warmer on But the same language with more full apROBERT BROWNING peal Shall hail thee. Many are the sons of song THERE is delight in singing, though none Whom thou hast heard upon thy native hear plains Beside the singer; and there is delight Worthy to sing of thee : the hour is come ; In praising, though the praiser sit alone Take we our seats and let the dirge begin. And see the prais'd far off him, far above. Shakspeare is not our poet, but the world's, Therefore on him no speech! and brief for thee, Browning! Since Chaucer was alive and bale, TO IANTHE No man hath walk'd along our roads with step You smild, you spoke, and I believ'd, But let not this last wish be vain ; IANTHE'S TROUBLES Your pleasures spring like daisies in the ON THE DEATH OF M. D'OSSOLI grass, AND HIS WIFE MARGARET Cut down and up again as blithe as FULLER ever ; From you, Ianthe, little tronbles pass THE APPEAL REMAIN, ah not in youth alone, Of the Atlantic ; on its shore ; in reach Though youth, where you are, long will Of help ; in trust of refuge ; sunk with stay, all But when my summer days are gone, Precious on earth to thee . . . a child, a And my autumnal haste away. wife! “ Can I be always by your side ? " Proud as thou wert of her, America No; but the hours you can, you must, Is prouder, showing to her sons how high Nor rise at Death's approaching stride, Swells woman's courage in a virtuous Nor go when dust is gone to dust. breast. She would not leave behind her those she lov'd : THE TEST Such solitary safety might become Others ; not her ; not her who stood beside I HELD her hand, the pledge of bliss, The pallet of the wounded, when the worst Her hand that trembled and withdrew; Of France and Perfidy assaild the walls She bent her head before my kiss ... Of unsuspicious Rome. Rest, glorious soul, My heart was sure that hers was true. Renown'd for strength of genius, Margaret ! Now I have told her I must part, Rest with the twain too dear! My words She shakes my hand, she bids adieu, are few, Nor shuns the kiss. Alas, my heart ! And shortly done will hear my failing voice, Hers never was the heart for you. Listlessly she let fall the faithless brass IN AFTER TIME That made the men as faithless. But when you No, my own love of other years ! Found them, or fancied them, and would No, it must never be. not hear Much rests with you that yet endears, That they were only vestiges of smiles, Alas! but what with me ? Or the impression of some amorous hair Could those bright years o'er me revolve Astray from cloister'd curls and roseate So gay, o'er you so fair, band, The pearl of life we would dissolve Which had been lying there all night per And each the cup might share. naps You show that truth can ne'er decay, Upon a skin so soft, “ No, no,” you said, Whatever fate befalls ; “Sure, they are coming, yes, are come, are I, that the myrtle and the bay here : Shoot fresh on ruin'd walls. Well, and what matters it, while thou art too !” Through gallopade I cannot swing Be't true or false, are only half divine In giddy waltz. And panting less. The brave Queen Bess. ON LUCRETIA BORGIA'S HAIR Borgia, thou once wert almost too august And high for adoration; now thou 'rt dust; All that remains of thee these plaits un fold, Calm hair meandering in pellucid gold. THE ONE WHITE HAIR PERSISTENCE The wisest of the wise And love to hear them told ; Listen'd to many a one, — old My hopes retire ; my wishes as before Struggle to find their resting place in vain : The ebbing sea thus beats against the shore ; The shore repels it ; it returns again. COME, Sleep ! but mind ye ! if you come without The little girl that struck me at the rout, By Jove ! I would not give yon half-a-crown For all your poppy-heads and all your down. ON LIVING TOO LONG Is it not better at an early hour In its calm cell to rest the weary head, While birds are singing and while blooms the bower, Than sit the fire out and go starv'd to bed? The Mother of the Muses, we are taught, sing, But her bright image in my darkest hour Comes back, in vain comes back, callid or uncail'd. vain. A THOUGHT nance BLYTHE bell, that calls to bridal halls, Tolls deep a darker day ; The very shower that feeds the flower Weeps also its decay. HEARTSEASE THERE is a flower I wish to wear, But not until first worn by you Heartsease - of all earth's flowers most rare ; Bring it; and bring enough for two. FOR AN EPITAPH AT FIESOLE VERSES WHY BURNT How many verses have I thrown Into the fire because the one Peculiar word, the wanted most, Was irrecoverably lost ! Lo! where the four mimosas blend their shade In calm repose at last is Landor laid ; For ere he slept he saw them planted here By her his soul had ever held most dear, And he had liv'd enough when he had dried her tear. George Darlep While aside her cheek we're rushing, Like some truant bees at play. THE FLOWER OF BEAUTY SWEET in her green dell the flower of beauty slumbers, Lull’d by the faint breezes sighing through her hair ; Sleeps she, and hears not the melancholy numbers Breath'd to my sad lute amid the lonely air. Through the blooming groves we rustle, Kissing every bud we pass, As we did it in the bustle, Scarcely knowing how it was. Down the glen, across the mountain, O’er the yellow heath we roam, Whirling round about the fountain Till its little breakers foam. Bending down the weeping willows, While our vesper hymn we sigh ; Then unto our rosy pillows On our weary wings we hie. There of idlenesses dreaming, Scarce from waking we refrain, Moments long as ages deeming Till we 're at our play again. Down from the high cliffs the rivulet is teeming, To wind round the willow-banks that lure him from above ; O that, in tears from my rocky prison streaming, I, too, could glide to the bower of my love ! Ah, where the woodbines with sleepy arms have wound her, Opes she her eyelids at the dream of my lay, Listening, like the dove, while the fountains echo round her, To her lost mate's call in the forests far away. Come, then, my bird !' for the peace thou ever bearest, Still Heaven's messenger of comfort to me ; Come ! this fond bosom, my faithfullest, my fairest, Bleeds with its death-wound but deeper yet for thee. SONGS FROM “SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY QUEEN I From the starry courts on high, The ladder of the sky. For such airy feet : So as they be sweet ! Yet a lowly welcome breathe, Like so many flowerets bending Zephyr's breezy foot beneath. SUMMER WINDS ['p the dale and down the bourne, O'er the meadow swift we fly ; Now we sing, and now we mourn, Now we whistle, now we sigh. By the grassy-fringed river Through the murmuring reeds we sweep, Mid the lily-leaves we quiver, To their very hearts we creep. Now the maiden rose is blushing At the frolic things we say, II MORNING-SONG AWAKE thee, my Lady-love ! Wake thee, and rise ! The sun through the bower peeps Into thine eyes ! |
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