And many rose

Whose woe was such that fear became desire ;

Melchior and Lionel1 were not among those; They from the throng of men had stepped aside, And made their home under the green hill side. It was that hill whose intervening brow

39

Screens Lucca from the Pisan's envious eye, Which the circumfluous plain waving below, Like a wide lake of green fertility,

With streams and fields and marshes bare, Divides from the far Apennines—which lie Islanded in the immeasurable air.

"What think you, as she lies in her green cove, Our little sleeping boat is dreaming of?" "If morning dreams are true, why I should guess

That she was dreaming of our idleness,

And of the miles of watery way

We should have led her by this time of day."

"Never mind," said Lionel,

66

50

'Give care to the winds, they can bear it well About yon poplar tops; and see!

The white clouds are driving merrily,
And the stars we miss this morn will light
More willingly our return to-night.-
How it whistles, Dominic's long black hair!
List my dear fellow; the breeze blows fair:
Hear how it sings into the air.'

"Of us and of our lazy motions," Impatiently said Melchior,

"If I can guess a boat's emotions;

And how we ought, two hours before,

60

These names stand for Shelley and Edward Williams. -ED.

To have been the devil knows where."
And then, in such transalpine Tuscan
As would have killed a Della-Cruscan,

*

*

*

So, Lionel according to his art

*

Weaving his idle words, Melchior said: "She dreams that we are not yet out of bed; We'll put a soul into her, and a heart

71

Which like a dove chased by a dove shall beat."

*

*

*

"Ay, heave the ballast overboard,

And stow the eatables in the aft locker." "Would not this keg be best a little lowered?" No, now all's right. "Those bottles of warm

66

tea

Give me some

tenderly;

Such as we used, in summer after six,
To cram in great-coat pockets, and to mix
Hard eggs and radishes and rolls at Eton,
And, couched on stolen hay in those green

harbours

80

Farmers called gaps, and we schoolboys called arbours,

Would feast till eight."

As if his very soul were at a stand,

Lionel stood when Melchior brought him

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steady:

Sit at the helm-fasten this sheet--all ready!"

The chain is loosed, the sails are spread,

The living breath is fresh behind,

As with dews and sunrise fed,

Comes the laughing morning wind;-
The sails are full, the boat makes head
Against the Serchio's torrent fierce,
Then flags with intermitting course,
And hangs upon the wave, and stems
The tempest of the....

Which, fervid from its mountain source,
Shallow, smooth and strong doth come,-
Swift as fire, tempestuously

It sweeps into the affrighted sea;
In morning's smile its eddies coil,
Its billows sparkle, toss and boil,
Torturing all its quiet light
Into columns fierce and bright.

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100

The Serchio, twisting forth Between the marble barriers which it clove At Ripafratta, leads through the dread chasm The wave that died the death which lovers love, Living in what it sought; as if this spasm Had not yet passed, the toppling mountains cling;

I 10

But the clear stream in full enthusiasm Pours itself on the plain, then, wandering Down one clear path of effluence crystalline, Sends its superfluous waves, that they may fling At Arno's feet tribute of corn and wine; Then, through the pestilential deserts wild Of tangled marsh and woods of stunted pine, It rushes to the Ocean.

MUSIC.

I.

I PANT for the music which is divine,

My heart in its thirst is a dying flower;

Pour forth the sound like enchanted wine,
Loosen the notes in a silver shower;
Like a herbless plain, for the gentle rain,
I gasp, I faint, till they wake again.

II.

Let me drink of the spirit of that sweet sound,
More, O more,-I am thirsting yet,—

It loosens the serpent which care has bound
Upon my heart to stifle it;

The dissolving strain, through every vein,
Passes into my heart and brain.

III.

As the scent of a violet withered up,

Which grew by the brink of a silver lake, When the hot noon has drained its dewy cup, And mist there was none its thirst to slakeAnd the violet lay dead while the odour flew On the wings of the wind o'er the waters blue—

IV.

As one who drinks from a charmed cup

Of foaming, and sparkling and murmuring wine,

Whom, a mighty Enchantress filling up,
Invites to love with her kiss divine. . .

SONNET TO BYRON.

[I AM afraid these verses will not please you, but]

If I esteemed you less, Envy would kill Pleasure, and leave to Wonder and Despair The ministration of the thoughts that fill The mind which, like a worm whose life may share

A portion of the unapproachable,

Marks your creations rise as fast and fair
As perfect worlds at the Creator's will.
But such is my regard that nor your power
To soar above the heights where others [climb],
Nor fame, that shadow of the unborn hour
Cast from the envious future on the time,
Move one regret for his unhonoured name
Who dares these words: the worm beneath
the sod

May lift itself in homage of the God.1

TWO FRAGMENTS ON LOVE.

I.

I FAINT, I perish with my love! I grow
Frail as a cloud whose [splendours] pale
Under the evening's ever-changing glow:
I die like mist upon the gale,

And like a wave under the calm I fail.

II.

Faint with love, the Lady of the South Lay in the paradise of Lebanon

Under a heaven of cedar boughs; the drouth Of love was on her lips; the light was gone

Out of her eyes.

FRAGMENT.

COME, thou awakener of the spirit's ocean,
Zephyr, whom to thy cloud or cave
No thought can trace! speed with thy gentle

motion !

1 Compare this with the couplet in Epipsychidion— The spirit of the worm beneath the sod

In love and worship blends itself with God.-Ed.