goodlier gift is thine than foam 
 
 of the grapes or love. 
 Yea, is not even Apollo, with hair and 
 
 harpstring of gold, 
 A bitter God to follow, a beautiful God 
 
 to behold ? 
 I am sick of singing : the bays burn deep 
 
 and chafe : I am fain 
 
SWINBURNE 
 
 S73 
 
 To rest a little from praise aud grievous 
 
 pleasure and pain. 
 For the Gods we know not of, who give 
 
 us our daily breath, 
 We know they are cruel as love or life, 
 
 and lovely asdeatli. 
 
 Gods dethroned and deceased, cast 
 
 forth, wiped out in a day ! 
 From your wrath is the world released, 
 
 redeemed from your chains, men 
 
 say. 
 New Gods are crowned in the city, their 
 
 flowers have broken your rods ; 
 They are merciful, clothed with pity, 
 
 the young compassionate Gods. 
 But for me tlieir new device is barren, 
 
 the day s are bare ; 
 Things long past over suffice, and men 
 
 forgotten that were. 
 Time and the Gods are at strife : ye 
 
 dwell in the midst thereof. 
 Draining a little life from the bai'ren 
 
 breasts of love. 
 
 1 say to you. cease, take rest ; yea, I say 
 
 to you all, be at peace. 
 Till the bitter milk of her breast and the 
 
 barren bosom shall cease. 
 Wilt thou yet take all, Galilean? but 
 
 these thou shalt not take. 
 The laurel, tlie palms and the pjean, 
 
 the breast of the nymphs in the 
 
 brake ; 
 Breasts more soft than a dove's, that 
 
 ti'emble with tenderer breath ; 
 And all the wings of the Loves, and all 
 
 the joy before death ; 
 All the feet of the hours that sound as 
 
 a single lyre, 
 Di'opped and deep in the flowers, with 
 
 strings that flicker like fire. 
 More than these wilt thou give, things 
 
 fairer than all these things ? 
 Nay, for a little we live, and life hath 
 
 mutable wings. 
 A little while and we die ; shall life not 
 
 thrive as it may ? 
 For no man under the sky lives twice, 
 
 outliving his day. 
 And grief is a grievous thing, and a man 
 
 hath enough of his tears : 
 Why should he labor, and bring fi'esh 
 
 grief to blacken his years ? 
 Thou hast conquered, O pale Galilean ; 
 
 the world has grown gray from 
 
 thy breath : 
 We have drunken of things Lethean, 
 
 and fed on the fulness of death. 
 Laurel is green for a season, and love is 
 
 sweet for a day ; 
 
 But love grows bitter with treason, and 
 
 laurel outlives not May. 
 Sleep, shall we sleep after all ? for the 
 
 world is not sweet in the end ; 
 For the old faiths loosen and fall, the 
 
 new years ruin and rend. 
 Fate is a sea without shore, and the soul 
 
 is a rock that abides ; 
 But her ears are vexed witli the roar and 
 
 her face with the foam of the tides. 
 O lips that the live blood laiiits in. the 
 
 leavings of racks and rods ! 
 
 ghastly glories of saints, dead limbs of 
 
 gibl)eted Gods ! 
 Thougii all men abase them before you 
 in s[)irit, and all knees bend, 
 
 1 kneel not, neither adore you, but 
 
 standing, look to the end. 
 All delicate daj^s and pleasant, all spirits 
 
 and sorrows are cast 
 Far out with the foam of the present that 
 
 sweeps to the surf of the past : 
 Where beyond the extreme sea-wall, and 
 
 between the remote sea-gates. 
 Waste water washes, and tall ships 
 
 founder, and deej) death waits : 
 Where, mighty with deepening sides, 
 
 clad about with the seas as with 
 
 wings; 
 And impelled of invisible tides, and ful- 
 filled of imspeakable things. 
 White-eyed and poisonous-finned, sliark- 
 
 toothed and serpentine-curled. 
 Rolls, under the whitening wind of the 
 
 future, tlie wave of tlie world. 
 The depths stand naked in sunder behind 
 
 it, the storms flee awaj" ; 
 In the hollow before it the thunder is 
 
 taken and snared as a prey ; 
 In its sides is tlie north-vi'ind bound ; and 
 
 its salt is of all men's tears ; 
 With liglit of ruin, and sound of changes, 
 
 and pulse of years : 
 With travail of day after day. and with 
 
 trouble of hour upon hour ; 
 And bitter as blood is the spray ; and the 
 
 crests ai'e as fangs that devour : 
 Aud its vapor and storm of its steam as 
 
 the sighing of spirits to be ; 
 And its noise as the noise in a dream : 
 
 and its depth as the roots of tlie sea : 
 And the height of its heads as the height 
 
 of the utmost stars of the air : 
 And the ends of the earth at the might 
 
 thereof tremble, and time is made 
 
 bare. 
 Will ye bridle the deep sea with reins, 
 
 will ye chasten the high sea with 
 
 rods ? 
 
874 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Will ye take her to chain her with chains, 
 
 who is older than all ye Gods ? 
 All ye as a wind shall go bj^ as a fire 
 
 shall ye pass and be past : 
 Ye are Gods, and behold ye shall die, and 
 
 the waves be upon you at last. 
 In the darkness of time, in the deeps of 
 
 the years, in the changes of things, 
 Ye shall sleep as a slain man sleeps, and 
 
 the world shall forget you for 
 
 kings. 
 Though the feet of thine high priests 
 
 tread where thy lords and our 
 
 forefathers trod. 
 Though tliese that were Gods are dead, 
 
 and thou being dead art a God. 
 Though before thee the throned Cythe- 
 
 rean be fallen, and hidden her 
 
 head. 
 Yet thy kingdom shall pass, Galilean, thy 
 
 dead shall go down to thee dead. 
 Of the maiden tliy mother, men sing as a 
 
 goddess with grace clad around ; 
 Thou art throned wliere another was 
 
 king ; where another was queen 
 
 she is crowned. 
 Yea, once we had sight of another : but 
 
 now she is queen, saj^ these. 
 Not as thine, not as thine was our mother, 
 
 a blossom of flowering seas, 
 Clothed round with the world's desire as 
 
 with raiment, and fair as the foam. 
 And fleeter than kindled fire, and a god- 
 dess and mother of Rome. 
 For thine came pale and a maiden, and 
 
 sister to sorrow ; but ours. 
 Her deep hair heavily laden with odor 
 
 and color of flowers, 
 White rose of the rose-white water, a 
 
 silver splendor, a flame. 
 Bent down unto us that besought her, 
 
 and earth grew sweet with her 
 
 name. 
 For thine came weeping, a slave among 
 
 slaves, and rejected ; but slie 
 Came flushed from the full-flushed wave, 
 
 and imperial, her foot on tlie sea. 
 And the wonderful waters knew her, the 
 
 winds and the viewless ways, 
 And the roses grew rosier, and bluer the 
 
 sea-blue stream of the bays. 
 Ye are fallen, our lords by what token ? 
 
 we wist that ye should not fall. 
 Ye were all so fair tliat are broken ; and 
 
 one more fair than ye all. 
 But I turn to her still, having seen she 
 
 shall surely abide in the end ; 
 Goddess and maiden and queen, be near 
 
 me now and befriend. 
 
 daughter of earth, of my mother, her 
 
 crown and blossom of birth, 
 
 1 am also. I also, thy brother ; I go as I 
 
 came unto earth. 
 In the niglit where thine eyes are as 
 
 moons are in heaven, the night 
 
 where thou art. 
 Where the silence is more than all tunes, 
 
 where sleep overflows from the 
 
 heart. 
 Where the poppies are sweet as the rose 
 
 in our world, and the red rose is 
 
 white, 
 And the wind falls faint as it blows with 
 
 tlie fume of the flowers of the 
 
 night. 
 And the murmur of spirits that sleep in 
 
 the shadow of Gods from afar 
 Grows dim in thine ears and deep as the 
 
 deep dim soul of a star. 
 In the sweet low light of thy face, un- 
 der heavens untrod by tlie sun. 
 Let my soul witli their souls find place, 
 
 and forget what is done and un- 
 done. 
 Thou art more than the Gods who 
 
 number the days of our temporal 
 
 breath ; 
 For these give labor and slumber ; but 
 
 thou, Proserpina, death. 
 Tlierefore now at thj^ feet I abide for a 
 
 season in silence. I know 
 I shall die as my fathers died, and sleep 
 
 as they sleep ; even so. 
 For the glass of the year is brittle 
 
 wherein we gaze for a span ; 
 A little soul for a little bears up this 
 
 corpse which is man.i 
 So long I endure, no longer ; and laugh 
 
 not again, neither weep. 
 For there is no God found stronger than 
 
 death ; and death is a sleep. 1866. 
 
 A MATCH 
 
 If love were what tlie rose is, 
 And I were like the leaf, 
 
 Our lives would grow together 
 
 In sad or singing weather. 
 
 Blown fields or flowerful closes. 
 Green pleasure or gray grief ; 
 
 If love were what the rose is, 
 And I were like the leaf. 
 
 If I were what the words are, 
 And love were like the tune. 
 With double sound and single 
 Delight our lips would mingle, 
 
 1 ilivxdpLOv et ^atTTa^ov vtKp'ov. EPICTETUS. 
 
SWINBURNE 
 
 875 
 
 With kisses glad as birds are 
 That get sweet rain at noon ; 
 
 If I were what the words are 
 And love were like the tune. 
 
 If you were life, my darling, 
 
 And I your love were death, 
 We'd shine and snow together 
 Ere March made sweet the weather 
 With daffodil and starling 
 
 And hours of fruitful breath ; 
 If j^ou were life, my darling, 
 And I your love were death. 
 
 If 3'ou were thrall to sorrow. 
 
 And I were page to joy, 
 We"d plaj^ for lives and seasons 
 With loving looks and treasons 
 And tears of night and morrow 
 
 And laughs of maid and boy ; 
 If you were thrall to sorrow, 
 
 And I were page to joy. 
 
 If you were April's lady, 
 
 And I were lord in May, 
 We'd throw with leaves for hovirs 
 And draw for days with flowers. 
 Till day like night were shady 
 
 And night were bright like day ; 
 If you were April's lady, 
 
 And I were lord in May. 
 
 If you were queen of pleasure. 
 
 And I were king of pain. 
 We'd hunt down love together. 
 Pluck out his flying-feather. 
 And teach his feet a measure. 
 
 And find liis mouth a rein ; 
 If you were queen of pleasure, 
 
 And I wei'e king of pain. 1866. 
 
 A BALLAD OF BURDENS 
 
 The burden of fair women. Vain delight, 
 
 And love self-slain in some sweet 
 
 shameful way. 
 
 And sorrowful old age that comes by 
 
 niglit 
 
 As a thief comes tliat lias no heart by 
 
 day, 
 And change that finds fair cheeks and 
 leaves them gray. 
 And weariness tliat keeps awake for hire. 
 And grief that says what pleasure used 
 to say ; 
 This is the end of every man's desire. 
 
 The burden of bought kisses, 
 sor^, 
 
 This is 
 
 A burden without fruit in child- 
 bearing ; 
 Between tlie nightfall and the dawn 
 threescore. 
 Threescore between the dawn and 
 
 evening. 
 The shuddering in thy lips, the shud- 
 dering 
 In thy sad eyelids tremiUous like fire. 
 Makes love seem shameful and a 
 wretched thing. 
 This is the end of every man's desire. 
 
 The burden of sweet speeches. Nay, 
 
 kneel down. 
 
 Cover thy head, and weeji ; for verily 
 
 These market-men that buy thy white 
 
 and brown 
 
 In the last days shall take no thouglit 
 
 for tliee. 
 In the last days like earth thy face 
 shall be. 
 Yea, like sea-marsh made thick with 
 brine and mire. 
 Sad with sick leavings of the sterile 
 sea. 
 This is the end of every man's desire. 
 
 The burden of long living. Thou shalt 
 fear 
 Waking, and sleeping mourn upon thy 
 bed; 
 And say at night, " Would God the day 
 were here," 
 And say at dawn " Would God tlie day 
 
 were dead." 
 With weary days thou shalt be clothed 
 and fed. 
 And wear remorse of heart for thine 
 attire, 
 Pain for thy girdle and sorrow upon 
 thine head ; 
 This is the end of every man's desire. 
 
 The burden of bright colors. Tliou slialt 
 see 
 Gold tarnished, and the gray above tlie 
 green ; 
 And as the thing thou seest tJiy face 
 shall be, 
 And 710 more as the thing beforetime 
 
 seen. 
 And tliou shalt say of mercy " It hath 
 been," 
 And living, watch the old lips and loves 
 expire. 
 And talking, tears shall take thy 
 breath between. 
 This is the end of every man's desire. 
 
876 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 The burden of sad sayings. In that day 
 Thou Shalt tell all tliy days and hours, 
 and tell 
 Thy times and ways and words of love, 
 and say 
 How one was dear and one desirable, 
 And sweet was life to hear and sweet 
 to smell, 
 But now with lights reverse the old hours 
 retire 
 And the last hour is shod with fire from 
 hell. 
 This is the end of every man's desire. 
 
 The burden of four seasons. Rain in 
 spring, 
 White rain and wind among tlie tender 
 trees ; 
 A summer of green sorrows gathering. 
 Rank autumn in a mist of miseries, 
 With sad face set towards the year, 
 that sees 
 Tiie cliarred ash drop out of the dropping 
 pyre. 
 And winter wan witli manjMnaladies ; 
 This is the end of every man's desire. 
 
 The burden of dead faces. Out of sight 
 
 And out of love, beyond the reach of 
 
 hands, 
 
 Changed in the changing of the dark and 
 
 light. 
 
 They walk and weep about the barren 
 
 lands 
 Where no seed is nor any garner stands. 
 Where in short breaths the doubtful days 
 respire, 
 And time's turned glass lets through 
 
 the sighing sands ; 
 Til is is the end of every man's desire. 
 
 The burden of much gladness. Life and 
 
 lust [light ; 
 
 Forsake thee, and the face of tiiy de- 
 
 And underfoot tlie heavy hour strews 
 
 dust ; 
 
 And overhead strange weathers burn 
 
 and bite : 
 And where the red was, lo, the blood- 
 less wliite. 
 And where truth was, the likeness of a 
 liar. 
 And where day was, the likeness of 
 the night ; 
 This is the end of every man's desire. 
 
 Princes, and ye whom pleasure quick- 
 eneth , 
 
 Heed well this rhyme before your 
 pleasure tire ; 
 For life is sweet, but after life is death. 
 This is the end of every man's desire. 
 
 1866. 
 
 RONDEL 
 
 Kissing her hair I sat against her feet. 
 Wove and unwove it, wound and found 
 
 it sweet 
 Made fast therewith her hands, drew 
 
 down her eyes. 
 Deep as deej) flowers and dreamy like 
 
 dim skies ; 
 With her own tresses bound and found 
 
 her fair. 
 Kissing her hair. 
 
 Sleep were no sweeter than her face to 
 
 me. 
 Sleep of cold sea-bloom under tiie cold 
 
 sea ; 
 What pain could get between my face 
 
 and hers? 
 AVhat new sweet thing would love not 
 
 lelish worse ? 
 Unless, perhaps, white death had kissed 
 
 me there, 
 Kissing her hair ? 1866. 
 
 IN MEMORY OF WALTER SAVAGE 
 LANDOR. 
 
 Back to the flower-town, side b}' side, 
 
 Tiie bright months bring. 
 New-born, the bridegroom and the bride. 
 
 Freedom and spring. 
 
 The sweet land laughs from sea to sea. 
 
 Filled full of sun ; 
 All things come back to her, being 
 free, — 
 
 All things but one. 
 
 In many a tender wheaten plot 
 
 Flowers that were dead 
 Live, and old suns revive ; but not 
 
 That holier head. 
 
 By this white wandering waste of sea, 
 
 Far north, I hear 
 One face shall never turn to me 
 
 As once this year ; 
 
 Shall never smile and turn and rest 
 
 On mine as there. 
 Nor one most sacred hand be pressed 
 
 Upon my hair. 
 
SWlNBUkNE 
 
 877 
 
 I came as one whose thoughts half lin- 
 ger, 
 
 Half run before ; 
 The yoj.ingest to the oldest singer 
 
 That England bore. 
 
 I found him whom I shall not find 
 
 Till all grief end. 
 In lioliest age our inightiest mind, 
 
 Father and friend. 
 
 But thou, if anything endure, 
 
 If hope there be, 
 O spirit tliat man's life left pure, 
 
 Man's death set free, 
 
 Not witli disdain of days that were 
 
 Look earthward now : 
 Let dreams revive the reverend hair. 
 
 The imperial brow ; 
 
 Come back in sleep, for in the life 
 
 W liere thou art not 
 We find none like thee. Time and 
 strife 
 
 And the world's lot 
 
 Move thee no more ; but love at least, 
 
 And reverent heart. 
 May move thee, royal and released 
 
 Soul, as thou art. 
 
 And thou, his Florence, to thy trust 
 
 Receive and keep, 
 Kee|) safe his dedicated dust. 
 
 His sacred sleep. 
 
 So shall thy lovers, come from far, 
 
 Mix with thy name 
 As morning-star with evening-star 
 
 His faultless fame. 1866. 
 
 THE GARDEN OF PROSERPINE 
 
 Here, where the world is quiet. 
 Here, where all trouble seems 
 Dead winds' and spent waves' riot 
 
 In doubtful dreams of dreams ; 
 I watch the green field growing 
 For reaping folk and sowing, 
 For liar vest time and mowing, 
 A sleepy world of streams. 
 
 I am tired of tears and laughter. 
 And men tliat laugli and weep 
 Of what may come hereafter 
 For men tliat sow to reap : 
 I am weary of days and hours, 
 Blown buds of barren flowei's. 
 Desires and dreams and powers 
 And everything but sleep. 
 
 Here life lias deatli for neighbor, 
 
 And far from ej'eor ear 
 Wan waves and wet winds labor, 
 
 Weak shii^s and spirits steer ; 
 They drive adrift, and whither 
 They wot not who make thither ; 
 But no such winds blow hither, 
 
 And no such things grow here. 
 
 No growth of moor or coppice, 
 
 No heatlier-flovver or vine, 
 But blooniless buds of poppies, 
 
 Green grapes of Proserpine, 
 Pale beds of blowing rushes 
 W^here no leaf blooms or blushes. 
 Save this whereout she crushes 
 
 For dead men deadly wine. 
 
 Pale, without name or number, 
 
 In fruitless fields of corn. 
 They bow themselves and slumber 
 
 AH niglit till light is born ; 
 And like a soul belated. 
 In hell and heaven unmated, 
 By cloud and mist abated 
 
 Comes out of darkness morn. 
 
 Thougli one were strong as seven, 
 He too with death shall dwell. 
 
 Nor wake with wings in heaven. 
 Nor weep for pains in hell ; 
 
 Though one were fair as roses, 
 
 His beauty clovids and closes ; 
 
 And well though love reposes, 
 In the end it is not well. 
 
 Pale, beyond porch and portal, 
 Crowned with calm leaves, she 
 
 stands 
 Who gathers all things mortal 
 
 With cold immortal hands ; 
 Her languid lips are sweeter 
 Than love's who fears to greet her 
 To men that mix and meet her 
 
 From many times and lands. 
 
 She waits for each and other, 
 Slie waits for all men born ; 
 Forgets the earth her motlier, 
 The life of fruits and corn ; 
 And spring and seed and swallow 
 Take wing for her and follow 
 AVhere summer song rings hollow 
 And flowers ai"e put to scorn. 
 
 There go the loves that wither. 
 The old loves with wearier wings ; 
 
 And all dead years draw tliitlier, 
 And all disastrous tilings ; 
 
 Dead dreams of days forsaken 
 
878 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Blind buds that snows have shaken, 
 Wild leaves that winds liave taken, 
 Red strays of ruined springs. 
 
 We are not sure of sorrow. 
 
 And jo}-^ was never sure ; 
 To-day will die to-morrow 
 
 Time stoops to no man's lure ; 
 And love, grown faint and fretful 
 With lips but half regretful 
 Sighs, and with eyes forgetful 
 
 Weeps that no loves endure. 
 
 From too much love of living, 
 From hope and fear set free, 
 
 We thank with brief thanksgiving 
 Whatever gods may be 
 
 Tiiat no life lives for ever ; 
 
 That dead men rise up never ; 
 
 That even the weariest river 
 Winds somewhere safe to sea. 
 
 Tlien star nor sun shall waken, 
 
 Nor any change of light : 
 Nor sound of waters shaken. 
 
 Nor any sound or sight : 
 Nor wintry leaves nor vernal. 
 Nor days nor tilings diurnal ; 
 Only the sleep eternal 
 
 In an eternal night. 1866. 
 
 LOVE AT SEA 
 
 We are in love's land to-day ; 
 
 Where shall we go ? 
 Love, shall we start or staj', 
 
 Or sail or row ? 
 There's many a wind and way, 
 And never a May but May ; 
 We are in love's hand to-day ; 
 
 Where shall we go ? 
 
 Our landwind is the breath 
 Of sorrows kissed to death 
 
 And joys that were : 
 Our ballast is a rose ; 
 Our way lies where God knows 
 
 And love knows where. 
 
 We are in love's hand to-day- 
 
 Our seamen are fledged Loves, 
 Our masts are bills of doves, 
 
 Our decks fine gold ; 
 Our ropes are dead maids' hair, 
 Our stores are love-shafts fair 
 
 And manifold. 
 
 We are in love's land to-day- 
 
 Where shall we land you, sweet? 
 On fields of strange men's feet, 
 
 Or fields near home ? 
 Or where the fire-flowers blow, 
 Or where the flowers of snow 
 
 Or flowei's of foam ? . 
 
 We are in love's hand to-day — 
 
 Land me, she says, where love 
 Shows but one shaft, one dove, 
 
 One heart, one hand. 
 — A shore like that, my dear, 
 Lies where no man will steer, 
 No maiden land. 
 
 Imitated from Theophile Gautier. 
 1866. 
 
 SAPPHICS 
 
 All the night sleep came not upon my 
 
 eyelids. 
 Shed not dew, nor shook nor unclosed a 
 
 feather. 
 Yet with lips shut close and with eyes of 
 
 iron 
 Stood and beheld me. 
 
 Then to me so lying awake a vision 
 Came without sleep over the seas and 
 
 touched me. 
 Softly touched mine eyelids and lips ; 
 
 and I too. 
 Full of the vision. 
 
 Saw the white implacable Aphrodite. 
 Sa%v the hair unbound, and tlie feet un- 
 
 sandalled 
 Shine as fire of sunset on western waters ; 
 Saw the reluctant 
 
 Feet, the straining plumes of the doves 
 that drew her. 
 
 Looking always, looking with necks re- 
 verted, 
 
 Back to Lesbos, back to the hills where- 
 under 
 Shone Mitylene ; 
 
 Heard the flying feet of the Loves be- 
 hind her 
 Make a sudden thunder upon the waters. 
 As the thunder flung from the strong 
 unclosing 
 Wings of a great wind. 
 
 So the goddess fled from her place, with 
 
 awful 
 Sound of feet and thunder of wings 
 
 around her ; 
 While behind a clamor of singing women 
 Severed the twilight. 
 
SWINBURNE 
 
 879 
 
 Ah the singing, ah the deliglit, the pas- 
 sion ! 
 
 All the Loves wept, listening ; sick with 
 anguish, 
 
 Stood the crowned nine Muses about 
 Apollo ; 
 Fear was upon them, 
 
 While the tenth sang wonderful things 
 
 they knew not. 
 Ah, the tenth, the Lesbian ! the nine 
 
 were silent, 
 None endured the sound of her song for 
 
 weeping ; 
 Laurel by laurel, 
 
 Faded all their crowns ; but about her 
 
 forehead, 
 Round her woven tresses and ashen 
 
 temples 
 White as dead snow, paler than grass in 
 
 summer. 
 Ravaged with kisses, 
 
 Shone a light of fire as a crown for ever. 
 Yea, almost the implacable Aphrodite 
 Paused, and almost wept ; such a song 
 was that song ; 
 Yea, by her name too 
 
 Called her, saying, "Turn to me, O my 
 Sappho ; " 
 
 Yet she turned her face from tlie Loves, 
 she saw not 
 
 Tears or laughter darken immortal eye- 
 lids. 
 Heard not about her 
 
 Fearful fitful wings of the doves depart- 
 ing, 
 Saw not liow the bosom of Aphrodite 
 Shook with weeping, saw not her shaken 
 raiment, 
 Saw not her liands wrung ; 
 
 Saw the Lesbians kissing across their 
 
 smitten 
 Lutes with lips more sweet than tlie 
 
 sound of lute-strings. 
 Mouth to mouth and hand upon hand, 
 
 her chosen. 
 Fairer than all men ; 
 
 Only saw the beautiful lips and fingers. 
 Full of songs and kisses and little whis- 
 pers. 
 Full of music ; only beheld among tliem 
 Soar, as a bird soars 
 
 Newly fledged, her visible song, a mar- 
 vel. 
 
 Made of perfect sound and exceeding 
 passion. 
 
 Sweetly shapen, terrible, full of thun- 
 ders. 
 Clothed with the wind's wings. 
 
 Then rejoiced she, laughing witli love, 
 
 and scattered 
 Roses, awful roses of Iioly blossom ; 
 Then the Loves thronged sadly with 
 
 hidden faces 
 Round Aphrodite, 
 
 Then the Muses, stricken at heart, were 
 
 silent ; 
 Yea, the gods waxed pale ; such a song 
 
 was that song. 
 All reluctant, all with a fresh repulsion. 
 Fled from before her. 
 
 All withdrew long since, and the land 
 was barren. 
 
 Full of fruitless women and music only. 
 
 Now perchance, when winds are as- 
 suaged at sunset, 
 Lulled at the dewfall. 
 
 By the gray sea-side, unassuaged, un- 
 heard of, 
 
 Unbeloved, unseen in the ebb of twi- 
 light. 
 
 Ghosts of outcast women return lament- 
 ing. 
 Purged not in Lethe, 
 
 Clotlied about with flame and with tears, 
 
 and singing 
 Songs that move the heart of the shaken 
 
 heaven. 
 Songs that break the heart of the earth 
 
 with pity. 
 Hearing, to hear them. 1866, 
 
 DEDICATION 
 
 [Poems and Ballads, First Series] 
 
 The sea gives her shells to the sliingle, 
 
 The eartli gives her streams to tlie sea ; 
 There are many, but my gift is single. 
 
 My verses, the first-fruits of me. 
 Let the wind take the green and the gray 
 leaf 
 
 Cast forth without fruit upon air ; 
 Take rose-leaf and vine-leaf and bay- 
 leaf 
 
 Blown loose from the hair. 
 
BRITISH POETS 
 
 The night shakes them round me in 
 legions, 
 Dawn drives them before her like 
 dreams ; 
 Time sheds them like snows on strange 
 regions, 
 Swept shoreward on infinite streams ; 
 Leaves pallid and sombre and ruddj'. 
 
 Dead fruits of tlie fugitive years ; 
 Some stained as witli wine and made 
 bloody. 
 And some as with tears. 
 
 Some scattered in seven years' traces, 
 
 As tliey fell from the boy that was 
 then ; 
 Long left among idle green places. 
 
 Or gatliered but now among men ; 
 Oil seas full of wonder and jjeril, 
 
 Blown white round the capes of tlie 
 north ; 
 Or in islands where myrtles are sterile 
 
 And loves bring not forth. 
 
 O daughters of dreams and of stories 
 
 Tliat life is not wearied of yet, 
 Faustine, Fragoletta, Dolores. 
 
 Feiise and Yolande and Juliette, 
 Shall I find you not still, shall I miss 
 you. 
 
 When sleep, that is true or that seems, 
 Comes bacdv to me hopeless to kiss you, 
 
 O daughters of dreams ? 
 
 Thej are past as a slumber that passes. 
 
 As the dew of a dawn of old time ; 
 More frail than the shadows on glasses, 
 
 More fleet than a wave or a rhyme. 
 As tlie waves after ebb drawing sea- 
 ward, 
 Wiien their hollows are full of the 
 night. 
 So the birds that flew singing to me- 
 ward 
 Recede out of sight. 
 
 The songs of dead seasons, that wander 
 
 On wings of articulate words ; 
 Lost leaves that tlie shore-wind may 
 squander, 
 
 Light flocks of untameable birds ; 
 Some sang to me dreaming in class time 
 
 And truant in hand as in tongue ; 
 For the youngest were born of boy's pas- 
 time. 
 
 The eldest are young. 
 
 Is there shelter while life in them 
 lingers. 
 Is there hearing for songs that recede, 
 
 Tunes touclied from a harp with men's 
 fingers, 
 Or blown with boy's mouth in a reed? 
 Is there place in the land of yovir labor, 
 Is there room in your world of de- 
 light. 
 Where change has not sorrow for neigh- 
 bor 
 And day has not night ? 
 
 In their wings though the sea-wind 
 yet quivers. 
 
 Will you spare not a space for them 
 tliere 
 Made green with the running of rivers 
 
 And gracious with temperate air ; 
 In the fields and the turreted cities 
 
 That cover from sunshine and rain 
 Fair passions and bountiful pities 
 
 And loves without stain ? 
 
 In a land of clear colors and stories, 
 
 In a region of shadowless hours, 
 Where eartli has a garment of glories 
 
 And a murmur of musical flowers ; 
 In woods where the spring half un- 
 covers 
 
 The flusli of her amorous face. 
 By the %vaters tliat listen for lovers, 
 
 For these is there place ? 
 
 For the song-birds of sorrow, that 
 muftie 
 Tiieir music as clouds do their fii-e : 
 For the storm-birds of passion, that 
 ruffle 
 Wild wings in a wind of desire ; 
 In the stream of the storm as it settles 
 Blown seaward, borne far from the 
 sun, 
 Shaken loose on the darkness like petals 
 Dropped one after one ? 
 
 Though the world of your hands be more 
 gracious 
 And lovelier in lordship of things 
 Clothed round by sweet art with the 
 spacious 
 Warm heaven of her imminent wings, 
 Let them enter, unfledged and nigh 
 fainting. 
 For the love of old loves and lost 
 times ; 
 And receive in your palace of painting 
 This revel of rhymes. 
 
 Though the seasons of man full of losses 
 Make empty tiie years full of youth, 
 
 If but one tiling be constant in crosses. 
 Change lays not her hand upon truth; 
 
SWINBURNE 
 
 88 1 
 
 Hopes die, and their tombs are for token 
 Tliat the grief as tlie joy of them ends 
 
 Ere time tluit breaks all men has broken 
 The faith between friends. 
 
 Though the many lights dwindle to one 
 light, 
 There is help if the heaven has one ; 
 Though the skies be discrowned of the 
 sunlight 
 And the earth dispossessed of the sun. 
 They have moonlight and sleep for re- 
 payment. 
 When, refreshed as a bride and set 
 free, 
 With stars and sea-winds in her raiment, 
 Night sinks on the sea. 1866. 
 
 AX APPEAL 
 
 Art thou indeed among these, 
 Thou of the tyrannous crew, 
 The kingdoms fed upon blood, 
 O queen from of old of the seas, 
 England, art thou of them too 
 Tliat drink of the poisonous flood. 
 That hide under poisonous trees? 
 
 Nay, thy name from of old. 
 Mother, was pure, or we dreamed ; 
 Purer we held thee than this, 
 Purer fain would we hold ; 
 So goodly a glory it seemed, 
 A fame so bounteous of bliss, 
 So more precious than gold. 
 
 A praise so sweet in our ears, 
 
 That thou in the tempest of things 
 
 As a rock for a refuge shouldst stand, 
 
 In the blood-red river of tears 
 
 Poured foi-th for the triumph of kings ; 
 
 A safeguard, a sheltering land, 
 
 In the thunder and torrent of years. 
 
 Strangers came gladly to thee, 
 
 Exiles, chosen of men. 
 
 Safe for thy sake in thy shade, 
 
 Sat down at th}^ feet and were free. 
 
 So men spake of thee then ; 
 
 Now shall their speaking be stayed ? 
 
 Ah, so let it not be ! 
 
 Not for revenge or affright, 
 
 Pride, or a tyrannous lust. 
 
 Cast from thee the crown of thy praise. 
 
 Jlercy was thine in thy miglit ; 
 
 Strong when thou wert, thou wert just : 
 
 Now, in the wrong-doing daj^s, 
 
 Cleave thou, thou at least, to the I'ight. 
 
 56 
 
 How should one charge thee, how 
 
 sway, 
 Save by the memories that were ? 
 Not thy gold nor the strength of thy 
 
 ships, 
 Nor the might of thine armies at bay, 
 Made tliee, mother, most fair ; 
 But a word from republican lips 
 Said in thy name in thy day. 
 
 Hast thou said it, and hast thou forgot ? 
 Is thy praise in thine ears as a scoff? 
 Blood of men guiltless was shed. 
 Children, and souls without spot, 
 Shed, but in places far off ; 
 Let slaughter no more be, said 
 Milton ; and slaughter was not. 
 
 Was it not said of thee too. 
 
 Now, but now, by thy foes, 
 
 By the slaves that had slain their France 
 
 And thee would slay as they slew — 
 
 " Down with her walls that enclose 
 
 Freemen that eye us askance. 
 
 Fugitives, men that are true ! " 
 
 This was thy praise or thy blame 
 From bondsman or freeman — to be 
 Pure from pollution of slaves, 
 Clean of their sins, and thy name 
 Bloodless, innocent, free ; 
 Now if thou be not, thy waves 
 Wash not from off thee thy shame. 
 
 Freeman he is not, but slave, 
 Whoso in fear for the State 
 Cries for surety of blood. 
 Help of gibbet and grave ; 
 Neither is any land great 
 Whom, in her fear-stricken mood. 
 These things only can save. 
 
 Lo ! how fair from afar, 
 Taintless of tj-ramiy* stands 
 Thy mighty daughter, for years 
 Who trod the winepress of war, — 
 Shines with immaculate hands; 
 Slays not a foe, neither fears ; 
 Stains not peace with a scar. 
 
 Be not as tyrant or slave, 
 England ; be not as these, 
 Tiiou tliat wert other than they. 
 Stretch out thine hand, but to save ; 
 Put forth thy sti'ength, and release : 
 Lest there arise, if thou slay. 
 Thy shame as a ghost from the grave. 
 November, 1867. 
 
882 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 HERTHA 
 
 I AM that which begnii ; 
 
 Out of me the years roll ; 
 Out of me God and man ; 
 I am equal and Wliole ; 
 God changes, and man, and the form of 
 them bodily ; I am the soul. 
 
 Before ever land was, 
 Before ever the sea, 
 Or soft liair of the grass, 
 Or fair limbs of the tree, 
 Or the fiesli-colored fruit of my brandies, 
 I was, and thy soul was in me. 
 
 First life on my sources 
 
 First drifted and swam ; 
 Out of me are the forces 
 That save it or damn ; 
 Out of me man and woman, and wild- 
 beast and bird ; before God was, I 
 am. 
 
 Beside or above me 
 
 Nought is there to go ; 
 Love or unlove me, 
 Unknow me or know, 
 I am that whicli unloves me and loves ; 
 I am stricken, and I am the blow. 
 
 I the mark that is missed 
 
 And the arrows that miss, 
 I the mouth that is kissed 
 And the breath in the kiss, 
 The search, and the sought, and the 
 seeker, the soul and the body that is. 
 
 I am that thing which blesses 
 
 My spirit elate : 
 That which caresses 
 With hands uncreate 
 My limbs unbegotten that measure the 
 lengtli of the measure of fate. 
 
 But what thirtg dost thou now, 
 
 Looking Godward, to cry 
 " I am I, thou art thou, 
 I am low, thou art high ? " 
 I am thou, whom thou seekest to find 
 him ; find thou but thyself, tliou 
 art I. 
 
 I the grain and the furrow. 
 
 The plough-cloven clod 
 And the ploughshai-e drawn 
 thorough. 
 The eerm and the sod, 
 The deed and the doer, the seed and the 
 sower, the dust wliich is God. 
 
 Hast thou known how I fashioned 
 thee, 
 Child, underground ? 
 Fire that impassioned thee, 
 Iron that bound. 
 Dim changes of water, what thing of all 
 these hast thou known of or found ? 
 
 Canst thou say in thine heart 
 
 Thou has seen with thine eyes 
 With what cunning of art 
 
 Thou wast wrougVit in what 
 wise. 
 By what force of what stuff thou wast 
 shapen, and shown on my breast to 
 the skies ? 
 
 Who hath given, who hath sold it 
 thee. 
 Knowledge of me ? 
 Hath the wilderness told it thee ? 
 Hast thou learnt of the sea? 
 Hast thou communed in spirit with 
 niglit ? have the winds taken coun- 
 sel with thee ? 
 
 Have I set such a star 
 
 To show light on thy brow 
 That tliou sawest from afar 
 What I show to thee now ? 
 Have ye spoken as brethren together, 
 the sun and the mountains and thou ? 
 
 What is here, dost thou know it ? 
 
 What was, hast thou known V 
 Pi'ophet nor poet 
 
 Nor tripod nor tlirone 
 Nor spirit nor flesh can make answer, 
 but only thy mother alone. 
 
 Mother not maker, 
 
 Born, and not made ; 
 Though her children forsake her, 
 Allured or afraid. 
 Praying prayers to the God of their 
 fashion, she stirs not for all that 
 liave prayed. 
 
 A creed is a rod. 
 
 And a crown is of niglit ; 
 But this thing is God, 
 To be man with thy might. 
 To grow straight in the strength of thy 
 spirit, and live out thy life as the 
 light. 
 
 I am in thee to save thee, 
 As my soul in thee saith, 
 
 Give thou as I gave thee. 
 Thy life-blood and breath, 
 
SWINBURNE 
 
 8Ss 
 
 (Jreeii leaves of tliy labor, wliite flowers 
 of tliy thought, and red fruit of thy 
 death. 
 
 Be tlie waj's of thy giving 
 
 As mine were to thee ; 
 The free life of thy living, 
 Be the gift of it free ; 
 Not as servant to lord, nor as master to 
 slave, slialt thou give thee to me. 
 
 children of banishment, 
 Souls overcast. 
 
 Were the lights ye see vanish 
 meant 
 Alway to last, 
 Ye would know not the sun overshining 
 the shadows and stars overpast. 
 
 1 that saw where ye trod 
 The dim paths of the night 
 
 Set tlie shadow called God 
 In your skies to give light ; 
 But the morning of manhood is risen, and 
 the shadowless soul is in sight. 
 
 The tree many-rooted 
 
 That swells to the sky 
 With frondage red-fruited. 
 The life-tree am I ; 
 In the buds of j-our lives is the sap of my 
 leaves : ye shall live and not die. 
 
 But tlie Gods of your fashion 
 
 That take and tliat give. 
 In their pity and passion 
 That scourge and forgive, 
 They are worms that are bred in the 
 bark that falls off : they shall die 
 and not live. 
 
 My own blood is what stanches 
 
 The wounds in my bark : 
 Stars caught in my branches 
 Make day of the dark. 
 And are worshipped as suns till the sun- 
 rise shall tread out their fires as a 
 spark. 
 
 Where dead ages hide under 
 
 The live roots of the tree, 
 
 In my darkness the thunder 
 
 M;ikes utterance of me ; 
 
 In the clash of my boughs with each 
 
 other ye hear the waves sound of 
 
 the sea. 
 
 That noise is of Time, 
 
 As his feathers are spread 
 And his feet set to cliznb 
 
 Through the boughs (overhead, 
 And my foliage rings round him and 
 rustles, and branches are bent with 
 his tread. 
 
 The storm-winds of ages 
 
 Blow through me and cease, 
 The war-wind tluit rages, 
 The spring-wind of peace. 
 Ere the breath of them roughen my 
 tresses, ere one of my blossoms in- 
 crease. 
 
 All sounds of all changes. 
 All shadows and ligiits 
 On the world's mountain -ranges 
 And stream-riven heights, 
 Whose tongue is the wind's tongue and 
 language of storm-clouds on earth- 
 shaking nights ; 
 
 All forms of all faces. 
 
 All works of all hands 
 In unsearchable places 
 Of time-stricken lands, 
 All death and all life, and all reigns and 
 all ruins, drop through me as sands. 
 
 Though sore be my burden 
 And more than ye know. 
 And my growth have no guerdon 
 But only to grow. 
 Yet I fail not of growing for lightnings 
 above me or death worms below. 
 
 These too have their part in me. 
 
 As I too in these ; 
 Such fii-e is at heart in me, 
 Such sap is this tree's. 
 Which hath in it all sounds and all 
 secrets of infinite lands and of seas. 
 
 In the spring-colored hours 
 
 When my mind was as May's, 
 There brake forth of me flowers 
 By centuries of days, 
 Strong blossoms with perfume of man- 
 hood, shot out from my spirit as rays. 
 
 And the sound of them springing 
 
 And smell of their shoots 
 Were as warmth and sweet singing 
 A nd strength to my roots ; 
 And the lives of my children made per- 
 fect with freedom of soul were my 
 fruits. 
 
 I Ijid you but be ; 
 
 I have need not of prayer ; 
 I have need of you free 
 
884 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 As your mouths of miue air ; 
 That mj^ heart may be greater within 
 me, beholding the fruits of me fair. 
 
 More fair than strange fruit is 
 
 Of faitli ye espouse ; 
 In me only tlie root is 
 
 That blooms in your boughs ; 
 Behold now your God that ye made yau, 
 to feed liim with faith of your vows. 
 
 In the darkening and whiterting 
 
 Abysses ador"d, 
 With dayspring and lightning 
 For lamp and for sword, 
 God thunders in heaven, and his angels 
 are red with the wrath of the Lord. 
 
 O my sons, O too dutiful 
 
 Toward Gods not of me. 
 
 I Was not I enough beautiful ? 
 
 Was it hard to be free ? 
 
 For behold, I am wnth you, am in j^ou 
 
 and of you ; look forth now and see. 
 
 Lo, wing'd with world's wonders. 
 
 With miracles shod. 
 With the fires of liis tliunders 
 For raiment and rod, 
 God trembles in heaven, and his angels 
 are white with the terror of God. 
 
 For his twilight is come on him. 
 
 His anguish is here ; 
 And his spirits gaze dumb on him, 
 Grown gray from his fear ; 
 And his hour taketh hold on him 
 stricken, the last of his infinite year. 
 
 Thought made him and breaks 
 liim. 
 Truth slays and forgives ; 
 But to you, as time takes him, 
 Tliis new thing it gives, 
 Even love, the beloved Republic, that 
 feeds upon freedom and lives. 
 
 For truth only is living, 
 
 Truth only is whole, 
 And the love of his giving 
 Man's polestar and pole ; 
 Man, pulse of my centre, and fruit of 
 my body, and seed of my soul. 
 
 One birth of my bosom ; 
 
 One beam of mine eye ; 
 One topmost blossom 
 That scales tlie sky ; 
 Man, equiil and one with me, man that 
 is made of me, man tliat is I. 1871. 
 
 THE PILCiRlMS 
 
 " Who is your lady of love, O ye that 
 
 pass 
 Singing? and is it for sorrow of that 
 which was 
 Tliat ve .sing sadlv, or dream of wliat 
 ■shall be ? 
 For gladly at once and sadly it seems 
 ye sing."' 
 — "Our lady of love by you is uiibe- 
 
 holden 
 For hands slie hath none, nor eyes, nor 
 lips, nor golden 
 Treasure of hair, nor face nor form ; 
 But we 
 That love, we know her more fair 
 than any thing.'" 
 
 — " Is she a queen, having great gifts to 
 
 give ? " 
 — "Yea, these: that whoso hatli seen 
 her shall not live 
 Except lie serve her sorrowing, with 
 strange pain. 
 Travail and bloodshedding and bit- 
 terer tears ; 
 And when she bids die he shall surely 
 
 die. 
 And he sliall leave all tilings under tiie 
 sky. 
 And go forth naked under siui and 
 rain, 
 And work and wait and watch out 
 all his years." 
 
 — " Hath slie on earth no place of habi- 
 tation ? " 
 — " Age to age calling, nation answer- 
 ing nation. 
 Cries out. Where is she ? and there is 
 none to say ; 
 For if she be not in the spirit of men. 
 For if ill tlie inward soul she hath no 
 
 place. 
 In vain they cry unto her, seeking her 
 face. 
 In vain tlieir mouths make much of 
 her : for they 
 Cry with vain tongues, till the heart 
 lives again." 
 
 — "O ye tliat follow, and have ye no 
 
 repentance ? 
 For on your brows is- written a mortal 
 sentence. 
 An hieroglyph of sorrow, a fiery sign, 
 That in your lives ye shall not pause 
 or rest. 
 
SWINBURNE 
 
 885 
 
 Nor have the sure sweet common love, 
 
 nor keep 
 Friends and safe days, nor joy of life 
 nor sleep."' 
 — " These liave we not, who have one 
 thing, the divine 
 Face and clear eyes of faith and 
 fruitful breast." 
 
 — " And ye shall die before your thrones 
 
 be woU" 
 — " Yea, and the changed Avorld and tlie 
 liberal sun 
 Shall move and shine without us, and 
 we lie 
 Dead ; but if she too move on eartli, 
 and live. 
 But if the old world with all the old 
 
 irons rent 
 Laugh and give thanks, shall we be not 
 content ? 
 Nay, we shall rather live, we shall not 
 die, 
 Life being so little, and death so 
 good to give." 
 
 — " And these men shall forget J^ou." — 
 
 " Yea. but we 
 Shall be a part of the earth and the an- 
 cient sea. 
 And heaven-high air august, and aw- 
 ful fire, 
 And all things good ; and no man's 
 heart shall beat 
 But somewhat in it of our blood once 
 
 shed 
 Shall quiver and quicken, as now in us 
 the dead 
 Blood of men slain and the old same 
 life's desire 
 Plants in their fiery footprints our 
 fresh feet." 
 
 — " But ye that might be clothed with 
 
 all tilings pleasant. 
 Ye are foolish that put off the fair soft 
 present, 
 That clothe j^ourselves with the cold 
 future air : 
 When mother and father and ten- 
 der sister and brother 
 And the old live love that was shall be 
 
 as ye. 
 Dust, and no fruit of loving life shall 
 be." 
 — " She shall be yet who is more than 
 all these were. 
 Than sister or wife or father unto us 
 or mother." 
 
 — '• Is this worth life, is this, to win for 
 
 wages ? 
 Lo, the dead moutlis of the awful gray- 
 grown ages. 
 The venerable, in the past that is their 
 prison. 
 In the outer darkness, in the un- 
 opening grave. 
 Laugh, knowing how many as ye now 
 
 say have said, 
 How many, and all are fallen, are fallen 
 and dead : 
 Shall ye dead rise, and these dead have 
 not risen ? " 
 — '• Not we but she, who is tender, 
 and swift to save." 
 
 — "Are ye not;, weary and faint not by 
 
 the way', 
 Seeing night by night devoured of day 
 by day, 
 Seeing hour by hour consumed in sleep- 
 le-;s fire ? 
 Sleepless ; and ye too, when shall ye 
 loo sleep?" 
 — " We are weary in heart and head, in 
 
 1 lands and feet. 
 And surely more than all things sleep 
 were sweet, — 
 Than all things save the inexorable 
 desire 
 Which wlioso knoweth shall neither 
 faint nor weep." 
 
 — " Is this so sweet that one were fain 
 
 to follow ? 
 Is this so sure where all men's hopes are 
 hollow, 
 Even this your dream, that by much 
 tribulation 
 Ye shall make whole flawed hearts, 
 and bowed necks straight?" 
 — " Nay, though our life were blind, our 
 
 death were fruitless, 
 Not therefore were the whole world's 
 high liope rootless ; 
 But man to man, nation would turn to 
 nation , 
 And the old life live, and the old 
 great word be great." 
 
 — " Pass on, then, and pass by us, and 
 
 let us be. 
 For what light think ye after life to 
 see ? 
 And if the world fare better will ye 
 know ? 
 And if man triumpli who shall seek 
 you and say ? " 
 
886 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 — " Enough of light is this for one life's 
 
 span. 
 That all men born are mortal, but not 
 man ; 
 And we men bring death lives by 
 night to sow, 
 That men may reap and eat and 
 live by day." 1871. 
 
 TO WALT WHITMAN IN AMERICA 
 
 Send but a song oversea for us. 
 Heart of their hearts who are free, 
 
 Heart of tlieir singer, to be for us 
 More than our singing can be ; 
 
 Ours, in the tempest at error. 
 
 With no light but tlie twilight of terror ; 
 Send us a song oversea ! 
 
 Sweet-smelling of pine leaves and 
 grasses, 
 And blown as a tree through and 
 through 
 With tlie winds of the keen mountain- 
 passes, 
 And tender as sun-smitten dew ; 
 Sharp-tongued as the winter that shakes 
 The wastes of your limitless lakes, 
 Wide-eyed as the sea-line's blue. 
 
 O strong-winged soul with prophetic 
 Lips hot with the bloodbeats of song, 
 
 AVith tremor of lieartstrings magnetic. 
 With thoughts as thimders in throng. 
 
 With consonant ardors of chords 
 
 That pierce men's souls as witii swords 
 And hale them hearing along. 
 
 Make us, too. music, to be with us 
 
 As a word from a world's heart warm. 
 
 To sail tlie dark as a sea with us, 
 Full-sailed, outsingiiig the storm, 
 
 A song to put fire in our ears 
 
 Whose burning sliall burn up tears, 
 Whose sign bid battle reform ; 
 
 A note in the ranks of a clarioji, 
 A word in tlie wind of cheer. 
 
 To consume as with lightning the carrion 
 That makes time foul for us here ; 
 
 In the air that our dead things infest 
 
 A blast of the breath of the west, 
 Till east way as west way is clear. 
 
 Out of the sun beyond sunset, 
 
 From the evening wlience morning 
 sliall be, 
 AVith the rollers in measureless onset, 
 
 With the van of the storming sea, 
 
 AVith the world-wide wind, with the 
 
 breath 
 That breaks ships driven upon death, 
 With the passion of all things free, 
 
 With the sea-steeds footless and frantic, 
 White myriads for death to bestride 
 
 In the charge of the ruining Atlantic 
 Where deaths by regiments ride, 
 
 With clouds and clamors of waters, 
 
 AVith a long note shriller th« slaughter's 
 On the furrowless fields world-wide, 
 
 AVith terror, witli ardor and wonder, 
 With the soul of the season that wakes 
 
 AVhen the weight of a whole year's 
 thunder 
 In the tidestream of autumn breaks. 
 
 Let the flight of the wide- winged word 
 
 Come over, come in and be heard. 
 Take form and fire for our sakes. 
 
 For a continent bloodless with travail 
 Here toils and brawls as it can, 
 
 And the web of it who shall unravel 
 Of all that peer on the plan ; 
 
 Would fain grow men, but they grow- 
 not. 
 
 And fain be free, but they know not 
 One name for freedom and man ? 
 
 One name, not twain for division ; 
 
 One thing, not twain, from the birth ; 
 Spirit and substunce and vision, 
 
 W'orth more than worslii}} is worth ; 
 Unbeheld, unadored, undivined. 
 The cause, the centre, the mind. 
 
 The secret and sense of the earth. 
 
 Here as a weakling in irons. 
 
 Here as a weanling in bands 
 As a prey tliat the stake-net environs, 
 
 Our life that we looked for stands ; 
 And the man-child naked and dear, 
 Democrac;y. turns on us here 
 
 Eyes trembling, with tremulous hands. 
 
 It sees not what season shall bring to it 
 Sweet fruit of its bitter desire ; 
 
 Few voices it hears yet sing to it, 
 Few pulses of hearts reasjiire : 
 
 Foresees not time, nor forebears 
 
 The noises of imminent years. 
 Earthquake, and thunder, and fire : 
 
 AVhen crowned and weaponed and curb- 
 less 
 It shall walk without helm or shield 
 The bare burnt furrows and herbless 
 
SWINBURNE 
 
 887 
 
 Of war's last flame-stricken field, 
 Till godlike, equal with time. 
 It stand in the sun sublime, • 
 
 In the godhead of man revealed. 
 
 Round your people and over them 
 Light like raiment is drawn. 
 
 Close as a garment to cover them 
 Wrought not of mail nor of lawn : 
 
 Here, with hope hardly to wear, 
 
 Naked nations' and bare 
 Swim, sink, strike out for the dawn. 
 
 Chains ai'e here, and a prison. 
 Kings, and siibjects, and sliame : 
 
 If the God upon j^ou be arisen. 
 How should our songs be the same ? 
 
 How in confusion of change. 
 
 How shall we sing, in a strange 
 Land songs praising his name ? 
 
 God is buried and dead to us. 
 
 Even the spirit of earth. 
 Freedom : so have they said to us. 
 
 Some with mocking and mii'th. 
 Some with heartbreak and tears : 
 And a God without ej'es, without ears. 
 
 Who shall sing of him, dead in the 
 birth? 
 
 The earth-god Freedom, the lonely 
 Face lightening, the footprint unshod. 
 
 Not as one man crucified only 
 
 Nor scourged with but one life's rod : 
 
 The soul that is substance of nations, 
 
 Reincarnate with fresh generations ; 
 The great god Man, which is God. 
 
 But in weariest of years and obscurest 
 Doth it live not at heart of all things 
 
 The one God and one spii'it, a purest 
 Life, fed from unstanchable springs V 
 
 Within love, within hatred it is. 
 
 And its seed in the stripe as the kiss. 
 And in slaves is the germ, and in 
 kings. 
 
 Freedom we call it, for holier 
 Name of the soul's there is none ; 
 
 Surelier it labors, if slowlier, 
 Than the metres of star or of sun ; 
 
 Slowlier than life unto breath, 
 
 Surelier than time unto death, 
 It moves till its labor be done. 
 
 Till the motion be done and the measure 
 Circling through season and clime, 
 
 Slumber and sorrow and pleasure. 
 Vision of virtue and crime ; 
 
 Till consummate with conquering eyes. 
 
 A soul disembodied, it rise 
 From the body transfigured of time. 
 
 Till it rise and remain and take station 
 With the stars of the world that re- 
 joice ; 
 
 Till the voice of its heart's exultation 
 Be as theirs an invariable voice, 
 
 By no discord of evil estranged. 
 
 By no pause, by no breach in it changed. 
 By no clash in the chord of its choice. 
 
 It is one with the world's generations, 
 
 With the spirit, the star, and the sod : 
 
 With the kingless and king-stricken 
 
 nations. 
 
 With the cross, and the chain, and 
 
 the rod ; 
 
 Tlie most high, the most secret, most 
 
 lonely, 
 Tlie earth-soul Freedom, that only 
 Lives, and that only is God. 1871. 
 
 FROM MATER TRIUMPHALIS 
 
 [to liberty] 
 
 I am thine harp between thine hands, 
 O mother ! 
 All my strong chords are strained 
 with love of thee. 
 We grapple in love and wrestle, as each 
 with other 
 Wrestle the wind and the unreluctant 
 sea. 
 
 I am no courtier of thee sober-suited. 
 
 Who loves a little for a little pay. 
 Me not thy winds and storms, nor 
 thrones disrooted. 
 Nor molten crowns, nor thine own 
 sins, dismay. 
 
 Sinned hast thovi sometime, therefore 
 art thou sinless : 
 Stained hast thou been, who art there- 
 fore without stall) ; 
 Even as man's soul is kin to thee, but 
 kinless 
 Tiu)u, in whose womb Time sows the 
 all-various grain. 
 
 I do not bid thee spare me, O dreadful 
 mother ! 
 I pray thee that thou spare not, of thy 
 grace. 
 How were it with me then, if ever 
 another 
 Should come to stand before thee in 
 this my place ? 
 
888 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Jam the trumpet at thy lips, thy claru)n, 
 Full of thy cry, sonorous with thy 
 breath ; 
 Tlie graves of souls born worms, and 
 creeds grown carrion 
 Thy blast of judgment fills with fires 
 of death. 
 
 Thou art the player whose organ-keys 
 are thunders. 
 And I. beneath thy foot, the pedal 
 pressed ; 
 Thou art the ray wliereat tlie rent night 
 sunders, 
 And I the cloudlet borne upon thy 
 breast. 
 
 I shall burn up before thee, pass and 
 perish, 
 As haze in sunrise on the red sea-line ; 
 But thou from dawn to sunsetting slialt 
 cherish 
 The thoughts that led and souls that 
 lighted mine. 
 
 Reared between night and noon and 
 truth and error. 
 Each twilight-travelling bird that 
 trills and soi'eams 
 Sickens at midday, nor can face for 
 terror 
 The imperious heaven's inevitable 
 extremes. 
 
 I have no spirit of skill witli equal 
 fingers 
 At sign to sharpen or to slacken 
 strings ; 
 I keep no time of song with gold-perched 
 singers 
 And chirp of linnets on the wrists of 
 kings. 
 
 I am thy storm-thrush of the days that 
 darken, 
 Thy petrel in the foam that beai'S thy 
 bark 
 To port through night and tempest : if 
 thou hearken, 
 My voice is in thy lieaven before the 
 lark. 
 
 My song is in the mist that hides thy 
 morning. 
 My cry is up before the day for thee ; 
 I have heard thee and beheld thee and 
 give warnhig. 
 Before thy wheels divide the sky and 
 sea. 
 
 Birds shall wake with thee voiced and 
 feathered fairer, 
 •To see in summer what I see in spring ; 
 I have eyes and heart to endure thee, 
 O thunder-bearer. 
 And tliey shall be who shall have 
 tongues to sing. 
 
 I have love at least, and have not fear, 
 and part not 
 From thine unnavigable and wingless 
 way ; 
 Thou tarriest, and I have not said thou 
 art not. 
 Nor all thy night long have denied thy 
 day. 
 
 Darkness to daylight shall lift up thy 
 pgean, 
 Hill to hill thunder, vale cry back to 
 vale. 
 With wind-notes as of eagles ^schy- 
 lean. 
 And Sappho singing in the nightin- 
 gale. 
 
 Sung to bj' mighty sons of dawn and 
 daughters. 
 Of this night's songs thine ear shall 
 keep but one. — 
 That supreme song which shook the 
 channelled Avaters, 
 And called tliee skj'ward as God calls 
 the sun. 
 
 Come, though all heaven again be fire 
 above thee ; 
 Though death before thee come to 
 clear thy sky ; 
 Let us but see in his thy face who love 
 thee ; 
 Yea, though thou slay us, arise, and 
 let us die. 1871. 
 
 COR CORDIUM 
 
 [Shelley] 
 
 O HEART of hearts, the chalice of love's 
 
 fire. 
 Hid round with flowers and all the 
 
 bounty of bloom ; 
 O wonderful and perfect heart, for whom 
 The lyrist liberty made life a lyre ; 
 O heavenly heart, at whose most dear 
 
 desire 
 Dead love, living and singing, cleft his 
 
 tomb. 
 
SWINBURNE 
 
 889 
 
 And with him risen and regent in death's 
 room 
 
 All day thy choral pulses rang full choir ; 
 
 O heart whose beating blood was run- 
 ning song, 
 
 O s»le thing sweeter than thine own 
 songs were, 
 
 Help us for tliy free love's sake to be 
 free, 
 
 True for thy truth's sake, for thy 
 strength's sake strong, 
 
 Till veiy liberty make clean and fair 
 
 The nursing earth as the sepulchral sea. 
 
 1871. 
 
 "NON DOLET." 
 
 It does not hurt. She looked along the 
 knife 
 
 Smiling, and watched the thick drops 
 mix and run 
 
 Down the sheer blade ; not that which 
 had been done 
 
 Could hurt the sweet sense of the Roman 
 wife, 
 
 But that which was to do yet ere the 
 strife 
 
 Could end for each forever, and tiie sun : 
 
 Nor was tlie palm yet nor was peace j'et 
 won 
 
 While pain had power upon her hus- 
 band's life. 
 
 It does not hurt, Italia. Thou art more 
 
 Than bride to bridegroom ; how shalt 
 thou not take 
 
 The gift love's blood has reddened for 
 thy sake ? 
 
 Was not thy lifeblood given for us be- 
 fore ? 
 
 And if love's heartblood can avail thy 
 need, 
 
 And thou not die, how should it hurt 
 indeed? 1871. 
 
 THE OBLATION 
 
 Ask nothing more of me. sweet, 
 All I can give you I give. 
 Heart of my heart, were it more, 
 More would be laid at your feet : 
 Love that should lielp you to live. 
 Song that should spur you to soar. 
 
 All things were nothing to give 
 Once to liave sense of you more. 
 Touch you and taste of you, sweet. 
 Think you and breathe you and live, 
 Swept of your wings as they soar. 
 Trodden by cliance of your feet. 
 
 I that have love and no more 
 Give you but love of you, sweet : 
 He that hath more, let him give ; 
 He that hath wings, let him soar ; 
 Mine is the heart at your feet 
 Here, that must love you to live. 
 
 1871. 
 
 A FORSAKEN GARDEN 
 
 In a coign of the cliff between lowland 
 and highland. 
 At the sea-down's edge between wind- 
 ward and lee. 
 Walled round with rocks as an inland 
 island. 
 The ghost of a garden fronts the sea. 
 A girdle of brushwood and thorn en- 
 closes 
 The steep square slope of the blos- 
 somless bed 
 Where the weeds that grew green from 
 the graves of its roses 
 Now lie dead. 
 
 The fields fall southward, abrupt and 
 broken, 
 To the low last edge of the long lone 
 land. 
 If a step should sound or a word be 
 spoken. 
 Would a ghost not rise at the strange 
 guest's hand ? 
 So long have the gray bare walks lain 
 guestless. 
 Through branches and briars if a man 
 make wajs 
 He shall find no life but the sea-wind's, 
 restless 
 Night and day. 
 
 The dense hard passage is blind and 
 stifled 
 That crawls by a track none turn to 
 climb 
 To the strait waste place that the years 
 have rifled 
 Of all but the thorns that are touched 
 not of time. 
 The thorns he spares when the rose is 
 taken : 
 The rocks are left when he wastes the 
 plain ; 
 The wind that wanders, the weeds wind- 
 shaken. 
 These remain. 
 
 Not a flower to be pressed of the foot that 
 
 falls not ; [plots are dry ; 
 
 As the heart of a dead man the seed- 
 
8go 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 From the tliicket of thorns whence tlie 
 nightingale calls not, 
 Could she call, there were never a rose 
 to reply. 
 Over the meadows that blossom and 
 wither, 
 Rings but the note of a sea-bii-d's song. 
 Onl}^ the sun and the rain come hither 
 All year long. 
 
 Tlie sun burns sear, and the rain dishev- 
 els 
 One gaunt bleak blossom of scentless 
 breath. 
 Only the wind here liovers and revels 
 In a round where life seems barren as 
 death. 
 Here there was laughing of old, there 
 was weeping. 
 Ha])ly, of lovers none ever will know, 
 Whose eyes went seaward a hundred 
 sleeping 
 Years ago. 
 
 Heart handfast in heart as they stood, 
 " Look thither," 
 Did he whisper? "Look forth from 
 the flowers to the sea ; 
 For the foam-fiowers endure when the 
 rose-blossoms witlier. 
 And men that love lightly may die — 
 But we ? " 
 And the same wind sang, and the same 
 waves whitened. 
 And or ever the garden's last petals 
 were shed. 
 In tlie lips that had whispered, the ej'es 
 tliat had lightened. 
 Love was dead. 
 
 Or they loved their life through, and 
 then went wliither ? 
 xlnd were one to the end — but what 
 end who knows? 
 Love deep as the sea as a rose must 
 wither. 
 As the rose-red seaweed that mocks 
 tlie rose. 
 Shall the dead take thought for the dead 
 to love them ? 
 Wliat love was ever as deep as a grave ? 
 They are loveless now as the grass above 
 them 
 Or the wave. 
 
 All are at one now. i-oses and lovei's. 
 Not known of the cliffs and the fields 
 
 and the sea. 
 Not a breath of the time that has been 
 
 hovers 
 
 In the air now soft with a summer to 
 be. 
 Not a breath shall there sweeten the 
 seasons hereafter 
 Of the flowers or the lovers that laugh 
 now or weep, • 
 
 When, as they that are free now of weep- 
 ing and laughter, 
 We shall sleep. 
 
 Here death may deal not again forever ; 
 Here change may come not till all 
 change end. 
 From the graves they have made they 
 shall rise up never, 
 Who have left naught living to rav- 
 age and rend. 
 Earth, stones, and tliorns of the wild 
 ground growing. 
 When the sun and the rain live, these 
 shall be ; 
 Till a last wind's breath upon all these 
 blowing 
 Roll the sea. 
 
 Till tlie slow sea rise and the sheer cliflf 
 crumble. 
 Till terrace and meadow the deep 
 gulfs drink. 
 Till the strength of the waves of the high 
 tides humble 
 Tlie fields that lessen, the rocks that 
 shrink. 
 Here now in his triunipli whei'e all things 
 falter, 
 Stretched out on the spoils that his 
 own hand spread. 
 As a god self-slain on his own strange 
 altar. 
 Death lies dead. 
 
 July, 1876. 
 
 A BALLAD OF DREAMLAND 
 
 I HID my heart in a nest of roses, 
 
 Out of the sun's way, hidden apart : 
 In a softer bed than the soft white snow's 
 is, 
 Under the roses I hid ray heart. 
 Why would it sleep not ? why should 
 it start. 
 When never a leaf of the rose-tree sti rred? 
 What made sleep flutter his wings and 
 part ? 
 Only tlie song of a secret bird. 
 
 Lie still, I said, for the wind's wing closes. 
 And mild leaves muffle the keen sun's 
 dart ; 
 
SWINBURNE 
 
 891 
 
 Lie still, for the wind on the warm seas 
 dozes. 
 And the wind is unquieter yet than 
 
 thou art. 
 Does a thought in thee still as a 
 thorn's wound smart? 
 Does tlie fang still fret thee of hope de- 
 ferred ? 
 What bids the lips of thy sleep dispart ? 
 Only the song of a secret bird. 
 
 The green land's name that a charm en- 
 closes, 
 It never was writ in the traveller's 
 chart, 
 And sweet on its trees as the fruit that 
 grows is, 
 It never was sold in the mercliant's 
 
 mart. 
 The swallows of dreams through its 
 dim fields dart. 
 And sleep's are the tunes in its tree-tops 
 heard ; 
 No hound's note wakens the wild- 
 wood liart, 
 Only tlie song of a secret bird. 
 
 In the world of dreams I have chosen 
 my part, 
 To sleep fur a season and liear no word 
 Of true love's ti'uth orof liglit love's art. 
 Only the song of a secret bird. 
 
 September, 1876. 
 
 A BALLAD OF FRANQOIS VILLON, 
 
 PRINCK OF ALL BALLAD-MAKERS 
 
 Bird of the bitter bright gray golden 
 
 morn. 
 
 Scarce risen upon the dusk of dolorous 
 
 years, 
 
 First of us all and sweetest singer born. 
 
 Wliose far slu'ill note the world of 
 
 new men liears 
 Cleave the cold shviddering shade as 
 twilight clears ; 
 When song new-born put off the old 
 
 world's attire 
 And felt its tune on her changed lips ex- 
 pire. 
 Writ foremost on the I'oll of them that 
 came 
 Fresh girt for service of the latter lyre. 
 Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's 
 name ! . 
 
 Alas, the joy. the sorrow, and the scorn. 
 
 That clothed tliy life with hopes and 
 
 sins and fears. 
 
 And gave thee stones for bread and tares 
 
 for corn 
 
 And plume-plucked gaol-birds for thy 
 
 starveling peers. 
 Till death dipt close their flight with 
 sliameful sliears ; 
 Till sliifts came short and loves were 
 
 hard to liire, 
 Wlien lilt of song nor twitch of twang- 
 ling wire 
 Could buy thee bread or kisses ; when 
 light fame 
 Spurned like a ball and haled through 
 brake and briar, 
 Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's 
 name ! 
 
 Poor splendid wings so frayed and soiled 
 and torn ! 
 Poor kind wild eyes so dashed with 
 light quick tears ! 
 Poor perfect voice, most blithe when 
 most forlorn. 
 That rings athwart the sea whence no 
 
 man steers. 
 Like joy -bells crossed with death-bells 
 in our ears ! 
 What far delight has cooled the fierce 
 desire 
 That, like some ravenous bird, was 
 
 strong to tire 
 On tliat frail flesh and soul consumed 
 with flame. 
 But left more sweet than roses to respire, 
 Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's 
 name ? 
 
 Prince of sweet songs made out of tears 
 and fire, 
 
 A harlot was thy nurse, a God thy sire ; 
 Shame soiled thy song, and song as- 
 soiled thy shame. 
 
 But from tliy feet now death has waslied 
 the mire, 
 
 Love reads out first at head of all our 
 quire, 
 Villon, our .sad bad glad mad brother's 
 name. September, 1877. 
 
 TO LOUIS KOSSUTH 
 
 LiaHT of our fathers' eyes, and in our 
 
 own 
 Star of the unsetting sunset ! for thy 
 
 name, 
 
892 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 That on the front of noon was as a fiaine 
 In the great year nigh twenty j'eai's agone 
 When all the heavens of Europe shook 
 
 and shone 
 With stormy wind and lightning, keeps 
 
 its fame 
 And bears its witness all day through 
 
 the same ; 
 Not for past days and great deeds past 
 
 alone, 
 Kossuth, we praise thee as our Landor 
 
 praised. 
 But that now too we know thy voice up- 
 raised. 
 Thy voice, the trumpet of the truth of 
 
 God, 
 Thine hand, the thunder-bearer's, raised 
 
 to smite 
 As with heaven's lightning for a sword 
 
 and I'od 
 Men's heads abased before the Muscovite. 
 February, 1878. 
 
 CHILD'S SONG 
 
 What is gold worth, say, 
 Worth for work or play, 
 Worth to keep or pay, 
 Hide or throw away, 
 
 Hope about or fear ? 
 What is love worth, pray? 
 Worth a tear? 
 
 Golden on tlie mould 
 Lie the dead leaves rolled 
 Of the wet woods old. 
 Yellow leaves and cold. 
 
 Woods witliout a dove ; 
 Gold is worth but gold ; 
 
 Love's worth love. 1878. 
 
 TRIADS 
 
 The word of the sun to the sky, 
 Tiie word of the wind to the sea, 
 Tiie word of the moon to the night, 
 What may it be ? 
 
 The sense of the flower to the fly, 
 Tlie sense of the bird to the tree. 
 The sense of the cloud to the light, 
 Who can tell me? 
 
 The song of the fields to the kye, 
 Tlie song of the lime to the l)ee. 
 The song of the depth to the height. 
 Who knows all three ? 
 
 The message of April to May, 
 That May sends on into June 
 And June gives out to July 
 For birthday boon ; 
 
 The delight of the dawn in the day, 
 The delight of the daj^ in the noon, 
 The delight of a song in a sigh 
 That breaks the tune ; 
 
 The secret of passing away. 
 The cast of the change of the moon. 
 None knows it with ear or witli eye. 
 But all will soon. 
 
 Ill 
 
 The live wave's love for the shore, 
 The shore's for the wave as it dies, 
 The love of the thunder-fire 
 That sears the skies — 
 
 We shall know noc though life wax 
 hoar, 
 Till all life, spent into sighs. 
 Burn out as consumed with desire 
 Of death's strange eyes ; 
 
 Till the secret be secret no more 
 In the light of one hour as it flies. 
 Be the hour as of suns that exjjire 
 Or suns that rise. 1878. 
 
 ON THE CLIFFS 
 
 itJLep6(j>ii>V0'; ari&aov (SAPPHO) 
 
 Between the moondawn and the sun- 
 down here 
 The twilight hangs half starless ; half 
 
 the sea 
 Still quivers as for love or pain or fear 
 Or pleasure Jiiightier than these all mav 
 
 be. 
 A man's live heart might beat 
 Wherein a God's with mortal blood 
 
 should meet 
 And fill its pulse too full to bear the 
 
 strain 
 With fear or love or pleasure's twin-born . 
 
 pain. 
 Fiercely the gaunt woods to the grim 
 
 soil cling 
 That bears for all fair fruits 
 Wan wild sparse flowers of windy and 
 
 wintry spring 
 Between the tortive serpent-shapen roots 
 Wherethrough their dim growth hardly 
 
 strikes and shoots 
 And shows one gracious thing ; 
 
SWINBURNE 
 
 893 
 
 Hardly, to speak for summer one sweet 
 
 word 
 Of summer's self scarce heard. 
 But liiglier the steep green sterile fields, 
 
 thickset 
 With flowerless hawthorn even to the 
 
 upward verge 
 Wliencethe woods gathering watch new 
 
 cliffs emerge, 
 Higher than their highest of crowns 
 
 that sea-winds fret. 
 Holds fast, for all that niglitor windcan 
 
 say. 
 Some pale pure color yet, 
 Too dim for green and luminous for gray. 
 Between the climbing inland clitfs above 
 And these beneath that breast and break 
 
 the bay, 
 A barren peace too soft for hate or love 
 Broods on an hour too dim for niglit or 
 
 day. 
 O wind, O wingless wind that walk'st 
 
 the sea. 
 Weak wind, wing-broken, wearier wind 
 
 than we, 
 Who are yet not spirit-broken, maimed 
 
 like thee. 
 Who wail not in ouv inward night as 
 
 thou 
 l!i the outer darkness now, 
 Wliat word has the old sea given thee 
 
 for mine ear 
 From tliy faint lips to liear? 
 For some word would she send me, know- 
 ing not how. 
 
 Nay, what far other word 
 
 Tlian ever of her was spoken, or of me 
 
 Or all my winged white kinsfolk of the 
 
 sea 
 Between fresh wave and wave was ever 
 
 heard , 
 Cleaves the clear dark en win ding tree 
 
 with tree 
 Too close for stars to sepai-ate and to see 
 Enmeshed in multitudinous unity ? 
 What voice of wliat strong God hath 
 
 stormed and stirred 
 The fortressed rock of silence, rent apart 
 Even to the core Night's all maternal 
 
 heart ? 
 What voice of God grown heavenlier in 
 
 a bird. 
 Make keener of edge to smite 
 Than lightning, — yea, thou knowest, O 
 
 mother Night, 
 Keen as that cry from thy strange cliil- 
 
 dren sent ^ 
 
 1 In Aeschylus' Eumenides. 
 
 Wherewith tlie Athenian judgment- 
 shrine was rent. 
 
 For wrath tliat all tlieir wi-ath was vainly 
 spent. 
 
 Their wrath for wrong made right 
 
 By justice in her own divine despite 
 
 That bade pass forth un blamed 
 
 The sinless matricide and unashamed ? 
 
 Yea, what new cry is this, wliat note 
 more briglit 
 
 Than their song's wing of words w;is 
 dark of flight, 
 
 What word is this thou hast lieard. 
 
 Thine and not thine or theirs, O Night, 
 what word 
 
 More keen than lightning and more 
 sweet than light? 
 
 As all men's hearts grew godlike in one 
 l)ird 
 
 And all those he;irts cried on thee, cry- 
 ing with might. 
 
 Hear us, O mother Night ! 
 
 Dumb is the mouth of darkness as of 
 
 death : 
 Light, sound and life are one 
 In the ej^es and lips of dawn that draw 
 
 the sun 
 To hear what first child's word with 
 
 glimmering breath 
 Their weak wan weanling child the 
 
 twilight saith ; 
 But night makes answer none. 
 
 God, if thou be god, — bird, if bird thou 
 
 be,— 
 Do thou then answer me. 
 For but one word, what wind soever 
 
 blow. 
 Is blown up usward ever from the sea. 
 In fruitless years of youth dead long 
 
 ago [and snow 
 
 And deep beneath their own dead leaves 
 Buried, I heard with bitter lieart and sere 
 The same sea's word unchangeable, nor 
 
 knew 
 But that mine own life-days were 
 
 changeless too. 
 And sharp and salt with unshed tear on 
 
 tear. 
 And cold and fierce and barren ; and 
 
 my soul, 
 Sickening, swam weakly with bated 
 
 breath 
 In a deep sea like death. 
 And felt the wind buffet her face with 
 
 brine 
 Hard, and harsh thought on thought in 
 
 long bleak roll 
 
894 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Blown by keen gusts of memory sad as 
 
 thine 
 Heap the weight up of pain, and break, 
 
 and leave 
 Strength scarce enough to grieve 
 In the sick heavy spirit, unmanned with 
 
 strife 
 Of waves that beat at the tired lips of 
 
 life. 
 
 Nay, sad may be man's memory, sad 
 
 may be 
 The dream lie weaves him as for shadow 
 
 of thee, 
 But scarce one breathing-space, one 
 
 heartbeat long, 
 Wilt thou take shadow of sadness on thy 
 
 song. 
 Not thou, being more than man or man's 
 
 desire. 
 Being bird and God in one, 
 With throat of gold and spirit of the 
 
 sun ; 
 The sun whom all our souls and songs 
 
 call sire. 
 Whose godhead gave thee, chosen of all 
 
 our quire. 
 Thee only of all that serve, of all that 
 
 sing 
 Before our sire and king. 
 Borne up some space on time's world- 
 wandering wing. 
 This gift, this doom, to bear till time's 
 
 wing tire — 
 Life everlasting of eternal fire. 
 
 Thee only of all ; yet can no memory say 
 
 How many a night and day 
 
 My heart has been as thy heart, and my 
 
 life 
 As thy life is, a sleepless hidden thing. 
 Full of the thirst and hunger of winter 
 
 and spring. 
 That seeks its food not in such love or 
 
 strife 
 As fill men's hearts with passionate 
 
 hours and rest. 
 From no loved lips and on no loving 
 
 breast 
 Have I sought ever for such gifts as bring 
 Comfort, to stay the secret soul with 
 
 sleep. 
 The joys, the loves, the labors, whence 
 
 men reap 
 Rathe fruit of hopes and fears, 
 I have made not mine ; the best of all 
 
 my days 
 Have been as those fair fruitless summer 
 
 strays, 
 
 Those water- waifs that but the sea-wind 
 .steers. 
 
 Flakes of glad foam or flowers on foot- 
 less ways 
 
 That take the wind in season and the 
 .sun. 
 
 And when the wind wills is their season 
 done. 
 
 For all my days as all thy days from 
 
 birth 
 My heart as thy heart was in me as 
 
 thee. 
 Fire ; and not all the fountains of the 
 
 sea 
 Have waves enough to quench it, nor on 
 
 earth 
 Is fuel enough to feed. 
 While day sows night, and night sows 
 
 day for seed. 
 
 We were not marked for sorrow, thou 
 
 nor I, 
 For joy nor sorrow, sister, were we made. 
 To take delight and grief to live and 
 
 die. 
 Assuaged by pleasures or by pains af- 
 
 frayed 
 That melt men's hearts and alter ; we 
 
 retain 
 A memory mastering pleasure and all 
 
 l)ain, 
 A spirit within the sense of ear and eye, 
 A soul behind the soul, that seeks and 
 
 sings 
 And makes our life move only with its 
 
 wings 
 And feed but from its lips, that in re- 
 turn 
 Feed of our hearts wherein the old fii'es 
 
 tliat burn 
 Have strength not to consume 
 Nor glory enough to exalt us past our 
 
 doom. 
 
 Ah, ah, the doom (thou knowest whence 
 
 rang that wail) 
 Of the shrill nightingale ! 
 (From whose wild lips, thou knowest, 
 
 that wail was thrown) 
 For round about her liave the great goda 
 
 cast 
 A tving-borne body, and clothed her close 
 
 and fast 
 With a sweet life that hath no part in 
 
 moan. 
 But m,e, for me (how hadst thou heart to 
 
 hear?) [spear. 
 
 Remains a sundering ivith the tioo-edged 
 
SWINBURNE 
 
 89s 
 
 Ah, for her doom ! so cried in presage 
 
 then 
 The bodeful bondslave of the king of 
 
 men, 
 And might not win her will. 
 Too close the entangling dragnet woven 
 
 of crime, 
 The snare of ill new-born of elder ill. 
 The curse of new time for an elder 
 
 time. 
 Had caught and held her yet, 
 Enmeslied intolerably in the intolerant 
 
 net. 
 Who thought with craft to mock the 
 
 God most high, 
 And win by wiles his crown of prophecy 
 From the sun's hand sublime, 
 As God were man, to spare or to forget. 
 
 But thou, — the gods have given thee and 
 
 forgiven thee 
 More than our master gave 
 That strange-eyed, spirit- wounded, 
 
 strange-tongued slave 
 There questing houndlike where the 
 
 roofs red-wet 
 Reeked as a wet red grave. 
 Life everlasting has their strange grace 
 
 given thee, 
 Even hers whom thou wast wont to sing 
 
 and serve 
 With eyes, but not with song, too swift 
 
 to swerve ; 
 Yet might not even thine eyes estranged 
 
 estrange her, 
 Who seeing thee too, but inly, burn and 
 
 bleed 
 Like that pale princess-priest of Priam's 
 
 seed, 
 For stranger service gave thee guerdon, 
 
 stranger 
 If this indeed be guerdon, this indeed 
 Her mercy, this thy meed — 
 That thou, being more than all we born, 
 
 being higlier 
 Than all heads crowned of him that only 
 
 gives 
 Tlie light whereby man lives, 
 The bay that bids man moved of God's 
 
 desire 
 Lay hand on lute or lyre. 
 Set lip to trumpet or deflowered green 
 
 reed — 
 If this were given thee for a grace in- 
 deed, 
 That thou, being fir.st of all these, thou 
 
 alone 
 Shouldst have the grace to die not, but 
 
 to live, 
 
 And loose nor change one pulse of song, 
 one tone 
 
 Of all that were thy lady's and thine 
 own, 
 
 The lady's whom thou criedst on to for- 
 give, 
 
 Thou, priest and sacrifice on the altar- 
 stone 
 
 Where none may worsliip not of all that 
 live. 
 
 Love's ])riestess, errant on dark ways 
 diverse ; 
 
 If this were grace indeed for Love to 
 give. 
 
 If this indeed were blessing and no 
 curse. 
 
 Love's priestess, mad witli pain and joy 
 
 of song. 
 Song's priestess, ma,d with joy and pain 
 
 of love. 
 Name above all names that are lights 
 
 above. 
 We have lov'd, prais'd, pitied, crown'd, 
 
 and done tliee wrong, 
 O thovi past praise and pity ; thou the 
 
 sole 
 Utterly deathless, perfect onlj^ and 
 
 whole 
 Immortal, body and soul. 
 For over all whom time hatli overpast 
 The shadow of sleep inexorable is cast. 
 The implacable sweet shadow of perfect 
 
 sleep 
 That gives not back what life gives death 
 
 to kee]) ; 
 Yea, all that liv'd and lov'd and sang 
 
 and sinn'd 
 Are all borne down death's cold, sweet, 
 
 soundless wind 
 Tliat blows all night and knows not 
 
 whom its breath. 
 Darkling, may touch to deatli : 
 But one that wind hath touch'd and 
 
 changed not, — one 
 Whose body and soul are parcel of the 
 
 sun ; 
 One that earth's fire could burn not, nor 
 
 the sea 
 Quench ; nor miglit human doom take 
 
 hold on thee ; 
 All praise, all pity, all dreams have done 
 
 thee wrong. 
 All love, with eyes love-blinded from 
 
 above ; 
 Song's priestess, mad with joy and pain 
 
 of love, 
 Love's priestess, mad with pain and joy 
 
 of song. 
 
896 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Hast thou none other answer then for 
 
 nie 
 Than the air may have of thee, 
 Or tlie earth's warm woodlands girdling 
 
 witli green girth 
 Thy secret, sleepless, burning life on 
 
 earth, 
 Or even the sea that once, being woman 
 
 crown 'd 
 And girt witli fire and glory of anguish 
 
 round, 
 Thou wert so fain to seek to, fain to 
 
 crave 
 If she would hear thee and save 
 And give thee comfort of thy great 
 
 green grave ? 
 Because I liave known thee always who 
 
 thou art. 
 Thou knowest. have known thee to thy 
 
 heart's own heart, 
 Nor ever have given light ear to storied 
 
 song 
 That did thy sweet name sweet unwit- 
 ting wrong. 
 Nor ever have called thee nor would call 
 
 for sliame. 
 Thou knowest, but inly, by thine only 
 
 name, 
 Sappho — because I have known thee 
 
 and loved, hast thou 
 None other answer now? 
 As brother and sister were we, child 
 
 and bird. 
 Since thy first Lesbian word 
 Flamed on me, and I knew^ not whence 
 
 I knew 
 This was the song that struck mj'^ whole 
 
 soul through. 
 Pierced my keen spirit of sense with 
 
 edge more keen, 
 Even when I knew not — even ere sooth 
 
 was seen — 
 When thou wast but the tawny sweet 
 
 winged thing 
 Whose cry was but of spring. 
 
 And yet even so thine ear should hear 
 
 me — yea. 
 Hear me this nightfall by this northland 
 
 bay. 
 Even for their sake whose loud good 
 
 word I had, 
 Singing of thee in the all-beloved clime 
 Once, where the windy wine of spring 
 
 makes mad 
 Our sisters of Majano, who kept time 
 Clear to my choral rhyme. 
 Yet was the song acclaimed of these 
 
 aloud 
 
 Whose praise had made mute humble- 
 ness niisproud, 
 
 The song w-ith answering song ap- 
 plauded thus. 
 
 But of that Daulian dream of It.ylus. 
 
 So but for love's love haply was it — nay. 
 
 How else? — that even their song took 
 my song's part, 
 
 For love of love and sweetness of sweet 
 heart, 
 
 Or god-given glorious madness of mid 
 ]\Iay 
 
 And heat of heart and hunger and 
 thirst to sing, 
 
 Full of the new wine of the wind of 
 spring. 
 
 Or if this were not, and it be not sin 
 To hold myself in spirit of thy sweet 
 
 kin, 
 In heart and spirit of song ; 
 If this my great love do thy grace no 
 
 wrong, 
 Thy grace that gave me grace to dwell 
 
 therein ; 
 If thy gods thus be my gods, and their 
 
 will 
 Made mj'^ song part of thj' song — even 
 
 such part 
 As man's liath of God's heart — 
 And my life like as thy life to fulfil ; 
 What have our gods then given us? 
 
 Ah, to thee 
 Sister, much mox'e, much happier than 
 
 to me. 
 Much happier things they have given, 
 
 and more of grace 
 Than falls to man's light race ; 
 For lighter are we. all our love and pain 
 Lighter than tliine, who knowest of 
 
 time or place 
 Thus much, that place nor time 
 Can heal or hurt or lull or change 
 
 again 
 The singing soul that makes his soul 
 
 suljlime 
 Who hears the far fall of its fire-fledged 
 
 rhyme 
 Fill darkness as with bright and burning 
 
 rain, 
 Till all the live gloom inlv glows, and 
 
 light 
 Seems with the sound to cleave the core 
 
 of night. 
 
 The singing .soul that moves thee, and 
 
 tliat moved 
 When thou wast woman, and their 
 
 songs divine 
 
SWINBURNE 
 
 897 
 
 Who mixed for Grecian mouths heav- 
 en's lyric wine 
 Fell dumb, fell down reproved 
 Before one sovereign Lesbian song of 
 
 thine. 
 That soul, though love and life had fain 
 
 held fast, 
 Wind-winged with fiery music, rose 
 
 and past 
 Through the indi'awn hollovy of earth 
 
 and heaven and hell, 
 As through some strait sea-shell 
 The wide sea's immemorial song, — the 
 
 sea 
 That sings and breathes in strange men's 
 
 ears of thee 
 How in her barren bride bed, void and 
 
 vast, 
 Even thy soul sang itself to sleep at last. 
 
 To sleep ? Ah, then, what song is this, 
 
 that here 
 Makes all the night one ear, 
 One ear fulfilled and mad with music, 
 
 one 
 Heart kindling as the heart of heaven, 
 
 to hear 
 A song more fiery than the awakening 
 
 sun 
 Sings, when his song sets fire 
 To the air and clouds that build the 
 
 dead night's pyre ? 
 O thou of divers-colored mind, O thou 
 Deathless, Ood's daughter, subtle-soided 
 
 — lo, now, 
 Now to the song above all songs, in flight 
 Higher than the day-star's height, 
 And sweet as sound tlie moving wings 
 
 of night ! 
 TJioii of the divers-colored seat — behold. 
 Her very song of old I — 
 O deathless, O Qod's daughter, subtle- 
 soided ! 
 That same cry through this boskage 
 
 overhead 
 Rings round reiterated, 
 Palpitates as the last palpitated. 
 The last tliat panted through her lips 
 
 and died 
 Not down this gray north sea's half 
 
 sapped cliff -side 
 That crumbles toward the coastline, 
 
 year by year 
 More near the sands and near ; 
 The last loud lyric fiery cry she cried. 
 Heard once on heights Leucadian, — 
 
 heard not here. 
 Not here ; for this that fires our north- 
 land night, 
 
 57 
 
 This is the song that made 
 
 Love fearful, even the heart of love 
 afraid, 
 
 With the great anguish of its great de- 
 light. 
 
 No swan-song, no far-fluttering half- 
 drawn breath, 
 
 No word that love of love's sweet nature 
 saith, 
 
 No dirge that lulls the narrowing lids of 
 death, 
 
 No healing hymn of peace-prevented 
 strife, — 
 
 This is her song of life. 
 
 I loved thee, — hark, one tenderer note 
 
 than all — 
 Atthis, of old time, once — one low long 
 
 fall, 
 Sighing— one long low lovely loveless 
 
 call. 
 Dying — one pause in song so flamelike 
 
 fast — 
 Atthis, long since in old time overjjast — 
 One soft first pause and last. 
 One, — then the old rage of rapture's 
 
 fieriest rain 
 Storms all the music-maddened night 
 
 again. 
 
 Child of God, close craft siooman, I he- 
 seech thee 
 
 Bid not ache nor agony break nor mas- 
 ter, 
 
 Lady, my spirit — 
 
 O thou her mistress, might her cry not 
 reach thee ? 
 
 Our Lady of all men's loves, could Love 
 go past her. 
 
 Pass, and not hear it ? 
 
 She hears not as she heard not : hears 
 
 not me, 
 O trebled-natured mystery — how should 
 
 she 
 Hear, or give ear? — who heard and 
 
 heard not thee ; 
 Heai'd and went past, and heard not ; 
 
 but all time 
 Hears all that all the ravin of his years 
 Hath cast not wholly out of all men's 
 
 ears 
 And dulled to death with deep dense 
 
 funeral chime 
 Of their reiterate rhyme. 
 And now of all songs uttering all her 
 
 praise. 
 All hers who had thy praise and did thee 
 • wrong, 
 
898 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Abides one song yet of lier lyric days. 
 Thine only, tliis tlij' song. 
 
 O soul triune, woman and god and 
 
 bird, 
 Man, man at least has heard. 
 All ages call thee conqueror, and thy 
 
 cry 
 The migjitiest as the least beneath the 
 
 sky 
 Whose heart was ever set to song, or 
 
 stirred 
 With wind of mounting music blown 
 
 more high 
 Tlian wildest wing may fly. 
 Hath heard or hears, — even ^schylus 
 
 as I. 
 But when thy name was woman, and 
 
 thy word 
 Human, — then haply, surely then me- 
 
 seems 
 This thy bird's note was heard on earth 
 
 of none, 
 Of none save only in dreams. 
 In all the world then surely was but 
 
 one 
 Song ; as in heaven at highest one 
 
 sceptred sun 
 Regent, on earth here surely without fail 
 One only, one imperious nightingale. 
 Dumb was the field, the woodland mute, 
 
 the lawn 
 Silent ; the hill was tongueless as the 
 
 vale 
 Even when the last fair waif of cloud 
 
 that felt 
 Its heart beneath the coloring moonrays 
 
 melt. 
 At high midnoon of midnight half with- 
 drawn, 
 Bared all the sudden deep divine moon- 
 dawn. 
 Then, vmsaluted by her twin-born tune. 
 That latter timeless morning of the 
 
 moon 
 Rose past its hour of moonrirje ; clouds 
 
 gave way 
 To the old reconquering ray. 
 But no song answering made it more 
 
 than day ; 
 No cry of song by night 
 Shot fire into the cloud-constraining 
 
 light. 
 One only, one ^olian island heard 
 Thi-ill, but through no bird's throat. 
 In one strange manlike maiden's godlike 
 
 note, 
 Tlie song of all these as a single bird ; 
 Till the sea's portal was as funeral gate 
 
 For that sole singer in all time's ageless 
 
 date 
 Singled and signed for so triumphal 
 
 fate. 
 All nightingales but one in all the world 
 All lier sweet life were silent ; only 
 
 then. 
 When her life's wing of womanhood was 
 
 furled, 
 Their crj^ this cry of thine was heard 
 
 again, 
 As of me now, of any born of men. 
 
 Through sleepless clear spring nights 
 
 filled full of thee. 
 Rekindled here, thy ruling song has 
 
 thrilled 
 The deep dark air and subtle tender sea 
 And breathless hearts with one bright 
 
 sound fulfilled. 
 Or at midnoon to me 
 Swimming, and birds about my happier 
 
 head 
 Skimming, one smooth soft way by 
 
 water and air, 
 To these my bright born brethren and to 
 
 me 
 Hath not the clear wind borne or seemed 
 
 to bear 
 A song wherein all earth and heaven 
 
 and sea 
 Were molten in one music made of thee 
 To enforce us, O our sister of the shore, 
 Look once in heart back landward and 
 
 adore ? 
 For songless were we sea-mews, yet had 
 
 we 
 More joy than all things joyful of thee — 
 
 more, 
 Haply, than all things happiest ; nay, 
 
 save thee. 
 In thy strong rapture of imperious joy 
 Too high for heart of sea-borne bird or 
 
 boy. 
 What living things were happiest if not 
 
 we? 
 But knowing not love nor change nor 
 
 wrath nor wrong, 
 No more we knew of song. 
 
 Song, and the secrets of it, and their 
 
 might, 
 What blessings cui'se it and what curses 
 
 bless, 
 I know them since my spirit had first in 
 
 sight. 
 Clear as thy song's words or the live 
 
 sun's light. 
 The small dark body's Lesbian loveliness 
 
SWINBURNE 
 
 899 
 
 That held the fire eternal ; eye and ear 
 Were as a god's to see, a god's to liear. 
 Through all his hours of daily and night- 
 ly chime, 
 The sundering of the two-edged spear of 
 
 time : 
 Tlie spear that pierces even the seven- 
 fold sh velds 
 Of mightiest Memory, mother of all songs 
 
 made. 
 And wastes all songs as roseleaves kissed 
 
 and frayed 
 As here tlie harvest of the foam-flowered 
 
 fields ; 
 But thine the spear may waste not tliat 
 
 he wields 
 Since first the God whose soul is man's 
 
 live breatli, 
 The sun whose face hath our sun's face 
 
 for shade, 
 Put all the light of life and love and 
 
 death 
 Too strong for life, but not for love too 
 
 strong, 
 Where pain makes peace with pleasure 
 
 in th}^ song, 
 And in tliine heart, where love and song 
 
 make strife, 
 Fire everlasting of eternal life. 1880. 
 
 ON THE DEATHS OF THOMAS CAR- 
 LYLE AND GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 Two souls divei'se out of our human sight 
 
 Pass, followed one with love and each 
 with wonder : 
 
 The stormy sophist with his mouth of 
 thunder. 
 
 Clothed with loud words and mantled in 
 the might 
 
 Of darkness and magnificence of night ; 
 
 And one whose eye could smite the night 
 in sunder. 
 
 Searching if light or no light were there- 
 under. 
 
 And found in love of loving-kindness 
 light. 
 
 Duty divine and Thought with eyes of 
 fii'e 
 
 Still following Righteousness with deep 
 desire 
 
 Shone sole and stern before lier and 
 
 above- 
 Sure stars and sole to steer by ; but 
 more sweet 
 
 Shone lower the loveliest lamp for earth- 
 ly feet, — 
 
 The light of little children, and their 
 love. April, 1881. 
 
 SONG FROM MARY STUART 
 
 And ye maun braid your yellow hair, 
 
 And busk ye like a bride ; 
 Wi' sevenscore men to bring ye hame, 
 
 And ae true love beside : 
 Between the birk and the green rowan 
 
 Fu' blithely shall ye ride. 
 
 O ye maun braid my yellow hair, 
 But braid it like nae bride ; 
 
 And I maun gang my ways, mither, 
 Wi' nae true love beside ; 
 
 Between the kirk and the kirkyard 
 Fu' sadly shall I ride. 1881. 
 
 HOPE AND FEAR 
 
 Beneath the shadow of dawn's aerial 
 
 cope. 
 With ej^es enkindled as the sun's own 
 
 sphere, 
 Hope from the front of youth in god- 
 
 'like cheer 
 Looks Godward, past the shades where 
 
 blind men grope 
 Round the dark door that prayers nor 
 
 dreams can ope, 
 And makes for joy the very darkness 
 
 dear 
 That gives her wide wings play ; nor 
 
 dreams that fear 
 At noon ma}'^ rise and pierce the heart of 
 
 hope. 
 Then, when the soul leaves off to dream 
 
 and yearn, 
 ]May truth first purge her eyesight to 
 
 discern 
 What once being known leaves time no 
 
 power to appal ; 
 Till youth at last, ere yet j'outh be not, 
 
 learn 
 Tlie kind wise word that falls from 
 
 years tliat fall — 
 ' ' Hope thou not much, and fear thou 
 
 not at all." 1882. 
 
 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE 
 
 Not if men's tongues and angels' all in 
 
 one 
 Spake, might the word be said that 
 
 might speak Thee. 
 Streams, winds, woods, flowers, fields, 
 
 mountains, yea, the sea, 
 What power is in them all to praise the 
 
 sun ? 
 His praise is this, — he can be praised of 
 
 none. 
 
900 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Man, woman, child, praise God for him ; 
 
 but he 
 Exults not to be worsliipped. but to be. 
 He is ; and, being, beholds his work well 
 
 done. 
 All jo3% all glory, all sorrow, all strength, 
 
 all mirth, 
 Are his : without him, day were night 
 
 on earth. 
 Time knows not his from time's own 
 
 period. 
 All lutes, all harjis, all viols, all flutes, 
 
 all Ijres, 
 Fall dumb before him ere one string 
 
 suspires. 
 All stars are angels ; but the sun is God. 
 
 1882. 
 
 CHILDREN 
 
 Of such is the kingdom of heaven. 
 
 No glory that ever was shed 
 From the crowning star of the seven 
 
 That crown the north world's head, 
 
 No word that ever was spoken 
 Of human or godlike tongue, 
 
 Gave ever such godlike token 
 Since human harps were strung. 
 
 No sign that ever was given 
 
 To faithful or faithless ej'os 
 Showed ever bej'ond clouds riven 
 
 So clear a Paradise. 
 
 Earth's creeds may be seventy times 
 seven 
 
 And blood have defiled each creed : 
 If of such be the kingdom of heaven, 
 
 It must be heaven indeed. 1883. 
 
 A CHILD'S LAUGHTER 
 
 All the bells of heaven may ring. 
 All the birds of heaven may sing. 
 All the wells on earth may spring. 
 All the winds on earth may bring 
 
 All sweet sounds together ; 
 Sweeter far than all things heard. 
 Hand of liarper, tone of bird, 
 Sound of woods at sundawn stirr'd, 
 Welling water's winsome word, 
 
 Wind in warm wan weather, 
 
 One thing yet there is, that none 
 Hearing ere its chime lie done 
 Knows not well tlie sweetest one 
 Heard of man beneath the sun, 
 Hoped in heaven hereafter ; 
 
 Soft and strong and loud and light, 
 Verj^ sound of very light 
 Hoard froui morning's rosiest height, 
 AVlien tlie siml of all delight 
 Fills a child's clear laughter. 
 
 Golden bells of welcome roU'd 
 Never forth such notes, nor told 
 Hours so blithe in tones so bold, 
 As tlie radiant mouth of gold 
 
 Here tliat rings fortli heaven. 
 If the golden-crested wren 
 Were a nightingale — why. then 
 Sometliing seen and heard of men 
 Might be half as sweet as wlien 
 
 Laughs a child of seven. 1883. 
 
 THE SALT OF THE EARTH 
 
 If childhood were not in the world, 
 But only men and women grown ; 
 
 No baby-locks in tendrils curled. 
 No baby-blossoms blown ; 
 
 Though men were stronger, women 
 fairer. 
 
 And nearer all delights in reach. 
 And verse and music uttered rarer 
 
 Tones of more godlike speech ; 
 
 Though the utmost life of life's best 
 hours 
 Found, as it cannot now find, words ; 
 Though desert sands were sweet as 
 flowers 
 And flowers could sing like birds, 
 
 But children never heard them, never 
 Tlie,y felt a child's foot leap and run : 
 
 This were a drearier star tlian ever 
 Yet looked upon the sun. 1883. 
 
 CHILD AND POET 
 
 You send me your love in a letter, 
 I send you my love in a song : 
 
 Ah child, your gift is the better. 
 Mine does you but wrong. 
 
 No fame, were the best less brittle. 
 No praise, were it wide as eartli, 
 
 Is worth so much as a little 
 Cliild's love may be worth. 
 
 We see the children above lis 
 As tliey miglit angels above : 
 
 Come back to us, child, if 3'ou love us, 
 And bring us your love. 1882. 
 
SWINBURNE 
 
 901 
 
 A CHILD'S FUTUKE 
 
 What will it please you, my darling, 
 
 hereafter to be ? 
 Fame upon land will you look for, or 
 
 glory by sea ? 
 Gallant your life will be alwaj's, and all 
 
 of it free. 
 
 Free as tlie wind when the heart of the 
 twilight is stirred 
 
 Eastward, and sounds from the sjirings 
 of the sunrise are heard : 
 
 Fi'ee — and we know not another as in- 
 finite word. 
 
 Darkness or twilight or sunlight may 
 
 compass us round. 
 Hate may arise up against us, or hope 
 
 may confound ; 
 Love may forsake us ; yet may not the 
 
 spirit be bound. 
 
 Free in oppi'ession of grief as in ardor of 
 
 joy 
 
 Still may the sovil be, and each to her 
 
 strength as a toy : 
 Free in the glance of the man as the 
 
 smile of the boy. 
 
 Freedom alone is the salt and the spirit 
 
 that gives 
 Life, and without her is nothing that 
 
 verily lives : 
 Death cannot slay her : she laughs upon 
 
 death and forgives. 
 
 Brightest and hardiest of roses anear 
 
 and afar 
 Glitters the blithe little face of J'ou, 
 
 round as a star : 
 Liberty bless you and keep you to be as 
 
 you are. 
 
 England and liberty bless j^ou and keep 
 
 you to be 
 Worthy the name of their child and the 
 
 sight of their sea ; 
 Fear not at all ; for a slave, if he fears 
 
 not, is free. 1883. 
 
 ETUDE REALISTE 
 
 I 
 
 A baby's feet, like sea-shells pink. 
 
 Might tempt, should Heaven see meet, 
 An angel's lips to kiss, we think, 
 A baby's feet. 
 
 Like rose-hued sea-flowers toward the 
 heat 
 Tiiey stretch and spread and wink 
 Tlieir ten soft buds that part and meet. 
 
 No fiower-bells that expand and shrink 
 
 Gleam half so heavenly sweet 
 As sliine on life's untrodden brink 
 A baby's feet. 
 
 II 
 
 A baby's hands, like rosebuds furl'd, 
 
 Whence yet no leaf expands. 
 Ope if you touch, though close upcurl'd 
 A baby's hands. 
 
 Then, even as warriors grip their brands 
 
 Wlien battle's bolt is hurl'd, 
 They close, clench'd hard like tighten- 
 ing bands. 
 
 No rosebuds yet by dawn impearl'd 
 
 Match, even in loveliest lands, 
 Tiie sweetest flowers in all the world — 
 A baby's hands. 
 
 A baby's eyes, ere speech begin. 
 Ere lips learn words or sighs. 
 Bless all tilings bright enough to win 
 A baby's eyes. 
 
 Love, while the sweet thing laughs and 
 lies. 
 And sleep flows out and in. 
 Lies perfect in tliem Paradise. 
 
 Tlieir glance might cast ovit pain and sin, 
 
 Their speech make dumb the wise, 
 By mute glad godhead felt within 
 
 A baby's eyes. 1883. 
 
 IN GUERNSEY 
 
 (to THEODORE WATTS) 
 
 The heavenl3'- ba}^ ringed round with 
 
 cliffs and moors. 
 Storm-stained ravines, and crags that 
 
 lawns inlay. 
 Soothes as with love the rocks whose 
 
 guard secures 
 The heavenly bay. 
 
 O friend, shall time take even this away, 
 This blessing given of beauty that en- 
 dures, 
 This glory shown us, not to pass but stay ? 
 
902 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Though siglit be changed for memory, 
 
 love ensures 
 What memory, cliangecl by love to sight, 
 
 would sa}'^ — 
 The word that seals for ever mine and 
 
 yours, 
 The heavenly bay. 
 
 My mother sea, my fostress, what new 
 
 strand , 
 What new delight of waters, may this be, 
 The fairest found since time's first 
 
 breezes fanned 
 My mother sea ? 
 
 Once more I give me body and soul to 
 
 tliee. 
 Who hast my soul for ever : cliflf and 
 
 sand 
 Recede, and heart to lieart once more 
 
 are we. 
 
 My heart springs first and jilunges, ere 
 
 my hand 
 Strike out from shore : more close it 
 
 brings to me. 
 More near and dear than seems my 
 
 fatherland, 
 M}"^ mother sea. 
 
 Across and along, as tlie baj^'s breadth 
 
 opens, and o'er us 
 Wild autumn exults in the wind, swift 
 
 rapture and strong 
 Impels us, and broader the wide waves 
 
 brighten before us 
 Across and along. 
 
 The whole world's heart is uplifted, and 
 
 knows not wrong ; 
 The whole world's life is a chant to the 
 
 sea-tide's chorus ; 
 Are Ave not as waves of the water, as 
 
 notes of the song ? 
 
 Like children unworn of the passions and 
 
 toils that wore us. 
 We breast for a season the breadth of the 
 
 seas that throng, 
 Rejoicing as they, to be borne as of old 
 
 they bore us 
 Across and along. 1883. 
 
 A SINGING LESSON 
 
 Fak-fetched and dear bought, as the 
 proverb rehearses, 
 
 Is good, or was held so, for ladies ; but 
 
 nought 
 In a song can be good if the turn of the 
 
 verse is 
 Far-fetched and dear bought. 
 
 As the turn of a wave should it sound, 
 
 and the thought 
 Ring smooth, and as light as the spray 
 
 that disperses 
 Be the gleam of the words for the garb 
 
 thereof wrought. 
 
 Let tlie soul in it shine through the 
 
 sound as it pierces 
 Men's hearts with possession of music 
 
 unsought ; 
 For tlie bounties of song are no jealous 
 
 god's mercies. 
 Far-fetched and dear bought. 1883. 
 
 THE ROUNDEL 
 
 A Roundel is wrought as a ring or a 
 
 star bright sphere. 
 With craft of delight and with cunning 
 
 of sound unsought, 
 That the heart of the hearer may smile 
 
 if to pleasure his ear 
 A roundel is wrought. 
 
 Its jewel of music is carven of all or of 
 aught — 
 
 Love, laugliter, or mourning— remem- 
 brance of rapture or fear — 
 
 That fancy may fashion to hang in the 
 ear of thought. 
 
 As a bii-d's quick song runs round, and 
 
 the hearts in vis hear — 
 Pause answers to pause, and again the 
 
 same strain cauglit. 
 So moves the device whence, round as a 
 pearl or tear, 
 A roundel is wrought. 
 
 1883. 
 
 A SOLITUDE 
 
 Sea beyond sea, sand after sweep of 
 
 sand , 
 Here ivory smootli. liere cloven and 
 
 ridged with flow 
 Of cliannelled waters soft as rain or 
 
 snow. 
 Stretch their lone length at ease beneath 
 
 the bland 
 Gray gleam of skies whose smile on 
 
 wave and strand 
 Shines weary like a man's who smiles to 
 
 know 
 
SWINBURNE 
 
 903 
 
 That now no dream can mock his faith 
 
 with show, 
 Nor cloud for liim seem living sea or 
 
 land. 
 Is there an end at all of all this waste. 
 These crumbling cliffs defeatured and 
 
 defaced. 
 These ruinous heights of sea-sapped 
 
 walls that slide 
 Seaward with all tiieir banks of bleak 
 
 blown flowers 
 Glad yet of life, ere yet their hope sub- 
 side 
 Beneath the coil of dull dense waves 
 
 and hours? June, 1884. 
 
 ON A COUNTRY ROAD 
 
 Along these low pleached lanes, on such 
 
 a day. 
 So soft a day as this, through shade and 
 
 sun, 
 With glad grave eyes that scanned the 
 
 glad wild way 
 And heart still hovering o'er a song 
 
 begun, 
 And smile that warmed the world with 
 
 benison. 
 Our father, lord long since of lordly 
 
 rhyme, 
 Long since hath haply ridden, when the 
 
 lime 
 Bloomed broad above him, flowering 
 
 where he came. 
 Because thy passage once made warm 
 
 this clime, 
 Our father Chaucer, here we praise thy 
 
 name. 
 
 Each 3'ear that England clothes herself 
 
 with May, 
 She takes thy likeness on her. Time 
 
 hath spun 
 Fresh raiment all in vain and strange 
 
 array 
 For earth and man's new spirit, fain to 
 
 shun 
 Things past for dreams of better to be 
 
 won. 
 Through many a century since thy fun- 
 eral chime 
 Rang, and men deemed it death's most 
 
 direful crime 
 To have spared not thee for very love or 
 
 shame ; 
 And yet, while mists round last j^ear's 
 
 memories climb. 
 Our father Chaucer, here we praise thy 
 
 name. 
 
 Each turn of the old wild road whereon 
 
 we stray, 
 Meseems. might bring us face to face 
 
 with one 
 Whom seeing we could not but give 
 
 thanks, and pray 
 For England's love our father and her 
 
 son 
 To speak with us as once in days long 
 
 done 
 With all men, sage and churl and monk 
 
 and mime. 
 Who knew not as we know the soul sub- 
 lime 
 That sang for song's love more than 
 
 lust of fame. 
 Yet, though this be not, yet, in happy 
 
 time. 
 Our father Chaucer, here we praise thy 
 
 name. 
 
 Friend, even as bees about the flower- 
 ing thyme. 
 
 Years crowd on j'ears, till hoar decay 
 begrime 
 
 Names once beloved ; but seeing the 
 sun the same. 
 
 As birds of autumn fain to praise the 
 prime, 
 
 Our father Chaucer, here we praise thy 
 name. June, 1884. 
 
 THE SEABOARD 
 
 The sea is at ebb, and the sound of her 
 
 utmost word 
 Is soft as the least wave's lapse in a still 
 
 small reach. 
 From bay unto bay, on quest of a goal 
 
 deferred. 
 From headland ever to headland and 
 
 breach to breach 
 Where earth gives ear to the message 
 
 that all days preach 
 With changes of gladness and sadness 
 
 that cheer and chide. 
 The lone way lures me along by a chance 
 
 untried 
 That haply, if hope dissolve not and 
 
 faith be whole, 
 Not all for nought shall I seek, with a 
 
 dream for guide. 
 The goal that is not, and ever again the 
 
 goal. 
 
 The trackless ways are un travelled of 
 
 sail or bird ; 
 The hoar wave hardly recedes from the 
 
 soundless beach. 
 
904 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 The silence of instant noon goes nigh to 
 
 be heard, 
 The viewless void to be A'isible : all and 
 
 each, 
 A closure of calm no clamor of storm 
 
 can breach 
 Concludes and confines and absorbs them 
 
 on either side, 
 All forces of light and of life and the 
 
 live world's pride. 
 Sands hardly ruffled of ripples that 
 
 hardly roll 
 Seem ever to show as in reach of a swift 
 
 brief stride [goal. 
 
 The goal that is not, and ever again the 
 
 The waves are a joy to the seamew, the 
 
 meads to the herd, 
 And a joy to the heart is a goal that it 
 
 may not reach. 
 No sense that for ever the limits of sense 
 
 engird, 
 No hearing or sight that is vassal to 
 
 form or speech. 
 Learns ever the secret that shadow and 
 
 silence teach, 
 Hears ever the notes that or ever they 
 
 swell subside, 
 Sees ever the light that lights not the 
 
 loud world's tide, 
 Clasps ever the cause of the lifelong 
 
 scheme's control 
 Wherethrough we pursue, till the waters 
 
 of life be dried, [goal. 
 
 The goal that is not, and ever again the 
 
 Friend, what have we sought or seek we, 
 
 whate'er betide. 
 Though the seaboard shift its mark from 
 
 afar descried. 
 But aims whence ever anew shall arise 
 
 the soul ? 
 Love, thought, song, life, but show for 
 
 a glimpse and hide 
 The goal that is not, and ever again the 
 
 goal. 1884. 
 
 THE CLIFFSIDE PATTI 
 
 Seaward goes the sun, and homeward 
 
 by the dovv'n 
 We, before the night upon his grave be 
 
 sealed. 
 Low behind us lies the bright steep 
 
 murmuring town. 
 High before us heaves the steep rough 
 
 silent field. 
 Breach by ghastlier breach, the cliffs 
 
 collapsing yield : 
 
 Half the path is broken, lialf the banks 
 
 divide ; 
 Flawed and crumbled, riven and rent, 
 
 they cleave and slide 
 Toward tlie ridged and wrinkled waste 
 
 of girdling sand 
 Deep beneath, whose furrows tell how 
 
 far and wide 
 Wind is lord and change is sovereign of 
 
 the strand. 
 
 Star by star on the unsunned waters 
 twiring down. 
 
 Golden spear-points glance against a 
 silver shield. 
 
 Over banks and bents, across the head- 
 land's crown. 
 
 As by pulse of gradual plumes through 
 twilight wheeled, 
 
 Soft as sleep, the waking wind awakes 
 the weald. 
 
 Moor and copse and fallow, near or far 
 descried, 
 
 Feel the mild wings move, and gladden 
 where they glide : 
 
 Silence uttering love that all things un- 
 derstand. 
 
 Bids the quiet fields forget that hard 
 beside 
 
 Wind is lord and change is sovereign of 
 the strand. 
 
 Yet may sight, ere all the hoar soft 
 
 shade grow brown, 
 Hardly reckon half the rifts and rents 
 
 unhealed 
 Where the scarred cliffs downward 
 
 sundering drive and drown, 
 Hewn as if with stroke of swords in 
 
 tempest steeled. 
 Wielded as tlie night's will and the 
 
 wind's may wield. 
 Crowned and zoned in vain with flowers 
 
 of autumn-tide. 
 Life and love seek harborage on the land- 
 
 wai-d side ; 
 Wind is lord and change is sovereign of 
 
 the strand. 
 
 Friend, though man be less than these, 
 
 for all his pride, 
 Yet, for all his weakness, shall not hope 
 
 abide ? 
 Wind and change can wreck but life and 
 
 waste but land : 
 Truth and trust are sure, though here 
 
 till all subside 
 Wind is lord and cliange is sovereign of 
 
 the strand. 1884. 
 
SWINBURNE 
 
 905 
 
 IN THE WATER 
 
 The sea is awake, and the sound of the 
 
 song of the jo}^ of her waking is rolled 
 From afar to the star that recedes, from 
 
 anear to the wastes of tlie wild wide 
 
 shore. 
 Her call is a trumpet compelling ns 
 
 homeward : if dawn in her east be 
 
 acokl, 
 From tlie sea shall we crave not her 
 
 grace to rekindle the life that it kin- 
 dled before, 
 Her breath to requicken. her bosom to 
 
 rock us, her kisses to bless as of yore ? 
 For the wind, with his wings half open, 
 
 at pause in the sky, neither fettered 
 
 nor free. 
 Leans waveward and flutters the ripple 
 
 to laughter : and fain would the twain 
 
 of us be 
 Where lightly the wave yearns forward 
 
 from under the curve of the deep 
 
 dawn's dome. 
 And, full of tiie morning and fired with 
 
 the pride of the glory thereof and the 
 
 glee, 
 Strike out from the shore as the heart 
 
 in us bids and beseeches, athirst for 
 
 the foam. 
 
 Life holds not an hour that is better to 
 
 live in : the past is a tale that is told. 
 The future a sun-flecked shadow, alive 
 
 and asleep, with a blessing in store. 
 As we give us again to the waters, the 
 
 rapture of limbs that the waters en- 
 fold 
 Is less than the rapture of s])irit whereby, 
 
 though the burden it quits were sore. 
 Our souls and the bodies they wield at 
 
 their will are absorbed in the life they 
 
 adore — • 
 In the life that endures no burden, and 
 
 bows not the forehead, and bends not 
 
 the knee — 
 In the life everlasting of earth and of 
 
 heaven, in the laws that atone and 
 
 agree. 
 In the measureless music of things, in the 
 
 fervor of forces that rest or that roam. 
 Tliat cross and return and reissue, as I 
 
 after j'ou and as you after me 
 Strike out from the shore as the heart in 
 
 us bids and beseeches, athirst for the 
 
 foam. 
 
 For, albeit he were less than the least of 
 them, haply the heart of a man may 
 be bold 
 
 To rejoice in tlie wt>rd of the sea, as a 
 
 mother's that saith to the son she bore, 
 " Child, was not the life in thee mine, 
 
 and my spirit the breath in thy lij^s 
 
 from of old ? 
 Have I let not thy weakness exult in my 
 
 strength, and thy foolishness learn of 
 
 my lore ? 
 Have I helped not or healed not thine 
 
 anguish, or made not the might of thy 
 
 gladness more ? " 
 And surely his heart should answer, ' ' The 
 
 light of the love of my life is in thee." 
 Slie is fairer than earth, and the sun is not 
 
 fairer, the wind is not blither than she : 
 From my youtii hath she sliown me the 
 
 joy of her bays that I crossed, of her 
 
 cliffs that I clomb. 
 Till now that the twain of ns here, in 
 
 desire of the dawn and in trust of the 
 
 sea. 
 Strike out from the sliore as the heart in 
 
 us bids and beseeches, athirst for the 
 
 foam. 
 
 Friend, earth is a harbor of refuge for 
 winter, a covei't w hereunder to flee 
 
 When day is the vassal of night, and the 
 strength of the hosts of her mightier 
 than he ; 
 
 But here is the presence adored of me, 
 here mj'^ desire is at rest and at home. 
 
 There are cliffs to be climbed upon land, 
 there are ways to be trodden and rid- 
 den : but we 
 
 Strike out from the shore as the heart 
 in us bids and beseeclies, athirst for 
 the foam. 1884. 
 
 THE SUNBOWS 
 
 Spray of song that springs in April, light 
 
 of love tliat laughs through May. 
 Live and die and live for ever : nought 
 
 of all things far less fair 
 Keeps a surer life than these that seem 
 
 to pass like fire away. 
 In the souls thej' live which are but all 
 
 the brighter that they were ; 
 In the hearts that kindle, thinking what 
 
 delight of old was there. 
 Wind that shapes and lifts and shifts 
 
 them bids perjietual memory play 
 Over dreams and in and out of deeds 
 
 and thouglits which seem to wear 
 Light that leaps and runs and revels 
 
 through the springing flames of spray. 
 
 Dawn is wild upon the waters where we 
 drink of dawn to-day : 
 
go6 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Wide, from wave to wave rekindling in 
 rebound tlirough radiant air, 
 
 Flash the fires unwoven and woven again 
 of wind that works in plaj^, 
 
 Working wonders more than heart may 
 note or sight may wellnigh dare, 
 
 Wefts of rarer light than colors rain 
 from heaven, tliough this be rare. 
 
 Arch on arch unbuilt in building, reared 
 and ruined ray by ray, 
 
 Breaks and brightens, laughs and les- 
 sens, even till eyes may hardly bear 
 
 Light that leaps and runs and i-evels 
 through the springing flames of spray. 
 
 Year on year sheds light and music 
 rolled and flashed from bay to bay 
 
 Roviud tlie summer capes of time and 
 winter headlands keen and bare 
 
 Whence tlie soul keeps watch, and bids 
 her vassal memory watch and pray. 
 
 If perchance the dawn may quicken, or 
 perchance the midnight spare. 
 
 Silence quells not music, darkness takes 
 not sunlight in her snare ; 
 
 Shall not joys endure that perish ? Yea, 
 saith dawn, though night say nay: 
 
 Life on life goes out, but very life en- 
 kindles everywhere 
 
 Light that leaps and runs and revels 
 through the springing flames of spray. 
 
 Friend, were life no more than this is, 
 
 well would yet the living fare. 
 All aflower and all afire and all flung 
 
 heavenward, who shall say 
 Such a flasli of life were worthless ? This 
 
 is worth a world of care- 
 Light that leaps and runs and revels 
 
 through the springing flames of spray. 
 
 1884. 
 
 ON THE VERGE 
 
 Here begins the sea that ends not till 
 the world's end. Wliere we stand. 
 
 Could we know the next high sea-mark 
 set bej'ond these waves tliat gleam, 
 
 We should know wliat never man hath 
 known, nor eye of man hath scanned. 
 
 Nought be,yond these coiling clouds that 
 melt like fume of shrines that steam 
 
 Breaks or stays the strength of waters 
 till they pass our bounds of dream. 
 
 Wliere the waste Land s End leans west- 
 ward, all the seas it watches roll 
 
 Find their border fixed beyond them, 
 and a worldwide shore's control : 
 
 These whereby we stand, no shore be- 
 yond us limits : these are free. 
 
 Gazing hence, we see tiie water that 
 grows iron round the Pole, 
 
 From the shore that hath no shore be- 
 yond it set in all the sea. 
 
 Sail on sail along the sea-line fades and 
 
 flashes : here on land 
 Flash and fade the wheeling wings on 
 
 wings of mews that plunge and scream. 
 Hour on hour along the line of life and 
 
 time's evasive strand 
 Shines and darkens, wanes and waxes, 
 
 slays and dies : and scarce they seem 
 More than motes that thronged and 
 
 treml)led in the brief noon's breath 
 
 and beam. 
 Some with crying and wailing, some 
 
 with notes like sound of bells that toll, 
 Some with sighing and laughing, some 
 
 with words that blessed and made us 
 
 whole, 
 Passed, and left us, and we know not 
 
 what they were, nor what were we. 
 Would we know, being mortal? Never 
 
 breath of answering wliisper stole 
 From the shore that hath no shore be- 
 yond it set in all the sea. 
 
 Shadows, would we question darkness ? 
 Ere our eyes and brows be fanned 
 
 Round with airs of twilight, washed 
 with dews from sleep's eternal stream. 
 
 Would we know sleep's guarded secret ? 
 Ere the fire consume the brand. 
 
 Would it know if yet its ashes may re- 
 quicken ? yet we deem 
 
 Suiely man may know, or ever night 
 unyoke her starry team, 
 
 What the dawn shall be, or if the dawn 
 shall be not : j'ea, the scroll 
 
 Would we read of sleep's dark scripture, 
 pledge of peace or doom of dole. 
 
 Ah, but here man's heart leaps, yearning 
 toward the gloom with venturous glee. 
 
 Though his pilot e.ye behold nor bay nor 
 harbor, rock nor shoal. 
 
 From the shore that hath no shore be- 
 yond it set in all the sea. 
 
 Friend, who knows if death indeed have 
 
 life or life have death for goal ? 
 Day nor night can tell us, nor may seas 
 
 declare nor skies unroll 
 What has been from everlasting, or if 
 
 aught shall alvvay be. 
 Silence answering only strikes response 
 
 reverberate on the soul 
 From the shore that hath no shore 
 
 beyond it set in all the sea. 1884. 
 
SWINBURNE 
 
 907 
 
 ON THE MONUMENT ERECTED 
 TO MAZZINI AT GENOA 
 
 Italia, mother of the souls of men, 
 
 Mother divine 
 Of all that serv'd thee best with sword 
 or pen, 
 
 AH sons of thine, 
 
 Thou knowest that here the likeness of 
 the best 
 Before tliee stands : 
 The liead most high, the heart found 
 faithfulest. 
 The purest hands. 
 
 Above the fume and foam of time that 
 iiits. 
 
 The soul, we know. 
 Now sits on high wiiere Alighieri sits 
 
 With Angelo. 
 
 Nor his own heavenly tongue hath heav- 
 enly speech 
 Enough to say 
 Wliat this man was, whose praise no 
 thought may reach, 
 No words can weigh. 
 
 Since man's first mother brought to 
 mortal birth 
 
 Her first-born son, 
 Such grace befell not ever man on earth 
 
 As crowns this One. 
 
 Of God nor man was ever this thing 
 
 said : 
 
 That he could give 
 
 Life back to her wlio gave him, that his 
 
 dead 
 
 Mother might live. 
 
 But this man found his mother dead and 
 slain. 
 
 With fast-seal'd eyes. 
 And bacte the dead lise up and live again. 
 
 And she did rise : 
 
 And all the world was bright with her 
 through liim : 
 But dark with strife. 
 Like heaven's own sun that storming 
 clouds bedim, 
 Was all his life. 
 
 Life and the clouds are vanish'd ; hate 
 and fear 
 
 Have had their span 
 Of time to hurt and are not : He is here, 
 
 The sunlike man. 
 
 City superb, that hadst Columbus first 
 
 For sovereign son. 
 Be prouder that thy breast hath later 
 nursed 
 
 This mightier One. 
 
 Glory be his for ever, while his land 
 
 Lives and is free. 
 As with controlling breath and sove- 
 reign hand 
 
 He bade her be. 
 
 Earth shows to heaven the names by 
 thousands told 
 That crown her fame. 
 But highest of all that heaven and earth 
 behold, 
 Mazzini's name. 1884. 
 
 THE INTERPRETERS 
 
 Days dawn on us that make amends for 
 many 
 
 Sometimes, 
 When heaven and earth seem sweeter 
 even than any 
 Man's rhymes. 
 
 Light had not all been quenched in 
 France, or quelled 
 
 In Greece, 
 Had Homer sung not, or had Hugo held 
 
 His peace. 
 
 Had Sappho's self not left her word thus 
 long 
 For token. 
 The sea round Lesbos yet in waves of 
 song- 
 Had sjioken. 
 
 And yet these days of subtler air and 
 finer 
 Delight. 
 When lovelier looks the darkness, and 
 diviner 
 The liglit— 
 
 The gift they give of all these golden 
 hours, 
 
 Whose urn 
 Pours forth reverberate ]-ays or shadow- 
 ing showers 
 In turn — 
 
 Clouds, beams, and winds that make the 
 live day's track 
 Seem living — 
 
9o8 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 What were they did no spirit give them 
 back 
 Thanksgiving? 
 
 Dead air, dead fire, dead shapes and 
 sliadows, telling 
 Time nought ; 
 Man gives them sense and soul by song, 
 and dwelling 
 In thought. 
 
 In human thought their being endures, 
 their power 
 Abides : 
 Else were their life a thing that each 
 light hour 
 Derides. 
 
 Tlie years live, work, sigh, smile, and 
 die, with all 
 Tliey cherisli ; 
 The soul endures, though dreams that 
 fed it fall 
 And perish. 
 
 IV 
 
 In human thought have all things habi- 
 tation ; 
 Our days 
 Laugh, lower, and lighten past, and find 
 no station 
 That staj^s. 
 
 But thought and faith are ttiightier 
 things than time 
 Can wrong. 
 Made splendid once with speech, or made 
 sublime 
 By song. 
 
 Reniembi'ance, though the tide of change 
 that rolls 
 Wax hoary, 
 Gives earth and heaven, for song's sake 
 and the soul's, 
 Their glory. 1885. 
 
 A WORD WITH THE WIND 
 
 Lord of days and nights that hear thj' 
 word of wintry warning. 
 Wind whose feet are set on ways that 
 none may tread. 
 Change the nest wherein thy wings are 
 fledged for fliglit by morning, 
 Change the harbor whence at dawn 
 thy sails are spread. 
 
 Not the dawn, ere yet the imprisoning 
 night has half i-eleaseil her. 
 More desires the sun's full face of 
 cheer, than we, 
 Well as yet we love the strength of the 
 iron-tongued north-easter. 
 Yearn for wind to meet us as we front 
 the sea. 
 All th)' ways are good, O wind, and all 
 the world should fester. 
 Were thy fourfold godhead quenched, 
 or stilled thy strife : 
 Yet the waves and we desire too long 
 the deep south-wester. 
 Whence the waters quicken shore- 
 ward, clothed with life. 
 Yet the field not made for ploughing 
 save of keels nor harrowing 
 Save of storm-winds lies unbrigiitened 
 bj- thy breath : 
 Banded broad with ruddy samphire 
 glow the sea-banks narrowing 
 Westward, while the sea gleams chill 
 and still as death. 
 Sharp and strange from inland sounds 
 thy bitter note of battle. 
 Blown between grim skies and waters 
 sullen-souled. 
 Till the baffled seas bear back, rocks 
 roar and shingles rattle. 
 Vexed and angered and anhungered 
 and acold. 
 Change thy note, and give the waves 
 their will, and all tlie measure. 
 Full and perfect, of the music of their 
 might. 
 Let it fill the bays with thunderous 
 notes of pleasure. 
 Shake the shores with passion, sound 
 at once and smite. 
 Sweet are even the mild low notes of 
 wind and sea, but sweeter 
 Sounds the song whose chcft'al wrath 
 of raging rlivme 
 Bids the shelving shoals keep t»ne with 
 storm's imperious metre. 
 Bids the rocks and reefs respond in 
 rapturous chime. 
 Sweet the lisp and lulling whisper and 
 luxurious laughter, [the sun 
 
 Soft as love or sleep, of waves whereon 
 Dreams, and dreams not of the darkling 
 hours before nor after. 
 Winged with cloud whose wrath shall 
 bid love's day be done. 
 Yet shall darkness bring the awakening 
 sea a lordlier lover. 
 Clothed with strength more amorous 
 and more strenuous will, 
 
SWINBURNE 
 
 909 
 
 Whence her lieart of hearts shall kindle 
 and her soul recover 
 Sense of love too keen to lie for love's 
 sake still. 
 Let thy strong south-western music 
 sound, and bid the billow^s 
 Brighten, proud and glad to feel tliy 
 scourge and kiss 
 Sting and soothe and swaj^ them, bowed 
 as aspens bend or willows, 
 Yet resurgent still in breathless rage 
 of bliss. 
 All to-day the slow sleek ripples hardly 
 bear up shore-ward, 
 Charged with sighs more light than 
 laughter, faint and fair, 
 Like a woodland lake's weak wavelets 
 lightl}'^ lingering forward, [air. 
 Soft and listless as the slumber-stricken 
 Be the sunshine bared or veiled, the sky 
 superb or shrouded. 
 Still the waters, lax and languid, 
 chafed and foiled. 
 Keen and thwarted, pale and patient, 
 clothed with fire or clouded, 
 Vex their heart in vain, or sleep like 
 serpents coiled. 
 Thee they look for, blind and baffled, 
 wan with wrath and weary. 
 Blown fori ever back by winds that 
 rock the bird : 
 Winds that seamews breast subdue the 
 sea, and bid the dreary 
 Waves be weak as hearts made sick 
 with hope deferred. 
 Let thy clarion sound from westward, 
 let the south bear token 
 How the glories of thy godhead sound 
 and shine : 
 Bid the land rejoice to see the land- 
 wind's broad wings broken. 
 Bid the sea take comfort, bid the 
 world be thine. 
 Half the world abhors thee beating back 
 the sea, and blackening 
 Heaven with fierce and woful change 
 of fluctuant form : 
 All the world acclaims thee shifting sail 
 again, and slackening 
 Cloud by cloud the close-reefed cordage 
 of the storm. 
 Sweeter fields and brighter woods and 
 lordlier hills than waken 
 Here at sunrise never hailed the sun 
 and thee : 
 Turn thee then, and give them comfort, 
 shed like rain and shaken 
 Far as foam that laughs and leaps 
 along the sea. 1889. 
 
 IN TIME OF MOURNING 
 
 " Return," we dare not as we fain 
 Would cry from hearts that yearn : 
 
 Love dares not bid our dead again 
 Return. 
 
 O hearts that strain and burn 
 As fires fast fettered burn and strain 1 
 Bow down, lie still, and learn. 
 
 Tlie heart that healed all hearts of pain 
 
 No funeral rites inurn : 
 Its echoes, while the stars remain. 
 
 Return. May, ISSf,. 1889. 
 
 A SEQUENCE OF SONNETS ON THE 
 DEATH OF ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 The clearest eyes in all the world they 
 
 read 
 With sense more keen and spirit of sight 
 
 more ti'ue 
 Than burns and thrills in sunrise, when 
 
 the dew 
 Flames, and absorbs the glory round it 
 
 shed. 
 As they the light of agesquickand dead, 
 Closed now, forsake us : yet the shaft 
 
 that slew 
 Can slay not one of all the works we 
 
 knew, 
 Nor death discrown that many-laurelled 
 
 head. 
 The works of words whose life seems 
 
 lightning wrought, 
 And moulded of unconquerable thought, 
 And quickened with imperisliable flame, 
 Stand fast and shine and snaile, assured 
 
 that nought 
 May fade of all their myriad-moulded 
 
 fame, 
 Nor England's memory clasp not Brown- 
 ing's name. 
 
 Death, what hast thou to do with one 
 for whom 
 
 Time is not lord, but servant ? What 
 least part 
 
 Of all the fire tliat fed his living heart. 
 
 Of all the light more keen than sun- 
 dawn's bloom 
 
 That lit and led his spirit, strong as doom 
 
 And bright as hope, can aught thy 
 breatli may dart 
 
 Quencli? Nay, tliou knowest he knew 
 thee what thou art, 
 
 A shadow born of terror's barren womb, 
 
9IO 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 That brings not forth save shadows. 
 
 What art thou. 
 To dream, albeit thou breathe upon his 
 
 brow, 
 That power on him is given thee, — that 
 
 thy bi-eath 
 Can make him less than love acclaims 
 
 him now. 
 And hears all time sound back the word 
 
 it saitli ? 
 What part liast thou then in his glory, 
 
 Death ? 
 
 But he — to him, who knows what gift is 
 
 thine, 
 Death ? Hardly may we think or hope 
 
 when we 
 Pass likewise thither wliere to-night is 
 
 he, 
 Beyond tlie irremeable outer seas that 
 
 shine 
 And darken round sucli dreams as half 
 
 divine 
 Some sunlit harbor in that starless sea 
 Where gleams no ship to windward or 
 
 to lee. 
 To read with him the secret of thy shrine. 
 There too, as here, may song, delight, 
 
 and love. 
 The nightingale, the sea-bird, and the 
 
 dove, 
 Fulfil with joy the splendor of the sky 
 Till all beneath wax briglitas all above : 
 But none of all that search the heavens, 
 
 and try 
 The sun, may match the sovereign 
 
 eagle's eye. 
 
 Among the wondrous ways of men and 
 
 time 
 He went as one that ever found and 
 
 sought 
 And bore in hand the lamplike spirit 
 
 of thought 
 To illume with instance of its fire sub- 
 lime 
 The dusk of many a cloudlike age and 
 
 clime. 
 No spirit in shape of light and darkness 
 
 wrought. 
 No faith, no fear, no dream, no rapture, 
 
 nought 
 That blooms in wisdom, nought that 
 
 burns in crime. 
 No virtue girt and armed and helmed 
 
 with light, 
 No love more lovely than the snows are 
 
 white, 
 
 No serpent sleeping in some dead soufs 
 
 tomb, 
 No song-bird singing from some live 
 
 soul's height. 
 But he might hear, interpret, or illume 
 With sense invasive as the dawn of 
 
 doom. 
 
 What secret thing of splendor or of 
 
 shade 
 Surmised in all those wandering ways 
 
 wherein 
 Man, led of love and life and death and 
 
 sin. 
 Strays, climbs, or cowers, allured, ab- 
 sorbed, afraid. 
 Might not the strong and sunlike sense 
 
 invade 
 Of that full soul that had for aim to win 
 Light, silent over time's dark toil and 
 
 din. 
 Life, at whose touch death fades as dead 
 
 things fade ? 
 O spirit of man, what mystery moves in 
 
 thee 
 That he might know not of in spirit, and 
 
 see 
 The heart within the heart that seems 
 
 to strive. 
 The life within the life that seems to be. 
 And hear tlirough all thy stoi'ms that 
 
 whirl and drive. 
 The living sound of all men's souls alive ? 
 
 He held no dream worth waking : so he 
 
 said. 
 He who stands now on death's tri- 
 umphal steep. 
 Awakened out of life wherein we sleep 
 And dream of what he knows and sees, 
 
 being dead. 
 But never death for him was dark or 
 
 dread : 
 "Look forth" he bade the soul, and 
 
 fear not. Weep, 
 All ye that trust not in his truth, and 
 
 keep 
 Vain memory's vision of a vanished liead 
 As all that lives of all that once was he 
 Save that which lightens from his word : 
 
 but we. 
 Who, seeing the sunset-colored waters 
 
 roll, 
 Yet know the sun subdued not of the 
 
 sea, 
 Nor weep nor dovibt that still the spirit 
 
 is whole. 
 And life and death but shadows of tiie 
 
 soul. Januarj', 1890. 
 
INDEXES 
 
 I 
 
LIST OF ABBREVIATIONS 
 
 INDEX OF POETS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Ar : Arnold (1822-1888) 706 
 
 B : Byron (1788-1824) 167 
 
 C: Coleridge (1772-1834) 64 
 
 CI: Clough (1819-18G1) 687 
 
 EBB : Elizabeth Barrett Browning ( 1806-1 8G 1 ) 554 
 
 K : Keats (1795-1821) 370 
 
 L : Landor (1775-1864) 424 
 
 M : Morris (1834-1890) 823 
 
 R : ROSSETTI (1828-1882) 773 
 
 RB: Robert Browning (1812-1S89) 565 
 
 So: ScOTT (1771-1832) 104 
 
 Sli : Shelley (1792-1822) ' 273 
 
 S\v: Swinburne (1837 ) 865 
 
 T : Tennyson (1809-1892) 459 
 
 W: Wordsworth (1770-1850) 1 
 
 912 
 
INDEX OF TITLES 
 
 Ablett, To Joseph, L 438 
 
 Abt Vogler, RB 657 
 
 Aeon and Rhodope, L 450 
 
 Adam, Lilith and Eve, RB 680 
 
 Adonais, Sh 358 
 
 Aeschylos and Sophocles, L 454 
 
 Affliction of Margaret, The, W 43 
 
 After dark vapors have oppressed our 
 
 plains, K 380 
 After-thought, W 57 
 Agamemnon and Iphigeneia, L 445 
 Agamemnon and Iphigeneia, The shades of, 
 
 L 433 
 Age, To, L 455 
 Aged man who loved to doze away. An, L 
 
 458 
 Aglae, Little, L 437 
 Agnes and the hill-man, M 863 
 Ah ! yet consider it again, CI 700 
 Ailsa Rock, To, K 389 
 
 A king lived long ago (Pippa passes), RB 586 
 Alas, how soon the hours are over, L 443 
 Alastor, Sh 276 
 Allen-a-dale, Sc 161 
 All is well, CI 705 
 All service ranks the same with God (Pippa 
 
 passes ), RB 572 
 Alteram partem, CI 694 
 America, To Walt Whitman in, Sw 886 
 Among the rocks (James Lee's wife), RB 657 
 Amours de voyage, From, CI 691 
 Amphibian (Fifine at the fair) RB 671 
 Ancient mariner, Rime of the, C 73 
 Andrea del Sarto, RB 650 
 And thou art dead, as young and fair, B 171 
 Another way of love, RB 629 
 Any wife to any husband, RB 626 
 Apology, An (Earthly paradise), M 842 
 Appeal, An, Sw 881 
 Appearances, RB 674 
 April, 1814. Stanzas, Sh 275 
 Arethusa, Sh 346 
 Artemidora, The death of, L 436 
 Arthur, Passing of, T 481 
 Ask me no more, T 498 
 Ask not one least word of praise (Ferish- 
 
 tah's fancies), RB 682 
 Asolando, Epilogue to, RB 686 
 
 58 
 
 Aspecta medusa, R 786 
 
 As through the land at eve we went, T 498 
 
 Atalanta iii Calydon, choruses from, Sw 866 
 
 Atalanta's race, M 843 
 
 At the sunrise in 1848, R 778 
 
 At the grave of Burns, W 36 
 
 A toccata of Galuppi's, RB 621 
 
 August (Earthly paradise), M 855 
 
 Augusta, Epistle to, B 210 
 
 Augusta, Stanzas to, B 209 
 
 Austerity of poetry, Ar 761 
 
 Autumnal evening, Lines on an, C 66 
 
 Autumn song, R 776 
 
 Autumn, To, K 409 
 
 Ave atque vale, Frater, T 550 
 
 Ave Maria (Don Juan), B 251 
 
 Aylmer, Rose, L 428 
 
 Bacchanalia ; or, the new age, Ar 764 
 
 Balder dead (III), Ar 745 
 
 Ballad of burdens. A, Sw 875 
 
 Ballad of dreamland, Sw 890 
 
 Ballad of Frangois Villon, Sw 891 
 
 Ballad of the dark ladie. The, C 92 
 
 Bards of passion and of mirth, K 406 
 
 Barren spring, R 805 
 
 Battle of Waterloo, B 192 
 
 Beauty's pageant, R 805 
 
 Before the beginning of years (Atalanta in 
 
 Calydon), Sw 867 
 Belle dame sans merci. La, K 422 
 Bethesda (A sequel), CI 691 
 Better part. The, Ar 762 
 Between the sunset and the sea (Chas- 
 
 telard), Sw 872 
 Birds in the high hall garden (Maud), T 
 
 519 
 Birth-bond, The, R 796 
 Bishop orders his tomb in St. Praxed's 
 
 church. The, RB 609 
 Blake, William, R 811 
 Blank misgivings, CI 688 
 Blessed damozel,' The, R 774 
 Blot in the scutcheon, Song from, RB 602 
 Blow, trumpet, for the world is white with 
 
 May (Coming of Arthur), T 540 
 Blue closet, The, M 835 
 Et)Ccaccio, The garden of, C 102 
 
 9^3 
 
914 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Body's beauty, R 805 
 
 Boimy Dundee, Sc 165 
 
 Boot and saddle, RB 593 
 
 Border ballad, Sc 165 
 
 Break, break, break, T 417 
 
 Bridal birth, R 793 
 
 Bride of Abydos, The, B 172 
 
 Bright star ! would I were steadfast as 
 
 thou art, K 423 
 Brignall Banks, Sc 161 
 Brook, The, T 518 
 Browning, Sonnets on the death of Robert, 
 
 Sw90t» 
 Browning, to Robert, L 443 
 Buonaparte, I grieved for, W 30 
 Buonaparte, Ode to Napoleon, B 184 
 Burden of Nineveh, The, R 683 
 Burdens, Ballad of, Sw 875 
 Burghers' battle, The, M 862 
 Buried life, The, Ar 723 
 Burns, At the grave of, W 36 
 Burns, On, R 811 
 By the sea-side, Composed, W 31 
 
 Cadyow Castle, Sc 108 
 
 Calais, Composed by the sea-side near, W 
 
 31 
 Callicles'.song, Ar 719 
 Card-dealer, The, R 777 
 Carlyle and George Eliot, On the deaths 
 
 of, Sw 899 
 Castled crag of Drachenfels, The, B 196 
 Cauteretz, In the valley of, T 539 
 Cavalier song, Sc 163 
 Cavalier tunes, RB 592 
 Celandine, To the small (two poems), W 27 
 Chamouni, In the vale of, C 96 
 Chapel in Lyoness, M 826 
 Chapman's Homer, On first looking into, 
 
 K373 
 Character of the happy warrior, W 47 
 Charge of the Heavy Brigade, Epilogue to 
 
 the, T 550 
 Charge of the Light Brigade, The, T 518 
 Chastelard, Songs from, Sw 871 
 Chatterton, Thomas, R 811 
 Chaucer, Invocation to (Life and death of 
 
 Jason), M 842 
 Chaucer (On a country road), Sw 903 
 Child and Poet, Sw 900 
 Child of a day, thou knowest not, L 430 
 Childe Harold, Canto III, B 189 
 Childe Harold, Canto IV, B 234 [641 
 
 Childe Roland to the dark tower came, RB 
 Child's future. A, Sw 901. 
 Children, Sw 900 
 Child's laughter. A, Sw 900 
 Child's song, Sw 892 
 Chillon, The prisoner of, B 206 
 Chillon, Sonnet on, B 206 
 Chimes, R 809 
 Choice, The, R 803 
 Choric song (Lotos-eaters), T 473 
 Choruses from Atalanta, Sw 866 
 Choruses from Hellas, Sh 366, 367 
 Christabel, C 81 
 
 Chrvsolites and rubies Bacchus brings, 
 
 The. L 455 
 Circassian love-chant (Levvti), C 68 
 Claribel, T 461 
 Clarion, Sc 163 
 Cleone to Aspasia, L 4,37 
 Cliffside path, The. Sw 904 
 Cliffs, On the, Sw 892 
 Cloud, The, Sh 343 
 Cloud confines. The, R 808 
 Coleridge, S. T., R 812 
 Coleridge, To, Sh 275 
 Coliseum, The (Manfred), B 231 
 Coliseum, The (Childe Harold), B 237 
 Come back, come back ( Songs in absence), 
 
 CI 700 
 Come home, come home (Songs in absence), 
 
 CI 700 
 Come into the garden, Maud (Maud), T 521 
 Come not when I am dead, T 514 
 Come poet, come, CI 704 
 Coming of Arthur, Songs from the, T 540 
 Coming of Dian, The (Endymion), K 383 
 Composed a few miles above Tintern Abbey, 
 
 Lines, W 9 
 Composed by the sea-side, near Calais, W 31 
 Composed upon an evening of extraor- 
 dinary splendor, W 55 
 Composed upon Westminster Bridge, Sept. 
 
 3, 1802, W 31 
 Confessions, RB 666 
 Consider it again, CI 700 
 Cor cordium, Sw 888 
 Corinna to Tanagra, from Athens, L 436 
 Coronach, Sc 160 
 County Guv, Sc 165 
 Cristina, RB 594 
 Crossing the bar, T 553 
 Cuckoo, To the, W 42 
 Cupid and Psyche, Song from the story 
 
 of, M 854 
 Currente calamo (Marl magno) CI 703 
 Cyclamen, To a, L 442 
 
 Daffodils, W 43 
 
 Daisy, To the (Three poems), "W 34, 35 
 
 Dark glass. The, R 798 
 
 Dark ladie. Ballad of the, C 92 
 
 Darknes?, B 212 
 
 Dark wood. The, M 857 
 
 Day is coming, The, M 860 
 
 Day of days. The, M 861 
 
 Day of love. The (Love is enough) : M 8.58 
 
 Day returns, my natal day. The, L 443 
 
 Days that were. The, (House of the Wolf- 
 
 ings) M 861 
 Death-in-love, R 799 
 Death of Artemidora, The, L 436 
 Death of James Hogg, Extempore effusion 
 
 upon the, W 61 
 Death of Meleager (Atalanta in Calydon), 
 
 Sw 869 
 Death of Southey, On the, L 456 
 Death, On Southev's, L 457 
 Death of the Duke of Wellington, Ode on 
 
 the, T 514 
 
INDEX OF TITLES 
 
 9^5 
 
 k 
 
 Deaths of Thomas Caiiyle and George 
 
 Eliot, On the, Sw 899 
 Death, Sonnets on the thought of, CI 705 
 Death stands above me, L 456 
 Dedication ( Don Juan ), B 240 
 Dedication (Poems and ballads, first series), 
 
 Sw 879 
 Dedication (Ring and the Book) RB 668 
 Dedication, A, T 539 
 Dedication of the Revolt of Islam, (To 
 
 Mary ) Sh 291 
 
 Defence of Guenevere, The, M 828 
 
 Defence of Lucknow, The, T 546 
 
 De gustibus, RB 626 
 
 Dejection, an ode, C 94 
 
 Dejection, Stanzas written in, near Naples, 
 
 Sh 296 
 Destruction of Sennacherib, The, B 187 
 Development, RB 684 
 Dian, The coming of (Endymion), K 383 
 Dian, The feast of (Endymion), K 387 
 Dipsychus, From, CI 694 
 Dirce, L 437 
 Dirge, A, Sh 369 
 Donald Dhu, Pibroch of, Sc 163 
 Don Juan, B 240 
 Dora, T 484 
 Dover beach, Ar 763 
 Do you remember me ? or are you proud ? 
 
 L441 
 Drachenfels, The castled crag of, B 196 
 Dramatis personee, Epilogue to, RB 668 
 Dreamland, Ballad of, Sw 8i)0 
 Dream of fair women, A, T 474 
 Duchess, My last, RB 595 
 Duke of Wellington, Ode on the death of, 
 
 T514 
 Duty, Ode to, W 44 
 
 Eagle, The, T 514 
 
 Earthly Paradise, Fi-om the, M 842 
 
 Earth's immortalities, RB 605 
 
 East and west, Ar 762 
 
 Easter day, Naples, 1849, CI 696 
 
 Easter day, II, CI 697 
 
 East London, Ar 761 
 
 Echetlos, RB 679 
 
 Echo song (Prometheus unbound), Sh 314 
 
 Effusion upon the death of James Hogg, 
 Extempore, W 61 
 
 Elaine's song (Lancelot and Elaine), T 525 
 
 Elegiac stanzas, W 45 
 
 Elgin marbles. On seeing the, K 380 
 
 Empedocles, Lyric stanzas of, Ar 715 
 
 Endymion, Prom, K 381 
 
 England, An appeal to, Sw 881 
 
 England and America in 1782, T 542 
 
 England in 1819, Sonnet, Sh 297 
 
 Enid's song (Marriage of Geraint), T 524 
 
 En route (Amours de voyage), CI 691 
 
 Envoi (Amours de vovage), CI 693 
 
 Envoi (Earthly paradise"), M 856 
 
 Epilogue to Asolando, RB 686 
 
 Epilogue to the charge of the Heavy Brig- 
 ade, T 550 
 
 Epilogue to Dramatic Idyls, RB 680 
 
 58 
 
 Epilogue to Dramatis Personse, RB 668 
 Epilogue (Fifine at the fair), RB 671 
 Epilogue to the Pacchiarotto volume, RB 
 
 674 
 Epilogue (Two poets of Croisic), RB 678 
 Epipsychidion, Sh 348 
 Epistle to Augusta, B 210 
 Epitaph at Fiesole, For an, L 432 
 Equal troth, R 798 
 Error and loss, M 857 
 Etude realiste, Sw 901 
 Euganean Hills, Lines written among the, 
 
 Sh 293 
 Evelyn Hope, RB 618 
 Evening ode, W 55 
 Eve of Crecy, The, M 834 
 Eve of St. Agnes, The, K 398 
 Eve of St. John, The, Sc 108 
 Eve of St. Mark, The, K 404 
 Expostulation and reply, W 8 
 Extempore effusion upon the death of 
 
 James Hogg, W 61 
 Extinction of the Venetian republic. On 
 
 the, W 31 
 
 Face, A, RB 6(i7 
 
 Faded violet. On a, Sh 293 
 
 Fame (Earth's immortalities), RB 605 
 
 Fame, On, K 423 
 
 Fancy, K 390 
 
 Fare-thee-well, B 188 
 
 Farewell, A, T 494 
 
 Farewell to Italy, L 440 
 
 Farewell to the glen, R 806 
 
 Far, far awav, T 553 
 
 Fate (Atalanta in Calydon), Sw 869 
 
 Fears and scruples, RB 673 
 
 Feast of Dian, K 387 
 
 Ferishtah's fancies. Songs from, RB 681 
 
 Fiesolan idyl, L 431 
 
 Fiesole, For an epitaph at, L 432 
 
 Fiflne at the fair, RB 671 
 
 Final chorus (Atalanta in Calydon), Sw 871 
 
 Final chorus ( Hellas j, Sh 367 
 
 Final chorus (Love is enough), M 859 
 
 Fire is in the flint (Ferishtah's fancies), RB 
 
 681 
 First love remembered, R 787 
 Firwood, A young, R 779 
 Five English poets, R 811 
 Flower, The, T 539 
 Flower in the crannied wall, T 541 
 For an epitaph at Fiesole, L 432 
 For a Venetian pastoral, R 779 
 Forsaken garden, The, Sw 889 
 Forsaken merman. The, Ar 708 
 Fountain, The, W 17 
 Fra Lippo Lippi, RB 644 
 France, an ode, C 88 
 Francois Villon, Ballad of, Sw 891 
 Frater ave atque. vale, T 550 
 French revolution, W 46 
 From Amours de voyage, CI 691 
 From Dipsychus, CI 694 
 From Endymion, K 381 
 From Mater triumphalis, Sw 887 
 
9i6 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 From Switzerland, Ar 756 
 
 From the Coming- of Arthur, T 540 
 
 From the Earthly Paradise, M 842 
 
 From the Life and Death of Jason, M 839 
 
 From the Ring and the Book, RB 668 
 
 Frost at midnight, C 90 
 
 Future, The, Ar T^i 
 
 Galahad, Sir, T 493 
 
 Garden by the sea, A (Nymph's song to 
 
 Hylas), M 839, 
 Garden of Boccaccio, The, C 102 
 Garden of Proserpine, The, Sw 877 
 Gebir, L 425 
 Genius in beauty, R 796 
 Gentleman, To a (William Wordsworth), 
 
 C99 
 George Eliot and Thomas Carlyle, On the 
 
 deaths of, Sw 899 
 Gilliflower of gold, The, M 832 
 Give a rouse, RB 593 
 Give her but the least excuse to love me 
 
 (Pippa passes), RB 582 
 Give me the eyes tliat look on mine, L 442 
 Gleam, Merlin and the, T 551 
 Godiva, T, 492 
 Gold-hair ( Rapunzel), M 827 
 Go not, happy day, (Maud), T 520 
 Grammarian's Funeral, A, RB 635 
 Grande Chartreuse, Stanzas from the, Ar 
 
 754 
 Grasshopper and cricket. On the, K 374 
 Grave of Burns, At the, W 36 
 Great men have been among us, W 33 
 Great spirits now on earth are sojourning, 
 
 K 373 
 Grecian urn. Ode on a, K 407 
 Green fields of England, CI 700 
 Green linnet. The. W 35 
 Growing old, Ar 763 
 Guardian angel. The, RB 631 
 Guenevere, The defence of, M 828 
 Guernsey, In, Sw 901 
 Guinevere, T 525 
 
 Haidee (Don Juan), B 244 
 
 Hail to the chief who in triumph advances. 
 
 So 159 
 Hamadryad, The, L 446 
 Hands (Rapunzel), M 827 
 Hands all round, T 517 [543 
 
 Hapless doom of woman (Queen Mary), T 
 Happy -warrior. Character of, W 47 
 Harp of the north, farewell, Sc 160 
 Hartley Coleridge, To, W 33 
 Hast thou seen with flash incessant, W 55 
 Haydon, To B. R., W 55 
 Haystack in the floods. The, M 836 
 Heap cassia, sandal buds (Paracelsus), RB 
 
 568 
 Plealth to King Charles, Here's a, Sc 166 
 Heart of the night. The, R 802 
 Heart's compass, R 797 
 Heart's hope, R 794 
 Heine (from Heine's grave), Ar 768 
 Hellas, Choruses from, Sh 366, 367 
 
 Hellas, Song from, Sh 367 
 
 Hellenics, On the, L 444 
 
 Here pause, the poet claims at least this 
 
 praise, W 51 
 Here's a health to King Charles, Sc 166 
 Her gifts, R 798 
 
 Her heaven (True woman), R 801 
 Her love (True woman), R 801 
 Herself (True woman). R 801 
 Hertha. Sw 882 
 Herve Riel, RB 669 
 Hesperus, Sappho to, L 437 
 Hidden love. The, CI 704 
 Hie awav, hie away, Sc 162 
 Hiiiher Pantheism, The, T 540 
 Highland girl. To a, W 37 
 Hill summit. The, R 803 
 His own Iphigeneiaand Agamemnon, On, L 
 
 440 
 Hoarded joy, R 805 
 Hogg, Extempore efifusion on the death of 
 
 James, W 61 
 Homer, On first looking into Chapman's, K 
 
 373 
 Homer, To, K 389 
 
 Home thoughts from abroad, RB 605 
 Home thoughts from the sea, RB 605 
 Home they brought her warrior dead (The 
 
 Princess), T 498 
 Honeysuckle, The, R 788 
 Hope and fear, Sw 899 
 Hope evermore and believe, CI 698 
 Hounds of Spring, The (Atalantain Caly- 
 
 don), Sw 
 House, RB 672 
 Householder, The, (Fifine at the Fair), 
 
 RB671 
 House of Life, R 793 
 House of the Wolfings, Motto of, M 861 
 How many bards gild the lapses of time, K 
 
 373 
 How many voices gaily sing, L 443 
 How they brought the good news from 
 
 Ghent to Aix, RB 603 
 Human seasons. The, K 389 
 Hunting song, Sc 113 
 Husbandman, The, R 804 
 Hymn before sunrise in the vale of Cha- 
 
 mouni, C 96 
 Hymn of Pan, Sh 346 
 Hymn to intellectual beauty, Sh 287 
 Hymn to Pan (Endymion), K 382 
 Hymn to Proserpine, Sw 872 
 Hyperion, K 410 
 
 lanthe. Lyrics to, L 430, 441 
 
 lanthe, you are called to cross the sea, L 
 
 431 
 Iceland first seen, M 863 
 I fear thy kisses, Sh 345 
 If this great world of joy and pain, W 61 
 If thou indeed derive thy light from heaven, 
 
 W61 
 I grieved for Buonaparte, W 30 
 I have led her home (Maud), T 520 
 I have seen higher, holier things, CI 688 
 
INDEX OF TITLES 
 
 917 
 
 I held her hand, the pledge of bliss, L 431 
 
 I know not whether I am proud, L 443 
 
 Imitation of Spenser, K 372 
 
 Immortality, Ar 762 
 
 Impromptus, B 270 
 
 In a drear-nighted December, K 389 
 
 In a gondola, RB 596 
 
 In a lecture-room, CI 68S 
 
 In a London square, CI 705 
 
 Incident of the French camp, RB 594 
 
 Inconstancy, L 450 
 
 Indian serenade, Sh 299 
 
 Indolence, Ode on, K 405 
 
 Influence of natural objects, W 13 
 
 In Guernsey, Sw 901 
 
 In memoriam, T 409 
 
 In memory of the author of Obermann, 
 
 Stanzas, Ar 725 
 In memory of Walter Savage Landor, Sw 876 
 In prison, M 839 
 Inside of King's College chapel, Cambridge, 
 
 W 57 
 Insomnia, R 809 
 
 Intellectual beauty, Hymn to, Sh 287 
 Interpreters, The, Sw 907 
 In the depths, CI 694 
 In the vale of Chamouni, C 96 
 In the valley of Cauteretz, T 539 
 In the water, Sw 905 
 
 In the white-flowered hawthorn brake, M 855 
 In three days, RB 631 
 Intimations of immortality, W 39 
 In time of mourning, Sw 909 
 In time of order, A song, Sw 866 
 Introduction to the Earthly Paradise, M 842 
 Invasion, The (Gebir), L 425 
 Invocation to Chaucer (Life and Death of 
 
 Jason), M 842 
 Invocation to the power of love (Endy- 
 
 mion ), K 385 
 Iphigeneia and Agamemnon, On his own, 
 
 L440 
 Iphigeneia and Agamemnon, L 445 
 Iphigeneia, The shades of Agamemnon and, 
 
 L433 
 Isabella, K391 
 
 Is it not better at an early hour, L 443 
 Isles of Greece, The (Dori Juan), B 249 
 Isolation, To Marguerite, Ar 756 
 Italian in England, The, RB 606 
 Italy, Farewell to, L 440 
 Ite domum saturae, venit Hesperus, CI 702 
 It is a beauteous evening, W 31 
 It is not to be thought of, W 33 
 I travelled among unknown men, W 15 
 I wandered lonely as a cloud, W 43 
 I wonder not that youth remains, L 455 
 
 James Hogg, Extempore effusion upon the 
 
 death of, W 61 
 James Lee's wife, RB 657 
 Jason, The life and death of, M 839 
 Jock o' Hazeldean, Sc 162 
 John Bull, B 271 
 Joseph Ablett, To, L 438 
 June (Earthly Paradise), M 854 
 
 Kate the queen (Pippa passes), RB 582 
 
 Keats, R 812 
 
 Keen fitful gusts are whispering here and 
 
 there, K 373 
 Kensington Gardens, Lines written in, Ar 
 
 724 
 King Charles, Here's a health to, Sc 166 
 King's College Chapel, Cambridge, W 57 
 King's Tragedy, The, R 812 
 Known in vain, R 802 
 Kossuth, To Louis, Sw 891 
 Kubla Khan, C 72 
 
 La belle dame sans merci, K 432 
 
 Labuntur anni (Don Juan), B242 
 
 Lachin y Gair, B 170 ' 
 
 Lady of Shalott. The, T 462 
 
 La Fayette, C 69 
 
 Lake Leman, Sonnet to, B 214 
 
 Lamb, To Marv, L 440 
 
 Lament, A, Sh 358 
 
 Lancelot and Elaine, Song from, T 525 
 
 Landmark, The, R802 
 
 Landor, In memory of Walter Savage, Sw 
 
 876 
 Laodamia, W 51 
 La Saisiaz, Prologue, RB 677 
 Last duchess, Mv, RB 595 
 Last ride together. The, RB 634 
 Last sonnet, Keats', K 423 
 Late, late, so late (Guinevere), T 525 
 Lately our songsters loitered in green 
 
 lanes, L 457 
 Latest decalogue. The, CI 694 
 Lecture-room, In a, CI 688 
 Leech-gatherer, The, W 28 
 Left upon a seat in a yew-tree. Lines, W 4 
 Leigh Hunt, Esq., To, K 380 
 Leman, Sonnet to Lake, B 214 
 Lenore, Sc 105 
 
 L'Envoi (Earthly paradise), M 856 
 Lewti, C 68 
 Life, C 66 
 Life, Sc 165 
 
 Life and death of Jason, From the, M 839 
 Life in a love, RB 630 
 Life is struggle, CI 705 
 Life may change, but it mayfly not, Sh366 
 Life of life (Prometheus unbound). Sh 320 
 Life of man ( Atalanta in Calvdon), Sw 867 
 Life the beloved, R 807 
 Light Brigade, The charge of the, T 518 
 Light woman, A, RB 633 
 Lilith, R 805 
 
 Lime-tree bower my prison, This, C 70 
 Lines composed a few miles above Tintern 
 
 Abbey, W 9 
 Lines left upon a seat in a yew-tree, W 4 
 Lines on an autumnal evening, C 66 
 Lines on the Mermaid Tavern, K 390 
 Lines, When the lamp is shattered, Sh 369 
 Lines written among the Euganean HilLs, 
 
 Sh 293 
 Lines written in early spring, W 7 
 Lines written in Kensington Gardens, Ar 
 
 724 
 
9ii 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Lines written in the album at Elbingerode, 
 
 C93 
 Lippo Lippi, Fra, RB 644 
 Little Aglae, L 487 
 Little while, A, R 788 
 Lochinvar, Young, Sc 141 
 Loch na Garr, B 170 
 Locksley Hall, T 488 
 London, W 33 
 London literature and society (Don Juan), 
 
 B353 
 London square, In a, CI 705 
 Lost days, R 806 
 Lost Leader, The, RB 603 
 Lost on both sides, R 806 
 Lotos-eaters, The, T 472 
 Louis Kossuth, To, Sw 891 
 Love, C91 
 
 Love (Earth's immortalities) RB 605 
 Love among the ruins, RB 618 
 Love and Love's Mates (Atalanta in Caly- 
 
 don) Sw 868 
 Love at ebb (Chastelard), Sw 872 
 Love at sea, Sw 878 
 Love enthroned, R 793 
 Love in a life, RB 680 
 Love, Invocation to the power of, (Endy- 
 
 mion ), K 885 
 Love is enough, From, M 858 
 Love-letter, The, R 795 
 Love-lilv, R 792 
 Lover's walk. The, R 795 
 Lovesight, R 794 
 Love's last gift, R 801 
 Love's lovers, R 794 
 Love's nocturn, R 786 
 Loves of Tamar and the sea-nymph. The, 
 
 L426 
 Love's philosophy, Sh 299 
 Love-sweetness, R 797 
 Love's testament, R 793 
 Love thou thy land, T 480 
 Low, lute, low (Queen Mary), T 543 
 Lucknow, The defence of, T 546 
 Lucretia Borgia's hair, On, L 438 
 Lucy, W 14, 15 
 Lucy Grav, W 18 
 Lyrics from Maud, T 519 
 Lyrics from Queen Mary, T 543 
 Lyrics from the coming of Arthur, T 540 
 Lyrics from the Princess, T 497 
 Lyric stanzas of Empedocles, Ar 715 
 Lyrics, to lanthe, L 430, 441 
 
 Magical nature, RB 674 
 
 Maid of Athens, B 170 
 
 Maid of Neidpath, Sc 108 
 
 Maid's Lament, The, L 433 
 
 Maisie, Proud, Sc 164 
 
 Manfred, B 214 
 
 Marching along, RB 592 
 
 Margaret, The affliction of, W 43 
 
 Marguerite (Isolation), Ar 756 
 
 Marguerite, To (continued), Ar 757 
 
 Marmion, Sc 114 
 
 Marriage of Geraint, Song from, T 524 
 
 Mary , To (Revolt of Islam), Sh 291 
 
 Mary Beaton's song (Chastelard), Sw 871 
 
 Mary Lamb, To, L 440 
 
 Mary Magdalene at the door of Simon the 
 
 Pharisee, R 785 
 Mary's girlhood, R 778 
 Mary Stuart, Song from, Sw 899 
 Match, A, Sw 874 
 Mater triumphalis. From, Sw 887 
 Matthew, W 16 
 Maud, Lyrics from, T 519 
 Mazzini, On the monument to, Sw 907 
 Medusa, Aspecta, R 786 
 Meeting at night, RB 605 
 Meeting of Gebir and Charoba, The, L 426 
 Melancholy, Ode on, K 409 
 Meleager. Death of (Atalanta in Calydon), 
 
 Sw 869 
 Memorabilia, RB 632 
 Memorial thresholds, R 805 
 Memorial verses, Ar 713 
 Memory, W 58 
 Memory of Walter Savage Landor, In, Sw 
 
 876 
 Menelaus and Helen at Troy, L 452 
 Merlin and the gleam, T 551 
 Merlin and Vivien, Song from, T 524 
 Merlin's riddle (Coming of Arthur), T 540 
 Mermaid Tavern, Lines on the, K 390 
 Michael, W 19 
 Michelangelo's kiss, R 807 
 Mid-rapture, R 797 
 Mild is the parting year, L 431 
 Milkmaid's song (Queen Mary), T 543 
 Miller's daughter. The, T 463 
 Milton, T 536 
 Mirror, The, R 779 
 Misconceptions, RB 629 
 Misgivings, Blank, CI 688 
 Mont Blanc, C 96 
 Mont Blanc, B 215 
 Mont Blanc, Sh 288 
 Montenegro. T 543 
 Montorio's Height, On, CI 692 
 Moore, To Thomas, B 2:34, 271 
 Moralitv, Ar 721 
 Morte d' Arthur, T 481 
 
 Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes, W 61 
 Mother, I cannot mind my wheel, L 440 
 Mountain echo. Yes it was the, W 48 
 Muckle-mouth Meg, RB 683 
 Muse of the north, The, M 864 
 Music, On, L 455 
 
 Music, when soft voices die, Sh 358 
 Mutability, W 55 
 Mutability, Sh 358 
 
 My heart leaps up when I behold, W 26 
 My hopes retire, L 443 
 My last duchess, RB 595 
 My Murray, B 270, 271 
 My sister's sleep, R 774 
 My star, RB 626 
 
 Napoleon Buonaparte, Ode to, B 184 
 
 Natural magic, RB 674 
 
 Nature (Atalanta in Calydon), Sw 868 
 
INDEX OF TITLES 
 
 919 
 
 Nay, but you who do not love her, RB (305 
 
 Near Avalori, M 838 
 
 Near Dover, W 32 
 
 Neidpath, The maid of, Sc 113 
 
 Never the time and the place, RB 081 
 
 New age. The (Bacchanalia), Ar 764 
 
 Newborn death, R 807 
 
 New Sinai, The, CI 689 
 
 Night, To, Sh 357 
 
 Night and morning, RB 605 
 
 Nightingale, Ode to a, K 408 
 
 Night-piece, A, W 5 
 
 No master, M 860 
 
 No more, no more (Don Juan), B 243 
 
 No, my own love of other years, L 441 
 
 "Nou'dolet" Sw889 
 
 Northern farmer (old style), T 538 
 
 Northern farmer (new style), T 541 
 
 Not as these, R 804 
 
 November, 1806, W 50 
 
 November, 1, W 55 
 
 Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow 
 
 room, W 48 
 Nutting, W 13 
 Nymph's song to Hvlas, The (Life and 
 
 Death of Jason), M 839 
 
 Oak, The, T 553 
 
 Obermann, Stanzas in memory of the 
 author of, Ar 725 
 
 Obermaim once more, Ar 768 
 
 O bitter sea ( Life and Death of Jason) M 839 
 
 Oblation, The, Sw 889 
 
 Ocean, The (Childe Harold), B 239 
 
 Octogenarian, To an, W 63 
 
 Ode (Bards of passion), K406 
 
 Ode composed upon a!i evening of extra- 
 ordinary splendor, W 5^ 
 
 Ode, Dejection, An, C94 
 
 Ode, France, An, C 88 
 
 Ode, Intimations of immortality, W 39 
 
 Ode on a Crrecian urn, K 407 
 
 Ode on indolence, K 405 
 
 Ode on melancholy, K 409 
 
 Ode on the death of the Duke of Welling- 
 ton, T 514 
 
 Ode to a nightingale, K 408 
 
 Ode to duty, W 44 
 
 Ode to Napoleon Buonaparte, B 184 
 
 Ode to Psyche, K 406 
 
 Ode to tranquility, C 94 
 
 Ode to the west wind, Sh 297 
 
 Oenone, T 464 
 
 Of old sat Freedom on the heights, T 479 
 
 Of such is the kingdom of heaven, Sw 900 
 
 Ogier the Dane, Song from, M 855 [186 
 
 Oh ! snatched away in beauty's bloom : B 
 
 Oh that 'twere possible (Maud), T 523 
 
 Old and new art, R 804 
 
 Old pictures in Florence, RB 622 
 
 O, let the solid ground (Maud), T 519 
 
 On a country road, Sw 903 
 
 On a faded violet, Sh 293 
 
 On a Grecian urn. Ode, K407 
 
 On an autumnal evening. Lines, C 66 
 
 On a picture of Leander, K 380 
 
 On a poet's lips I slept, Sh 310 
 
 On Burns, R 811 
 
 One hope. The, R 808 
 
 One way of love, RB 629 
 
 One word is too often profaned, Sh 368 
 
 One word more, RB 654 
 
 One year ago my path was green, L 441 
 
 On Fame, K 423 
 
 On first looking into Chapman's Homer, K 
 
 873 
 On his own Iphigeneia and Agamemnon, 
 
 L440 
 On his seventy-fifth birthday, L 456 
 On Lucretia Borgia's hair, L 438 
 On melancholy. Ode, K 409 
 On Montorio's Height, CI 692 
 On music, L 455 
 
 On refusal of aid between nations, R 778 
 On seeing the Elgin marbles, K 380 
 On Southey's death, L 457 
 On the cliffs, Sw 892 
 On the death of Robert Browning, Sonnets, 
 
 Sw 909 
 On the death of Southey, L 456 
 On the deaths of Thomas Carlyle and 
 
 George Eliot, Sw 899 
 On the extinction of the Venetian republic, 
 
 W31 
 On the grasshopper and cricket, K 374 
 On the Hellenics, L 444 
 On the Mermaid Tavern, Lines, K 390 
 On the monument erected to Mazzini at 
 
 Genoa, Sw 907 
 On the sea, K 380 
 On the smooth brow and clustering hair, L 
 
 443 
 On the verge, Sw [906 
 On this day I complete my thirty-sixth year, 
 
 B 272 
 Orpheus and the Sirens, Songs of (Life and 
 
 death of Jason), M 840 
 Orpheus' song of triumph (Life and death 
 
 of Jason) M840 
 O ship, ship, ship, CI 702 
 Osorio, Song from, C 73 
 O swallow, swallow, flying, flying south, T 
 
 498 
 O that 'twere possible (Maud), T 523 
 Our gaieties, our luxuries, CI 695 
 Overhead the tree-tops meet (Pippa passes), 
 
 RB 591 
 Over the sea our galleys went (Paracelsus), 
 
 RB 568 
 Ozymandias, Sh 293 
 
 Pacchiarotto volume, Epilogue to the, RB 
 
 674 
 Pains of sleep. The, C 98 
 Palace of Art, The, T 468 
 Palladiiuu, Ar 765 
 Pan, Hymn of, Sh 346 
 Pan, Hymn to (Endymion), K 382 
 Pantheon, The, CI 692 
 Paracelsus, Songs from, RB 568 
 Parting at morning, RB 605 
 Passion and worship, R 794 
 
920 
 
 BRITISH POETS 
 
 Past ruin'd Illion Helen lives, L 431 
 
 Patriot, The, RB 633 
 
 Pearl, A girl. A, RB 683 
 
 Peele Castle, W 45 
 
 Penumbra, R 780 
 
 Perche pensa ? Pensando s'invecchia, CI 
 
 704 
 Personal talk, W 49 
 Pescliiera, CI 693 
 Phantom or fact, C 103 
 Philomela, Ar 741 
 Pibroch of Donald Dhu, Sc 163 
 Pictor ignotus, RB 606 
 Pied piper of Hamelin, The, RB 598 
 Pilgrims, The, Sw 884 
 Pippa passes, RB 570 
 Pis-aller, Ar 764 
 
 Pleasvire ! why thus desert the heart, L 431 
 Plighted promise, R 788 
 Poet! he hath put his heart to school. A, 
 
 W62 
 Poet, The, T 461 
 
 Poetical commandments (Don Juan), B 242 
 Poetics, RB 683 
 Poet's epitaph. A, W 15 
 Poet's song. The, T 497 
 Political greatness. Sonnet, Sh 358 
 Popularity, RB 632 
 Porphyria's lover, RB 569 
 Portrait, The, R 776 
 Portrait, The (House of Life), R 794 
 Pot of basil. The, K 391 
 Pray but one prayer for me, M 827 
 Prelude to the Earthly Paradise, M 842 
 Pride of youth, R 797 
 Prinu-ose of the rock. The, W 59 
 Princess, Lyrics from the, T 497 
 Prisoner of Chillon, B 206 
 Proem (Endvniion), K 381 
 Prologue (FJfine at the fair), RB 677 
 Prologue (Ija Saisiaz), RB 677 
 Prologue (Two poets of Croisic), RB 677 
 Prometheus, B 213 
 Prometheus unbound, Sh 299 
 Proserpine, Hymn to, Sw 872 
 Pi'oserpine, The garden of, Sw 877 
 Prospice, RB 667 
 Proud Maisie, Sc 164 
 Proud word you never spoke, L 443 
 Psyche, Ode to, K 406 
 Psyche, Song from the story of Cupid and, 
 
 M854 
 
 Qua cursum ventus, CI 688 
 Quatrains, L 443 
 Queen Mary, Lyrics from, T 543 
 Queen's song, The (Chastelard), Sw 872 
 Question, The, Sh 347 
 Questioning spirit. The, CI 690 
 Quiet work, Ar 708 
 Qui laborat, orat, CI 698 
 
 Rabbi ben Ezra, RB 659 
 
 Rain, rain and sun (Coming of Arthur), T 
 
 540 
 Rapunzel, Songs from, M 827 
 
 Rarely, rarely, comest thou, Sh 347 
 Real question. The, CI 693 
 Rebecca's hymn, Sc 164 
 Reflections on having left a place of retire- 
 ment, C 69 
 Refusal of aid between nations, On, R 778 
 Regeneration, L 429 
 Remain, ah not in youth alone, L 442 
 Requiescat, Ar 727 
 Resolution and independence, W 28 
 Respectability, RB 630 
 Retro me, Sathana, R 806 
 Revenge, The, T543 
 Reverie of poor Susan, The, W 5 
 Revolt of Islam, Dedication of, Sh 291 
 Riding together, M 825 
 Rime of the ancient mariner, C 73 
 Ring and the book. From the, RB 668 
 Ring out wild bells (In memoriam), T 510 
 Rivulet crossing my ground (Maud), T 521 
 Rizpah, T 548 
 
 Robert Browning, To, L 443 
 Robert Browning, Sonnets on the death of, 
 
 Sw 909 
 Robin Hood, K 388 
 Rome fChilde Harold), B 236 
 Rome, CI 692 
 Rondel, Sw 876 
 Rose Aylmer, L 428 
 Rose Aylmer's hair, given by her sister, 
 
 L456 
 Rosnv, RB 682 
 Roundel, The, Sw 902 
 Roundelay (Endymion), K 386 
 Round us the wild creatures (Ferishtah's 
 
 fancies), RB 681 
 Rudel to the lady of Tripoli, RB 602 
 Rugby Chapel, Ar 706 
 
 Sailing of the sword. The, M 834 
 
 Sailor boy. The, T 536 
 
 Saint Agnes' eve, T 479 
 
 Saint Agnes', The eve of, K 398 
 
 Saint John, The eve of, Sc 108 
 
 Saint Luke the painter, R 804 
 
 Saint Mark, The eve of, K 404 
 
 Salt of the Earth, the, Sw 900 
 
 Same flower. To the (celandine), W 27 
 
 Same flower. To the (daisy), W 35 
 
 Sapphics, Sw 878 
 
 Sappho (On the cliffs), Sw 892 
 
 Sappho to Hesperus, L 437 
 
 Saul, RB 611 
 
 Saul before his last battle, Song of, B 197 
 
 Say not the struggle nought availeth, CI 
 
 695 
 Sceptic moods, CI 693 
 Scholar gipsy. The, Ar 741 
 Scorn not the sonnet, W 58 
 Seaboard, The, Sw 903 
 Sea, On the, K 386 
 
 Sea, To the (Life and death of Jason), M 839 
 Sea-limits, The, R 779 
 Sea-shell, The(Gebir), L 427 
 Seasons, The, M 857 
 Second best, The, Ar 714 
 
 I 
 
INDEX OF TITLES 
 
 921 
 
 See what a lovely shell (Maud), T 522 
 
 Self-deception, Ar 714 
 
 Self-dependence, Ar 721 
 
 Sensitive plant. The, Sh 338 
 
 September, 18Ut, W 55 
 
 Sequence of Sonnets on the death of Robei-t 
 
 Browning, Sw 909 
 Serenade, Indian, Sh299 
 Seventy-fifth birthday, On his, L 456 
 Severed selves, R 799 
 Shades of Agamemnon and Iphigeneia, L 
 
 433 
 Shakespeare, Ar 708 
 Shakespeare, William, Sw 899 
 Shakespeare and Milton, L 454 
 Shameful death, M 833 
 Shame upon you Robin (Queen Mary), T 
 
 543 
 She dwelt among the untrodden ways, W 
 
 14 
 Shelley, R 812 
 
 Shelley (Cor cordium), Sw 888 
 She walks in beauty, B 186 
 She was a phantom of delight, "W 42 
 Shipwreck, The (Don Juan), B 243 
 Sibylla palmifera, R 804 
 Silent noon, R 796 
 Simon Lee, W 6 
 Simplon Pass, The, W 12 
 Hliiy-ing lesson, A, Sw 902 
 Sir (ialahad, T 493 
 Sir Giles' war-song, M 838 
 Sister Helen, R 780 
 Sisters, The, T 467 
 Sister's sleep, My, R 774 
 Sisters, Song from the, T 549 
 Skylark, To^a, W 45 
 Skylark, To a, W 58 
 Skylark, To a, Sh 344 
 Sleep, To, W 50 
 Sleep, To, K 423 
 Sleep and poetry, K 374 
 Slumber did my spirit seal, A, W 15 
 Small celandine, To the, W 27 
 So fair, so sweet, withal so sensitive, "VV 62 
 Sohrab and Rustum, Ar 728 
 Soldier rest, thy warfare o'er. So 159 
 Solitary reaper, The, W 38 
 Solitude, W 18 
 Solitude, A, Sw 902 
 Solitude, To, K 372 
 Some future day, CI 701 
 Song, Sh 347 
 Song, Child's, Sw 892 
 Song, Mary Beaton's (Chastelard), Sw 871 
 Song, Nay, but you who do not love her, 
 
 RB 605 
 Song, The Queen's (Chastelard), Sw 872 
 Song from Charles the first, Sh 369 
 Song from Hellas, Sh 367 
 Song from Mary Stuart, Sw 899 
 Song from Ogier the Dane, M 855 
 Song from Osorio, C 73 
 Song from the Sisters, T 549 
 Song from the story of Acontius and Cy- 
 
 dippe, M 855 
 
 Song from the story of Cupid and Psyche, 
 
 M854 
 Song from Zapolya, C 101 
 Song in time of order, Sw 866 
 Song of Saul before his last battle, B 187 
 Song of spirits (Prometheus unbound), Sh 
 
 317 
 Song of the echoes (Prometheus unbound), 
 
 Sh 314 
 Songs from Chastelard, Sw 871 
 Songs from Perishtah's fancies, RB 681 
 Sdiigs from Paracelsus, RB 568 
 Songs in absence, CI 700 
 Songs of Orpheus and the sirens (Life and 
 
 death of Jason i, M 840 
 Song-throe, The, R 802 
 Song, The miller's daughter, T 463 
 Song, Where shall the lover rest, Sc 126 
 Sonnet, The, W 48, 58 
 Sonnet, The, R 793 
 Sonnet, England in 1819, Sh 297 
 Sonnet on Chillon, B 206 
 Sonnet, Political greatness, Sh 358 
 Sonnet, Scorn not the, W 58 
 Sonnets from the Portuguese, EBB 555 
 Sonnets on the death of Robert Browning, 
 
 Sw909 
 Sonnets on the thought of death, CI 705 
 Sonnet, To an octogenarian, W 63 
 Sonnet to I^ake Leman, B 214 
 Soon, O lanthe ! life is o'er, L 442 
 Soothsay, R 810 
 
 So then, I feel not deeply, L 455 
 Soul's beauty, R 804 
 Southey, On the death of, L 456 
 Southey's death, On, L 457 
 So we'll go no more a-roving, B 271 
 Sparrow's nest. The, W 26 
 Splendor falls on castle walls. The, T 498 
 Stanzas, April, 1814, Sh 275 
 Stanzas for music (There be none of 
 
 beauty's daughters), B 189 
 Stanzas for music (There's not a joy), B 187 
 Stanzas for music (They say that hope is 
 
 happiness), B 212 
 Stanzas from the Grande Chartreuse, Ar 754 
 Stanzas in memory of the author of Ober- 
 
 mann, Ar 725 
 Stanzas to Augusta, B 209 
 Stanzas written in dejection near Naples, 
 
 Sh 296 
 Stanzas written on the road between Flor- 
 ence and Pisa, B 271 
 Statue and the bust, The, RB 637 
 Stepping westwai'd, W 38 
 Stilllwrn love, R 800 
 
 Strange fits of passion have I known, \V 14 
 Strayed reveller. The, Ar 710 
 Stream of life. The, CI 702 
 Stream's secret, The, R 789 
 Sudden light, R 788 
 Summer dawn, M 827 
 Summer-night, A, Ar 721 
 Summum bonum, RB 683 
 Sunbows, The, Sw 905 
 Sunrise in 1848, At the, R 778 
 
BRITISH POETS 
 
 Sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill, The, Sc 164 
 
 Superscription, A, R 807 
 
 Surprised by joy, impatient as the wind, 
 
 W 55 
 Swallow, swallow, flying, flying south, T 
 
 498 
 Sweet and low, T 498 
 Sweet-briar, Upon a, L 432 
 Switzerland, From, Ar 756 
 Switzerland, Thought of a Briton on the 
 
 subjugation of, W 50 
 
 Tables turned. The, W 9 
 
 Taniar and the sea-nvmph. Loves of, L 426 
 
 Tears, idle tears, T 497 
 
 " There is no God," the wicked saith, CI 694 
 
 There ! said a stripling, W 61 
 
 There's a woman like a dewdrop, RB 602 
 
 There was a boy, W 13 
 
 Theseus and Hippolyta, L 457 
 
 This lime-tree bower my prison, C 70 
 
 This world is very odd, we see, CI 695 
 
 Thomas Carlyle and George Eliot, On the 
 
 deaths of, Sw 899 
 Thomas Moore, To, B 234, 271 
 Thought of a Briton on the subjugation of 
 
 Switzerland, W 50 
 Thought of death. Sonnets on the, CI 705 
 Thrasymedes and Eunoe, L 444 
 Three Roses, The, L 457 
 Three shadows, R 809 
 Three years she grew in sun and shower, 
 
 W15 
 Throstle, The, T 253 
 Through a glass darkly, CI 699 
 Through death to love, R 799 
 Through the Metidja to Abd-el-Kadr, RB 
 
 593 
 Thyrsis, Ar 757 
 Thy voice is heard through rolling drums, 
 
 T498 
 Time, Sc 163 
 Time, Sh 357 
 Time long past, Sh 348 
 Time real and imaginary, C 70 
 Time's revenges, RB 606 
 Time to be wise, L 441 
 Tintern Abbey, Lines composed a few 
 
 miles above, W 9 
 Tithonus, T 535 
 To— (I fear thy kisses), Sh 345 
 To — (, Music when soft voices die), Sh 358 
 To — (One word is too often profaned), Sh 
 
 368 
 To a bride, L 441 
 To a cyclamen, L 442 
 To a friend, Ar 708 
 To age, L 455 
 To a gentleman, C 99 
 To a Highland girl. W 37 
 To Ailsa Rock, K 389 
 To a lady, Sc 108 
 To a nightingale, Ode, K 408 
 To a skv-lark, W 45 
 To a sky-lark, \V 58 
 To a skylark, Sh 344 
 
 To Augusta, Stanzas, B 209 
 
 To Augusta, Epistle, B 210 
 
 To autumn, K 409 
 
 To a young lady, AV 46 
 
 To B. R. Haydon, W 55 
 
 To Chaucer, Invocation (Life and death of 
 
 Jason ), M 842 
 To Coleridge, Sh 275 
 To Hartley Coleridge, W 33 
 To Hesperus, Sappho, L 437 
 To Homer, K 389 
 To lanthe, Lyrics, L 430, 441 
 To Jane, With a guitar, Sh 368 
 To Joseph Ablett, L 438 
 TO KaMi\ CI. 688 
 To Leigh Hunt Esq., K 380 
 To Louis Kossuth, Sw 891 
 To Marguerite, Ar 756, 757 
 To Mary (Revolt of Islam), Sh 291 
 To Mary Lamb, L 440 
 To-morrow, Sh 368 
 To Mr. Murray, B 270, 271 
 To my ninth decade, L 458 
 To my sister, W 8 
 To-night, Sh 357 
 To one who has been long in city pent, K 
 
 373 
 To Psyche, Ode, K 406 
 To Robert Browning, L 443 
 To sleep, W 50 
 To sleep, K 423 
 To solitude, K 372 
 To the cuckoo, W 42 
 To the daisy (three poems), W 34, 35 
 To the moon, Sh 348 
 To the Queen, T 513 
 
 To the sea ( Life and death of Jason), M 839 
 To the same flower (celandine), W 27 
 To the same flower (daisy), W 35 
 To the small celandine, W 27 
 To the west wind, Ode, Sh 297 
 To Thomas Moore, B 234, 271 
 To Toussaint I'Oiiverture, '\J''32 
 To Tranquility, Ode, C 94 
 Touch him ne'er so lightly, RB 680 
 Toussaint I'Ouverture, W 32 
 To Virgil, T 5.50 
 To William Wordsworth, C 99 
 To Wordsworth, L 438 
 To Wordsworth, Sh 603n. 
 To Youth, L 4.54 
 Tranquillity, Ode to, C 94 
 Transfigured life, R 802 
 Tray, RB 679 
 
 Trees of the garden. The, R 806 
 Triads, Sw 892 
 Trosachs, The, W 60 
 Troy Town, R 789 
 True-love, an thou be true, Sc 164 
 True woman, R 801 
 
 Trumpet song f Coming of Arthur), T 540 
 Twenty years hence, I, 442 
 Twist ye, twine ye, even so, Sc 162 
 Two April mornings. The, W 17 
 Two in the Canipagna, RB 628 
 Two poets of Croisic, The, RB 677 
 
INDKX OF TITLES 
 
 923 
 
 Ulysses, T 487 
 
 vfivoq avfivo^, CI 699 
 
 Unremitting voice of niglitly streams, The, 
 
 W63 
 Up at a villa— down in the city, RB 619 
 Upon a sweet-briar, L 432 
 
 Vale of Chamouni, In the, C 96 
 
 Valley of Cauteretz, In the, T 539 
 
 Various the roads of life, L 443 
 
 Vastness, T 550 
 
 Venetian pastoral, For a, R 779 
 
 Venice (Childe Harold), B 234 
 
 \'enus victrix, R 798 
 
 Verse-making was least of my virtues (Fer- 
 
 ishtah's fancies), RB 681 
 Villon, Ballad of Fran(,«is, Sw 891 
 Violet, On a faded, Sh 293 
 Violet, The, So 108 
 Virgil, To, T 550 
 Vision of judgment. The, B 257 
 Vision of sin, The, T 494 
 Vivien's song ( Merlin and Vivien), T 524 
 Voice and the peak. The, T 542 
 Voice by the cedar-tree, A (Maud), T 519 
 Voice of Toil, The, M 859 
 Voyage, The, T 537 
 
 Wages, T 540 [876 
 
 Walter Savage Landor, In memory of, Sw 
 
 Walt Whitman in America, To, Sw 866 
 
 Wanting is— What, RB, 680 
 
 Wasted, weary, wherefore stay, Sc 162 
 
 Waterloo, Battle of, B 192 
 
 We are seven, W 6 
 
 Weirdlaw Hill, The sun upon the, Sc 164 
 
 Wellington, Ode on the death of the Duke 
 
 of, T 514 
 Well I remember how you smiled, L 458 
 Were you with me (Songs in absence), CI 
 
 702 
 West London, Ar 7()2 
 
 Westminster Bridy:e, Composed upon, W 31 
 West wind. Ode to the, Sh 297 
 When a man hath no freedom, B 271 
 When Helen first saw wrinkles in her face, 
 
 L4:30 
 When I have borne in memory, W 33 
 When I have fears that I may cease to be, 
 
 K381 
 When the enemy is near thee, CI 695 
 When the lamp is shattered, Sh 369 
 When we two parted, B 171 
 Where are the great, CI 695 
 Where lies the land (Songs in absence), CI 
 
 701 
 Where shall the lover rest (MarmionJ, Sc 
 
 126 
 Whirl-blast from behind the hill, A, W 8 
 Whitman, To Walt. Sw 8S() 
 Who kill'd John Keats, B 271 
 Why from the world (Ferishtah's fancies), 
 
 RB 682 
 Why I am a Liberal, RB 682 
 Why, why, repine, L 440 
 
 Will, T 524 
 
 William and Helen, Sc 105 
 
 William Shakespeare, Sw 899 
 
 William Wordsworth, To, C 99 
 
 Willow wood, R 799 
 
 Wind, A word with the, Sw 908 
 
 Wind, Ode to the west, Sh 297 
 
 Winter Weather, M 824 
 
 Wish no word unspoken (Ferishtah's fan- 
 cies), RB 681 
 
 With a guitar, To Jane, Sh 368 
 
 With llowei-s from a Roman wall, Sc 108 
 
 Without her, R 800 
 
 With rosy hand a little girl pressed down, 
 L442 
 
 With whom is no variableness, CI 702 
 Woman's last word, A, RB 617 
 Woodspurge, The, R 788 
 Wordsworth, To, Sh 276 
 Wordsworth, To, L 438 
 Wordsworth, To William, C 99 
 Word with the wind. A, Sw 908 
 Work without hope, C 101 
 World is a bundle of hay, The, B 371 
 AVorld is too much with us. The, W 50 
 Worldly place, Ar 761 
 
 World's great age begins anew. The, Sh 367 
 Worlds on worlds are rolling ever, Sh 366 
 World's wanderers. The, Sh 348 
 Wrestling-match, The (Gebir), L 427 
 Written among the Euganean Hills, Sh 293 
 Written in dejection near Naples, Sh 2!^Ki 
 Written in early spring, W 7 
 Written in Kensington Gardens, Ar 724 
 Written in London, W 32 
 Written in March, W 26 
 Written in the album at Elbingerode, C 93 
 Written on the road between Florence and 
 Pisa, B 271 
 
 Yarrow revisited, W 59 
 
 Yarrow unvisited, W 39 
 
 Yarrow visited, W 54 
 
 Year's at the spring. The (Pippa passes), RB 
 
 576 
 Years, many parti-colored years, L 455 
 Yes, I write verses now and then, L 441 
 Yes, it was the mountain echo, W 48 
 Yew-trees, W 36 
 
 You ask me why, tho' ill at ease, T 479 
 You'll love me yet (Pippa passes), RB588 
 Young lady. To a, W 46 
 Young Lochinvar (Marmion), Sc 141 
 You smiled, you spoke, L 442 
 Youth, to, L 454 
 Youth and age, C 101 
 Youth and art, RB 666 
 Youth and calm, Ar 761 
 Youth of nature. The, Ar 719 
 Youth of the year, The (Atalanta in Calj'- 
 
 don), Sw 866 
 Youth's antiphony, R 795 
 Youth's spring-tribute, R 795 
 
 Zapolya, Song from, C 101 
 
RDFe78 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
 014 090 258 5 
 
 I 
 
 ?;:;'->v'. ,