Then becomes worst; what loveliest, most deform'd. The heart is hardest in the softest climes, Of God. Awake, ye nations! spring to life! FROM "GEBIR" TAMAR AND THE NYMPH "'T WAS evening, though not sunset, and the tide, Level with these green meadows, seem'd yet higher : 'Twas pleasant, and I loosen'd from my neck The pipe you gave me, and began to play. O that I ne'er had learn'd the tuneful art! It always brings us enemies or love. I, sitting still, survey'd it with my pipe By him who to befriend his steed's dim sight Would blow the pungent powder in the eye. Her eyes too! O immortal gods! her eyes Resembled - what could they resemble ? what Ever resemble those? Even her attire Was not of wonted woof nor vulgar art: Shake one and it awakens, then apply To baffle touch, and rose forth undefin'd; Above her knee she drew the robe succinct, Above her breast, and just below her arms. 'This will preserve my breath when tightly bound, If struggle and equal strength should so constrain.' Thus, pulling hard to fasten it, she spake, And, rushing at me, clos'd: I thrill'd throughout And seem'd to lessen and shrink up with cold. Again with violent impulse gush'd my blood, And hearing nought external, thus absorb'd, I heard it, rushing through each turbid vein, Shake my unsteady swimming sight in air. Yet with unyielding though uncertain arms I clung around her neck; the vest beneath Of secret arts and not of human might ; I was indeed o'ercome - with what regret, And more, with what confusion, when I reach'd The fold, and yielding up the sheep, she cried, This pays a shepherd to a conquering maid.' She smil'd, and more of pleasure than disdain Was in her dimpled chin and liberal lip, And eyes that languish'd, lengthening, just like love. She went away; I on the wicker gate Leant, and could follow with my eyes alone The sheep she carried easy as a cloak; And the long moonbeam on the hard wet sand Lay like a jasper column half uprear'd." TO YOUTH WHERE art thou gone, light-ankled Youth? Then somewhat seem'd to whisper near If aught befell it, Love was by 'T was not a sigh of pain. I may not call thee back; but thou Returnest when the hand Of gentle Sleep waves o'er my brow His poppy-crested wand; Then smiling eyes bend over mine, Then lips once press'd invite ; But sleep hath given a silent sign, And both, alas! take flight. TO AGE WELCOME, old friend! These many years The Fates have laid aside their shears I was indocile at an age When better boys were taught, But thou at length hast made me sage, If I am sage in aught. Little I know from other men, Too little they from me, But thou hast pointed well the pen That writes these lines to thee. Thanks for expelling Fear and Hope, Rather what lies before my feet My notice shall engage. He who hath brav'd Youth's dizzy heat Dreads not the frost of Age. ROSE AYLMER АH what avails the sceptred race, Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes A night of memories and of sighs ROSE AYLMER'S HAIR, GIVEN BY HER SISTER BEAUTIFUL Spoils ! borne off from vanquish'd death! Upon my heart's high altar shall ye lie, Mov'd but by only one adorer's breath, Retaining youth, rewarding constancy. CHILD OF A DAY CHILD of a day, thou knowest not The tears that overflow thine urn, The gushing eyes that read thy lot, Nor, if thou knewest, couldst return. And why the wish! the pure and blest Watch like thy mother o'er thy sleep. O peaceful night! O envied rest! Thou wilt not ever see her weep. FIESOLAN IDYL HERE, where precipitate Spring with one light bound Into hot Summer's lusty arms expires, And where go forth at morn, at eve, at night, Soft airs that want the lute to play with 'em, And softer sighs that know not what they want, Aside a wall, beneath an orange-tree, Whose tallest flowers could tell the lowlier ones Of sights in Fiesole right up above, At what they seem'd to show me with their nods, Their frequent whispers and their pointing shoots, A gentle maid came down the garden-steps To drive the ox away, or mule, or goat, Borne hard upon weak plant that wanted The boon she tender'd, and then, finding not The ribbon at her waist to fix it in, Dropp'd it, as loth to drop it, on the rest. FAREWELL TO ITALY I LEAVE thee, beauteous Italy! no more Few are the heads thou hast so rarely rais'd; But thou didst promise this, and all was well. For we are fond of thinking where to lie When every pulse hath ceas'd, when the lone heart Can lift no aspiration — reasoning . As if the sight were unimpair'd by death, THE MAID'S LAMENT ELIZABETHAN I LOV'D him not; and yet now he is gone I feel I am alone. I check'd him while he spoke; yet could he speak, Alas! I would not check. To vex myself and him: I now would give Who wasted his for me; but mine returns, And this lone bosom burns With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep And waking me to weep Tears that had melted his soft heart: for years Wept he as bitter tears. Merciful God! such was his latest prayer, These may she never share! Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold, Than daisies in the mould, Where children spell, athwart the churchyard gate, His name and life's brief date. Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er you be, And oh! pray too for me! THE dreamy rhymer's measur'd snore Another comes with stouter tread, |