Then becomes worst; what loveliest, most

deform'd.

The heart is hardest in the softest climes,
The passions flourish, the affections die.
O thou vast tablet of these awful truths,
That fillest all the space between the seas,
Spreading from Venice's deserted courts
To the Tarentine and Hydruntine mole,
What lifts thee up? what shakes thee? 't is
the breath

Of God. Awake, ye nations! spring to life!
Let the last work of his right hand appear
Fresh with his image, Man.

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.
Well, I was playing, when above the waves
Some swimmer's head methought I saw
ascend;

I, sitting still, survey'd it with my pipe
Awkwardly held before my lips half-clos'd.
Gebir! it was a Nymph! a Nymph divine!
I cannot wait describing how she came,
How I was sitting, how she first assum'd
The sailor; of what happen'd there remains
Enough to say, and too much to forget.
The sweet deceiver stepp'd upon this bank
Before I was aware; for with surprise
Moments fly rapid as with love itself.
Stooping to tune afresh the hoarsen'd reed,
I heard a rustling, and where that arose
My glance first lighted on her nimble feet.
Her feet resembled those long shells ex-
plor'd

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
Its polish'd lips to your attentive ear,
And it remembers its august abodes,
And murmurs as the ocean murmurs there.
And I have others given me by the nymphs,
Of sweeter sound than any pipe you have:
But we, by Neptune! for no pipe contend;
This time a sheep I win, a pipe the next.'
Now came she forward eager to engage,
But first her dress, her bosom then survey'd
And heav'd it, doubting if she could deceive.
Her bosom seem'd, inclos'd in haze like
heaven,

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
Rustled against our slippery limbs entwin'd:
Often mine springing with eluded force
Started aside and trembled till replaced :
And when I most succeeded, as I thought,
My bosom and my throat felt so compress'd
That life was almost quivering on my lips.
Yet nothing was there painful: these are
signs

Of secret arts and not of human might ;
What arts I cannot tell; I only know
My eyes grew dizzy and my strength
decay'd;

I was indeed o'ercome - with what regret, And more, with what confusion, 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;
But when I heard its bleating, as I did,
And saw, she hastening on, its hinder feet
Struggle, and from her snowy shoulder slip,
One shoulder its poor efforts had unveil❜d,
Then all my passions mingling fell in tears;
Restless then ran I to the highest ground
To watch her; she was gone; gone down
the tide ;

And the long moonbeam on the hard wet sand

Lay like a jasper column half uprear'd."

TO YOUTH

WHERE art thou gone, light-ankled Youth?
With wing at either shoulder,
And smile that never left thy mouth
Until the Hours grew colder:

Then somewhat seem'd to whisper near
That thou and I must part;
I doubted it; I felt no fear,
No weight upon the heart.

If aught befell it, Love was by
And roll'd it off again;
So, if there ever was a sigh,

'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
Have we liv'd door by door:

The Fates have laid aside their shears
Perhaps for some few more.

I was indocile at an age

When better boys were taught,

But thou at length 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,
One vile, the other vain ;
One's scourge, the other's telescope,
I shall not see again :

Rather what lies before my feet

My notice shall engage.

He who hath brav'd Youth's dizzy heat Dreads not the frost of Age.

ROSE AYLMER

АH what avails the sceptred race,
Ah what the form divine!
What every virtue, every grace!
Rose Aylmer, all were thine.

Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes
May weep, but never see,

A night of memories and of sighs
I consecrate to thee.

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,
While I was gazing a few paces off

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
And gather'd the pure treasure in her lap.
I heard the branches rustle, and stepp'd
forth

To drive the ox away, or mule, or goat,
Such I believ'd it must be. How could I
Let beast o'erpower them? when hath wind
or rain

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
From the high terraces, at even-tide,
To look supine into thy depths of sky,
Thy golden moon between the cliff and me,
Or thy dark spires of fretted cypresses
Bordering the channel of the milky way.
Fiesole and Valdarno must be dreams
Hereafter, and my own lost Affrico
Murmur to me but in the poet's song.
I did believe (what have I not believ'd?),
Weary with age, but unoppress'd by pain,
To close in thy soft clime my quiet day
And rest my bones in the mimosa's shade.
Hope! Hope! few ever cherish'd thee so
little;

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,
Were unobstructed by the coffin-lid,
And the sun cheer'd corruption! Over all
The smiles of Nature shed a potent charm,
And light us to our chamber at the grave.

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.
For reasons not to love him once I sought,
And wearied all my thought

To vex myself and him: I now would give
My love, could he but live
Who lately liv'd for me, and when he found
'T was vain, in holy ground
He hid his face amid the shades of death.
I waste for him my breath

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
Falls heavy on our ears no more;
And by long strides are left behind
The dear delights of woman-kind,
Who win their battles like their loves,
In satin waistcoats and kid gloves,
And have achiev'd the crowning work
When they have truss'd and skewer'd a
Turk.

Another comes with stouter tread,
And stalks among the statelier dead.
He rushes on, and hails by turns
High-crested Scott, broad-breasted Burns,
And shows the British youth, who ne'er
Will lag behind, what Romans were,
When all the Tuscans and their Lars
Shouted, and shook the towers of Mars.