PR 
 
 5192 
 •55 
 
A SICILIAN STORY, 
 
 DIEGO DE MONTILLA, 
 
 OTHER POEMS. 
 
 BARRY CORNWALL. 
 
 ■ 
 
 H s®2> 
 
 LONDON: 
 C. AND J.OLLIER, VERE-STREET, BOISD-STREET. 
 
 1820. 
 
Thrift 
 
ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 The outlines of the ' Sicilian Story' and 
 of the ' Falcon' may be found in the Deca- 
 neron. 
 
 1 have attempted two poems in the octave 
 rhyme. It is, with all its apparent ease, 
 and indeed principally on that account,) a 
 difficult style ; and it is not without some 
 hesitation that I lay these poems before the 
 public. 
 
ERRATA. 
 
 Page 77, last line, for marry to wish, read marry to his irisk. 
 Page 161, line 4, for icater read waters. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 ASICILIAN STORY Page 1 
 
 The Worship of Dian 29 
 
 Gyges 39 
 
 The Death of Acis 61 
 
 The Falcon, a Dramatic Sketch 71 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 An Invocation 93 
 
 On the Statue of Theseus 96 
 
 " When shall we three meet again " 97 
 
 Lines written on the Death of a Friend 100 
 
 Marcelia 1 02 
 
 Portraits 1 05 
 
 Lines written under an Engraving of Milton 108 
 
 To a Star 110 
 
 Song, " Sleep my Leila " 112 
 
 Song, a Maid to her Lover 114 
 
 Serenade ]15 
 
 A Dryad's Haunt 116 
 
The Last Day ofTippoo Saib Page 119 
 
 Song , 122 
 
 Song 123 
 
 Sonnets — Spring 124 
 
 Summer , 125 
 
 Autumn „ „ 126 
 
 Winter 127 
 
 Written after seeing Mr. Macready in Rob Roy 128 
 
 A Stormy Night 129 
 
 A Vision 130 
 
 DIEGO DE MONTILLA, a Spanish Tale 131 
 
A SICILIAN STORY. 
 
 i 
 
DEDICATORY SONNET. 
 
 TO 
 
 It may be that the rhymes I bring to thee 
 (An idle offering, Beauty,) are my last : 
 Therefore, albeit thine eye may never cast 
 Its light on them, 'tis fit thine image be 
 Allied unto my song ; for silently 
 Thou may'st connect the present with the past. 
 ? Tis fit, for Saturn now is hurrying fast, 
 And thou may'st soon be nothing, ev'n to me, 
 Be this the record then of pleasant hours 
 Departed, when beside the river shaded 
 I walk'd with thee, gazing my heart away, 
 And, from the sweetest of your garden flowers, 
 Stole only those which on your bosom faded. 
 O, why has happiness so short a day ! 
 
A SICILIAN STORY, 
 
 ' Nunc scio quid sit amor." 
 
 I. 
 
 There is a spirit within us, which arrays 
 The thing we doat upon with colourings 
 Richer than roses— brighter than the beams 
 Of the clear sun at morning, when he flings 
 His showers of light upon the peach, or plays 
 With the green leaves of June, and strives to dart 
 Into some great forest's heart, 
 And scare the sylvan from voluptuous dreams. 
 There is a spirit that comes upon us when 
 Boyhood is gone, before we rank as men, 
 Before the heart is canker'd, and before 
 We lose or cast away that innocent feeling 
 That gives life all its freshness. Never more 
 May I feel this, and yet the times have been 
 
6 A SICILIAN STORY. 
 
 I have seen love in burning beauty stealing 
 
 O'er a young cheek and run the bright veins through, 
 
 And light up, like a heaven, eyes of such blue 
 
 As in the summer skies was never seen, 
 
 I was an idler then, and life was green, 
 
 And so I loved and languished, and became 
 
 A worshipper of the boy-god's fickle flame, 
 
 And did abase myself before him : he 
 
 Laugh'd outright at my fierce credulity, 
 
 II. 
 
 And yet, at times, the recollection's sweet, 
 
 And the same thought that pleased me haunts me still, 
 
 Chief at the hour when day and evening meet, 
 
 And twilight, shadowy magician ! calls 
 
 Shapes unsubstantial from his cloudy halls, 
 
 And ranks them out before us 'till they fill 
 
 The mind with things forgotten. Valley and hill, 
 
 The air, the dashing ocean, the small rill, 
 
 The waving wood and the evanishing sky, 
 
 Towr'd this subduing of the soul, ally 
 
 Their pow'rs, and stand forth a resistless band. 
 
 If then the elements league against us, and 
 
 The heart rebel against the mind's command, 
 
A SICILIAN STORY. 
 
 Why — we must sink before these sickly dreams 
 Until the morning comes, and sterner themes 
 Do fit us through this stormy world to sail. 
 Farewell to love ; and yet, 7 tis woven in my tale. 
 
 III. 
 
 A story (still believed through Sicily,) 
 Is told of one young girl who chose to die 
 For love. Sweet ladies, listen and believe, 
 If that ye can believe so strange a story, 
 That woman ever could so deeply grieve, 
 Save she who from Leucadia's promontory 
 Flung herself headlong for the Lesbian boy, 
 (Ungrateful he to work her such annoy,) 
 But time hath, as in sad requital, given 
 A branch of laurel to her, and some bard 
 Swears that a heathen god or goddess gave 
 Her swan-like wings wherewith to fly to heaven : 
 And now, at times, when gloomy tempests roar 
 Along the Adriatic, in the wave 
 She dips her plumes, and on the watery shore 
 Sings as the love-craz'd Sappho sung of yore. 
 
A SICILIAN STORY. 
 
 IV. 
 
 One night a masque was held within the walls 
 
 Of a Sicilian palace : the gayest flowers 
 
 Cast life and beauty o'er the marble halls. 
 
 And, in remoter spots, fresh waterfalls 
 
 That 'rose half hidden by sweet lemon bowers 
 
 A low and silver-voiced music made : 
 
 And there the frail perfuming woodbine strayed 
 
 Winding its slight arms 'round the cypress bough, 
 
 And as in female trust seemed there to grow, 
 
 Like woman's love 'midst sorrow flourishing : 
 
 And every odorous plant and brighter thing 
 
 Born of the sunny skies and weeping rain, 
 
 That from the bosom of the spring 
 
 Starts into life and beauty once again, 
 
 Blossom'd ; and there in walks of evergreen, 
 
 Gay cavaliers and dames high-born and fair, 
 
 Wearing that rich and melancholy smile 
 
 That can so well beguile 
 
 The human heart from its recess, were seen, 
 
 And lovers full of love or studious care 
 
 Wasting their rhymes upon the soft night air, 
 
 And spirits that never till the morning sleep. 
 
 And, far away, the mountain Etna flung 
 
A SICILIAN STORY. < 
 
 Eternally its pyramid of flame 
 
 High as the heav'ns, while from its heart there came 
 
 Hollow and subterranean noises deep, 
 
 And all around the constellations hung 
 
 Their starry lamps, lighting the midnight sky, 
 
 As to do honour to that revelry. 
 
 V. 
 
 Yet was there one in that gay shifting crowd 
 Sick at the soul with sorrow : her quick eye 
 Ran restless thro' the throng, and then she bowed 
 Her head upon her breast, and one check'd sigh 
 Breath'd sweet reproach 'gainst her Italian boy, 
 The dark-eyed Guido whom she lov'd so well : 
 (O how he loved Sicilian Isabel !) 
 Why came he not that night to share the joy 
 That sate on every face, and from her heart 
 Bid fear and all,, aye all but hope, depart. 
 For hope is present happiness : Shapes and things 
 That wear a beauty like the imperial star 
 Of Jove, or sunset clouds or floating dews, 
 And like an arch of promise shine afar, 
 When near cast off their skiey colourings, 
 And all their rainbow-like and radiant hues 
 
 b 3 
 
10 A SICILIAN STORY. 
 
 Are shadowy mockeries and deceptive fire. 
 
 But Hope ! the brightest of the passionate choir 
 
 That thro' the wide world range, 
 
 And touch with passing fingers that most strange 
 
 And curious instrument the human heart, 
 
 Ah ! why didst thou so soon from Isabel depart? 
 
 VI. 
 
 Dark Guido came not all that night, while she 
 
 His young and secret bride sate watching there, 
 
 Pale as the marble columns : She search'd around 
 
 And 'round, and sicken'd at the revelry, 
 
 But if she heard a quick or lighter bound 
 
 Half 'rose and gazed, and o'er her tearful sight 
 
 Drew her white hand to see his raven hair 
 
 Come down in masses like the starless night, 
 
 And 'neath each shortened mask she strove the while 
 
 To catch his sweet inimitable smile, 
 
 Opening such lips as the boy Hylas wore ; 
 
 (He whom the wild and wanton Nymphs of yore 
 
 Stole from Alcmena's Son :) But one and then 
 
 Another passed, and bowed, and passed again. 
 
 She looked on all in vain : at last more near 
 
 A figure came and, whispering in her ear, 
 
A SICILIAN STORY. 
 
 Asked in a hoarse and quick and bitter tone, 
 
 Why there she sate alone, 
 
 The mistress of the feast, while all passed by 
 
 Unvvelcomed even by her wandering eye. 
 
 It was her brother's voice — Leoni ! — no, 
 
 It could not be that he would jeer her so. 
 
 He breathed a name ; 'twas ' Guido' : tremblingly 
 
 She sate and shrank from his inquiring eye, 
 
 But hid the mighty secret of her soul. 
 
 Again — ah ! then she heard her terrible doom 
 
 Sound like a prophecy, and to her room 
 
 Like a pale solitary shade she stole. 
 
 VII. 
 
 And now to tell of him whose tongue had gained 
 
 The heart of Isabel. 'Twas said, he came 
 
 (And he was of aline of fame) 
 
 From Milan where his father perished. 
 
 He was the last of all his race, and fled 
 
 To haughty Genoa where the Dorias reigned : 
 
 A mighty city once, tho' now she sleeps 
 
 Amidst her amphitheatre of hills, 
 
 Or sits in silence by her dashing deeps, 
 
 And not a page in living story fills. 
 
12 A SICILIAN STORY. 
 
 He had that look which poets love to paint. 
 
 And artists fashion, in their happier mood, 
 
 And budding girls when first their dreamings faint 
 
 Shew them such forms as maids may love. He stood 
 
 Fine as those shapely Spirits heaven descended, 
 
 Hermes or young Apollo, or whom she 
 
 The moon-lit Dian, on the Latmian hill, 
 
 When all the woods and all the winds were still, 
 
 Kissed with the kiss of immortality. 
 
 And in his eye where love and pride contended, 
 
 His dark, deep-seated eye, there was a spell 
 
 Which they who love and have been lov'd can tell. 
 
 And she — but what of her, his chosen bride, 
 
 His own, on whom he gazed in secret pride, 
 
 And loved almost too much for happiness ? 
 
 Enough to say that she was born to bless. 
 
 She was surpassing fair : her gentle voice 
 
 Came like the fabled music that beguiles 
 
 The sailor on the waters, and her smiles 
 
 Shone like the light of heaven, and said ' rejoice ! ; 
 
A SICILIAN STORY. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 That morn they sat upon the sea-beach green ; 
 For in that land the sward springs fresh and free 
 Close to the ocean, and no tides are seen 
 To break the glassy quiet of the sea : 
 And Guido, with his arm 'round Isabel, 
 Unclasped the tresses of her chesnut hair, 
 Which in her white and heaving bosom fell 
 Like things enamour'd, and then with jealous air 
 Bade the soft amorous winds not wanton there ; 
 And then his dark eyes sparkled, and he wound 
 The fillets like a coronet around 
 Her brow, and bade her rise and be a queen. 
 And oh ! 'twas sweet to see her delicate hand 
 Pressed 'gainst his parted lips, as tho' to check 
 In mimic anger all those whispers bland 
 He knew so well to use, and on his neck 
 Her round arm hung, while half as in command 
 And half entreaty did her swimming eye 
 Speak of forbearance, 'till from her pouting lip 
 He snatched the honey-dews that lovers sip, 
 And then, in crimsoning beauty, playfully 
 She frowned, and wore that self-betraying air 
 That women loved and nattered love to wear. 
 
A SICILIAN STORY, 
 
 IX. 
 
 Oft would he, as on that same spot they lay 
 
 Beneath the last light of a summer's day, 
 
 Tell (and would watch the while her stedfast eye,) 
 
 How on the lone Pacific he had been, 
 
 When the Sea Lion on his watery way 
 
 Went rolling thro' the billows green, 
 
 And shook that ocean's dead tranquillity : 
 
 And he would tell her of past times, and where 
 
 He rambled in his boyhood far away, 
 
 And spoke of other worlds and wonders fair 
 
 And mighty and magnificent, for he 
 
 Had seen the bright sun worshipp'd like a god 
 
 Upon that land where first Columbus trod ; 
 
 And travelled by the deep Saint Lawrence' "tide, 
 
 And by Niagara's cataracts of foam, 
 
 And seen the wild deer roam 
 
 Amongst interminable forests, where 
 
 The serpent and the savage have their lair 
 
 Together. Nature there in wildest guise 
 
 Stands undebased and nearer to the skies; 
 
 And 'midst her giant trees and waters wide 
 
 The bones of things forgotten, buried deep, 
 
 Give glimpses of an elder world, espied 
 
A SICILIAN STORY. 
 
 By us but in that fine and dreamy sleep, 
 When Fancy, ever the mother of deep truth, 
 "Breathes her dim oracles on the soul of youth. 
 
 Her sleep that night was fearful, — O, that night ! 
 
 If it indeed was sleep : for in her sight 
 
 A form (a dim and waving shadow) stood, 
 
 And pointed far up the great Etna's side, 
 
 Where, from a black ravine, a dreary wood 
 
 Peeps out and frowns upon the storms below, 
 
 And bounds and braves the wilderness of snow. 
 
 It gazed awhile upon the lonely bride 
 
 With melancholy air and glassy eye, 
 
 And spoke — ' Awake and search yon dell, for I 
 
 ' Tho' risen above my old mortality, 
 
 i Have left my mangled and unburied limbs 
 
 ' A prey for wolves hard by the waters there, 
 
 ' And one lock of my black and curled hair, 
 
 i That one I vowed to thee my beauty, swims 
 
 < Like a mere weed upon the mountain river ; 
 
 { And those dark eyes you used to love so well 
 
 i (They loved you dearly, my own Isabel,) 
 
 * Are shut and now have lost their light for ever. 
 
16 A SICILIAN STORY. 
 
 ' Go then unto yon far ravine, and save 
 
 ' Your husband's heart for some more quiet grave 
 
 ' Than what the stream and withering winds may lend, 
 
 i And 'neath the basil tree we planted, give 
 
 ' The fond heart burial, so that tree shall live 
 
 ' And shed a solace on thy after days : 
 
 1 And thou — but oh ! I ask thee not to tend 
 
 ' The plant on which thy Guido loved to gaze, 
 
 4 For with a spirit's power I see thy heart.' 
 
 He said no more, but with the dawning day 
 
 Shrunk, as the shadows of the clouds depart 
 
 Before the conquering sun-beams, silently. 
 
 Then sprung she from the pillow where she lay, 
 
 To the wild sense of doubtful misery : 
 
 And when she 'woke she did obey the dream, 
 
 And journey'd onwards to the mountain stream 
 
 Tow'rd which the phantom pointed, and she drew 
 
 The thorns aside which there luxuriant grew, 
 
 And with a beating heart descended where 
 
 The waters washed, it said, its floating hair. 
 
A SICILIAN STORY. 
 
 XL 
 
 It was a spot like those romancers paint, 
 
 Or painted when of dusky knights they told 
 
 Wandering about in forests old. 
 
 When the last purple colour was waxing faint" 
 
 And day was dying in the west : the trees 
 
 (Dark pine and chesnut and the dwarfed oak 
 
 And cedar) shook their branches, 'till the shade 
 
 Look'd like a living spirit, and as it played 
 
 SeenTd holding dim communion with the breeze : 
 
 Below, a tumbling river rolled along, 
 
 (Its course by lava rocks and branches broke) 
 
 Singing for aye its fierce and noisy song ; 
 
 And there on shattered trunks the lichens grew 
 
 And covered, with their golden garments, death ; 
 
 And when the tempest of November blew 
 
 The Winter trumpet, 'till its failing breath 
 
 Went moaning into silence, every green 
 
 And loose leaf of the piny boughs did tell 
 
 Some trembling story of that mountain dell. 
 
A SICILIAN STORY. 
 
 XII. 
 
 That spirit is never idle that doth 'waken 
 
 The soul to sights and contemplations deep, 
 
 Even when from out the desert's seeming sleep 
 
 A sob is heaved that but the leaves are shaken ; 
 
 But when across its frozen wastes there comes 
 
 A rushing wind, that chills the heart and bears 
 
 Tidings of ruin from those icy domes, 
 
 The cast and fashion of a thousand years, 
 
 It is not for low meanings that the soul 
 
 Of Nature, starting from her idlesse long, 
 
 Doth walk abroad with death, and sweep among 
 
 The valleys where the avalanches roll. 
 
 'Tis not to speak of ' Doubt' that her great voice, 
 
 Which in the plains doth bid the heart rejoice, 
 
 Comes sounding like an oracle. Amidst men 
 
 There are no useless marvels : Ah ! why then 
 
 Cast on the wonder-working nature shame, 
 
 Or deem that, like a noisy braggart, she 
 
 (In all things else how great and freed from blame) 
 
 Once in an age should shout i A mystery!' 
 
• A SICILIAN STORY 1 
 
 XIII. 
 
 But for my story — Down the slippery sod 
 With trembling limbs, and heart that scarcely beat, 
 And catching at the brambles, as her feet 
 Sunk in the crumbling earth, the poor girl trod ; 
 And there she saw — Oh ! till that moment none 
 Could tell (not she) how much of hope the sun 
 And cheerful morning, with its noises, brought, 
 And how she from each glance a courage caught, 
 For light and life had scattered half her fright, 
 And she could almost smile on the past night ; 
 So, with a buoyant feeling, mixed with fear 
 Lest she might scorn heav'n's missioned minister, 
 She took her weary way and searched the dell, 
 And there she saw him. — dead. Poor desolate child 
 Of sixteen summers, had the waters wild 
 No pity on the boy you loved so well ! 
 There stiff and cold the dark-eyed Guido lay, 
 His pale face upwards to the careless day, 
 That smiled as it was wont ; and he was found 
 His young limbs mangled on the rocky ground, 
 And, 'midst the weltering weeds and shallows cold, 
 His black hair floated as the phantom told, 
 And like the very dream his glassy eye 
 Spoke of gone mortality, 
 
A SICILIAN STORY. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 She stared and laugh'd aloud like one whose brain 
 Is shocked o' the sudden : then she looked again ; 
 And then she wept. At last — but wherefore ask 
 How, tremblingly, she did her bloody task ? 
 She took the heart and washed it in the wave, 
 And bore it home and placed it midst wild flowers, 
 Such as he loved to scent in happier hours, 
 And 'neath the basil tree she scoop'd a grave, 
 And therein placed the heart, to common earth 
 Doom'd, like a thing that owned not human birth. 
 
 XV. 
 
 And the tree grew, and grew ; and brighter green 
 Shot from its boughs than she before had seen, 
 And softly with its leaves the west winds played : 
 And she did water it with her tears, and talk 
 As to a living spirit, and in the shade 
 Would place it gently when the sun did walk 
 High in his hot meridian, and she prest 
 The boughs (which fell like balm) upon her breast. 
 She never plucked a leaf nor let a weed 
 Within the shadow of its branches feed, 
 
A SICILIAN STORY. 
 
 But nursed it as a mother guards her child, 
 And kept it shelter'd from the ' winter wild :' 
 And so it grew beyond its fellows, and 
 Tow'red in unnatural beauty, waving there 
 And whispering to the moon and midnight air, 
 And stood a thing unequalled in the land. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 But never more along her favorite vale, 
 Or by the village paths or hurrying river, 
 Or on the beach, when clouds are seen to sail 
 Across the setting sun, while waters quiver 
 And breezes rise to bid the day farewell- 
 No more in any bower she once loved well, 
 Whose sound or silence to the ear could tell 
 Aught of the passionate past, the pale girl trod : 
 Yet Love himself, like an invisible god, 
 Haunted each spot, and with his own rich breath 
 Filled the wide air with music sweet and soft, 
 Such as might calm or conquer Death, if Death 
 Could e'er be conquered, and from aloft 
 Sad airs, like those she heard in infancy, 
 Fell on her soul and filled her eyes with tears, 
 
fa A SICILIAN STORY. 
 
 And recollections came of happier years 
 Thronging from all the cells of memory. 
 All her heart's follies she remembered then, 
 How coy and rash — how scornful she had been, 
 And then how tender, and how coy again, 
 And every shifting of the burning scene 
 That sorrow stamps upon the helpless brain. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Leoni— (for this tale had ne'er been told 
 By her who knew alone her brother's guilt,) 
 Leoni, timorous lest the blood he spilt 
 Should rise in vengeance from its secret hold, 
 And come abroad and claim a sepulchre ; 
 Or, haplier, fancying that the lie he swore 
 " That Guido sailed and would return no more 
 Was disbelieved and not forgot by her ; 
 Or that she had discovered where he lay 
 Before his limbs had withered quite away, 
 Or — but whate'er it was that moved him then, 
 He dug and found the heart, unperished; 
 For she, to keep it unlike the common dead, 
 Had wound it 'round with many a waxen line, 
 
A SICILIAN STORY, 23 
 
 And bathed it with a curious medicine : 
 He-found it where, like a great spell, it lay, 
 And cursed and cast it to the waves away. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 That day the green tree wither'd, and she knew 
 
 The solace of her mind was stol'n and gone : 
 
 And then she felt that she was quite alone 
 
 In the wide world ; so, to the distant woods 
 
 And caverned haunts, and where the mountain floods 
 
 Thunder unto the silent air, she flew. 
 
 She flew away, and left the world behind, 
 
 And all that man doth worship, in her flight ; 
 
 All that around the beating heart is twined ; 
 
 Yet, as she looked farewell to human kind, 
 
 One quivering drop arose and dimm'd her sight, 
 
 The last that frenzy gave to poor distress. 
 
 And then into the dreary wilderness 
 
 She went alone, a craz'd, heart-broken thing ; 
 
 And in the solitude she found a cave 
 
 Half hidden by the wild-brier blossoming, 
 
 Whereby a black and solitary pine, 
 
 Struck by the fiery thunder, stood, and gave 
 
 Of pow'r and death a token and a sign : 
 
24 A SICILIAN STORY. 
 
 And there she lived for months : She did not heed 
 The seasons or their change, and she would feed 
 On roots and berries as the creatures fed 
 Which had in woods been born and nourished. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Once, and once only was she seen, and then 
 The chamois hunter started from his chace, 
 And stopped to look a moment on her face, 
 And could not turn him to his sports again. 
 Thin Famine sate upon her hollow cheek, 
 And settled Madness in her glazed eye 
 Told of a young heart wrong'd and nigh to break, 
 And, as the spent winds waver ere they die, 
 She to herself a few wild words did speak, 
 And sung a strange and broken melody ; 
 And ever as she sung she strew'd the ground 
 With yellow leaves that perished 'ere their time, 
 And well their fluttering fall did seem to chime 
 With the low music of her song : the sound 
 Came like a dirge filling the air around, 
 And this (or like) the melancholy rhyme. 
 
A SICILIAN STORY. 
 
 There is a spirit stands by me : 
 
 It comes by night, it comes by day, 
 
 And when the glittering lightnings play, 
 
 Its look is pale and sad to see. 
 
 'Tis he — to whom my brother gave 
 
 A red unconsecrated grave. 
 
 I hear him when the breezes moan, 
 And, when the rattling thunders talk, 
 I hear him muttering by me walk, 
 And tell me I am i quite alone. 7 
 It is the daemon of the dead, 
 For all that's good hath upwards fled. 
 
 3. 
 
 It is a daemon which the wave 
 Hath cast abroad to scare my soul ; 
 Yet wherefore did the waters roll 
 So idly o'er his hasty grave ? 
 Was the sad prayer I uttered then 
 Unheard, — or is it due again ? 
 
A SICILIAN STORY. 
 
 Is 't not enough that I am here, 
 Brainstruck and cold and famished, 
 A mean remove above the dead, — 
 But must my soul be wild with fear 
 As sorrow, now that hope is gone 
 And I am lost and left alone ? 
 
 They told me, when my days were young, 
 That I was fair and born to reign, 
 That hands and hearts were my domain, 
 And witchery dwelt upon my tongue : 
 And now — but what is this to me 
 Struck on the rock of memory ? 
 
 And yet at times T dream — aye yet, 
 Of vanished scenes and golden hours, 
 And music heard in orange bowers, 
 (For madness cannot quite forget) 
 And love, breath'd once to me alone, 
 In sighs, and many a melting tone. 
 
A SICILIAN STORY. 
 
 Then curious thoughts, and floating things 
 
 Saved from the deluge of the brain, 
 
 Pass with perplexity and pain : 
 
 Then darkness, deaths, and murderings, — 
 
 And then unto my den I hie, 
 
 And vainly, vainly pray to die. 
 
 XX. 
 
 At last she wandered home. She came by night. 
 The pale moon shot a sad and troubled light 
 Amidst the mighty clouds that moved along. 
 The moaning winds of Autumn sang their song, 
 And shook the red leaves from the forest trees ; 
 And subterranean voices spoke. The seas 
 Did rise and fall, and then that fearful swell 
 Came silently which seamen know so well ; 
 And all was like an Omen. Isabel 
 Passed to the room where, in old times, she lay, 
 And there they found her at the break of day ; 
 Her look was smiling, but she never spoke 
 Or motioned, even to say — her heart was broke : 
 
 c2 
 
28 A SICILIAN STORY. 
 
 Yet in the quiet of her shining eye 
 Lay death, and something we are wont to deem 
 (When we discourse of some such mournful theme,) 
 Beyond the look of mere mortality. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 She died—yet scarcely can we call it death 
 
 When Heaven so softly draws the parting breath ; 
 
 She was translated to a finer sphere, 
 
 For what could match or make her happy here ! 
 
 She died, and with her gentle death there came 
 
 Sorrow and ruin, and Leoni fell 
 
 A victim to that unconsuming flame, 
 
 That burns and revels on the heart of man ; 
 
 Remorse, — This is the tale of Isabel, 
 
 And of her love the young Italian. 
 
THE WORSHIP OF MAN. 
 
THE WORSHIP OF DIAN. 
 
 SHEPHERDS. WOMEN. 
 
 First Shepherd. 
 
 Come hither shepherds. See, Apollo dies. 
 Some hours ago and who so bright as he ? 
 His proud smile turned the waves to silver, and 
 The halt-ripe fruit vermillion'd : It drew sweets 
 From herb and flower, and on the living earth 
 Shower'd beauty. Man was pleas'd and laughed to find 
 His blood run quicker and his heart grow warm, 
 And maids grew joyous, for they knew their cheeks 
 Wore then a livelier red : and see, he dies. 
 
 Second Shepherd. 
 
 But we must now forget him ; for behold, 
 Dian is coming. Mark ! 
 
32 THE WORSHIP OF DIAN. 
 
 First Shepherd. 
 
 How fierce she glares ! 
 
 Thus when in angry mood she stretches forth 
 Her arm above the waters, doth she look ; 
 And as she bares her breast the wanton waves 
 Rebel 'gainst Neptune's mastery, and leap up 
 Far as their silver chains will reach, to do 
 The night-queen homage. Then, the mariner 
 Who hath forgot his home-confined bride, 
 And maid whose thoughts were not of chastity, 
 The merchant who hath ventures on the sea 
 And never prayed her help against the storms, 
 Do feel her wrath. 
 
 Second Shepherd. 
 
 Look ! who is there, Alexas — 
 There, tow'rd the East ? 
 
 First Shepherd. 
 Oh ! Pan is by vonder brook : 
 
THE WORSHIP OF DIAN. 33 
 
 Thus ever thro' the heats of Summer he 
 Offers his steaming incense to the moon ; 
 For which she chafes his burning brow, and gives 
 To his parch'd herbs a freshness. Every thing 
 That owns his sway then honours her : rivers which 
 Grew hot i' the sun and silent slipp'd away, 
 Resume their natural pow'rs and celebrate 
 With music the first coming of the night. 
 The solemn owl speaks and the crickets sing, 
 And from the springing grass there comes a noise, 
 As if to tell that the earth slumber'd not. 
 The nightingale alone seems to complain, 
 Yet sweetly, and the wanton Zephyrus steals 
 Rustling amongst the forest leaves, and plays 
 With the young buds and from the hawthorn branch 
 Shakes half its bloom — but she unclouds her brow, 
 And looks propitious. Kneel, ye virgins, kneel ! 
 And stretch your white arms tow'rd the bright'ning sky, 
 And sing the hymn to Dian. Goddess, hear ! 
 
 Hymn. 
 
 Dian ! — We seek thee in this tranquil hour ; 
 We call thee by thy names of power ; 
 Lucina ! first, (that tender name divine, 
 
 c 3 
 
34 THE WORSHIP OF DIAN. 
 
 Which young and travail'd dames adore and fear : 
 Child of the dark-brow'd Proserpine ! 
 Star-crowned Dian ! Daughter of Jove 
 Olympian ! Mother of blind Love I 
 Fair Cynthia ! Towered Cybele 1 
 Lady of stainless chastity I 
 
 Bend low thy listening ear, 
 
 And smile upon us now the long day's toil 
 
 Beautiful queen ! is done, 
 
 And from the withering sun 
 
 Save thou and bless the parch'd and fainting soil ; 
 
 So may thy silver shafts ne'er miss their aim, 
 
 But strike the heart of every bounding fawn, 
 
 And not a nymph of thine e'er lose her fame 
 
 By loitering in the beechen glades, 
 
 Or standing, with her mantle half undrawn, 
 
 Like listening Silence, near the skirting shades 
 
 Of forests, where the satyrs lie 
 
 Sleeping with upward face, or piping musically. 
 
 Oh ! smile upon us Dian ! smile as thou 
 
 Art wont, 'tis said, at times to look upon 
 
 Thy own pale boy, Endymion, 
 
 When he sleeps calmly on the mountain's brow : 
 
 And may no doubt nor care, 
 
THE WORSHIP OF DIAN. 35 
 
 When thou shalt wish, on nights serene and still, 
 
 To stay thy car upon the Latmos-' hill, 
 
 Touch with a clouded hand thy look of light, 
 
 Nor elemental blight 
 
 Mar the rich beauties of thy hyacinthine hair. 
 
 Queen of the tumbling floods ! oh lend thine ear 
 
 To us who seek and praise thee here. 
 
 Fright not the Halcyon from her watery nest, 
 
 When on the scarcely-moving waves she sits 
 
 Listening, sore distrest 
 
 Lest that the winds, in sullen fits, 
 
 Should com e^ and lift the curling seas on high : 
 
 Yet, if the storm must come — then Dian ! then 
 
 Scatter the billows from the Delphic shore, 
 
 And bid the monsters of the deep go roar 
 
 Where the wild Scylla howls and raves, 
 
 Hard by those foreign caves 
 
 Sicilian, dug, 'tis said, by giant men 
 
 Beneath Pelorus' rugged promontory. 
 
 On thy white altar we 
 
 Lavish in fond idolatry, 
 
 Herbs and rich flowers such as the summer uses : 
 
 Some that in wheaten fields 
 
 Lift their red bells amidst the golden grain : 
 
36 THE WORSHIP OF DIAN. 
 
 Some that the moist earth yields, 
 
 Beneath the shadows of those pine trees high, 
 
 Which, branching, shield the far Thessalian plains 
 
 From the fierce anger of Apollo's eye, 
 
 And some that Delphic swains 
 
 Pluck by the silver springs of Castaly. 
 
 Yet, there (thus it is said) the wanton Muses, 
 
 Their dark and tangled locks adorning, 
 
 Lie stretch' d on green slopes 'neath the laurel boughs, 
 
 Or weave sad garlands for their brows ; 
 
 And tho' they shun thee thro' the livelong night, 
 
 Bend their bright eyes before the God of morning, 
 
 And hail with shouts his first return of light. 
 
 Now and for ever hail, great Dian ! — Thou, 
 Before whose moony brow 
 The rolling planets die, or lose their fires, 
 And all the bravery of Heaven retires. 
 There Saturn dimly turns within his ring, 
 And Jove looks pale upon his burning throne ; 
 There the great hunter-king, 
 Orion, mourns with watery glare, 
 The tarnished lustre of his blazing zone : 
 Thou only, through the blue and starry air, 
 In unabated beauty rid'st along, 
 Companioned by our song. 
 
THE WORSHIP OF DIAN. 3; 
 
 Turn hither, then, thy clear and steadfast smile, 
 
 To grace our humble welcoming, 
 
 And may thy poet's brain 
 
 Be free from all but that so famous pain 
 
 Which sometimes, at the still midnight, 
 
 Stirs his creative fancyings, while, 
 
 (Charmed by thy silver light) 
 
 He strives, not vainly then, his sweetest song to sing 
 
 
GYGES. 
 
GYGES. 
 
 This Story of Gyges, if I may so designate the slight thread of 
 narrative that runs through these stanzas, comes from Herodotus. 
 It is englished in " Painter's Palace of Pleasure," and is there 
 prefaced by the following moral. 
 
 " That husband, which is beautified with a comely 
 " and honest wife, whose rare excellencie doth surpasse 
 " others, as wel in lineaments, proporcion, and feature 
 " of bodie, as in inwarde qualities of minde : if he can- 
 " not retaine in the secrecie and silence of his breast, 
 " that excellinge gifte and benefite, is worthy to be in- 
 " augured with a laurel crown of follie. 
 
 Vol, I. Nov. 6. 
 I have imposed the name of ' Lais' upon the queen of Candaules, 
 who is without a name in the Story. 
 
 There is another account (in Plato, I believe,) of this same Gyges 
 and his famous ring, which rendered him invisible, and by means of 
 which he gained access to the Lydian Queen. This however would 
 have been at variance with the moral, and was excluded. 
 
GYGES. 
 
 ( Lydian measures.' 
 
 Dry den. 
 
 I. 
 
 I've often thought that if I had more leisure 
 I'd try my hand upon that pleasant rhyme, 
 
 The old ' ottava rima,' (quite a treasure 
 To poets who can make their triplets chime 
 
 Smoothly :) 'tis equally adapt to pleasure, 
 
 To war, wit, love, or grief, or mock-sublime : 
 
 And yet — when pretty woman's in the case, 
 
 The lines go tripping with a better grace. 
 
GYGES. 
 
 II. 
 
 I've but small wit, and therefore will not venture 
 On wit, and fighting — 'tis a noisy game ; 
 
 From this too I'm bound down by my indenture, 
 (At least I swear I am, and that's the same ;) 
 
 Then grief— I scarcely ever think she meant her 
 Madonna face — no 'twould not do : of fame 
 
 Or pleasure I know little to rehearse, 
 
 But Love is shaped and fit for every verse. 
 
 III. 
 
 Love ! — oh ! he breathes and rambles 'round the world 
 
 An idol and idolater : he flies 
 Touching, with passing beauty, ringlets curl'd, 
 
 Ripe lips, and bosoms white, and starry eyes, 
 And wheresoe'er his colours are unfurled 
 
 Full many a young and panting spirit hies. 
 His ranks are raw, for all are volunteers : 
 Some fired with hope, and plenty plagued with fears. 
 
GYGES. 
 
 IV. 
 
 He is the sweetest, yet the fiercest passion, 
 That ever soothed or scarred the human heart, 
 
 Worshipped and jeered by all in every nation, 
 
 And hugged and bidden while he's hugged, depart. 
 
 Yet, to say truth, if I should have occasion 
 Again to know him, I should beg his dart 
 
 Might be a little blunted ; nay, before, 
 
 'Twas tipped with gall — it should be sugar'd o'er. 
 
 V. 
 
 And I would have this dart held by a hand 
 
 That would pour balm upon the wound it gave : 
 
 Like that ' white wonder' of a foreign land, 
 Whose mistress in the silver moonlight gave 
 
 Tokens of early love, and did command 
 
 One heart's devotion — but I'm getting grave : 
 
 That damsel's sweetheart sadden'd, to be brief, 
 
 And washed down ('twas with poison) all his grief. 
 
GYGES, 
 
 VI. 
 
 I'd have her eyes dark as the summer night, 
 When Dian sleeps, and fair the planets roll 
 
 Along their golden journies : 'tis a sight 
 
 That comes like — like — I mean that, on the whole, 
 
 It touches and, as 'twere, transports one quite, 
 And makes one feel that one must have a soul ; 
 
 And then our wits go wandering from their ways, 
 
 Wild, and ' wool-gathering,' as the proverb says. 
 
 VII. 
 
 So much for eyes, and now for smiles. A smile 
 I hold to be like balm ; (the sting's the tongue :) 
 
 It soothes the cankers of the heart awhile, 
 And is a sort of silent music flung 
 
 (Or sunbeam) o'er the lips, and can beguile 
 The very d — 1 ; — pshaw ! he never clung 
 
 To woman's lips : I blush and blush again. 
 
 Twas all mistake : he ' puts up' with the men. 
 
GYGES. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 I never saw a fault in women yet : 
 
 Their bodies and their minds are full of grace : 
 Sometimes indeed their tongue — but I forget, 
 
 And 'faith that runs a very pretty race, 
 And doth bewilder one like wine, or debt, 
 
 Or whist, when in an ancient partner's face, 
 We read supreme contempt, and hear her groan, 
 And feel that all the blunders are our own. 
 
 IX. 
 
 This is vexatious I must own, and so 
 
 Are many things if but the mind were given 
 
 To make the most of trifles, but I go 
 
 Gently and jogging on (I hope) to heaven, 
 
 Sometimes in mirth, but oft'ner touch'd with woe, 
 (For I have somewhat of the mortal leaven,) 
 
 And string on rainy days an idle rhyme, 
 
 And kill the present to feed future time. 
 
 
GYGES. 
 
 X. 
 
 Now to my tale, which I would fain indite 
 (Tho' many a living bard can scribble better) 
 
 Without deploying to the left and right, 
 
 To see how others touch this style and metre ; 
 
 I'll even keep Lord Byron out of sight. 
 
 By the bye, Lord B. and I were school'd together 
 
 At Harrow where, as here, he has a name. 
 
 I- I'm not even on the list of fame. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Eat I am quite impatient. O, my muse I 
 If muse I have, hie thee across the sea, 
 
 And where in plenteous drops the famous i dews 
 Of Castalie ' fall, beg a few for me ; 
 
 A laurel branch too ; sure they'll not refuse, 
 (The sisters) — if they do, then strip the tree, 
 
 And we will cultivate the laurel here, 
 
 And advertise for claimants far and near. 
 
GYGES. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Bards have a pleasant method, I must say, 
 Of mixing up their songs in this lax age. 
 
 Now, sweet and sharp and luscious dash'd with gay 
 (Like Christmas puddings, laurell'd,) are the rage ; 
 
 Some stuff" huge pamphlets in the duckling way, 
 (With ' thoughts ') and now and then leave out ' the 
 sage ; ' 
 
 Some mark their tales (like pork) with lines and crosses ; 
 
 Some hide things over-done with piquant sauces. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Some hash the orts of others, and re-hash : 
 
 Some rub the edge off jokes — to make 'em fair : 
 
 Some cut up characters, (that's rather rash, 
 And more than serious people well can bear :) 
 
 In short there's many a way to make a dash ; 
 Now, if you write incog. — that has an air ; 
 
 (Yet men may as I have for this good reason :) 
 
 Then Love's a thing that's never out of season. 
 
GYGES. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Love is a pure and evanescent thing, 
 
 And, when its delicate plumes are soil'd, it dies. 
 There is a story of a Lydian king, 
 
 Candaules, who it seems thought otherwise : 
 A loose, uxorious monarch, passioning 
 
 For what he had already. Husbands wise ! 
 Attend the moral of my curious story, 
 For I intend to lay it now before ye. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Candaules king of Lydia had a wife, 
 
 Beautiful Lais : she was such as I 
 (Had she not ta'en her silly husband's life, 
 
 Which shews a certain taste for cruelty,) 
 Could love; — but no; we might have had some strife, 
 
 And she was rather cold and somewhat ' high/ 
 And I detest that stalking, marble grace, 
 Which makes one think the heart has left its place. 
 
GYGES. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Now king Candaules was an amorous sot, 
 A mere, loose, vulgar simpleton d'ye see ; 
 
 Bad to be sure, yet of so hard a lot 
 
 Not quite deserving, surely : and that she 
 
 All old ties should so quickly have forgot 
 
 Seems odd. We talk of " woman's constancy 
 
 And love" — yet Lais' lord was but a fool, 
 
 And she's but the exception, not the rule. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 She had the stature of a queen : her eyes 
 
 Were bright and large but ail too proud to rove, 
 
 And black, which I have heard some people prize ; 
 Lightly along the ground she deign'd to move, 
 
 Gazed at and wooM by every wind that flies, 
 And her deep bosom seem'd the throne of love: 
 
 And yet she was, for my poor taste, too grand, 
 
 And likely for ' obey' to read ' command.' 
 
GYGES. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Give me less faultless woman, so she might 
 Be all my own, trusted at home and far, 
 
 With whom the world might be forgotten quite, 
 The country's scandal and the city's jar, 
 
 And in whose deep" blue eyes Love's tenderest light 
 Should rise in beauty, like a vesper star, 
 
 On my return at evening, aye, and shine 
 
 On hearts I prized. By Jove ! 'twould be divine. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Oh ! we would turn some pleasant page together, 
 And 'plaud the wit, the tale, the poet's tropes, 
 
 Or, wandering in the early summer weather, 
 Talk of the past mischance and future hopes, 
 
 Or ride at times, (and that would save shoe-leather,) 
 For nought so well with nervous humours copes 
 
 As riding; i. e. taken by degrees; 
 
 It warms the blood, and saves all doctor's fees. 
 
GYGES. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Candaules' court was much like courts in general 
 In times of peace, that is, 'twas pretty gay : 
 
 To my taste better much than when the men are all 
 Busy in horrid fighting far away, 
 
 With scarce a sound but drums beating the ' generale ; ; 
 Yes — now and then, when the wild trumpets bray, 
 
 And their rich voice goes riding on the wind 
 
 Like mounted war, and leaves a track behind. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 There was a Lydian boy who 'pleas'd at court; ' 
 A youngster such as girls would smile to see, 
 
 Excellent in each brave and gentle sport, 
 
 War and the chace, the song, the dance, was he, 
 
 But scribbling tender verses was his forte, 
 And Gyges was quite fam'd for modesty, 
 
 And when the king would praise his queen, the youth 
 
 Yawn'd, in a way provoking; 'twas in truth. 
 
 d 2 
 
GYGES, 
 
 XXII. 
 
 And yet he was not altogether cold ; 
 
 (This I conclude, the story does not tell;) 
 I mean, he was not sheepish, nor too bold, 
 
 Nor did he swear, nor languish like a belle : 
 Pshaw ! had I had my wits I might have told 
 
 This in five words ; he pleas'd the women well. 
 They said indeed at times, <a little bolder;' 
 But this they knew would change, when he grew older. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 There was a mark on Lais' swan-like breast, 
 (A purple flower with its leaf of green,) 
 
 Like that the Italian saw when on the rest 
 He stole of the unconscious Imogene, 
 
 And bore away the dark fallacious test 
 
 Of what was not, altho' it might have been, 
 
 And much perplex'd Leonatus Posthumus; 
 
 In truth he might have puzzled one of us. 
 
GYGES. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 The king told Gyges of the purple flower; 
 
 (It chanced to be the flow'r the boy liked most ;) 
 It has a scent as though Love, for its dower, 
 
 Had on it all his odorous arrows tost, 
 For tho' the Rose has more perfuming power, 
 
 The Violet (haply 'cause 'tis almost lost, 
 And takes us so much trouble to discover) 
 Stands first with most : but always with a lover. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 He blush'd and listened — panted like a fawn 
 
 That's just escaped the fraudful hunters' range, 
 
 And his eyes sparkled like approaching morn, 
 And on his cheek he felt the colour change 
 
 Until he trembled — and the blush was gone : 
 His brain was stagger'd with a notion strange : 
 
 He sighed to see, tho' but for once, the flower; 
 
 The monarch laugh'd, but 'twas a dangerous hour. 
 
GYGES, 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 In the first rushing of that burning tide 
 
 Hath many a glorious spirit been swept away ; 
 
 Heroes, bards, kings, have been brain-struck and died 
 When the first burst of love, in full array 
 
 Hath shewn the world at once, its pomp and pride 
 Of beauty, starting into sudden day : 
 
 Hence men restor'd to sight by surgic toil, 
 
 Should learn to court the shade, at least awhile. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Next day he (Gyges) led the talk. He said 
 He thought it ' curious' nature ever should 
 
 Imprint an useless mark — that he was bred 
 
 To think what seem'd most sportive in her mood, 
 
 Was for a purpose : then he hung his head, 
 
 And o'er his fine face flush'd the eloquent blood, 
 
 And the king's broad and boastful stare he shunn'd : 
 
 He look'd like a man in debt who had been dunn'd. 
 
GYGES. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Candaules (shame upon the silly king !) 
 
 Vowed that the curious boy this mark should see. 
 He saw — (In faith 'twould be a pretty thing 
 
 If even kings could take this liberty) 
 He saw her in her beauty, fluttering 
 
 From pleasure as she glanc'd her smiling eye 
 On the broad mirror which displayed a breast 
 Unlaced, where Jove himself might sigh to rest. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 The boy came (guided by the king) to where, 
 In the most deep and silent hour of nighu 
 
 Stood Lais : quite unloos'd, her golden hair 
 Went streaming all about like lines of light, 
 
 And, thro' the lattice leaves gusts of soft air 
 
 Sighed like perfume, and touched her shoulders white, 
 
 And o'er her tresses and her bosom played, 
 
 Seeming to love each place o'er which they strayed. 
 
GYGES. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Then sank she on her couch and drew aside 
 The silken curtains and let in the moon, 
 
 Which trembling ran around the chamber wide, 
 Kissing and flooding the rich flowers which June 
 
 Had fann'd to life, and which in summer-pride 
 'Rose like a queen's companions. Lais soon, 
 
 Touch' d by the scene, look'd as she had forgot 
 
 The world : the boy stood rooted to the spot. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 He stood, with beating pulse and widen'd eyes, 
 Like qne struck dumb by some magician's charm, 
 
 Listening to the low music of her sighs, 
 
 And gazing on her white and rounded arm; 
 
 At last the lady motion'd as to rise, 
 
 When it occurr'd to him there might be harm 
 
 Unless he left (and quickly left) the place : 
 
 He mov'd, and then she met him, face to face. 
 
GYGES. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 It was the lady's turn to wonder now. 
 
 She wonder'd, but her wonder soon subsided, 
 And scorn and anger flash' d across her brow ; 
 
 At length, she grew more calm, and (perhaps guided 
 By pity for his youth) she asked him how — 
 
 How a young gentleman like him who prided 
 Himself upon his modesty could call 
 At such an hour: he blush'd, and told her all. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 She swore she would have vengeance for the wrong, 
 Double and deadly vengeance — and she had. 
 
 His majesty soon after took that long 
 
 Journey whence none but ghosts, or things as bad, 
 
 Return : 'twas said his wine grew mighty strong, 
 And that 'twas handed by this curious lad, 
 
 (Gyges) whom Lais fancied from that day, 
 
 And made Lord of herself and Lydia. 
 
 n 3 
 
XXXIV. 
 
 That king ! — he was the last of all his race, 
 A race of kings and heroes, and he lay 
 
 Helpless and dead : his smile gave pow'r and place 
 Honour and wealth and joy, but yesterday. 
 
 But poison had swept the smile from off his face, 
 And his cold limbs went floating far away, 
 
 Stript of the tomb wherein he should have slept : 
 
 He liv'd unhonour'd, and he died unwept. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 It is a chilling thing to see, as I 
 
 Have seen, a man go down into the grave, 
 Without a tear, or ev'n an alter'd eye : 
 
 Oh ! sadder far than when fond women rave, 
 Or children weep or aged parents sigh 
 
 O'er one whom art and love doth strive to save 
 In vain ; man's heart is sooth 'd by every tone 
 Of pity, saying he's ' not quite alone/ 
 
GYGES. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 I saw a pauper once, when I was young, 
 
 Borne to his shallow grave : the bearers trod 
 
 Smiling to where the death-bell heavily rung, 
 And soon his bones were laid beneath the sod: 
 
 On the rough boards the earth was gaily flung : 
 Methought the prayer which gave him to his God 
 
 Was coldly said: — then all, passing away, 
 
 Left the scarce-cofhn'd wretch to quick decay. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 It was an autumn evening and the rain 
 
 Had ceased awhile, but the loud winds did shriek 
 And call'd the deluging tempest back again, 
 
 The flag-staff on the church-yard tow'r did creak, 
 And thro' the black clouds ran a lightning vein, 
 
 And then the flapping raven came to seek 
 Its home : its flight was heavy, and its wing 
 Seem'd weary with a long day's wandering. 
 
GYGES. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 How the frail pair lived on I know not : I 
 Have but subdued Candaules to my strain. 
 
 It was enough for me that he should die, 
 
 And having kill'd the king, why — that's the main : 
 
 So, for the moral of the story, try 
 
 (Turning to the beginning once again,) 
 
 To trace it in the quaint and antique text; 
 
 You'll find the meaning not at all perplex'd. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Reader, this trifle's ended: I have told 
 
 The tale and shewn the moral ' in a way :' 
 
 Yet doth my page another truth unfold, 
 Namely that women of the present day 
 
 Are not so bad, nor half, as those of old. 
 Then, cast not thou the lesson quite away, 
 
 That — as they're better than they were before, 
 
 Why, men should love 'em (wisely) more and more. 
 
THE DEATH OF ACIS. 
 
Hie ver purpureum : varios hie flumina circutn 
 Fundit humus flores : hie Candida populus antro 
 Imminet, et lentae texunt iimbracula vites. 
 - - - O, Galatea. 
 
 VIRG. Eel. ix. 
 
THE DEATH OF ACIS. 
 
 Listen my love, and I will tell you now 
 A tale Sicilian : 'tis of fabulous times 
 When the vast giants liv'd, and spirits dwelt 
 In haunted woods and caves beneath the seas, 
 And some (these were the harmless Naiades) 
 By running waters. You have heard me tell of 
 The sea-nymph Galatea, Nereus' child, 
 Who lov'd the shepherd Acis ? 'tis a sweet 
 And mournful history, and to think how love 
 Could bend a rugged Cyclops to his power 
 Is pleasant: hearken then. 
 
 There is a time, 
 Just the first blush of summer, when the spring 
 And his soft rains are passing off, and flowers 
 Unclasp their bosoms to the winds and spread 
 
64 THE DEATH OE ACiS. 
 
 Perfume and living beauty thro' the world. 
 
 It is the year's gay manhood; nature then, 
 
 Grateful and wantoning in idolatry, 
 
 Does homage to the sun.— Long years ago, 
 
 At this gay season, in a cave, o'errun 
 
 By vines and boundless clematis, (between 
 
 Whose wilderness of leaves white roses peep'd, 
 
 And honeysuckle which, with trailing boughs, 
 
 Droop'd o'er a sward grateful as ever sprung 
 
 By sprinkling fountains, when Apollo drove 
 
 The nymphs to haunt the thickets,) Acis knelt 
 
 At Galatea's feet. She gaz'd awhile. 
 
 One delicate hand was press'd against her cheek 
 
 That flush'd with pleasure, and her dark-hair stream'd 
 
 Shadowing the brightness of her fixed eye, 
 
 Which on the young Sicilian shepherd's face 
 
 Shone like a star : the other hand hung down, 
 
 White as that Parian stone the sculptor hew'd 
 
 To fashion for the temples of his gods. 
 
 Peerless on earth, and like those forms of old, 
 
 Pallas or dark-eyed Juno or the queen 
 
 Who won the fruit on Ida, sate the sea-nymph, 
 
 Proud Galatea; 'till at last she rais'd 
 
 Her arm and twined it round her lover's neck, 
 
 And in the gentlest music asked him then 
 
 Why and how much he lov'd, and if he thought 
 
THE DEATH OF AC IS. 65 
 
 'Twas strange that she, a high sea nymph, should 
 
 leave 
 Her watery palaces and coral caves, 
 Her home, and all immortal company, 
 To dwell with him, a simple shepherd boy. 
 — But hark! a sudden sound burst on their ears 
 And thro' the disturbed air came words like these : 
 
 Hear me ye rocks, and all ye hollow caves 
 
 Where the wild ocean raves ! 
 
 And thou, eternal iEtna ! on whose brow 
 
 The white and silent and perennial snow 
 
 Sits like a diadem, I shout to thee, 
 
 In this my sad extremity. 
 
 Hearken ! ye liberated winds that stray 
 
 From your dark caverns to the day, 
 
 And blindly wander all the world around : 
 
 Say to that world, 'I love, I love, I die;' 
 
 And, on your home-returning sound, 
 
 Bear the white Galatea's last reply. 
 
 Thus, from an overhanging promontory, 
 
 Shouted the giant Polypheme : the seas 
 
 Drew backward as affrighted at the sound : 
 
 The green woods moved, and the light poplar shook 
 
 Its silver pyramid of leaves : the Fauns 
 
66 THE DEATH OF ACIS. 
 
 Rose up to listen, and the Naiades 
 
 Shrank in their chrystal fountains. Gloomily,, 
 
 And still awhile, the Cyclops lay : at last, 
 
 He lifted to his mouth a reed, and blew 
 
 A strange and sweet preluding symphony. 
 
 He was a master of his pipe, and knew 
 
 How every note was touch'd : deep sorrow mix'd 
 
 With those his mountain melodies, and Love cast 
 
 A strange charm around him : mighty tears then fill'd 
 
 His solitary eye, and with such noise 
 
 As the rough winds of Autumn make, when they 
 
 Pass o'er a forest and bend down the pines, 
 
 The giant sigh'd. Again he blew his reed, 
 
 And as the whistling music pass'd away, 
 
 Sang thus of the white Galatea. 
 
 Fair Galatea, listen ! By my birth 
 
 (And I can trace it to the sea, the earth) 
 
 I love you; not as mortals love a maid, 
 
 Amorous yet afraid 
 
 Lest that her answer chase all hope away : 
 
 Oh ! Galatea, did I not celebrate 
 
 Thee thro' the world, and tell you were divine, 
 
 (Will you not then be mine ?) 
 
 And ever sing your praise, early and late, 
 
 Thro' all the changes of a summer's day ? 
 
THE DEATH OF ACIS. t 
 
 Proud Galatea, listen ! am I not he, 
 
 Before whose matchless melody 
 
 The finest player stills his charmed lute, 
 
 And every sea-maid's voice is mute ? 
 
 Am I not he to whose sweet song the Faun 
 
 Dances with mad delight, 
 
 And, on her cloudy pillow resting thro' the night, 
 
 Queen Dian listens 'till the morn ? 
 
 Am I not, cruel nymph, great Neptune's child, 
 
 Who circles with his arms the visible earth, 
 
 (Altho' I may not walk the waters wild) 
 
 And shalt thou scom my worth ? 
 
 — Yet pardon, Galatea, pardon, for my heart 
 
 Is almost broken, beauty, and the smart 
 
 Of Love may draw from me 
 
 Words that I must disown in calmer hours : 
 
 I meant not, never meant to anger thee. 
 
 Listen, my love ! altho' in coral bowers 
 
 Thou hidest, now that thro' the burning air 
 
 Starry Apollo rides. Listen, my fair ; 
 
 The Son of Neptune, from his mountain high, 
 
 Calls : Galatea! listen, and reply. 
 
 He ended, and the lovers left their cave 
 
 To see who sang so sweet, and stood exposed 
 
68 THE DEATH OE ACIS. 
 
 Before the giant's eye. At once he saw 
 
 His rival and the nymph he lov'd so well 
 
 Twined in each other's arms. ' Away/ he cried, 
 
 ' Away thou wanton nymph, and thou, my slave, 
 
 1 Earth-born and base, thou — thou whom I could shake 
 
 * To atoms, as the tempest scatters abroad 
 
 ' The sea-sand tow'rd the skies, away, away.' 
 
 He spoke, and from the groaning promontory 
 
 Wrench'd a huge rock, to lift whose massy weight 
 
 Would strain the sinews of a hundred arms, 
 
 And tossed it tow'rd the sun : awhile it flew 
 
 Thro' the blue air with whizzing noise, with all 
 
 Its moss and stones and roots and branching shrubs, 
 
 And stopp'd at last in the mid-air, and then 
 
 Dropp'd like a plummet. Oh ! the shepherd boy : 
 
 He felt the Cyclop's wrath, for on his head 
 
 The mighty weight descended : not a limb, 
 
 Or bone or fragment or a glossy hair 
 
 Remained of all his beauty. He was struck 
 
 Dead in a moment. Galatea! where 
 
 Fled you to shun the tumbling mountain — where ? 
 
 What matters it? the sea-maid's heart was struck, 
 
 And never owned a love again. She changed, 
 
 (As Grecian fables say) the shepherd boy 
 
 Into a stream, and on its banks would lie 
 
 And utter her laments in such a tone 
 
THE DEATH OF ACIS. 69 
 
 As might have mov'd the rocks, and then would call 
 
 Upon the murdered Acis. He the while 
 
 Ran to the sea, but oft on summer nights 
 
 Noises were heard and plaintive music, like 
 
 The songs you hear in Sicily. Shepherd swains 
 
 For many an age would lie by that lone stream, 
 
 And from its watery melodies catch an air, 
 
 And tune it to their simple instruments. 
 
 Hence, as 'tis thought by some, did many songs 
 
 Originate, and oh ! most likely 'tis 
 
 That pastoral music first had some such birth, 
 
 But whether from the running brooks it came, 
 
 Or from the rustling leaves, or whispering winds, 
 
 Or silver talking fountains, who may tell? 
 
 It is enough we live and own its power. 
 
THE FALCON, 
 
 A DRAMATIC SKETCH. 
 
' Frederigo, of the Alberighi family, loved a gentlewoman and was not 
 ( requited with like love again. But by bountiful expenses, and over 
 ' liberal invitations, he wasted all his lands and goods, having nothing 
 ' left him but a Hawk or Faulcon. His unkind mistress happeneth 
 ' to come to visit him, and he not having any other food for her 
 
 * dinner, made a dainty dish of his Faulcon for her to feed on. Being 
 ' conquered by this exceeding kind courtesie, she changed her former 
 ' hatred towards him, accepting him as her husband in marriage, and 
 
 • made him a man of wealthy possessions.' 
 
 Boccaccio. (Old translation.) Fifth day : novel 9. 
 
THE FALCON. 
 
 SCENE I. Outside of a Cottage. Sunset. 
 
 Frederigo alone. 
 
 Oh poverty ! And have I learnt at last 
 
 Thy bitter lesson ? Thou forbidding thing 
 
 That hast such sway upon this goodly earth, 
 
 Stern foe to comfort, sleep's disquieter, 
 
 What have I done that thou shouldst press me thus ? 
 
 Let me not say how I did bear me in 
 
 Prosperity ; much of the good we do 
 
 Lies in its secret — But away with this, 
 
 For here are skiey themes to dwell upon. 
 
 Now do I feel my spirit hath not quite 
 
 Sunk with my fortunes. — 'Tis the set of Sun. 
 
 How like a hero who hath run his course 
 
 In glory doth he die. His parting smile 
 
 Hath somewhat holy in it, and doth stir 
 
 Regret, but soft and unallied to pain, 
 
 
74 THE FALCON. 
 
 To see him quietly sink and sink away, 
 
 Until on yonder western mountain's top 
 
 Lingering he rests at last, and leaves a look 
 
 More beautiful than e'er he shed before : 
 
 A parting present, felt by all that lov'd 
 
 And flourish'd in his warm creative smile. 
 
 Nor unattended does he quit the world, 
 
 For there's a stillness in this golden hour 
 
 Observable by all ; the birds that trill'd 
 
 And shook their ruffled plumes for joy to see 
 
 His coming in the morning, sing no more : 
 
 Or if a solitary note be heard, 
 
 Or the deep lowing of the distant beast, 
 
 'Tis but to mark the silence. Like to this, 
 
 In a great city the cathedral clock, 
 
 Lifting its iron tongue, doth seem to stay 
 
 Time for a moment, while it calls aloud 
 
 To student's or to sick man's watchful ear, 
 
 " Now goes the midnight." Then, I love to walk, 
 
 And, heark'ning to that Church memorial, deem 
 
 That sometimes it may sound a different tale, 
 
 And upwards to the stars and mighty moon 
 
 Send hollow tidings from this dreaming world, 
 
 Proclaiming all below as calm as they. 
 
THE FALCON. 75 
 
 The Sun light changes, and the tints are now 
 Darkened to purple. Ha! a step : who's there? 
 A Lady — O Giana ! 
 
 Gian a and her Maid enter. 
 
 Gia. Yes, Sir: you 
 Have cause to be surprised. 
 
 Fred. Not so, dear lady; 
 Honour'd I own that my poor dwelling should 
 Receive so fair a guest.. 
 
 Gia. You do forget 
 Past times. 
 
 Fred. No, Madam, no ; those times still live 
 Like blossomings of the memory, kept apart 
 For holier hours, and shelter'd from the gaze 
 Of rude uncivil strangers ; and — and they 
 Are now my only comfort ; so lest they 
 Should fade, I use 'em gently, very gently, 
 And water 'em all with tears, 
 
 Gia. Your poverty 
 Has made you gloomy, Signior Frederigo. 
 
 Fred. Pardon me, Madam : 'twas not well, indeed, 
 To meet a guest like you with sorrow : you 
 Were born for happiness. 
 
 Gia. Alas! I fear not. 
 
 Fred. Oh! yes, yes; and you well become it, well. 
 
 e 2 
 
76 THE FALCON. 
 
 May grief ne'er trouble you, nor heavier hours 
 Weigh on so light a heart. 
 
 Gia. You will reprove me : 
 Light means unfeeling. 
 
 Fred. Yet I meant not so. 
 Giana! let me perish by your hate 
 If ever I reproach you : what am I, 
 Struck by misfortune, and the chilling touch 
 Of Poverty, an outcast from my fortunes, 
 Lavish'd and lost by folly— 
 
 Gia. 'Twas for me. 
 
 Fred. Oh ! no, no : I had many faults whereof 
 The burthen rests with me : then what am I, 
 That I should dare reproach you? think no more on't: 
 Know me your truest servant, only that^ 
 And bound to live and die for you, 
 
 Gia. No more, 
 But let's enjoy the present. 
 
 Maid. My Lady, S r, 
 Is come to feast with you. 
 
 Gia. 'Tis even so. 
 
 Fred. I am too honour'd: Can you then put up 
 With my, so poor a welcoming ? If the heart 
 Indeed could lavish entertainment, I 
 Would feast you like a queen : but, as it is, 
 You will interpret kindly? 
 
THE FALCON. 77 
 
 Gia. Oh ! I come 
 To grace a bachelor's table : that is never 
 Stor'd but with common viands. Now we'll go, 
 And rest us in your orchard, Signior. 
 The evening breezes must be pleasant there ; 
 So, for an hour, farewell. 
 
 Fred. Farewell, dear Madam : 
 I hope you'll find there some — ah ! 'ware the step. 
 
 Gia. 'Tis but an awkward entrance, Sir, indeed. 
 
 Fred. You'll find some books in the arbour, on the 
 shelf 
 Half hid by wandering honeysuckle : they 
 Are books of poetry. If I remember 
 You lov'd such stories once, thinking they brought 
 Man to a true and fine humanity, 
 Tho' silly folks are wont to jeer them, now. 
 
 Gia. You've a good memory Signior. Thatmustbe— 
 Stay, let me count: aye, some six years ago. 
 
 Fred. About the time. 
 
 Gia. You were thought heir, by many, 
 Then, to the Count Filippo : you displeased him : 
 How was't? 
 
 Fred. Oh ! some mere trifle : I forget. 
 
 Gia. Nay, tell me; for some said you were un- 
 grateful. 
 
 Fred. I could not marry to wish. 
 
78 THE FALCON. 
 
 Gia. Was it so ? 
 
 Fred. Thus simply : nothing more believe it. 
 
 Gia. I knew not this before. Adieu ! [Exit. 
 
 Fred. She comes to dine — to dine with me, who am 
 A beggar. Now, what shall I do to give 
 My Idol entertainment? not a coin: 
 Not one, by Heav'n, and not a friend to lend 
 The veriest trifle to a wretch like me. 
 And she's descended from her pride too — no ; 
 No, no, she had no pride. — Now if I give 
 Excusings, she will think I'm poor indeed, 
 And say misfortune starved the spirit hence 
 Of an Italian gentleman. No more : 
 She must be feasted. Ha! no, no, no, no, 
 Not that way : Any way but that. Bianca ! 
 
 Enter Bianca. 
 
 This Lady comes to feast. 
 
 Bia. On what, Sir ? There 
 Is scarce a morsel : fruits perhaps — 
 
 Fred. Then I 
 Must take my gun and stop a meal i' the air. 
 
 Bia. Impossible : there is no time. Old Mars, you 
 know, 
 Frights every bird away. 
 
THE FALCON. 79 
 
 Fred. Ah ! villain he : 
 Shall die for 't, bring him hither. 
 
 Bia. Sir ! 
 The falcon ? 
 
 Fred. Aye, that murderous kite. How oft 
 Hath he slain innocent birds : now he shall die. 
 'Tis fit he should, if 'twere but in requital: 
 And he for once shall do me service — Once ! 
 Hath he not done it oft? no matter: Now 
 I'll wring his cruel head, and feast my queen 
 Worthily. 
 
 Bia. He is here, Sir. 
 
 Fred. Where? vile bird, 
 There — I'll not look at him. 
 
 Bia. Alas ! he's dead : 
 Look, .look! ah! how he shivers. 
 
 Fred. Fool! Begone. 
 Fool ! am not I a fool — a selfish, slave ? 
 I am, I am. One look, ah ! there he lies. 
 By heav'n, he looks reproachingly ; and yet 
 I loved thee, poor bird, when I slew thee. Hence. 
 
 [Bianca exit. 
 Mars! my brave bird, and have I killed thee, then, 
 Who was the truest servant — fed me, loved, 
 When all the world had left me? — Never more 
 Shall thou and I in mimic battle play, 
 
80 THE FALCON. 
 
 Nor thou pretend to die, (to die, alas!) 
 
 And with thy quaint and frolic tricks delight 
 
 Thy master in his solitude. No more, 
 
 No more, old Mars! (thou wast the god of birds) 
 
 Shalt thou rise fiercely on thy plumed wing, 
 
 And hunt the air for plunder: thou couldst ride, 
 
 None better, on the fierce and mountain winds 
 
 When birds of lesser courage droop'd. I've seen 
 
 Thee scare the wandering eagle on his way, 
 
 (For all the wild tribes of these circling woods 
 
 Knew thee and shunn'd thy beak,) and thro' the air 
 
 Float like a hovering tempest fear'd by all. 
 
 Have I not known thee bring the wild swan down 
 
 For me, thy cruel master: aye, and stop 
 
 The screaming Vulture in the middle air, 
 
 And mar his scarlet plumage — all for me, 
 
 Who ki'l'd thee — murdered thee, poor bird, for thou 
 
 Wast worthy of humanity, and I 
 
 Feel with these shaking hands, as I had done 
 
 A crime against my race. 
 
THE FALCON. 
 
 SCENE II. A Room. 
 
 Frederigo. Giana. 
 
 Gia. You think it strange that I should visit you ? 
 
 Fred. No, madam, no. 
 
 Gia. You must : ev ? n I myself 
 (Yet Fve a cause) must own the visit strange. 
 
 Fred. I am most grateful for it. 
 
 Gia. Hear me, first. 
 What think you brought me hither? I've a suit 
 That presses, and I] look to you to grant it. 
 
 Fred. 'Tis but to name it, for you may command 
 My fullest service. Oh ! but you know this : 
 You injure when you doubt me. 
 
 Gia. That I think: 
 So, to my errand. Gentle Signior, listen. 
 I have a child : no mother ever lov'd 
 A son so much : but that you know him, I 
 Would say how fair he was, how delicate, 
 But oh ! I need not tell his sweet ways to you : 
 You know him. Signior, and your heart would grieve, 
 
 E 3 
 
82 THE FALCON. 
 
 I feel 't, if you should see the poor child die, 
 And now he's very ill. If you could hear 
 How he asks after you and says he loves you 
 Next to his mother, Signior — 
 
 Fred. Stay your tears. 
 Can I do ought to soothe your pretty boy? 
 I love him as my own. 
 
 Gia. Sir ? 
 
 Fred. I forget. 
 And yet I love him, lady : does that ask 
 Forgiveness ? Is my love — 
 
 Gia. Now you mistake me. 
 I thank you for your love. 
 
 Fred. Giana ! How ! 
 
 Gia. To my poor child : he pines and wastes away. 
 There is but one thing in the world he sighs for, 
 And that — I cannot name it. 
 
 Fred. Is it mine ? 
 
 Gia. It is, it is: I shame to ask it, but 
 What can a mother do r 
 
 Fred. 'Tis yours Giana : 
 Aye, tho' it be my head. 
 
 Gia. It is — the falcon. 
 Ah! pardon me : I see how dear the bird 
 Is to you, and I know how little I 
 Have right to ask it. Pardon me. 
 
THE FALCON. 83 
 
 Fred. Alas! 
 I do, from— from my soul. 
 
 Gia. I feel my folly. 
 You shall not part with your poor faithful friend. 
 No more of it : I was cruel to request it. 
 Signior, I will not take it, for the world. 
 I will not rob you, Sir. 
 
 Fred. Oh ! that you could : 
 Poor Mars ! Your child, Madam, will grieve to hear 
 His poor old friend is dead. 
 
 Gia. Impossible. 
 I saw it as I entered. 
 
 Fred. It is dead. 
 Be satisfied, dear madam, that I say it : 
 The bird is dead. 
 
 Gia. Nay, this is not like you. 
 I do not need excuses. 
 
 Fred. Gracious lady, 
 Believe me not so poor : the bird is dead. 
 Nay then, you doubt me still, I see. Then listen. 
 Madam, you came to visit me — to feast: 
 It was my barest hour of poverty. 
 I had not one poor coin to purchase food. 
 Could I for shame confess this unto you ? 
 I saw the descending beauty whom I loved 
 
84 THE FALCON. 
 
 Honouring my threshold with her step, and deign 
 To smile on one whom all the world abandoned. 
 Once I had been her lover, how sincere 
 Let me not say : my name was high and princely : 
 My nature had not quite forgot its habits : 
 I lov'd you still : I felt it — Could I stoop 
 And say how low and abject was my fortune, 
 And send you fasting home ? Your servant would 
 Have scorn'd me. Lady, even then I swore 
 That I would feast you daintily: I did. 
 My noble Mars, thou wast a glorious dish 
 Which Juno might have tasted. 
 
 Gia. What is this ? 
 
 Fred. We feasted on that matchless bird, to which 
 The fabulous Phoenix would have bow'd. Brave 
 
 bird! 
 He has redeem'd my credit. 
 
 Gia. {after a pause) — You have done 
 A princely thing, Frederigo. If I e'er 
 Forget it may I not know happiness. 
 Signior, you have a noble delicate mind, 
 And such as in an hour of pain or peril 
 Methinks I could repose on. 
 
 Fred. Oh! Giana! 
 
 Gia. I have a child who loves you : for his mother 
 
THE FALCON. 85 
 
 You've work'd a way into her inmost heart. 
 Can she requite you ? 
 
 Fred. How! what mean you? Oh! 
 Giana, sweet Giana, do not raise 
 My wretched heart so high, too high, lest it 
 Break on its falling. 
 
 Gia. But it shall not fall, 
 If I can prop it, or my hand requite 
 Your long and often-tried fidelity. 
 I come, Fredei'igo, not as young girls do, 
 To blush and prettily affect to doubt 
 The heart I know to be my own. I feel 
 That you have loved me well. Forgive me now, 
 That circumstance, which some day I'll make known, 
 Kept me aloof so long. My nature is 
 Not hard, altho' it might seem thus to you. 
 
 Fred. What can I say? 
 
 Gia. Nothing. I read your heart. 
 
 Fred. It bursts, my love : but 'tis with joy, with 
 
 ]oy. 
 
 Giana ! my Giana ! we will have 
 
 Nothing but halcyon days : Oh! we will live 
 
 As happily as the bees that hive their sweets, 
 
 And gaily as the summer fly, but wiser : 
 
 I'll be thy servant ever; yet not so. 
 
 Oh! my own love, divinest, best, I'll be 
 
86 THE FALCON. 
 
 Thy Sun of life, faithful through every season, 
 And thou shalt be my flower perennial, 
 My bud of beauty, my imperial rose, 
 My passion flower, and I will wear thee on 
 My heart, and thou shalt never never fade. 
 I'll love thee mightily my queen,- and in 
 The sultry hours I'll sing thee to thy rest 
 With music sweeter than the wild birds song : 
 And I will swear thine eyes are like the stars, 
 (They are they are, but softer,) and thy shape 
 Fine as the vaunted nymphs' who, poets feign'd, 
 Dwelt long ago in woods of A ready. 
 My gentle deity ! I'll crown thee with 
 The whitest lilies and then bow me down 
 Love's own idolater, and worship thee. 
 And thou wilt then be mine? My love, love! 
 How fondly will we pass our lives together; 
 And wander, heart-link'd, thro' the busy world 
 Like birds in eastern story. 
 
 Gia. Oh ! you rave. 
 
 Fred. I'll be a miser of thee; watch thee ever : 
 At morn, at noon, at eve, and all the night. 
 We will have clocks that with their silver chime 
 Shall measure out the moments : and I'll mark 
 The time and keep love's pleasant calendar. 
 To day I'll note a smile : to-morrow how 
 
THE FALCON. 
 
 Your bright eyes spoke — how saucily, and then 
 Record a kiss pluck'd from your currant lip, 
 And say how long 'twas taking : then, thy voice 
 As rich as stringed harp swept by the winds 
 In Autumn, gentle as the touch that falls 
 On serenader's moonlit instrument — 
 Nothing shall pass unheeded. Thou shalt be 
 My household goddess — nay smile not, nor shake 
 Backwards thy clustering curls, incredulous: 
 I swear it shall be so : it shall, my love. 
 
 Gia. Why, now thou'rt mad indeed : mad. 
 
 Fred. Oh! not so. 
 There was a statuary once who lov'd 
 And worshipped the white marble that he shaped ; 
 Till, as the story goes, the Cyprus' queen, 
 Or some such fine kind-hearted deity, 
 Touch'd the pale stone with life, and it became 
 At last, Pygmalion's bride : but thee — on whom 
 Nature had lavish'd all her wealth before, 
 Now Love has touch'd w T ith beauty : doubly fit 
 For human worship thou, thou — let me pause, 
 My breath is gone. 
 
 Gia. With talking. 
 
 Fred. With delight. 
 But I may worship thee in silence, still. 
 
88 THE FALCON. 
 
 Gia. The evening's dark; Now I must go : farewell 
 Until to-morrow. 
 
 Fred. Oh ! not yet, not yet. 
 Behold ! the moon is up, the bright ey'd moon, 
 And seems to shed her soft delicious light 
 On lovers reunited. Why she smiles, 
 And bids you tarry : will you disobey 
 The Lady of the sky? beware. 
 
 Gia. Farewell. 
 Nay, nay, I must go. 
 
 Fred. We will go together. 
 
 Gia. It must not be to-night: my servants wait 
 My coming at the fisher's cottage. 
 
 Fred. Yet, 
 A few more words, and then I'll part with thee, 
 For one long night: to-morrow bid me come 
 (Thou hast already with thine eyes) and bring 
 My load of love and lay it at thy feet. 
 — Oh ! ever while those floating orbs look bright 
 Shalt thou to me be a sweet guiding light. 
 Once, the Chaldean from his topmost tower 
 Did watch the stars, and then assert their power 
 Throughout the world : so, dear Giana, I 
 Will vindicate my own idolatry. 
 And in the beauty and the spell that lies 
 
THE FALCON. 89 
 
 In the dark azure of thy love-lit eyes ; 
 In the clear veins that wind thy neck beside, 
 'Till in the white depths of thy breast they hide, 
 And in thy polish' d forehead, and thy hair 
 Heap'd in thick tresses on thy shoulders fair; 
 In thy calm dignity; thy modest sense; 
 In thy most soft and winning eloquence; 
 In woman's gentleness and love (now bent 
 On me, so poor,) shall lie my argument. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
AN INVOCATION. 
 
 I. 
 
 If, at this dim and silent hour, 
 
 Spirits have a power 
 
 To wander from their homes of light, 
 
 And on the winds of night 
 
 To come, and to a human eye 
 
 Stand visible, like mortality-— 
 
 II- 
 
 Come thou,- the lost Marcelia, thou— 
 
 And on thy sunny brow 
 
 Bear all thy beauty as of old, 
 
 For I dare behold 
 
 Whatever sights sublime there be, 
 
 So I may once more look on thee, 
 
AN INVOCATION. 
 
 III. 
 
 Or be thou like a daemon thing, 
 
 Or shadow hovering, 
 
 Or like the bloody shapes that come 
 
 With torch and sound of drum, 
 
 Scaring the warrior's slumbers, I 
 
 Will welcome thee, and wish thee nigh. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And I would talk of the famous brave, 
 
 Of the dead, and their house the grave, 
 
 And feel its wondrous silentness, 
 
 And pity those whom none may bless, 
 
 And see how far the gaping tomb 
 
 Stretches its spectral arms — and hear my doom. 
 
 V. 
 
 And I would know how long they lie 
 
 On their dark beds who die, 
 
 And if they feel, or joy, or weep, 
 
 Or ever dare to sleep 
 
 In that strange land of shadows. Thou 
 
 Whom I do call, come hither — now. 
 
AN INVOCATION. 
 
 VI. 
 
 But there thou art, a radiant spirit, 
 
 And dost inherit 
 
 Earlier than others thy blue home, 
 
 And art free to roam 
 
 Like a visiting beam, from star to star. 
 
 And shed thy smiles from skies afar. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Then, soft and gentle beauty, be 
 
 Still like a star to me ; 
 
 And I will ever turn at night 
 
 Unto thy soothing light, 
 
 And fancy, while before thine eyes, 
 
 I am full in the smile of Paradise. 
 
96 
 
 ON THE STATUE OF THESEUS. 
 
 (One of the Elgin Marbles.) 
 
 Aye, this is he, 
 
 A proud and mighty spirit : how fine his form 
 
 Gigantic ! moulded like the race that strove 
 
 To take Jove's heaven by storm and scare him from 
 
 Olympus. There he sits, a demigod, 
 
 Stern as when he of yore forsook the maid 
 
 Who doating saved him from the Cretan toil, 
 
 Where he had slain the Minotaur. Alas ! 
 
 Fond Ariadne, thee did he desert 
 
 And heartless left thee on the Naxos shore, 
 
 To languish. — This is he who dared to roam 
 
 The world infernal, and on Pluto's queen, 
 
 Ceres' own lost Proserpina, did lay 
 
 His hand: thence was he prison'd in the vaults 
 
 Beneath, 'till freed by Hercules. Methinks, 
 
 (So perfect is the Phidian stone) his sire, 
 
 The sea-god Neptune, hath in anger stopped 
 
 The current of life, and with his trident-touch 
 
 Hath struck him into marble. 
 
WHEN SHALL WE THREE MEET AGAIN. 
 
 When shall we three meet again? 
 We will meet when the storms and rain 
 Of Autumn come, and the winds go by 
 Our dwelling with a fearful cry, 
 And shake the red leaves from the trees, 
 And when they say that the year must die, 
 Amongst their dreary harmonies 
 We'll mingle a wild but livelier strain, 
 And sing " We three have met again." 
 
 Three sprightly spirits are we now ; 
 One upon her maiden brow, 
 Bears life and beauty, and her smile 
 Shall cheer me on for many a mile; 
 
8 WHEN SHALL WE 
 
 For I am going far away, 
 
 To see the blue and cloudless day 
 
 Shine on the fields of Italy : 
 
 What tho' full many a heavy hour 
 
 May press me with its silent power,.. 
 
 And I, upon a foreign shore 
 
 A stranger, feel that touch the more ; 
 
 Yet, from amidst my sadness, I 
 
 Will look upon futurity, 
 
 And half forget my moody vein, 
 
 In the thought that " We shall meet again/ 
 
 When the Autumn nights are long 
 We will sing some pleasant song ; 
 And you my friend, whose silver tone 
 Makes Music's very voice your own, 
 You shall pour your richest numbers, 
 And 'wake the silent night from slumbers ; 
 And gentle Helen thou shalt be 
 Queen of the hour to him and me, 
 And we will braid amidst thy hair 
 Roses like thy bosom fair, 
 And we will laugh and worship thee, 
 As the Spirit of Poetry. 
 
THREE MEET AGAIN. 99 
 
 Away, away — for I must go 
 
 Over the wild and bounding waters ; 
 
 But amongst the Roman daughters 
 
 I shall think of thee, as now : 
 
 And — — if a lofty line 
 
 Remind me of thy verse divine, 
 
 Or if some sweet melody 
 
 Should bring a thought of home to me, 
 
 I will neglect the soothing strain, 
 
 To sigh " Oh ! may we meet again. " 
 
LINES 
 
 WRITTEN ON THE 
 
 DEATH OF A FRIEND. 
 
 (He died at Rome, of the MaV aria.) 
 
 O Rome ! amongst thy temples high, 
 And columns with the wild weed crown'd ? 
 And sculptured capitals that lie 
 Struck down, and in the grasp of Time, 
 How many a mighty heart sublime 
 Lies dead and stripp'c! of all its fame, 
 Like those who never earn'd a name, 
 Or played a base or vulgar part; 
 And now — thou hast another heart, 
 (No better in the wide world found) 
 Buried in thy immortal ground, 
 For thou — (altho* thy works of stone. 
 All in their times renowned known 
 
LINES ON A FRIEND. 
 
 As things of mere mortality 
 
 Must perish — ) thou canst never die. 
 
 But he, the burthen of my song, 
 
 Who came, but might not tarry long, 
 
 In summer strength hath perished. 
 
 Oh ! many a thing beside the grave 
 
 Whom few could love, and none could save, 
 
 Hath he, with weak but hurrying tread 
 
 Passed. And he is with the dead! 
 
 ' The dead ' — whom now 'twere vain to call 
 
 While lying in their silent sleep, 
 
 And yet we cannot help but weep, 
 
 Albeit 'tis idle idle all. 
 
 Then, let this poor memorial 
 
 Remind some of his early day, 
 
 And to all who lov'd him, say 
 
 Tho' gone, he is not quite forgot. 
 
 While to those who knew him not, 
 
 It is enough to tell that he 
 
 Was such a man as men should be ; 
 
 That pray'r, nor art, nor love could save ; 
 
 And that he lies in a foreign grave. 
 
MARCELIA, 
 
 It was a dreary place. The shallow brook 
 That ran throughout the wood there took a turn* 
 And widened : all its music died away, 
 And in the place a silent eddy told 
 That there the stream grew deeper. There dark trees 
 Funereal, (cypress, yew, and shadowy pine, 
 And spicy cedar) clustered, and at night 
 .Shook from their melancholy branches sounds 
 And sighs like death : 'twas strange, for thro 7 the 
 
 day 
 They stood quite motionless, and looked methougbt 
 Like monumental things which the sad earth 
 From its green bosom had cast out in pity, 
 To mark a young girl's grave. The very leaves 
 Disown'd their natural green, and took a black 
 And mournful hue: and the rough brier, stretching 
 
MARCELIA. 103 
 
 His straggling arms across the rivulet, 
 Lay like an armed sentinel there, catching 
 With his tenacious leaf, straws, withered boughs, 
 Moss that the banks had lost, coarse grasses which 
 Swam with the current, and with these it hid 
 
 The poor Marcelia's death-bed. Never may 
 
 net 
 Of venturous fisher be cast in with hope, 
 For not a fish abides there. The slim deer 
 Snorts as he ruffles with his shorten'd breath 
 The brook, and panting flies the unholy place, 
 And the white heifer lows and passes on ; 
 The foaming hound laps not, and winter birds 
 Go higher up the stream. And yet I love 
 To loiter there : and when the rising moon 
 Flames down the avenue of pines, and looks 
 Red and dilated thro' the evening mists, 
 And chequered as the heavy branches sway 
 To and fro' with the wind, I stay to listen, 
 And fancy to myself that a sad voice, 
 Praying, comes moaning thro' the leaves, as 'twere 
 For some misdeed. The story goes, that some 
 Neglected girl (an Orphan, whom the world 
 Frown'd upon) once stray'd thither, and 'twas thought 
 Cast herself in the stream : you may have heard 
 Of one Marcelia, poor Molini's daughter, who 
 
104 MARCELIA. 
 
 Fell ill and came to want ? No ? — oh she lov'd 
 A wealthy man who mark'd her not. He wed, 
 And then the girl grew sick and pined away 
 And drown'd herself for love. Some day or other 
 I'll tell you all the story. 
 
PORTRAITS. 
 
 I dreamt, and o'er my enchanted vision pass'd 
 Shapes of the elder time : (beautiful things 
 That men have died for ;) As they stood on earth, 
 But more ethereal, and each forehead bore 
 The stamp and character of the starry skies. 
 
 First came that Roman Lady from whose bosom 
 The Gracchi twins were born, gracious Cornelia: 
 Her raven hair was wreath'd about her brow 
 Severe, yet fair and lovely. Like a queen 
 She trod, majestic as when Juno thron'd 
 Above the Deities, by the side of Jove, 
 Lends her proud smile celestial, while her Lord 
 Showers Heaven's bounties on the world below. 
 
 Behind her followed an Atheuian dame, 
 (The pale and elegant Aspasia) 
 Like some fair marble carved by Phidias' hand, 
 And meant to imitate the nymph or muse : 
 
 f 3 
 
106 PORTRAITS. 
 
 Mistress of poetry and song was she. 
 
 And fit to be beloved of Pericles. 
 
 Shadow'd by myrtle boughs she floated onwards. 
 
 Then came a darlc-brow'd spirit, on whose head 
 
 Laurel and withering roses loosely hung : 
 
 She held a harp, amongst whose chords her hand 
 
 Wandered for music — and it came : She sang 
 
 A song despairing, and the whispering winds 
 
 Seem'd envious of her melody, and streamed 
 
 Amidst the wires to rival her, in vain. 
 
 Short was the strain, but sweet: Methought it spoke 
 
 Of broken hearts, and still and moonlight seas, 
 
 Of love, and loneliness, and fancy gone, 
 
 And hopes decay'd for ever : and my ear 
 
 Caught well remember'd names, l Leucadia''s rock' 
 
 At times, and * faithless Phaon :' Then the form 
 
 Pass'd not, but seemM to melt in air away : 
 
 This was the Lesbian Sappho. — Then pass'd by 
 
 Another, and another, and another without names. 
 
 At last, came one whom none could e'er mistake 
 Amidst a million : Egypt's dark-eyed Queen : 
 The love, the spell, the bane of Antony. 
 O, Cleopatra ! who shall speak of thee ? 
 Gaily, but like the Empress of a land 
 
PORTRAITS. 105 
 
 She mov'd, and light as a wood nymph in her prime, 
 And crown' d with costly gems, whose single price 
 Might buy a kingdom, yet how dim they shone 
 Beneath the magic of her eye, whose beam 
 Flash'd love and languishment : Of varying humours 
 She seem'd, yet subtle in her wildest mood, 
 As guile were to her passions ministrant. 
 At last she sank as dead. A noxious worm 
 Fed on those blue and wandering veins that lac'd 
 Her rising bosom : aye, did sleep upon 
 The pillow of Antony, and left behind, 
 In dark requital for its banquet — death. 
 
LINES 
 
 WRITTEN UNDER AN 
 
 ENGRAVING OF MILTON. 
 
 He, tho' he dwelt in seeming night, 
 
 Scattered imperishable light 
 
 Around, and to the regions of the day 
 
 Sent his winged thoughts away, 
 
 And bade them search the w r ays on high 
 
 For the bright flame of Poetry. 
 
 — -'Tis to adventurous spirits given 
 
 Alone, who dare themselves obey, 
 
 And look at the face of the inmost heaven. 
 
 He saw the burning fire that keeps, 
 
 In the unfathomable deeps, 
 
 Its powers for ever, and made a sign 
 
 To the Morning Prince divine, 
 
 Who came across the sulphurous flood 
 
 Obedient to that master call, 
 
 And, in Angel beauty, stood 
 
 Proud on his star-lit pedestal. 
 
LINES ON MILTON. 
 
 Then the mighty limner drew, 
 
 And tincted with a skiey hue, 
 
 The king of all the damned : the same 
 
 Who headlong from the Empyrean came, 
 
 With all his fiery cherubim, 
 
 Blasted, and millions fell with him. 
 
 He saw the dreary regions where 
 Eternal chaos sate, and there 
 Learnt secrets of the whispering gloom, 
 And faced the father of the tomb, 
 Orcus ; and many an awful thing 
 That comes in wild dreams hovering, 
 Tumult, and Chance, and Discord, Fame, 
 And heard and saw the " dreaded name 
 Of Demogorgon," and his soul 
 Felt the shadowy darkness roll 
 From night's throne, and then he told 
 To man those signs and wonders old. 
 
TO A STAR. 
 
 Written (for a Common-place book) under the Sketch of a 
 Cavalier contemplating a Star. 
 
 Now, from thy skiey road, look down upon me, 
 
 Hesper — Star of my sad nativity! 
 
 • — With no unholy thought I dare to court 
 
 Thy lustrous eye on' me: and as to one 
 
 Known in some happier hours I bid thee hail 
 
 After my many wanderings. I have seen 
 
 Thy burning glance on bare and peopled lands, 
 
 Civil and savage : on the parched plains 
 
 Of India and the sands of Palestine, 
 
 On tropic waters and on iced shores, 
 
 And on the far and solitary seas 
 
 O' the south. I've roam'd this circular world, and 
 
 thou 
 Hast followed me like fate, yet never look'd 
 Before with such kind aspect: Thou art now 
 Shining above my home, and hallowing 
 The sweet haunt of my infancy - — I come 
 
TO A STAR. 1 
 
 After my toils and dangers to seek rest, 
 
 And love, and welcoming eyes, and gentle hearts. 
 
 Oh ! thou bright Star, be now my messenger, 
 
 And from thy cloudy palace (for the clouds 
 
 Are rolling 'round about thee) glance upon 
 
 My mother's house with thy expressive eye, 
 
 And to the dear inhabitants, gentle Star, 
 
 Dart smiling tidings that the boy they loved 
 
 Is come indeed. Shipwrecked and lost for years, 
 
 He lives redeemed from his watery grave, 
 
 Lives, and will be a blessing. And on the cheek 
 
 Of one supremely soft and beautiful, 
 
 Light like the cheerful ray of a Summer morning; 
 
 So may my own Olympia know that still 
 
 Juan, the wanderer, lives. 
 
SONG. 
 
 l. 
 
 Sleep my Leila; do not fear; 
 Close thine eyes; thy Hassan's here. 
 Thy lover's still beside thee : 
 Then how can harm betide thee r 
 
 Sleep, my rose of beauty, sleep, 
 And I will hush thy murmurs deep, 
 And watch thee while thou sleepest, 
 And kiss thee if thou weepest. 
 
 Yet, may no fears, nor aught that seems 
 Evil ever haunt thy dreams. 
 Dream thou of love and flowers, 
 Blue skies and happier hours. 
 
SONG. 
 
 4„ 
 
 And I, beneath this summer moon, 
 Will sing an old remember'd tune, 
 Such as the winds awaken 
 When slumbering leaves are shaken. 
 
 Such as comes, when o'er smooth sands 
 The sea-maid spreads her silver hands, 
 And sinks, with scarce a motion, 
 Back in the calm green ocean. 
 
 6. 
 
 Sweet as when the star-light goes, 
 Thy dark eyes now begin to close, 
 On all, on me thy lover : 
 They're shut : my song is over. 
 
SONG. 
 
 A MAID TO HER LOVER. 
 
 Where's the ring I gave to thee, 
 Juan, when our love was young, 
 And I upon thy bosom clung 
 With all a girl's credulity ? 
 
 In the narrow circlet lay 
 An emblem as I thought (ere fears 
 And doubt sprung up in after years) 
 Of endless love, that mock'd decay. 
 
 And its golden round contained 
 For gentle hearts a silent spell, 
 Within whose magic we might dwell, 
 I hoped, as long as life remained. 
 
 And am I then forgot by you? 
 
 Oh ! then send back the idle token, 
 
 For rings are nought when vows are broken, 
 
 And useless all while love is true. 
 
SERENADE. 
 
 Listen ! from the forest boughs 
 The voice-like angel of the spring 
 Utters his soft vows 
 To the proud rose blossoming. 
 
 And now beneath thy lattice, dear ! 
 I am like the bird complaining : 
 Thou above (I fear) 
 Like the rose disdaining. 
 
 From her chamber in the skies 
 Shouts the lark at break of morning, 
 And when day-light flies 
 Comes the raven's warning. 
 
 This of gloom and that of mirth 
 In their mystic numbers tell ; 
 But thoughts of sweeter birth 
 Teacheth the nightingale. 
 
A DRYAD'S HAUNT. 
 
 TRAVELLER. 
 
 This is a lovely spot. Here let us rest, 
 
 Beneath this branching oak, and make the grass 
 
 Our bed awhile. Shepherd ! this spot indeed 
 
 Were worthy some tradition: hast thou none 
 
 Stored in thy memory, to beguile the time 
 
 While the sky burns above us? Why, methinks, 
 
 The very seasons meet, flinging the buds 
 
 Of Spring in the lap of Summer. Every tree 
 
 That prodigal Nature gives springs forth, and seems 
 
 The fairest of its kind. The poplar there 
 
 Shoots up its spire and shakes its leaves i' the sun 
 
 Fantastical, while 'round its slender base 
 
 Rambles the sweet-breath'd woodbine : There beside, 
 
 Glooms the dark cypress, and the ash seems to sigh 
 
 Lest it should fling its berries to the blast : 
 
 There crawls the vine; there the pale rose doth hang 
 
 Her head like a love-sick girl : on high the cedar 
 
 Stoops, like a monarch to his people bending, 
 
 And casts his sweets around him — Where are we ? 
 
A DRYAD'S HAUNT. 117 
 
 GUIDE. 
 
 I had almost forgot the place. This was 
 
 A Dryad's home : Beneath this ancient oak 
 
 (First o' the forest) that doth spread its arms 
 
 Abroad, and stands again regenerate, 
 
 She hVd. She loved, it seems, a mortal but 
 
 The fairest youth in Phocis : on his brow 
 
 Sate a mild beauty (such the ancients paint 
 
 Hylas or Hyacinth, or who died self slain 
 
 Narcissus,) — Here she passed her life, and caught 
 
 Youth from the changing year. She lov'd to lie 
 
 At noontide on yon slope, and muse upon 
 
 Her sad and lonely destiny. At last, 
 
 Quitting her sacred tree (here had she dwelt 
 
 The spirit of the place) she plunged within 
 
 Yon bend of the Cephisus, where you see 
 
 The waves flow darker and the ripples sink 
 
 To silence : yet she died not, for some god 
 
 (Then watching from his orb) saved the poor nymph 
 
 And fixed her in the skies, a star 'tis thought, 
 
 For ever when the setting sun departs 
 
 On April evenings or in early May, 
 
 (That time she left us) a pale star is seen 
 
 Brightly to shine on that part of the stream 
 
 Wherein she plunged ; and ever when it shines 
 
 The trees around the place are mov'd, as if 
 
118 A DRYAD'S HAUNT. 
 
 By airs from Heav'n, and sweetness steams about : 
 The dark pines bend their heads : that sacred oak 
 Lets falls its leaves, as when on Autumn nights 
 The North wind (Winter's fierce precursor) roams 
 Amongst the branches howling, and disrobes 
 The shrubs of all their green : pale Syrinx then 
 Moans in the reeds, and sweet Aglaia (she 
 Still constant to the inconstant rivulet,) 
 Troubles the faint Cephisus' course, and breathes 
 Music along the waters, 
 
LAST DAY 
 
 TIPPOO SAIB. 
 
 That day he 'rose Sultan of half the East. 
 —The guards awoke, each from his feverish dream 
 Of conquest or of fear: the trumpet plain'd 
 Thro' the far citadel, and thousands trooped 
 Obedient to its mournful melody, 
 Soldier and chief and slave : And he the while 
 Traversed his hall of power, and with a look 
 Deeply observant glanced on all : then, waving 
 His dusky arm, struck thro' the listening crowd 
 Silence and dumb respect : from his fierce tongue 
 Stream'd words of vengeance : Fame he promised, 
 And wealth and honours to the brave, but woe 
 To those who fail'd him. — There he stood, a king 
 Half-circled by his Asian chivalry, 
 In figure as some Indian God, or like 
 
120 TIP POO SMB. 
 
 Satan when he beneath his burning dome 
 Marshal'd the fiery cherubim, and called 
 All hell to arms. The Sun blazed into day : 
 Then busy sights were seen, and sounds of war 
 Came thickening : first the steed's shrill neigh ; the 
 
 drum 
 Rolling at intervals; the bugle note, 
 Mix'd with the hoarse command ; then (nearing on) 
 The soldier's silent, firm, and regular tread; 
 The trampling horse ; the clash of swords ; the wheel 
 That, creaking, bore the dread artillery. 
 How fierce the dark king bore him on that day! 
 How bravely ! Like a common slave he fought, 
 Heedless of life, and cheer'd the soldier on, 
 Deep in his breast the bullets sank, but he 
 Kept on, and this looked nobly — like a king. 
 That day he earned a title with his life, 
 And made his foes respect him. — Towards night 
 He grew faint, very faint with many wounds : 
 His soldiers bore him in : they wept : he was 
 Their old commander, and, whate'er his life, 
 Had led them on to conquest. Then (it was 
 His wish) they placed him on his throne — He sate 
 Like some dark form of marble, with an eye 
 Staring, and strained with pain, and motionless, 
 And glassy as with death : his lips compressed 
 
TIPPOO SAIB. n 
 
 Spoke inward agony, yet seem'd he resolute 
 To die a king. An enemy came, and strove 
 To tear away his regal diadem : 
 Then turned his eye; he rose — one angry blush 
 Tinted his cheek, and fled. He grasp'd his sword, 
 And struck his last, faint, useless blow, and then 
 Stood all defenceless — Ah ! a flash, and quick 
 Fled the dark ball of death: right thro' the brain 
 It went, (a mortal messenger) and all 
 That then remain'd of that proud Asian king, 
 Who startled India far and wide, and shook 
 The deserts with his thunder, was — a name. 
 
 I 
 
SONG. 
 
 My love is a lady of gentle line, 
 Tow'rds some like the cedar bending, 
 Tow'rds me she flies — like a shape divine 
 From heaven to earth descending. 
 
 Her very look is life to me, 
 
 Her smile like the clear moon rising, 
 
 And her kiss is as sweet as the honied bee, 
 
 And more and more enticing. 
 
 Mild is my love as the summer air, 
 And her cheek (her eyes half closing) 
 Now rests on her full-blown bosom fair, 
 Like Languor on Love reposing. 
 
SONG. 
 
 Thou shalt sing to me 
 When the waves are sleeping, 
 And the winds are creeping 
 'Round the embowering chesnut tree. 
 
 Thou shalt sing by night, 
 
 When no birds are calling, 
 
 And the stars are falling 
 
 Brightly from their mansions bright. 
 
 Of those thy song shall tell 
 From whom we've never parted, 
 The young, the tender-hearted, 
 The gay, and all who loved us well. 
 
 But we'll not profane 
 
 Such a gentle hour 
 
 Nor our favourite bower, 
 
 With a thought that tastes of pain. 
 
 g 2 
 
SONNETS. 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 It is not that sweet herbs and flow'rs alone 
 
 Start up, like spirits that have lain asleep 
 
 In their great Mother's iced bosom deep 
 
 For months, or that the birds, more joyous grown, 
 
 Catch once again their silver summer tone, 
 
 And they who late from bough to bough did creep, 
 
 Now trim their plumes upon some sunny steep, 
 
 And seem to sing of Winter overthrown. 
 
 No- — with an equal march the immortal mind, 
 
 As tho' it never could be left behind, 
 
 Keeps pace with every movement of the year ; 
 
 And (for high truths are born in happiness) 
 
 As the warm heart expands, the eye grows clear, 
 
 And sees beyond the slave's or bigot's guess. 
 
SONNETS. 125 
 
 SUMMER. 
 
 Now have green April and the blue-eyed May 
 Vanish 'd awhile: and lo ! the glorious June, 
 (While Nature ripens in his burning noon) 
 Comes like a young inheritor, and gay, 
 Altho' his parent months have passed away : 
 But his green crown shall wither, and the tune 
 That usherM in his birth be silent scon, 
 And in the strength of youth shall he decay. 
 What matters this — so long as in the past 
 And in the days to come we live, and feel 
 The present nothing worth, until it steal 
 Away, and like a disappointment die? 
 For Joy, dim child of Hope and Memory, 
 Flies ever on before or follows fast. 
 
SONNETS. 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 There is a fearful spirit busy now : 
 
 Already have the elements unfurled 
 
 Their banners : the great sea-wave is upcurled : 
 
 The cloud comes : the fierce winds begin to blow 
 
 About, and blindly on their errands go, 
 
 And quickly will the pale red leaves be hurled 
 
 From their dry boughs, and all the forest world, 
 
 Stripp'd of its pride, be like a desart show. 
 
 I love that moaning music which I hear 
 
 In the bleak gusts of Autumn, for the soul 
 
 Seems gathering tidings from another sphere ; 
 
 And, in sublime mysterious sympathy, 
 
 Man's bounding spirit ebbs and swells more high, 
 
 Accordant to the billow's loftier roll. 
 
SONNETS'. 
 
 
 WINTER. 
 
 This is the eldest of the seasons: he 
 Moves not like Spring with gradual step, nor grows 
 From bud to beauty, but with all his snows 
 Comes down at once in hoar antiquity. 
 No rains nor loud proclaiming tempests flee 
 Before him, nor unto his time belong 
 The suns of Summer, nor the charms of song 
 That with May's gentle smiles so well agree. 
 But he, made perfect in his birth-day cloud, 
 Starts into sudden life with scarce a sound, 
 And with a gentle footstep prints the ground, 
 As tho' to cheat man's ear; yet while he stays, 
 He seems as 'twere to prompt our merriest days, 
 And bid the dance and joke be long and loud. 
 
SONNET. 
 
 ( Written after seeing Mr. Mac ready in Rob Roy.) 
 
 Macready, thou hast pleas'd me much : 'till now 
 (And yet I would not thy fine powers arraign) 
 I did not think thou hadst that livelier vein, 
 Nor that clear open spirit upon thy brow. 
 Come, I will crown thee with a poet's bough : 
 Mine is a humble branch, yet not in vain 
 Giv'n, if the few I sing shall not disdain 
 To wear the little wreaths that I bestow. 
 There is a buoyant air, a passionate tone 
 That breathes about thee and lights up thine eye 
 With fire and freedom : it becomes thee well. 
 It is the bursting of a good seed, sown 
 Beneath a cold and artificial sky : 
 'Tis genius overmastering its spell. 
 
A STORMY NIGHT. 
 
 It is a stormy night, and the wild sea 
 
 That sounds for ever, now upon the beach 
 
 Is pouring all its power. Each after each 
 
 The hurrying waves cry out rejoicingly, 
 
 And, crowding onwards, seem as they would reach 
 
 The height I tread upon. The winds are high, 
 
 And the quick lightnings shoot along the sky 
 
 At intervals. It is an hour to teach 
 
 Vain man his insignificance ; and yet, 
 
 Tho' all the elements in their might have met, 
 
 At every pause comes ringing on my ear 
 
 A sterner murmur, and I seem to hear 
 
 The voice of Silence sounding from her throne 
 
 Of darkness, mightier than all — but all alone. 
 
Once, in a dream, I saw a shape of power 
 
 And unimaginable beauty, clad 
 
 In a vest of brightness star dropt, armed with 
 
 A spear (celestial temper) while around 
 
 Blaz'd circling light— intense — and far beyond 
 
 Those sheeted lightnings that, by night, cast out 
 
 Their splendours near the line. The vision spoke 
 
 Cheering, and as it spoke, the air became 
 
 Painfully sweet. Such odours as the rose 
 
 Wastes on the summer air, or such as rise 
 
 From beds of hyacinths, or from jasmine flowers, 
 
 Or when the blue-ey'd violet weeps upon 
 
 Some sloping bank remote, while the young sun 
 
 (Creeping within her sheltering bower of leaves) 
 
 Dries up her tears, were nought — fantastical. 
 
 It spoke — in tones cathedral organs (touched 
 
 By master hands) ne'er gave — nor April winds* 
 
 Wandering thro' harps iF.olian — nor the note 
 
 Of pastoral pipe, heard on the Garonne banks 
 
 At eventide — nor Spanish youth's guitar, 
 
 Night-touch' d — nor strains that take the charmed ear, 
 
 Breath'd by the 'witching dames of Italy. 
 
DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 
 
 A SPANISH TALE. 
 
DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 
 
 A SPANISH TALE. 
 
 The octave rhyme (Ital. ottava rirna) 
 Is a delightful measure made of ease 
 
 Turn'd up with epigram, and, tho' it seem a 
 Verse that a man may scribble when he please, 
 
 Is somewhat difficult; indeed, I deem a 
 Stanza like Spenser's will be found to teaze 
 
 Less, or heroic couplet : there, the pen 
 
 May touch and polish and touch up again. 
 
DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 
 
 II. 
 
 But, for the octave measure — it should slip 
 Like running water o'er its pebbled bed, 
 
 Making sweet music, (here I own I dip 
 In Shakspeare for a simile) and be fed 
 
 Freely, and then the poet must not nip 
 
 The line, nor square the sentence, nor be led 
 
 By old, approved, poetic canons; no, 
 
 But give his words the slip and let 'em go. 
 
 III. 
 
 I mean to give in this same pleasant rhyme 
 Some short account of Don Diego de 
 
 Montilla, quite a hero in his time, 
 
 Who conquer'd captain Cupid as you'll see : 
 
 My tale is sad in part, in part sublime, 
 
 With here and there a smack of pleasantry: 
 
 As to the moral, why— 'tis under cover. 
 
 I leave it for the reader to discover. 
 
DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 
 
 IV. 
 
 ' Arms and ' — but I forget. Love and the man 
 I sing, that's Virgil's method of beginning, 
 
 Alter'd a little just to suit my plan, 
 
 I own the thing and so there's not much sinning, 
 
 Most writers steal a good thing when they can, 
 And when 'tis safely got 'tis worth the winning. 
 
 The worst oft is we now and then detect 'em, 
 
 Before they ever dream that we suspect 'em. 
 
 Love and the man I sing — and yet 'twould be 
 As well methinks, nay perhaps it may be better, 
 
 Particularly for a young bard like me, 
 
 Not to stick quite so closely to the letter; 
 
 One's verse as well as fancy should be free, 
 The last indeed hates every sort of fetter: 
 
 So, as each man may call what maid he chuses 
 
 By way of Muse, I'll e'en call all the Muses. 
 
DIEGO DE MONTILLA, 
 
 VI. 
 
 Hearken ! ye gentle sisters, (eight or nine) 
 Who haunted in old time Parnassus' hill, 
 
 If that so worshipp'd mount be yet divine, 
 And ye there meet your mighty master still, 
 
 And still for poet heads the laurel twine, 
 And dip your pitchers in the famous rill, 
 
 I'll trouble ye for a leaf or two; tho' first I 
 
 '11 just try the jug, for 'faith, I'm somewhat thirsty. 
 
 VII. 
 
 And now, great lyrist, fain would I behold 
 Thee in thy glory — Lord and Life of day ! 
 
 Sun-bright Apollo! with thy locks of gold, 
 As thou art wont to tread heav'n's starry way, 
 
 Not marbled and reduced to human mould, 
 As thou didst stand, one of a rich array, 
 
 (Yet even there distinct and first of all) 
 
 In the vast palace of the conquer* d Gaul. 
 
DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 But, if thy radiant forehead be too bright 
 For me to look upon with earthy eye, 
 
 Ah ! send some little nymph of air or light, 
 Whom love has touch'd and taken to the sky, 
 
 And bid her, till the inspiration quite 
 
 O'erwhelms, show'r kisses on my lip, and sigb 
 
 Such songs (and I will list to her for hours) 
 
 As once were sung in amaranthine bovvers. 
 
 IX. 
 
 And I will lie pillow'd upon her breast, 
 
 And drink the music of her words, and dream 
 
 (When sleep shall bring at last a pleasant rest) 
 Haply of many a high immortal theme, 
 
 And, in the lightning of her beauty blest, 
 
 My soul may catch perhaps one thrilling beam 
 
 From her dark eyes — but, ah ! your glorious day 
 
 Ye nymphs and deities now hath passed away. 
 
DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 
 
 Oh ! ye delicious fables, where the wave 
 
 And woods were peopled and the air with things 
 
 So lovely, why ah ! why has science grave 
 Scatter' d afar your sweet imaginings ? 
 
 Why sear'd the delicate flow'rs that genius gave, 
 And dash'd the diamond drops from fancy's wings? 
 
 Alas ! the spirit languishes, and lies 
 
 At mercy of life's dull realities. 
 
 XI. 
 
 No more by well or bubbling fountain clear 
 The Naiad dries her tresses in the sun, 
 
 Nor longer may we in the branches hear 
 The Dryad talk, nor see the Oread run 
 
 Along the mountains, nor the Nereid steer 
 
 Her way amongst the waves when day is done. 
 
 Shadow nor shape remains.— But I am prating 
 
 While th' reader and Diego, both, are waiting. 
 
DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 139 
 
 XII. 
 
 Diego was a knight, but more enlighten'd 
 
 Than knights were then, or are, in his countree, 
 
 Young— brave— (at least, he'd never yet been frighten'd,) 
 Well-bred, and gentle, as a knight should be : 
 
 He play'd on the guitar, could read and write and 
 Had seen some parts of Spain, and (once) the sea. 
 
 That sort of man one hopes to meet again, 
 
 And the most amorous gentleman in Spain. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 There was a languor in his Spanish eye 
 
 That almost touched on softness ; had he been 
 
 Instead of man a woman, by the bye, 
 
 His languish had done honour to a queen; 
 
 For there was in it that regality 
 
 Of look, which says the owner must have been 
 
 Something in former days, whatever now : 
 
 And his hair curl'd (or was curl'd) o'er his brow. 
 
DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 The Don Diego (mind this, Don Diej/go : 
 Pronounce it rightly,) fell in love. He saw 
 
 The daughter of a widow from Tobago, 
 
 Whose husband fell with honour : i. e. War 
 
 Ate up the lord of this same old virago, 
 
 Who strait return 'd to Spain, and went to law 
 
 With the next heir, but wisely first bespoke 
 
 The smartest counsel, for that's half the joke. 
 
 XV. 
 
 The lady won her cause ; then suitors came 
 To woo her and her daughters : she had two : 
 
 Aurelia was the elder, and her name, 
 
 Grace, wit, and so forth thro' the country flew 
 
 Quicker than scandal : young Aurora's fame — 
 She had no fame, poor girl, and yet she grew 
 
 And brighten'd into beauty, as a flower 
 
 Shakes off the rain that dims its earlier hour. 
 
DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Aurelia had some wit, and, as I've said, 
 Grace, and Diego lov'd her like his life; 
 
 Offer'd to give her half his board and bed, 
 In short he woo'd the damsel for a wife, 
 
 But she turned to the right about her head 
 
 And gave some tokens of (not love but) strife ; 
 
 And bade him 'wait, be silent, and forget 
 
 Such nonsense: He heard this, and — lov'd her yet. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 He lov'd: O how he lov'd ! His heart was full 
 Of that immortal passion, which alone 
 
 Holds thro' the wide world its eternal rule 
 Supreme, and with its deep seducing tone 
 
 Winneth the wise, the young, the beautiful, 
 The brave, and all to bow before its throne 
 
 The sun and soul of life, the end, the gain, 
 
 The rich requital for an age of pain. 
 
DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Beneath the power of that passion he 
 
 Shrank like a leaf of summer, which the sun 
 
 Has scorch'd 'ere yet in green maturity — - 
 He was a desperate gamester who ne'er won 
 
 A single stake, but saw the chances flee, 
 
 And still kept throwing on till— all was done : 
 
 A rose on which the worm had rioted. 
 
 [All this was what his friends and others said.] 
 
 XIX. 
 
 And yet, but one short year ago, his cheek 
 
 Dimpled and shone, and o'er it health had flung 
 
 A colour, like the Autumn evening's streak, 
 Which flushing through the darker olive, clung 
 
 Like a rich blush upon him. In a freak 
 
 Men will I'm told, or when their pride is stung, 
 
 Call up that deepening crimson in girls' features : 
 
 Some people swear it makes 'em different creatures. 
 
DIEGO DE MONT1LLA. 
 
 XX. 
 
 For me, I always have an awkward feeling 
 When that vermillion tide comes flooding o'er 
 
 The brows and breast, instead of gently stealing 
 On, and then fading till 'tis seen no more ; 
 
 The first proceeds too from unhandsome dealing, 
 And sudden leaves a paleness, if no more, 
 
 Perhaps a frown. The last is born of pleasure 
 
 Or springs from praise, and comes and goes at leisure. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 His mistress — Shall I paint Aurelia's frown? 
 
 Her proud and regal look, her quick black eye, 
 Thro' whose dark fringes such a beam shot down 
 
 On men (yet touch'd at times with witchery) 
 As when Jove's planet distant and alone 
 
 Flashes from out the sultry summer sky 
 And bids each lesser star give up its place. 
 — This was exactly Miss Aurelia's case. 
 
DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Her younger sister — -she was meek and pale 
 And scarcely noticed when Aurelia near, 
 
 None ev'n had thought it worth their while to rail 
 On her, and in her young unpractis'd ear 
 
 Those soft bewitching tones that seldom fail 
 To win had ne'er been utter'd. She did steer 
 
 Her gentle course along life's dangerous sea 
 
 For sixteen pleasant summers quietly. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Her shape was delicate : her motion free 
 As his, that "charter'd libertine" the air, 
 
 Or Dian's when upon the mountains she 
 Follow'd the fawn: her bosom full and fair; 
 
 It seem'd as Love himself might thither flee 
 
 For shelter when his brow was parched with care : 
 
 And her white arm, like marble turn'd by grace, 
 
 Was of good length, and in its proper place. 
 
DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Her hair was black as night : her eyes were blue : 
 Her mouth was small, and from its opening stream'd 
 
 Notes like the silver voice of young Carew, 
 Of whose sweet music I have often dream'd, 
 
 And then (as youths like me are wont to do) 
 Fancying that every other damsel scream'd, 
 
 Started to hear Miss C. again. I sit 
 
 In general (to be near her) in the pit. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Let lovers who have croaking Delias swear 
 
 Their tones are ' just in tune* or ' just the thing:' 
 
 Let lying poets puff, in couplets fair, 
 
 Pan's reedy pipe — Apollo's golden string — 
 
 How Memnon sung, and made the Thebans stare 
 When he saw Titan's daughter scattering 
 
 Flowers — 'tis all stuff, reader : what say you ? 
 
 Give me (but p'rhaps I'm partial) Miss Carew. 
 
DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Oh! witching as the nightingale first heard 
 Beneath Arabian heavens, wooing the rose, 
 
 Is she, or thrush new-mated, or the bird 
 That calls the morning as the last star goes 
 
 Down in the west, and out of sight is heard 
 Awhile, then seems in silence to repose 
 
 Somewhere beyond the clouds, in the full glory 
 
 Of the new-risen Sun. — Now to my story : 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 The Don was constant at his Lady's court, 
 For every day at twelve she held a levee, 
 
 Where song, joke, music, and all sorts of sport 
 Went 'round, so that the hours were seldom heavy ; 
 
 Aurelia talk'd, (and talking was her forte) 
 
 Or quizzed her female friends, and then the bevy 
 
 Of coxcombs vow'd such wit was never heard : 
 
 For this one gave his honour, one his word. 
 
DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Things went on pretty smoothly till the Don 
 
 Declar'd his love ; but, when he sought to marry, 
 
 He found she would not give up all for one, 
 
 What ! Counts and Cavaliers and all, and carry 
 
 Herself demurely — 'twas not to be done : 
 
 She said she lov'd him not, and bade him tarry, 
 
 (As I have told,) on which he did begin 
 
 To grow and soon grew tolerably thin. 
 
 He gazed and watch' d, and watch' d and gazed upon her, 
 And look'd, like Suckling's lover, thin and pale ; 
 
 But how should looking thin have ever won her, 
 When looking well (as he says) didn't prevail, 
 
 It did not answer with our Spanish Donna, 
 Nor can it save in poem, play, or tale ; 
 
 In fact there's not much interesting in't 
 
 Unless it be in hotpress and good print. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
148 DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Yet, gentles, would I not be thought to jeer 
 
 Tbe Love that flourishes when young hearts are given, 
 
 And pledged in hope and fullest faith sincere, 
 
 Nor would I jest when such fond hearts are riven. 
 
 I only mean that love ('tis pretty clear) 
 
 When 't rises without hope is merely leaven, 
 
 And that boys suffering 'neath the lash of Cupid, 
 
 Are sometimes even more than sad; they're stupid. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 At last, Aurora saw him : she had seen 
 
 Him oft when scarcely turning from her book 
 
 She bowed, and then as he had never been, 
 Resum'd her study. Now, his alter' d look 
 
 She mark'd, and troubled eye once so serene, 
 
 And trembling limbs which Love's wild fever shook : 
 
 — His faint and melancholy smile that shone 
 
 So seldom but so beautiful was gone. 
 
DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 She look'd and iook'd again : She could not turn, 
 And yet she tried, her eyes or thoughts away ; 
 
 And, as it were from pity, strove to learn 
 The cause of all his ill, and did essay 
 
 (While passion in her heart began to burn) 
 To soothe his sadness, and to make him gay 
 
 Would smile and talk of Love, or livelier matter : 
 
 A simpleton ! as if 'twould make him fatter. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 But sorrow never lasts; he must have died, 
 Had he not some way sought and found relief, 
 
 For, howsoe'er we try the fact to hide, 
 Love is but meagre diet sauced with grief; 
 
 *Tis feasting too much like the Barmecide, 
 Who thought to pass orf his invisible beef, 
 
 Kid, nuts, et cetera on his guest, and so 
 
 Got his ears box'd for lying, as we know. 
 
150 DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 Diego, when he found all. hope was gone, 
 Determin'd like a prudent man to fly; 
 
 At first he tore his hair (it was his own) 
 But, then, his mother— she began to cry, 
 
 And asked him, would he leave her all alone 
 
 (She who had watch'd and lov'd him long) to die, 
 
 And her gray hairs to the grave with sorrow bring ? 
 
 He said ' he could not think of such a thing/ 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 He said * Dear Mother, on my honour (not 
 ' In its new meaning) from Madrid I'll go, 
 
 1 And if I think more of her I'll be shot.' 
 Yet, as he spoke, a settled look of woe 
 
 Declared she never could be quite forgot 
 
 Whom in his young heart he had worshipp'd so; 
 
 And the mute eloquence of his sickly smile 
 
 Told all his thoughts, for grief doth not beguile. 
 
DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 The knave (it is his study) and the fool 
 
 (For he has glimpses) and the madmen may 
 
 Deceive ; they do by accident or rule, 
 
 And keep their look of cunning from the day: 
 
 But grief is lesson'd in an honest school, 
 And o'er the face spreads out, in sad array, 
 
 Its pallid colours or its hectic flush • 
 
 It ought to put the others to the blush. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 Well — one day, when king Phoebus in the East 
 Had lifted his round head from off his pillow, 
 
 And frighten'd from their slumbers man and beast, 
 And turn'd to clear quicksilver every billow, 
 
 The Don Diego, from Love's toil released, 
 
 With ducats prim'd and head ycrown'd with willow, 
 
 Stepp'd in his heavy coach with heavier sigh, 
 
 Pull'd up the blinds and bade the drivers ' fly/ 
 
DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 
 
 XXXVIIL 
 
 They travell'd (our sad hero and his mother,) 
 From great Madrid, thro' old and new Castile, 
 
 Stopp'd at one town and rattled thro' another, 
 Eat fish and fowl and flesh, (excepting veal :) 
 
 Meanwhile he took it in his head he'd smother 
 Cupid ; he tried, and soon began to feel 
 
 That as the boy grew quiet, he grew merry. 
 
 (He smother'd him with Port and sometimes Sherry.) 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Then 'round his mother he would twine his arms 
 Gently, and kiss and call her his Aurelia, 
 
 And gaze and sigh ' inimitable charms !' 
 
 And then ' what ruby lips ! until 'twas really a 
 
 Joke, for altho' it fill'd her with alarms 
 
 To see him rave and take his glass thus freely, a 
 
 Bystander must have laugh'd to see a woman 
 
 Of fifty kiss'd: in Spain 'tis quite uncommon. 
 
DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 
 
 XL. 
 
 Well, this went on: he found that wine was better 
 Than thought, while thought ran cankering thro' his 
 
 And so he talk'd of other things, and let her [breast, 
 Sweet name sometimes ('Divine Aurelia') rest: 
 
 To finish, he sat down and wrote a letter, 
 
 In which he said that — ' all was for the best — 
 
 1 That love might grow to folly — that his mother 
 
 ' Had but one child, and might not have another.' 
 
 XLI. 
 
 : That filial duty was a noble thing : 
 
 ' That he must live tho' 'gainst his inclination, 
 : For tho' he once resolv'd, he said, to fling 
 
 ' Himself into the sea, as an oblation 
 : To Cupid, yet, as love had lost its sting, 
 
 1 He'd take a dip merely for recreation : 
 1 And then he added he should go to Cadiz, 
 ' To see the place, and how he lik'd the ladies.' 
 
DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 The letter ended with — I quite forget 
 
 The actual words, but with some short apology, 
 
 About his lungs, he said he ow'd a debt 
 
 To nature, and— pshaw ! tho' I've been to college I 
 
 Am in the Doctors' language stupid yet, 
 And often blunder in my phraseology ; 
 
 No matter, he was sick he did declare, 
 
 And wanted change of scene and country air. 
 
 XLIIL 
 
 And then he rambled thro' his native land, 
 And by her rivers wide and silver rills 
 
 Running thro' cork and beechen forests, and 
 Breath'd the brave air of those immortal hills, 
 
 Which like an altar or memorial stand 
 Of patriot spirits, whose achievement fills 
 
 Story and song: for, once, the Spanish name 
 
 Was noble and identified with fame. 
 
DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 155 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 Now — but I'm quite a shallow politician, 
 And we've enough of politics in prose, 
 
 And so to men of talent and condition 
 
 I leave the task to plead the Spanish woes; 
 
 What I should say might be mere repetition, 
 And bring the theme no nearer to its close, 
 
 So I'll e'en leave the wrongs of Spain to time; 
 
 Besides, the thing's too serious for this rhyme. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 Diego pass'd Cordova, gay Sevilla, 
 
 (Seville) and saw some mighty pleasant sights, 
 Saw the Fandango and the Sequidilla 
 
 And new Bolero danc'd on summer nights, 
 And got at last to Cadiz, which is still a 
 
 Right noble city, as Lord Byron writes. 
 N.B. The dances I have nam'd are national, 
 And like all others tolerably irrational. 
 
DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 
 
 XLVI, 
 
 Yet, I remember some half pleasant days 
 When I did love a common country dance, 
 
 Ere peace and fashion had conspired to raise 
 Quadrilles to note in England as in France; 
 
 I came in then for some small share of praise, 
 But now, I dread (I own't) a woman's glance, 
 
 These vile Quadrilles do so perplex one's feet 
 
 With windings, — like the labyrinth of Crete. 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 Four girls stand up, and beside each a beau 
 Of figure, stiffen'd upwards from the hip, 
 
 (Loose as his morals downwards) points his toe 
 Prepar'd thro' many a puzzling maze to slip, 
 
 s Poule'— ' Moulinet' — i Balancez' — ' Dos a dos* 
 (Wherein the pretty damsels seem to dip 
 
 And rise and fall just like the unquiet ocean,) 
 
 And other moods of which I have no notion. 
 
DIEGO DE MONT1LLA. 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 He stayed some time at Cadiz ; tho' he hated 
 He vow'd, the shocking gallantries which there 
 
 Some — any men may have 'till they are sated; 
 Yet look'd he sometimes at the sweeping hair 
 
 (Until in truth his choler had abated) 
 
 That bound the foreheads of the Spanish fair, 
 
 And sunn'd him often 'neath a warm full eye, 
 
 And wish'd — but this was seldom, by the bye, 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 He wish'd at times to meet Aurelia's look 
 Divine, and her right royal figure, graced 
 
 With beauty intellectual, (like a book 
 
 Well bound and written in the finest taste, 
 
 Whose noble meaning no one e'er mistook,) 
 Her white arm, and her undulating waist, 
 
 Her foot like Atalanta's, when she ran 
 
 And lost the race (a woman should) to man. 
 
DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 
 
 But in his lonely moments he would dream 
 Of young Aurora, and would tremble lest 
 
 Aught should befal the girl, and then a gleam 
 Of the sad truth would come and break his rest, 
 
 And from his pillow he would rise and scream: 
 This was a sort of night-mare, at the best, 
 
 For he at Cadiz had forgot his diet, 
 
 And raked and drank instead of being quiet. 
 
 LL 
 
 He thought of her so young, and oh ! so pale, 
 And like a lily which the storms have bent 
 
 Unto the dust : then would he swear and rail 
 That 'twas impossible and never meant 
 
 That girls should die for love ; an idle tale, ' 
 And by some moody imp of slumber sent 
 
 To teaze him, for the Rosicrucian creed 
 
 Is understood in Spain by all—who read. 
 
DIEGO DE MOKTILLA. 
 
 LII. 
 
 Whate'er it was — presentiment (which is 
 
 A sort of silent prophecy, some say, 
 In lottery luck, and love, and death, and bliss,) 
 
 Or not, he could not drive the thought away ; 
 Then — 'twas a passing fancy — were she his, 
 
 How gently would he soothe her dying day — 
 He swore she should not die — (when folks are amorous 
 They're frequently absurd, as well as clamorous.) 
 
 LIIL 
 
 When once his Spanish head had got this notion,, 
 It stuck upon his brain just like birdlime, 
 
 And cur'd him without either pill or potion, 
 Bleeding or balm in no (or little) time ; 
 
 Then would he wander on that deep blue ocean, 
 Dreaming of her, and string some idle rhyme, 
 
 And every stanza (none are known to fame) 
 
 Did finish somehow with Aurora's name, 
 
DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 And often to a grotto did he hie 
 
 Which in a lone and distant forest stood, 
 
 Just like a wood-nymph's haunt; and he would lie 
 Beneath the cover of its arch so rude, 
 
 For there when the August sun had mounted high, 
 And all was silent but the stock-dove's brood, 
 
 The whispering zephyr sometimes 'rose unseen, 
 
 And kissed the leaves and boughs of tender green. 
 
 LV. 
 
 And every shrub that fond wind flatter'd cast 
 Back a perfuming sigh, and rustling roll'd 
 
 Its virgin branches 'till they mov'd at last 
 The neighbour tree, and the great forest old 
 
 Did homage to the zephyr as he past : 
 And gently to and fro' the fruits of gold 
 
 Swayed in the air, and scarcely with a sound 
 
 The beeches shook their dark nuts to the ground. 
 
DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 Before the entrance of that grotto flow'd 
 A quiet streamlet, cool and never dull, 
 
 Wherein the many-colour' d pebbles glow'd, 
 And sparkled thro' its water beautiful, 
 
 And thereon the shy wild-fowl often rode, 
 And on its grassy margin you might cull 
 
 Flowers and healing plants : a hermit spot 
 
 And, once seen, never to be quite forgot. 
 
 LVII. 
 
 Our lover, Don Diego de Montilla, 
 
 In moody humour pass'd his time at Cadiz, 
 
 Drove out to Arcos, or perhaps Sevilla, 
 
 Saint Lucar — Trafalgar (which I'm afraid is 
 
 Not now in fashion) — danced the Sequidilla, 
 Sometimes with castanets to please the ladies, 
 
 Ate, drank, and sail'd upon the dark blue waters, 
 
 Where mothers begg'd he'd take (for health) their 
 daughters. 
 
DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 They used to say ' my poor Theresa's grown 
 
 ' Lately quite pale and grave, poor dear ; and she 
 
 1 Has lost all appetite ' — and then they'd moan 
 And wipe their eyes, where tears were sure to be. 
 
 And leave their daughters with the Don, alone, 
 To be cur'd by sea-air — and gallantry. 
 
 The Don was satisfied and never gazed 
 
 Or talkM of love: the girls were quite amazM. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 They look'd and sigh'd, as girls can look and sigh 
 When they want husbands, or when gossips tell 
 
 That they shall have a husband six feet high, 
 (Tho' five feet nine or ten might do as well) 
 
 With curly hair, Greek nose, and sweet black eye, 
 And other things on which I cannot dwell : 
 
 'Twas useless : he was puzzling o'er some rhyme, 
 
 Or thinking of Aurora all the time. 
 
DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 
 
 LX. 
 
 All, poor Aurora! — she is gone where never 
 Hate, passion, envy, grief can touch her more ; 
 
 And with her love, beside that famed river 
 That lashes with its waves the haunted shore, 
 
 (Class'd with those radiant spirits who did ever- 
 Act nobly here, until — the play was o'er,) 
 
 She wanders in her long probation, 'till 
 
 Death shall decay and Sin, and Time be still. 
 
 LXI. 
 
 She faded like the soft and summer light 
 That mingles gently with the darkness, and 
 
 Seems woo'd not conquer' d by the coming night, 
 Meeting his dim embrace but not command, 
 
 Until it sinks and vanishes, and the sight 
 On mockeries of the past alone is strain'd. 
 
 Thus Jove, drawn out in all Corregio's charms, 
 
 Wraps the sweet Io in his shadowy arms. 
 
DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 
 
 LXII. 
 
 Alas ! she was so young — but Death has no 
 Compassion on the young more than the old, 
 
 She wore a patient look, but free from woe 
 Unto the last, ('tis thus the story's told;) 
 
 She never look'd reproachful — peevish, tho' 
 Her lady sister would not seldom scold, 
 
 Because the girl had fancied her old lover 
 
 For none could any other cause discover. 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 O, melancholy Love ! amidst thy fears 
 
 Thy darkness, thy despair, there runs a vein 
 
 Of pleasure, like a smile 'midst many tears, — 
 The pride of sorrow that will not complain — 
 
 The exultation that in after years 
 
 The lovM one will discover — and in vain, 
 
 How much the heart silently in its cell 
 
 Did suffer till it broke, yet nothing tell. 
 
DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 Else — wherefore else doth lovely woman keep 
 Lock'd in her heart of hearts, from every gaze 
 
 Hidden, her struggling passion — wherefore weep 
 In grief that never while it flows allays 
 
 Those tumults in the bosom buried deep, 
 
 And robs her bright eyes of their natural rays. 
 
 Creation's sweetest riddle ! — yet, remain 
 
 Just as thou art ; man's only worthy gain. 
 
 LXV. 
 
 And thou, poor Spanish maid, ah ! what hadst thou 
 Done to the archer blind that he should dart 
 
 His cruel shafts 'till thou wast forced to bow 
 In bitter anguish, aye, endure the smart 
 
 The more because thou wor'st a smiling brow 
 While the dark arrow canker'd at thy heart ? 
 
 Yet jeer her not : if 'twere a folly, she 
 
 Hath paid (how firmly paid) Love's penalty. 
 
DIEGO DE MGNTILLA. 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 Oft would she sit and look upon the sky, 
 When rich clouds in the golden sun-set lay 
 
 Basking, and loved to hear the soft winds sigh 
 That come like music at the close of day 
 
 Trembling amongst the orange blooms, and die 
 As 'twere from very sweetness. She was gay, 
 
 Meekly and calmly gay, and then her gaze 
 
 Was brighter than belongs to dying days. 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 And on her young thin cheek a vivid flush, 
 A clear transparent colour sate awhile : 
 
 'Twas like, a bard would say, the morning's blush, 
 And 'round her mouth there played a gentle smile, 
 
 Which tho' at first it might your terrors hush, 
 It could not, tho' it strove, at last beguile ; 
 
 And her hand shook, and then 'rose the blue vein 
 
 Branching about in all its windings plain. 
 
DIEGO DE MONTI LLA. 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 The girl was dying. Youth and beauty — all 
 Men love or women boast of was decaying, 
 
 And one by one life's finest powers did fall 
 
 Before the touch of death, who seem'd delaying, 
 
 As tho' he'd not the heart at once to call 
 The maiden to his home. At last, arraying 
 
 Himself in softest guise, he came : she sighed 
 
 And, smiling as tho' her lover whisper'd, died. 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 Diego — tho* it seem as he could change 
 From love to love at pleasure— be it said 
 
 Unto his honour, he did never range 
 
 Again : I should have written that he fled 
 
 To her (some people thought this wondrous strange) 
 At the first news of danger. — She was dead. 
 
 One silly woman said her heart was broke.— 
 
 He look'd and listen'd, but he never spoke. 
 
DIEGO DE MONT1LLA. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 He saw her where she lay in silent state, 
 Cold and as white as marble : and her eye, 
 
 Whereon such bright and beaming beauty sate, 
 Was — after the fashion of mortality, 
 
 Closed up for ever; ev'n the smiles which late 
 
 None could withstand, were gone; and there did lie 
 
 (For he had drawn aside the shrouding veil,) 
 
 By her a helpless hand, waxen and pale. 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 Diego stood beside the coffin lid 
 
 And gazed awhile upon her: then he bent 
 
 And kiss'd her, and did — 'twas grief's folly, bid 
 Her wait awhile for him, for that he meant 
 
 To follow quickly : then his face he hid, 
 And 'gainst the margin of the coffin leant, 
 
 In mute and idle anguish : not a breath 
 
 Or sound was heard. He was alone, with Death. 
 
DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 At last, they drew him, like a child, away; 
 
 And spoke in soothing sorrow of the dead, 
 Placing her sweet acts out in kind array, 
 
 And mourn'd that one so gracious should have fled 
 As 'twere before her time ; tho' she would say, 
 
 Poor girl, (and often to that talk she led,) 
 That to die early was a happy lot, 
 And, cheering, said she should be ' soon forgot.' 
 
 LXXIII. * 
 
 She left one letter for her love : they gave 
 The feeble scrawl into his hand, and told 
 
 How when she found that medicine could not save 
 And love had come too late, she grew more bold, 
 
 And bade, when she was quiet in her grave, 
 
 (I think the phrase was ' when her hand was cold/) 
 
 That they should give that letter to the Lord 
 
 Diego, her first love ; or some such word. 
 
DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 None heard the sad contents ; he read it thro' 
 And thro', and wept and pondered on each page. 
 
 At last, a gentle melancholy grew, 
 
 And touch' d, like sorrow at its second stage, 
 
 His eye with langour, and contriv'd to strew 
 His hair with silver ere his middle age : 
 
 But for the fiery passion which alone 
 
 Had stamped his youth with folly, — it was gone. 
 
 * LXXV. 
 
 Some years he liv'd : he liv'd in solitude, 
 And scarcely quitted his ancestral home, 
 
 Tho' many a friend and many a lady woo'd 
 Of birth and beauty, yet he would not roam 
 
 Beyond the neighbouring hamlet's church-yard rude ; 
 And there the stranger still, on one low tomb, 
 
 May read 'Aurora;' whether the name he drew 
 
 From mere conceit of grief or not, none knew. 
 
DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 P'rhaps 'twas a mere memorial of the past : 
 Such Love and Sorrow fashion, and deceive 
 
 Themselves with words, until they grow at last 
 Content with mocks alone, and cease to grieve: 
 
 Such madness in its wiser mood will cast, 
 Making its fond credulity believe 
 
 Things unsubstantial. 'Twas — no matter what — 
 
 Something to hallow that lone burial spot. 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 He grew familiar with the bird ; the brute 
 Knew well its benefactor, and he'd feed 
 
 And make acquaintance with the fishes mute, 
 And, like the Thracian Shepherd as we read, 
 
 Drew, with the music of his stringed lute, 
 Behind him winged things, and many a tread 
 
 And tramp of animal : and in his hall 
 
 He was a Lord indeed, belov'd by all. 
 
DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 
 In a high solitary turret where 
 
 None were admitted would he muse, when first 
 The young day broke, perhaps because he there 
 
 Had in his early infancy been nurs'd, 
 Or that he felt more pure the morning air, 
 
 Or lovM to see the great Apollo burst 
 From out his cloudy bondage, and the night 
 Hurry away before the conquering light. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 But oftener to a gentle lake that lay 
 Cradled within a forest's bosom, he 
 
 Would, shunning kind reproaches, steal away, 
 And, when the inland breeze was fresh and free, 
 
 There would he loiter all the livelong day, 
 Tossing upon the waters listlessly. 
 
 The swallow dash'd beside him, and the deer 
 
 Drank by his boat and eyed him without fear. 
 
DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 It was a soothing place : the summer hours 
 Pass'd there in quiet beauty, and at night 
 
 The moon ran searching thro* the woodbine bowers, 
 And shook o'er all the leaves her kisses bright, 
 
 O'er lemon blossoms and faint myrtle flowers, 
 And there the west wind often took his flight 
 
 When heaven's clear eye was closing, while above 
 
 Pale Hesper 'rose, the evening light of love. 
 
 LXXXL 
 
 How sweet it is to see that courier star 
 
 (Which like the spirit of the twilight shines) 
 
 Come stealing up the broad blue heaven afar, 
 Silvering the dark tops of the distant pines, 
 
 Until his mistress in her brighter car 
 
 Enters the sky, and then his light declines: 
 
 But sweetest when in lonely spots we see 
 
 The gentle, watchful, amorous deity. 
 
DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 He comes more lovely than the Hours : his look 
 Sheds calm refreshing light, and eyes that burn 
 
 With glancing at the sun's so radiant book, 
 Unto his softer page with pleasure turn : 
 
 'Tis like the murmur of some shaded brook, 
 Or the soft welling of a Naiad's urn, 
 
 After the sounding of the vast sea-waves. 
 
 'Tis after jealous fears the faith that saves. 
 
 LXXXIIL 
 
 Then bashful boys stammer their faint fond vows ; 
 
 Then like a whisper music seems to float 
 Around us : then from out the thicket boughs 
 
 Cometh the nightingale's so tender note, 
 And then the young girl listens, and allows 
 
 (Mov'd by the witching of the sweet bird's throat) 
 To passion its first kiss : — but of these things 
 He thought not in his moody wanderings. 
 
DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 'Twas solitude he lov'd where'er he strayed, 
 No danger daunted and no pastime drew, 
 
 And ever on that fair heart-broken maid 
 (Aurora) who unto the angels flew 
 
 Away so early, with grief unallayed 
 
 He thought, and in the sky's eternal blue 
 
 Would look for shapes, 'till at times before him she 
 
 'Rose like a beautiful reality. 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 —But he hath passed away, and there remains 
 Scarcely the shadow of his name : the sun, 
 
 The soft breeze, and the fierce autumnal rains 
 Fall now alike upon him : he hath done 
 
 With Life and cast away its heavy chains, 
 And in his place another spirit may run 
 
 Its course (thus live, love, languish and thus die,) 
 
 Thro' every maze of dim mortality. 
 
DIEGO DE MONTILLA. 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 One day he came not at his usual hour, 
 (He had long been declining) and his old 
 
 Kind mother sought him in his lonely tower, 
 And there she found him lying, pale and cold : 
 
 Her son was dead, and love had lost his power; 
 And then she felt that all her days were told. 
 
 She laid him in his grave, and when she died 
 
 A stranger buried her by Diego's side. 
 
 THE END. 
 
NOTES. 
 
 "Your husband's heart for some more quiet grave." — 
 p. 16. 
 
 I have ventured to substitute the heart for the head of the 
 lover. The latter appeared to be a ghastly object to preserve, 
 though perhaps the fof mer may be the more common-place 
 thing of the two. 
 
 " That spirit is never idle that doth 'waken." — p. 18. 
 
 This paragraph is obscure. It was written to repel an 
 assertion (made in a poem to which I cannot recur) that 
 the fall of an avalanche spoke " Doubt and Death." The 
 reader can, it' he pleases, pass it over altogether. 
 
 Sonnet on Spring. — p. 124. 
 
 This and the three following sonnets were given to 
 Messrs. Ollier, and have already appeared in " The 
 Literary Pocket Book for 1820." 
 
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