HOOD'S POETICAL WORKS.

TO HOPE. Oh! take, young Seraph, take thy harp, And play to me so cheerily; For grief is dark, and care is sharp, And life wears on so wearily. Oh! take thy harp! Oh! sing as thou wert wont to do, When, all youth's sunny season long, I sat and listened to thy song, And yet 'twas ever, ever new, With magic in its heaven-tuned string— The future bliss thy constant theme. Oh! then each little woe took wing Away, like phantoms of a dream; As if each sound That flutter'd round, Had floated over Lethe's stream! By all those bright and happy hours We spent in life's sweet eastern bow'rs, Where thou wouldst sit and smile, and show, Ere buds were come, where flowers would blow, And oft anticipate the rise Of life's warm sun that scaled the skies; By many a story of love and glory, And friendships promised oft to me; By all the faith I lent to thee,— Oh! take, young Seraph, take thy harp, And play to me so cheerily; For grief is dark, and care is sharp, And life wears on so wearily. Oh! take thy harp! Perchance the strings will sound less clear, That long have lain neglected by In sorrow's misty atmosphere; It ne'er may speak as it hath spoken Such joyous notes so brisk and high; But are its golden chords all broken? Are there not some, though weak and low, To play a lullaby to woe? But thou canst sing of love no more, For Celia show'd that dream was vain; And many a fancied bliss is o'er, That comes not e'en in dreams again. Alas! alas! How pleasures pass, And leave thee now no subject, save The peace and bliss beyond the grave! Then be thy flight among the skies: Take, then, oh! take the skylark's wing, And leave dull earth, and heavenward rise O'er all its tearful clouds, and sing On skylark's wing! Another life-spring there adorns Another youth—without the dread Of cruel care, whose crown of thorns Is here for manhood's aching head. Oh! there are realms of welcome day, A world where tears are wiped away! Then be thy flight among the skies: Take, then, oh! take the skylark's wing, And leave dull earth, and heavenward rise O'er all its tearful clouds, and sing On skylark's wing!

THE DEPARTURE OF SUMMER. Summer is gone on swallows' wings, And Earth has buried all her flowers: No more the lark,—the linnet—sings, But Silence sits in faded bowers. There is a shadow on the plain Of Winter ere he comes again,— There is in woods a solemn sound Of hollow warnings whisper'd round, As Echo in her deep recess For once had turn'd a prophetess. Shuddering Autumn stops to list, And breathes his fear in sudden sighs, With clouded face, and hazel eyes That quench themselves, and hide in mist. Yes, Summer's gone like pageant bright; Its glorious days of golden light Are gone—the mimic suns that quiver, Then melt in Time's dark-flowing river. Gone the sweetly-scented breeze That spoke in music to the trees; Gone—for damp and chilly breath, As if fresh blown o'er marble seas, Or newly from the lungs of Death. Gone its virgin roses' blushes, Warm as when Aurora rushes Freshly from the God's embrace, With all her shame upon her face. Old Time hath laid them in the mould; Sure he is blind as well as old, Whose hand relentless never spares Young cheeks so beauty-bright as theirs! Gone are the flame-eyed lovers now From where so blushing-blest they tarried Under the hawthorn's blossom-bough, Gone; for Day and Night are married. All the light of love is fled:— Alas! that negro breasts should hide The lips that were so rosy red, At morning and at even-tide! Delightful Summer! then adieu Till thou shalt visit us anew: But who without regretful sigh Can say, adieu, and see thee fly? Not he that e'er hath felt thy pow'r. His joy expanding like a flow'r, That cometh after rain and snow, Looks up at heaven, and learns to glow:— Not he that fled from Babel-strife To the green sabbath-land of life, To dodge dull Care 'mid clustered trees, And cool his forehead in the breeze,— Whose spirit, weary-worn perchance, Shook from its wings a weight of grief, And perch'd upon an aspen leaf, For every breath to make it dance. Farewell!—on wings of sombre stain, That blacken in the last blue skies, Thou fly'st; but thou wilt come again On the gay wings of butterflies. Spring at thy approach will sprout Her new Corinthian beauties out, Leaf-woven homes, where twitter-words Will grow to songs, and eggs to birds; Ambitious buds shall swell to flowers, And April smiles to sunny hours, Bright days shall be, and gentle nights Full of soft breath and echo-lights, As if the god of sun-time kept His eyes half-open while he slept. Roses shall be where roses were, Not shadows, but reality; As if they never perished there, But slept in immortality: Nature shall thrill with new delight, And Time's relumined river run Warm as young blood, and dazzling bright, As if its source were in the sun! But say, hath Winter then no charms? Is there no joy, no gladness warms His aged heart? no happy wiles To cheat the hoary one to smiles? Onward he comes—the cruel North Pours his furious whirlwind forth Before him—and we breathe the breath Of famish'd bears that howl to death. Onward he comes from the rocks that blanch O'er solid streams that never flow: His tears all ice, his locks all snow, Just crept from some huge avalanche— A thing half-breathing and half-warm, As if one spark began to glow Within some statue's marble form, Or pilgrim stiffened in the storm. Oh! will not Mirth's light arrows fail To pierce that frozen coat of mail? Oh! will not joy but strive in vain To light up those glazed eyes again? No! take him in, and blaze the oak, And pour the wine, and warm the ale; His sides shall shake to many a joke, His tongue shall thaw in many a tale, His eyes grow bright, his heart be gay, And even his palsy charm'd away. What heeds he then the boisterous shout Of angry winds that scowl without, Like shrewish wives at tavern door? What heeds he then the wild uproar Of billows bursting on the shore? In dashing waves, in howling breeze, There is a music that can charm him; When safe, and sheltered, and at ease, He hears the storm that cannot harm him. But hark! those shouts! that sudden din Of little hearts that laugh within. Oh! take him where the youngsters play, And he will grow as young as they! They come! they come! each blue-eyed Sport, The Twelfth-Night King and all his court— 'Tis Mirth fresh crown'd with misletoe! Music with her merry fiddles, Joy "on light fantastic toe," Wit with all his jests and riddles, Singing and dancing as they go. And Love, young Love, among the rest, A welcome—nor unbidden guest. But still for Summer dost thou grieve? Then read our Poets—they shall weave A garden of green fancies still, Where thy wish may rove at will. They have kept for after-treats The essences of summer sweets, And echoes of its songs that wind In endless music through the mind: They have stamp'd in visible traces The "thoughts that breathe," in words that shine— The flights of soul in sunny places— To greet and company with thine. These shall wing thee on to flow'rs— The past or future, that shall seem All the brighter in thy dream For blowing in such desert hours. The summer never shines so bright As thought-of in a winter's night; And the sweetest loveliest rose Is in the bud before it blows; The dear one of the lover's heart Is painted to his longing eyes, In charms she ne'er can realize— But when she turns again to part. Dream thou then, and bind thy brow With wreath of fancy roses now, And drink of Summer in the cup Where the Muse hath mix'd it up; The "dance, and song, and sun-burnt mirth," With the warm nectar of the earth: Drink! 'twill glow in every vein, And thou shalt dream the winter through: Then waken to the sun again, And find thy Summer Vision true!

THE SEA OF DEATH. A FRAGMENT. ——Methought I saw Life swiftly treading over endless space; And, at her foot-print, but a bygone pace, The ocean-past, which, with increasing wave, Swallow'd her steps like a pursuing grave. Sad were my thoughts that anchor'd silently On the dead waters of that passionless sea, Unstirr'd by any touch of living breath: Silence hung over it, and drowsy Death, Like a gorged sea-bird, slept with folded wings On crowded carcases—sad passive things That wore the thin gray surface, like a veil Over the calmness of their features pale. And there were spring-faced cherubs that did sleep Like water-lilies on that motionless deep, How beautiful! with bright unruffled hair On sleek unfretted brows, and eyes that were Buried in marble tombs, a pale eclipse! And smile-bedimpled cheeks, and pleasant lips, Meekly apart, as if the soul intense Spake out in dreams of its own innocence: And so they lay in loveliness, and kept The birth-night of their peace, that Life e'en wept With very envy of their happy fronts; For there were neighbor brows scarr'd by the brunts Of strife and sorrowing—where Care had set His crooked autograph, and marr'd the jet Of glassy locks, with hollow eyes forlorn, And lips that curl'd in bitterness and scorn— Wretched,—as they had breathed of this world's pain, And so bequeathed it to the world again, Through the beholder's heart in heavy sighs. So lay they garmented in torpid light, Under the pall of a transparent night, Like solemn apparitions lull'd sublime To everlasting rest,—and with them Time Slept, as he sleeps upon the silent face Of a dark dial in a sunless place.

TO AN ABSENTEE. O'er hill, and dale, and distant sea, Through all the miles that stretch between, My thought must fly to rest on thee, And would, though worlds should intervene. Nay, thou art now so dear, methinks The farther we are forced apart, Affection's firm elastic links But bind the closer round the heart. For now we sever each from each, I learned what I have lost in thee; Alas, that nothing else could teach How great indeed my love should be! Farewell! I did not know thy worth; But thou art gone, and now 'tis prized: So angels walk'd unknown on earth, But when they flew were recognized!

LYCUS THE CENTAUR. FROM AN UNROLLED MANUSCRIPT OF APOLLONIUS CURIUS. THE ARGUMENT. Lycus, detained by Circe in her magical dominion, is beloved by a Water Nymph, who, desiring to render him immortal, has recourse to the Sorceress. Circe gives her an incantation to pronounce, which should turn Lycus into a horse; but the horrible effect of the charm causing her to break off in the midst, he becomes a Centaur. Who hath ever been lured and bound by a spell To wander, fore-doomed, in that circle of hell Where Witchery works with her will like a god, Works more than the wonders of time at a nod,— At a word,—at a touch,—at a flash of the eye, But each form is a cheat, and each sound is a lie, Things born of a wish—to endure for a thought, Or last for long ages—to vanish to nought, Or put on new semblance? O Jove, I had given The throne of a kingdom to know if that heaven, And the earth and its streams were of Circe, or whether They kept the world's birthday and brighten'd together! For I loved them in terror, and constantly dreaded That the earth where I trod, and the cave where I bedded, The face I might dote on, should live out the lease Of the charm that created, and suddenly cease: And I gave me to slumber, as if from one dream To another—each horrid,—and drank of the stream Like a first taste of blood, lest as water I quaff'd Swift poison, and never should breathe from the draught,— Such drink as her own monarch husband drain'd up When he pledged her, and Fate closed his eyes in the cup. And I pluck'd of the fruit with held breath, and a fear That the branch would start back and scream out in my ear; For once, at my suppering, I plucked in the dusk An apple, juice-gushing and fragrant of musk; But by daylight my fingers were crimson'd with gore, And the half-eaten fragment was flesh at the core; And once—only once—for the love of its blush, I broke a bloom bough, but there came such a gush On my hand, that it fainted away in weak fright, While the leaf-hidden woodpecker shriek'd at the sight; And oh! such an agony thrill'd in that note, That my soul, startling up, beat its wings in my throat, As it long'd to be free of a body whose hand Was doom'd to work torments a Fury had plann'd! There I stood without stir, yet how willing to flee, As if rooted and horror-turn'd into a tree,— Oh! for innocent death,—and to suddenly win it, I drank of the stream, but no poison was in it; I plunged in its waters, but ere I could sink, Some invisible fate pull'd me back to the brink; I sprang from the rock, from its pinnacle height, But fell on the grass with a grasshopper's flight; I ran at my fears—they were fears and no more, For the bear would not mangle my limbs, nor the boar, But moan'd—all their brutalized flesh could not smother The horrible truth,—we were kin to each other! They were mournfully gentle, and group'd for relief, All foes in their skin, but all friends in their grief: The leopard was there,—baby-mild in its feature; And the tiger, black-barr'd, with the gaze of a creature That knew gentle pity; the bristle-back'd boar, His innocent tusks stain'd with mulberry gore; And the laughing hyena—but laughing no more; And the snake, not with magical orbs to devise Strange death, but with woman's attraction of eyes; The tall ugly ape, that still bore a dim shine Through his hairy eclipse of a manhood divine; And the elephant stately, with more than its reason, How thoughtful in sadness! but this is no season To reckon them up from the lag-bellied toad To the mammoth, whose sobs shook his ponderous load. There were woes of all shapes, wretched forms, when I came, That hung down their heads with a human-like shame; The elephant hid in the boughs, and the bear Shed over his eyes the dark veil of his hair; And the womanly soul turning sick with disgust, Tried to vomit herself from her serpentine crust; While all groan'd their groans into one at their lot, As I brought them the image of what they were not. Then rose a wild sound of the human voice choking Through vile brutal organs—low tremulous croaking: Cries swallow'd abruptly—deep animal tones Attuned to strange passion, and full-utter'd groans; All shuddering weaken, till hush'd in a pause Of tongues in mute motion and wide-yawning jaws; And I guessed that those horrors were meant to tell o'er The tale of their woes; but the silence told more, That writhed on their tongues; and I knelt on the sod, And pray'd with my voice to the cloud-stirring god, For the sad congregation of supplicants there, That upturn'd to his heaven brute faces of prayer; And I ceased, and they utter'd a moaning so deep, That I wept for my heart-ease,—but they could not weep, And gazed with red eyeballs, all wistfully dry, At the comfort of tears in a stag's human eye. Then I motion'd them round, and, to soothe their distress, I caress'd, and they bent them to meet my caress, Their necks to my arm, and their heads to my palm, And with poor grateful eyes suffer'd meekly and calm Those tokens of kindness, withheld by hard fate From returns that might chill the warm pity to hate; So they passively bow'd—save the serpent, that leapt To my breast like a sister, and pressingly crept In embrace of my neck, and with close kisses blister'd My lips in rash love,—then drew backward, and glister'd Her eyes in my face, and loud hissing affright, Dropt down, but swift started away from my sight! This sorrow was theirs, but thrice wretched my lot, Turn'd brute in my soul, though my body was not, When I fled from the sorrow of womanly faces, That shrouded their woe in the shade of lone places, And dash'd off bright tears, till their fingers were wet, And then wiped their lids with long tresses of jet: But I fled—though they stretch'd out their hands, all entangled With hair, and blood-stain'd of the breasts they had mangled,— Though they call'd—and perchance but to ask, had I seen Their loves, or to tell the vile wrongs that had been: But I stayed not to hear, lest the story should hold Some hell-form of words, some enchantment, once told, Might translate me in flesh to a brute; and I dreaded To gaze on their charms, lest my faith should be wedded With some pity,—and love in that pity perchance— To a thing not all lovely; for once at glance, Methought, where one sat, I descried a bright wonder That flow'd like a long silver rivulet under The long fenny grass,—with so lovely a breast, Could it be a snake-tail made the charm of the rest? So I roamed in that circle of horrors, and Fear Walk'd with me, by hills, and in valleys, and near Cluster'd trees for their gloom—not to shelter from heat— But lest a brute-shadow should grow at my feet; And besides that full oft in the sunshiny place Dark shadows would gather like clouds on its face, In the horrible likeness of demons (that none Could see, like invisible flames in the sun); But grew to one monster that seized on the light, Like the dragon that strangles the moon in the night; Fierce sphinxes, long serpents, and asps of the south; Wild birds of huge beak, and all horrors that drouth Engenders of slime in the land of the pest, Vile shapes without shape, and foul bats of the West, Bringing Night on their wings; and the bodies wherein Great Brahma imprisons the spirits of sin, Many-handed, that blent in one phantom of fight Like a Titan, and threatfully warr'd with the light; I have heard the wild shriek that gave signal to close, When they rushed on that shadowy Python of foes, That met with sharp beaks and wide gaping of jaws, With flappings of wings, and fierce grasping of claws, And whirls of long tails:—I have seen the quick flutter Of fragments dissevered,—and necks stretch'd to utter Long screamings of pain,—the swift motion of blows, And wrestling of arms—to the flight at the close, When the dust of the earth startled upward in rings, And flew on the whirlwind that follow'd their wings. Thus they fled—not forgotten—but often to grow Like fears in my eyes, when I walk'd to and fro In the shadows, and felt from some beings unseen The warm touch of kisses, but clean or unclean I knew not, nor whether the love I had won Was of heaven or hell—till one day in the sun, In its very noon-blaze, I could fancy a thing Of beauty, but faint as the cloud-mirrors fling On the gaze of the shepherd that watches the sky, Half-seen and half-dream'd in the soul of his eye. And when in my musings I gazed on the stream, In motionless trances of thought, there would seem A face like that face, looking upward through mine: With his eyes full of love, and the dim-drownd shine Of limbs and fair garments, like clouds in that blue Serene:—there I stood for long hours but to view Those fond earnest eyes that were ever uplifted Towards me, and wink'd as the water-weed drifted Between; but the fish knew that presence, and plied Their long curvy tails, and swift darted aside. There I gazed for lost time, and forgot all the things That once had been wonders—the fishes with wings, And the glimmer of magnified eyes that look'd up From the glooms of the bottom like pearls in a cup, And the huge endless serpent of silvery gleam, Slow winding along like a tide in the stream. Some maid of the waters, some Naiad, methought Held me dear in the pearl of her eye—and I brought My wish to that fancy; and often I dash'd My limbs in the water, and suddenly splash'd The cool drops around me, yet clung to the brink, Chill'd by watery fears, how that beauty might sink With my life in her arms to her garden, and bind me With its long tangled grasses, or cruelly wind me In some eddy to hum out my life in her ear, Like a spider-caught bee,—and in aid of that fear Came the tardy remembrance—Oh falsest of men! Why was not that beauty remember'd till then? My love, my safe love, whose glad life would have run Into mine—like a drop—that our fate might be one, That now, even now,—may-be,—clasp'd in a dream, That form which I gave to some jilt of the stream, And gazed with fond eyes that her tears tried to smother On a mock of those eyes that I gave to another! Then I rose from the stream, but the eyes of my mind, Still full of the tempter, kept gazing behind On her crystalline face, while I painfully leapt To the bank, and shook off the curst waters, and wept With my brow in the reeds; and the reeds to my ear Bow'd, bent by no wind, and in whispers of fear, Growing small with large secrets, foretold me of one That loved me,—but oh to fly from her, and shun Her love like a pest—though her love was as true To mine as her stream to the heavenly blue; For why should I love her with love that would bring All misfortune, like hate, on so joyous a thing? Because of her rival,—even Her whose witch-face I had slighted, and therefore was doom'd in that place To roam, and had roam'd, where all horrors grew rank, Nine days ere I wept with my brow on that bank; Her name be not named, but her spite would not fail To our love like a blight; and they told me the tale Of Scylla,—and Picus, imprison'd to speak His shrill-screaming woe through a woodpecker's beak. Then they ceased—I had heard as the voice of my star That told me the truth of my fortunes—thus far I had read of my sorrow, and lay in the hush Of deep meditation,—when lo! a light crush Of the reeds, and I turn'd and look'd round in the night Of new sunshine, and saw, as I sipp'd of the light Narrow-winking, the realized nymph of the stream, Rising up from the wave with the bend and the gleam Of a fountain, and o'er her white arms she kept throwing Bright torrents of hair, that went flowing and flowing In falls to her feet, and the blue waters roll'd Down her limbs like a garment, in many a fold, Sun-spangled, gold-broider'd, and fled far behind, Like an infinite train. So she came and reclined In the reeds, and I hunger'd to see her unseal The buds of her eyes that would ope and reveal The blue that was in them;—they oped and she raised Two orbs of pure crystal, and timidly gazed With her eyes on my eyes; but their color and shine Was of that which they look'd on, and mostly of mine— For she loved me,—except when she blush'd, and they sank, Shame-humbled, to number the stones on the bank, Or her play-idle fingers, while lisping she told me How she put on her veil, and in love to behold me Would wing through the sun till she fainted away Like a mist, and then flew to her waters and lay In love-patience long hours, and sore dazzled her eyes In watching for mine 'gainst the midsummer skies. But now they were heal'd,—O my heart, it still dances When I think of the charm of her changeable glances, And my image how small when it sank in the deep Of her eyes where her soul was,—Alas! now they weep, And none knoweth where. In what stream do her eyes Shed invisible tears? Who beholds where her sighs Flow in eddies, or sees the ascent of the leaf She has pluck'd with her tresses? Who listens her grief Like a far fall of waters, or hears where her feet Grow emphatic among the loose pebbles, and beat Them together? Ah! surely her flowers float adown To the sea unaccepted, and little ones drown For need of her mercy,—even he whose twin-brother Will miss him forever; and the sorrowful mother Imploreth in vain for his body to kiss And cling to, all dripping and cold as it is, Because that soft pity is lost in hard pain We loved,—how we loved!—for I thought not again Of the woes that were whisper'd like fears in that place If I gave me to beauty. Her face was the face, Far away, and her eyes were the eyes that were drown'd For my absence,—her arms were the arms that sought round And claspt me to nought; for I gazed and became Only true to my falsehood, and had but one name For two loves, and call'd ever on Ægle, sweet maid Of the sky-loving waters,—and was not afraid Of the sight of her skin;—for it never could be; Her beauty and love were misfortunes to me! Thus our bliss had endured for a time-shorten'd space, Like a day made of three, and the smile of her face Had been with me for joy,—when she told me indeed Her love was self-task'd with a work that would need Some short hours, for in truth 'twas the veriest pity Our love should not last, and then sang me a ditty, Of one with warm lips that should love her, and love her When suns were burnt dim and long ages past over. So she fled with her voice, and I patiently nested My limbs in the reeds, in still quiet, and rested Till my thoughts grew extinct, and I sank in a sleep Of dreams,—but their meaning was hidden too deep To be read what their woe was;—but still it was woe That was writ on all faces that swam to and fro In that river of night;—and the gaze of their eyes Was sad,—and the bend of their brows,—and their cries Were seen, but I heard not. The warm touch of tears Travell'd down my cold cheeks, and I shook till my fears Awaked me, and lo! I was couch'd in a bower, The growth of long summers rear'd up in an hour! Then I said, in the fear of my dream, I will fly From this magic, but could not, because that my eye Grew love-idle among the rich blooms; and the earth Held me down with its coolness of touch, and the mirth Of some bird was above me,—who, even in fear, Would startle the thrush? and methought there drew near A form as of Ægle,—but it was not the face Hope made, and I knew the witch-Queen of that place, Even Circe the Cruel, that came like a Death, Which I fear'd, and yet fled not, for want of my breath. There was thought in her face, and her eyes were not raised From the grass at her foot, but I saw, as I gazed, Her spite—and her countenance changed with her mind As she plann'd how to thrall me with beauty, and bind My soul to her charms,—and her long tresses play'd From shade into shine and from shine into shade, Like a day in mid-autumn,—first fair, O how fair! With long snaky locks of the adder-black hair That clung round her neck,—those dark locks that I prize, For the sake of a maid that once loved me with eyes Of that fathomless hue,—but they changed as they roll'd, And brighten'd, and suddenly blazed into gold That she comb'd into flames, and the locks that fell down Turn'd dark as they fell, but I slighted their brown, Nor loved, till I saw the light ringlets shed wild, That innocence wears when she is but a child; And her eyes,—Oh I ne'er had been witched with their shine, Had they been any other, my Ægle, than thine! Then I gave me to magic, and gazed till I madden'd In the full of their light,—but I sadden'd and sadden'd The deeper I look'd,—till I sank on the snow Of her bosom, a thing made of terror and woe, And answer'd its throb with the shudder of fears, And hid my cold eyes from her eyes with my tears, And strain'd her white arms with the still languid weight Of a fainting distress. There she sat like the Fate That is nurse unto Death, and bent over in shame To hide me from her the true Ægle—that came With the words on her lips the false witch had fore-given To make me immortal—for now I was even At the portals of Death, who but waited the hush Of world-sounds in my ears to cry welcome, and rush With my soul to the banks of his black-flowing river. Oh, would it had flown from my body forever, Ere I listen'd those words, when I felt with a start, The life-blood rush back in one throb to my heart, And saw the pale lips where the rest of that spell Had perished in horror—and heard the farewell Of that voice that was drown'd in the dash of the stream! How fain had I follow'd, and plunged with that scream Into death, but my being indignantly lagg'd Through the brutalized flesh that I painfully dragg'd Behind me:—O Circe! O mother of spite! Speak the last of that curse! and imprison me quite In the husk of a brute,—that no pity may name The man that I was,—that no kindred may claim— "The monster I am! Let me utterly be Brute-buried, and Nature's dishonor with me Uninscribed!"—But she listen'd my prayer, that was praise To her malice, with smiles, and advised me to gaze On the river for love,—and perchance she would make In pity a maid without eyes for my sake, And she left me like Scorn. Then I ask'd of the wave, What monster I was, and it trembled and gave The true shape of my grief, and I turn'd with my face From all waters forever, and fled through that place, Till with horror more strong than all magic I pass'd Its bounds, and the world was before me at last. There I wander'd in sorrow, and shunned the abodes Of men, that stood up in the likeness of Gods, But I saw from afar the warm shine of the sun On the cities, where man was a million, not one; And I saw the white smoke of their altars ascending, That show'd where the hearts of many were blending, And the wind in my face brought shrill voices that came From the trumpets that gather'd whole bands in one fame As a chorus of man,—and they stream'd from the gates Like a dusky libation poured out to the Fates. But at times there were gentler processions of peace That I watch'd with my soul in my eyes till their cease, There were women! there men! but to me a third sex I saw them all dots—yet I loved them as specks: And oft to assuage a sad yearning of eyes I stole near the city, but stole covert-wise Like a wild beast of love, and perchance to be smitten By some hand that I rather had wept on than bitten! Oh, I once had a haunt near a cot where a mother Daily sat in the shade with her child, and would smother Its eyelids in kisses, and then in its sleep Sang dreams in its ear of its manhood, while deep In a thicket of willows I gazed o'er the brooks That murmur'd between us and kiss'd them with looks; But the willows unbosom'd their secret, and never I return'd to a spot I had startled forever, Though I oft long'd to know, but could ask it of none, Was the mother still fair, and how big was her son? For the haunters of fields they all shunn'd me by flight; The men in their horror, the women in fright; None ever remain'd save a child once that sported Among the wild bluebells, and playfully courted The breeze; and beside him a speckled snake lay Tight strangled, because it had hiss'd him away From the flower at his finger; he rose and drew near Like a Son of Immortals, one born to no fear, But with strength of black locks and with eyes azure bright To grow to large manhood of merciful might. He came, with his face of bold wonder, to feel, The hair of my side, and to lift up my heel, And question'd my face with wide eyes; but when under My lids he saw tears,—for I wept at his wonder, He stroked me, and utter'd such kindliness then, That the once love of women, the friendship of men In past sorrow, no kindness e'er came like a kiss On my heart in its desolate day such as this! And I yearn'd at his cheeks in my love, and down bent, And lifted him up in my arms with intent To kiss him,—but he cruel-kindly, alas! Held out to my lips a pluck'd handful of grass! Then I dropt him in horror, but felt as I fled The stone he indignantly hurl'd at my head, That dissever'd my ear,—but I felt not, whose fate Was to meet more distress in his love that his hate! Thus I wander'd, companion'd of grief and forlorn Till I wish'd for that land where my being was born But what was that land with its love, where my home Was self-shut against me; for why should I come Like an after-distress to my gray-bearded father, With a blight to the last of his sight?—let him rather Lament for me dead, and shed tears in the urn Where I was not, and still in fond memory turn To his son even such as he left him. Oh, how Could I walk with the youth once my fellows, but now Like Gods to my humbled estate?—or how bear The steeds once the pride of my eyes and the care Of my hands? Then I turn'd me self-banish'd, and came Into Thessaly here, where I met with the same As myself. I have heard how they met by a stream In games, and were suddenly changed by a scream That made wretches of many, as she roll'd her wild eyes Against heaven, and so vanish'd.—The gentle and wise Lose their thoughts in deep studies, and others their ill In the mirth of mankind where they mingle them still.

THE TWO PEACOCKS OF BEDFONT. I. Alas! That breathing Vanity should go Where Pride is buried,—like its very ghost, Uprisen from the naked bones below, In novel flesh, clad in the silent boast Of gaudy silk that flutters to and fro, Shedding its chilling superstition most On young and ignorant natures—as it wont To haunt the peaceful churchyard of Bedfont! II. Each Sabbath morning, at the hour of prayer, Behold two maidens, up the quiet green Shining, far distant, in the summer air That flaunts their dewy robes and breathes between Their downy plumes,—sailing as if they were Two far-off ships,—until they brush between The churchyard's humble walls, and watch and wait On either side of the wide open'd gate, III. And there they stand—with haughty necks before God's holy house, that points towards the skies— Frowning reluctant duty from the poor, And tempting homage from unthoughtful eyes: And Youth looks lingering from the temple door, Breathing its wishes in unfruitful sighs, With pouting lips,—forgetful of the grace, Of health, and smiles, on the heart-conscious face;— IV. Because that Wealth, which has no bliss beside, May wear the happiness of rich attire; And those two sisters, in their silly pride, May change the soul's warm glances for the fire Of lifeless diamonds;—and for health denied,— With art, that blushes at itself, inspire Their languid cheeks—and flourish in a glory That has no life in life, nor after-story. V. The aged priest goes shaking his gray hair In meekest censuring, and turns his eye Earthward in grief, and heavenward in pray'r, And sighs, and clasps his hands, and passes by, Good-hearted man! what sullen soul would wear Thy sorrow for a garb, and constantly Put on thy censure, that might win the praise Of one so gray in goodness and in days? VI. Also the solemn clerk partakes the shame Of this ungodly shine of human pride, And sadly blends his reverence and blame In one grave bow, and passes with a stride Impatient:—many a red-hooded dame Turns her pain'd head, but not her glance, aside From wanton dress, and marvels o'er again, That heaven hath no wet judgments for the vain. VII. "I have a lily in the bloom at home," Quoth one, "and by the blessed Sabbath day I'll pluck my lily in its pride, and come And read a lesson upon vain array;— And when stiff silks are rustling up, and some Give place, I'll shake it in proud eyes and say— Making my reverence,—'Ladies, an you please, King Solomon's not half so fine as these,'" VIII. Then her meek partner, who has nearly run His earthly course,—"Nay, Goody, let your text Grow in the garden.—We have only one— Who knows that these dim eyes may see the next? Summer will come again, and summer sun, And lilies too,—but I were sorely vext To mar my garden, and cut short the blow Of the last lily I may live to grow," IX. "The last!" quoth she, "and though the last it were— Lo! those two wantons, where they stand so proud With waving plumes, and jewels in their hair, And painted cheeks, like Dagons to be bow'd And curtsey'd to!—last Sabbath after pray'r, I heard the little Tomkins ask aloud If they were angels—but I made him know God's bright ones better, with a bitter blow!" X. So speaking, they pursue the pebbly walk That leads to the white porch the Sunday throng, Hand-coupled urchins in restrainëd talk, And anxious pedagogue that chastens wrong, And posied churchwarden with solemn stalk, And gold-bedizen'd beadle flames along, And gentle peasant clad in buff and green, Like a meek cowslip in the spring serene; XI. And blushing maiden—modestly array'd In spotless white,—still conscious of the glass; And she, the lonely widow, that hath made A sable covenant with grief,—alas! She veils her tears under the deep, deep shade, While the poor kindly-hearted, as they pass, Bend to unclouded childhood, and caress Her boy,—so rosy!—and so fatherless! And she, the lonely widow, XII. And she, the lonely widow, Thus, as good Christians ought, they all draw near The fair white temple, to the timely call Of pleasant bells that tremble in the ear.— Now the last frock, and scarlet hood, and shawl Fade into dusk, in the dim atmosphere Of the low porch, and heav'n has won them all, —Saying those two, that turn aside and pass, In velvet blossom, where all flesh is grass. And she, the lonely widow, XIII. And she, the lonely widow, Ah me! to see their silken manors trail'd In purple luxuries—with restless gold,— Flaunting the grass where widowhood has wail'd In blotted black,—over the heapy mould Panting wave-wantonly! They never quail'd How the warm vanity abused the cold; Nor saw the solemn faces of the gone Sadly uplooking through transparent stone: And she, the lonely widow, XIV. And she, the lonely widow, But swept their dwellings with unquiet light, Shocking the awful presence of the dead; Where gracious natures would their eyes benight, Nor wear their being with a lip too red, Nor move too rudely in the summer bright Of sun, but put staid sorrow in their tread, Meting it into steps, with inward breath, In very pity to bereaved death. And she, the lonely widow, XV. And she, the lonely widow, Now in the church, time-sober'd minds resign To solemn pray'r, and the loud chaunted hymn,— With glowing picturings of joys divine Painting the mist-light where the roof is dim; But youth looks upward to the window shine, Warming with rose and purple and the swim Of gold, as if thought-tinted by the stains Of gorgeous light through many-color'd panes; And she, the lonely widow, XVI. And she, the lonely widow, Soiling the virgin snow wherein God hath Enrobed his angels,—and with absent eyes Hearing of Heav'n, and its directed path, Thoughtful of slippers—and the glorious skies Clouding with satin,—till the preacher's wrath Consumes his pity, and he glows and cries With a deep voice that trembles in its might, And earnest eyes grow eloquent in light: And she, the lonely widow, XVII. And she, the lonely widow, "Oh, that the vacant eye would learn to look On very beauty, and the heart embrace True loveliness, and from this holy book Drink the warm-breathing tenderness and grace Of love indeed! Oh, that the young soul took Its virgin passion from the glorious face Of fair religion, and address'd its strife, To win the riches of eternal life!" And she, the lonely widow, XVIII. And she, the lonely widow, "Doth the vain heart love glory that is none, And the poor excellence of vain attire? Oh go, and drown your eyes against the sun, The visible ruler of the starry quire, Till boiling gold in giddy eddies run, Dazzling the brain with orbs of living fire; And the faint soul down-darkens into night, And dies a burning martyrdom to light." And she, the lonely widow, XIX. And she, the lonely widow, Oh go, and gaze,—when the low winds of ev'n Breathe hymns, and Nature's many forests nod Their gold-crown'd heads; and the rich blooms of heav'n Sun-ripen'd give their blushes up to God; And mountain-rocks and cloudy steeps are riv'n By founts of fire, as smitten by the rod Of heavenly Moses,—that your thirsty sense May quench its longings of magnificence! And she, the lonely widow, XX. And she, the lonely widow, "Yet suns shall perish—stars shall fade away— Day into darkness—darkness into death— Death into silence; the warm light of day, The blooms of summer, the rich glowing breath Of even—all shall wither and decay, Like the frail furniture of dreams beneath The touch of morn—or bubbles of rich dyes That break and vanish in the aching eyes." And she, the lonely widow, XXI. And she, the lonely widow, They hear, soul-blushing, and repentant shed Unwholesome thoughts in wholesome tears, and pour Their sin to earth,—and with low drooping head Receive the solemn blessing, and implore Its grace—then soberly with chasten'd tread, They meekly press towards the gusty door With humbled eyes that go to graze upon The lowly grass—like him of Babylon. And she, the lonely widow, XXII. And she, the lonely widow, The lowly grass!—O water-constant mind! Fast-ebbing holiness!—soon-fading grace Of serious thought, as if the gushing wind Through the low porch had wash'd it from the face For ever!—How they lift their eyes to find Old vanities!—Pride wins the very place Of meekness, like a bird, and flutters now With idle wings on the curl-conscious brow! And she, the lonely widow, XXIII. And she, the lonely widow, And lo! with eager looks they seek the way Of old temptation at the lowly gate; To feast on feathers, and on vain array, And painted cheeks, and the rich glistering state Of jewel-sprinkled locks,—But where are they, The graceless haughty ones that used to wait With lofty neck, and nods, and stiffen'd eye?— None challenge the old homage bending by. To feast on feathers, and on vain array XXIV. To feast on feathers, and on vain array In vain they look for the ungracious bloom Of rich apparel where it glow'd before,— For Vanity has faded all to gloom, And lofty Pride has stiffen'd to the core, For impious Life to tremble at its doom,— Set for a warning token evermore, Whereon, as now, the giddy and the wise Shall gaze with lifted hands and wond'ring eyes. To feast on feathers, and on vain array XXV. To feast on feathers, and on vain array The aged priest goes on each Sabbath morn, But shakes not sorrow under his gray hair; The solemn clerk goes lavender'd and shorn Nor stoops his back to the ungodly pair;— And ancient lips that pucker'd up in scorn, Go smoothly breathing to the house of pray'r; And in the garden-plot, from day to day, The lily blooms its long white life away. To feast on feathers, and on vain array XXVI. To feast on feathers, and on vain array And where two haughty maidens used to be, In pride of plume, where plumy Death had trod, Trailing their gorgeous velvets wantonly, Most unmeet pall, over the holy sod; There, gentle stranger, thou may'st only see Two sombre Peacocks. Age, with sapient nod Marking the spot, still tarries to declare How they once lived, and wherefore they are there.

HYMN TO THE SUN. Giver of glowing light! Though but a god of other days, The kings and sages Of wiser ages Still live and gladden in thy genial rays! King of the tuneful lyre, Still poets' hymns to thee belong; Though lips are cold Whereon of old Thy beams all turn'd to worshipping and song! Lord of the dreadful bow, None triumph now for Python's death; But thou dost save From hungry grave The life that hangs upon a summer breath. Father of rosy day, No more thy clouds of incense rise; But waking flow'rs At morning hours, Give out their sweets to meet thee in the skies. God of the Delphic fame, No more thou listenest to hymns sublime; But they will leave On winds at eve, A solemn echo to the end of time.

MIDNIGHT. Unfathomable Night! how dost thou sweep Over the flooded earth, and darkly hide The mighty city under thy full tide; Making a silent palace for old Sleep, Like his own temple under the hush'd deep, Where all the busy day he doth abide, And forth at the late dark, outspreadeth wide His dusky wings, whence the cold waters sweep! How peacefully the living millions lie! Lull'd unto death beneath his poppy spells; There is no breath—no living stir—no cry No tread of foot—no song—no music-call— Only the sound of melancholy bells— The voice of Time—survivor of them all!

TO A SLEEPING CHILD. I. Oh, 'tis a touching thing, to make one weep,— A tender infant with its curtain'd eye, Breathing as it would neither live nor die With that unchanging countenance of sleep! As if its silent dream, serene and deep, Had lined its slumber with a still blue sky So that the passive cheeks unconscious lie With no more life than roses—just to keep The blushes warm, and the mild, odorous breath. O blossom boy! so calm is thy repose. So sweet a compromise of life and death, 'Tis pity those fair buds should e'er unclose For memory to stain their inward leaf, Tinging thy dreams with unacquainted grief.

TO A SLEEPING CHILD. II. Thine eyelids slept so beauteously, I deem'd No eyes could wake so beautiful as they: Thy rosy cheeks in such still slumbers lay, I loved their peacefulness, nor ever dream'd Of dimples:—for those parted lips so seem'd, I never thought a smile could sweetlier play, Nor that so graceful life could chase away Thy graceful death,—till those blue eyes upbeam'd. Now slumber lies in dimpled eddies drown'd And roses bloom more rosily for joy, And odorous silence ripens into sound, And fingers move to sound.—All-beauteous boy! How thou dost waken into smiles, and prove, If not more lovely thou art more like Love!

TO FANCY. Most delicate Ariel! submissive thing, Won by the mind's high magic to its hest— Invisible embassy, or secret guest,— Weighing the light air on a lighter wing;— Whether into the midnight moon, to bring Illuminate visions to the eye of rest,— Or rich romances from the florid West,— Or to the sea, for mystic whispering,— Still by thy charm'd allegiance to the will, The fruitful wishes prosper in the brain, As by the fingering of fairy skill,— Moonlight, and waters, and soft music's strain, Odors, and blooms, and my Miranda's smile, Making this dull world an enchanted isle.

FAIR INES. O Saw ye not fair Ines? She's gone into the West, To dazzle when the sun is down, And rob the world of rest: She took our daylight with her, The smiles that we love best, With morning blushes on her cheek, And pearls upon her breast. O turn again, fair Ines, Before the fall of night, For fear the moon should shine alone, And stars unrivall'd bright; And blessed will the lover be That walks beneath their light, And breathes the love against thy cheek I dare not even write! Would I had been, fair Ines, That gallant cavalier, Who rode so gaily by thy side, And whisper'd thee so near! Were there no bonny dames at home, Or no true lovers here, That he should cross the seas to win The dearest of the dear? I saw thee, lovely Ines, Descend along the shore, With bands of noble gentlemen, And banners waved before; And gentle youth and maidens gay, And snowy plumes they wore; It would have been a beauteous dream, —If it had been no more! Alas, alas, fair Ines, She went away with song, With Music waiting on her steps, And shoutings of the throng; But some were sad, and felt no mirth, But only Musics wrong, In sounds that sang Farewell, Farewell, To her you've loved so long. Farewell, farewell, fair Ines, That vessel never bore So fair a lady on its deck, Nor danced so light before,— Alas, for pleasure on the sea, And sorrow on the shore! The smile that blest one lover's heart Has broken many more!

TO A FALSE FRIEND. Our hands have met, but not our hearts; Our hands will never meet again. Friends, if we have ever been, Friends we cannot now remain: I only know I loved you once, I only know I loved in vain; Our hands have met, but not our hearts; Our hands will never meet again! Then farewell to heart and hand! I would our hands had never met: Even the outward form of love Must be resign'd with some regret. Friends, we still might seem to be, If I my wrong could e'er forget; Our hands have join'd but not our hearts: I would our hands had never met!

ODE. AUTUMN. I saw old Autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like Silence, listening To silence, for no lonely bird would sing Into his hollow ear from woods forlorn, Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn; Shaking his languid locks all dewy bright With tangled gossamer that fell by night, Pearling his coronet of golden corn. Where are the songs of Summer?—With the sun, Opening the dusky eyelids of the south, Till shade and silence waken up as one, And Morning sings with a warm odorous mouth. Where are the merry birds?—Away, away, On panting wings through the inclement skies, Lest owls should prey Undazzled at noon-day, And tear with horny beak their lustrous eyes. Where are the blooms of Summer?—In the west, Blushing their last to the last sunny hours. When the mild Eve by sudden Night is prest Like tearful Proserpine, snatch'd from her flow'rs To a most gloomy breast. Where is the pride of Summer,—the green prime,— The many, many leaves all twinkling?—Three On the moss'd elm; three on the naked lime Trembling,—and one upon the old oak tree! Where is the Dryad's immortality?— Gone into mournful cypress and dark yew, Or wearing the long gloomy Winter through In the smooth holly's green eternity. The squirrel gloats on his accomplish'd hoard, The ants have brimm'd their garners with ripe grain, And honey been save stored The sweets of summer in their luscious cells; The swallows all have wing'd across the main; But here the Autumn melancholy dwells, And sighs her tearful spells Amongst the sunless shadows of the plain. Alone, alone, Upon a mossy stone, She sits and reckons up the dead and gone, With the last leaves for a love-rosary; Whilst all the wither'd world looks drearily, Like a dim picture of the drownëd past In the hush'd mind's mysterious far-away, Doubtful what ghostly thing will steal the last Into that distance, gray upon the gray. O go and sit with her, and be o'ershaded Under the languid downfall of her hair; She wears a coronal of flowers faded Upon her forehead, and a face of care;— There is enough of wither'd everywhere To make her bower,—and enough of gloom; There is enough of sadness to invite, If only for the rose that died, whose doom Is Beauty's,—she that with the living bloom Of conscious cheeks most beautifies the light: There is enough of sorrowing, and quite Enough of bitter fruits the earth doth bear,— Enough of chilly droppings from her bowl; Enough of fear and shadowy despair, To frame her cloudy prison for the soul!

SONNET. SILENCE. There is a silence where hath been no sound, There is a silence where no sound may be, In the cold grave—under the deep deep sea, Or in wide desert where no life is found, Which hath been mute, and still must sleep profound; No voice is hush'd—no life treads silently, But clouds and cloudy shadows wander free. That never spoke, over the idle ground: But in green ruins, in the desolate walls Of antique palaces, where Man hath been, Though the dun fox, or wild hyæna, calls, And owls, that flit continually between, Shriek to the echo, and the low winds moan,— There the true Silence is, self-conscious and alone.

SONNET. WRITTEN IN KEATS' "ENDYMION." I saw pale Dian, sitting by the brink Of silver falls, the overflow of fountains From cloudy steeps; and I grew sad to think Endymion's foot was silent on those mountains. And he but a hush'd name, that Silence keeps In dear remembrance,—lonely, and forlorn, Singing it to herself until she weeps Tears, that perchance still glisten in the morn:— And as I mused, in dull imaginings, There came a flash of garments, and I knew The awful Muse by her harmonious wings Charming the air to music as she flew— Anon there rose an echo through the vale Gave back Enydmion in a dreamlike tale.

SONNET. TO AN ENTHUSIAST. Young ardent soul, graced with fair Nature's truth, Spring warmth of heart, and fervency of mind, And still a large late love of all thy kind. Spite of the world's cold practice and Time's tooth,— For all these gifts, I know not, in fair sooth, Whether to give thee joy, or bid thee blind Thine eyes with tears,—that thou hast not resign'd The passionate fire and freshness of thy youth: For as the current of thy life shall flow, Gilded by shine of sun or shadow-stain'd, Through flow'ry valley or unwholesome fen, Thrice blessed in thy joy, or in thy woe Thrice cursed of thy race,—thou art ordain'd To share beyond the lot of common men.

TO A COLD BEAUTY. Lady, wouldst thou heiress be To Winters cold and cruel part? When he sets the rivers free, Thou dost still lock up thy heart;— Thou that shouldst outlast the snow, But in the whiteness of thy brow? Scorn and cold neglect are made For winter gloom and winter wind, But thou wilt wrong the summer air, Breathing it to words unkind,— Breath which only should belong To love, to sunlight, and to song! When the little buds unclose. Red, and white, and pied, and blue, And that virgin flow'r, the rose, Opes her heart to hold the dew, Wilt thou lock thy bosom up With no jewel in its cup? Let not cold December sit Thus in Love's peculiar throne: Brooklets are not prison'd now, But crystal frosts are all agone, And that which hangs upon the spray, It is no snow, but flow'r of May!

SONNET. DEATH. It is not death, that sometime in a sigh This eloquent breath shall take its speechless flight; That sometime these bright stars, that now reply In sunlight to the sun, shall set in night; That warm conscious flesh shall perish quite, And all life's ruddy springs forget to flow; That thoughts shall cease, and the immortal sprite Be lapp'd in alien clay and laid below; It is not death to know this,—but to know That pious thoughts, which visit at new graves In tender pilgrimage, will cease to go So duly and so oft,—and when grass waves Over the past-away, there may be then No resurrection in the minds of men.

SERENADE. Ah, sweet, thou little knowest how I wake and passionate watches keep; And yet while I address thee now, Methinks thou smilest in thy sleep. 'Tis sweet enough to make me weep, That tender thought of love and thee, That while the world is hush'd so deep, Thy soul's perhaps awake to me! Sleep on, sleep on, sweet bride of sleep! With golden visions of thy dower, While I this midnight vigil keep, And bless thee in thy silent bower; To me 'tis sweeter than the power Of sleep, and fairy dreams unfurl'd, That I alone, at this still hour, In patient love outwatch the world.

VERSES IN AN ALBUM. Far above the hollow Tempest, and its moan, Singeth bright Apollo In his golden zone,— Cloud doth never shade him, Nor a storm invade him, On his joyous throne. So when I behold me In an orb as bright, How thy soul doth fold me In its throne of light! Sorrow never paineth, Nor a care attaineth To that blessed height.

THE FORSAKEN. The dead are in their silent graves, And the dew is cold above, And the living weep and sigh, Over dust that once was love. Once I only wept the dead, But now the living cause my pain: How couldst thou steal me from my tears, To leave me to my tears again? My Mother rests beneath the sod,— Her rest is calm and very deep: I wish'd that she could see our loves,— But now I gladden in her sleep. Last night unbound my raven locks, The morning saw them turned to gray, Once they were black and well beloved, But thou art changed,—and so are they! The useless lock I gave thee once, To gaze upon and think of me, Was ta'en with smiles,—but this was torn In sorrow that I send to thee!

SONG. The stars are with the voyager Wherever he may sail; The moon is constant to her time; The sun will never fail; But follow, follow round the world, The green earth and the sea, So love is with the lover's heart, Wherever he may be. Wherever he may be, the stars Must daily lose their light; The moon will veil her in the shade; The sun will set at night. The sun may set, but constant love Will shine when he's away; So that dull night is never night, And day is brighter day.

SONG. O Lady, leave thy silken thread And flowery tapestrie: There's living roses on the bush, And blossoms on the tree; Stoop where thou wilt, thy careless hand Some random bud will meet; Thou canst not tread, but thou wilt find The daisy at thy feet. 'Tis like the birthday of the world, When earth was born in bloom; The light is made of many dyes, The air is all perfume; There's crimson buds, and white and blue— The very rainbow showers Have turn'd to blossoms where they fell, And sown the earth with flowers. There's fairy tulips in the east, The garden of the sun; The very streams reflect the hues, And blossom as they run: While Morn opes like a crimson rose, Still wet with pearly showers; Then, lady, leave the silken thread Thou twinest into flowers!

BIRTHDAY VERSES. Good morrow to the golden morning, Good morrow to the world's delight— I've come to bless thy life's beginning, Since it makes my own so bright! I have brought no roses, sweetest, I could find no flowers, dear,— It was when all sweets were over Thou wert born to bless the year. But I've brought thee jewels, dearest, In thy bonny locks to shine,— And if love shows in their glances, They have learn'd that look of mine!

I LOVE THEE. I love thee—I love thee! 'Tis all that I can say;— It is my vision in the night, My dreaming in the day; The very echo of my heart, The blessing when I pray: I love thee—I love thee! Is all that I can say. I love thee—I love thee! Is ever on my tongue; In all my proudest poesy That chorus still is sung; It is the verdict of my eyes, Amidst the gay and young: I love thee—I love thee! A thousand maids among. I love thee—I love thee! Thy bright hazel glance, The mellow lute upon those lips, Whose tender tones entrance; But most, dear heart of hearts, thy proofs That still these words enhance, I love thee—I love thee! Whatever be thy chance.

LINES. Let us make a leap, my dear, In our love, of many a year, And date it very far away, On a bright clear summer day, When the heart was like a sun To itself, and falsehood none; And the rosy lips a part Of the very loving heart, And the shining of the eye But a sign to know it by;— When my faults were all forgiven, And my life deserved of Heaven. Dearest, let us reckon so, And love for all that long ago; Each absence count a year complete, And keep a birthday when we meet.

FALSE POETS AND TRUE. TO WORDSWORTH. Look how the lark soars upward and is gone, Turning a spirit as he nears the sky! His voice is heard, but body there is none To fix the vague excursions of the eye. So, poets' songs are with us, tho' they die Obscured, and hid by death's oblivious shroud, And Earth inherits the rich melody Like raining music from the morning cloud. Yet, few there be who pipe so sweet and loud Their voices reach us through the lapse of space: The noisy day is deafen'd by a crowd Of undistinguished birds, a twittering race; But only lark and nightingale forlorn Fill up the silences of night and morn.

THE TWO SWANS. A FAIRY TALE. I. Immortal Imogen, crown'd queen above The lilies of thy sex, vouchsafe to hear A fairy dream in honor of true love— True above ills, and frailty, and all fear,— Perchance a shadow of his own career Whose youth was darkly prison'd and long-twined By serpent-sorrow, till white Love drew near, And sweetly sang him free, and round his mind A bright horizon threw, wherein no grief may wind. II. I saw a tower builded on a lake, Mock'd by its inverse shadow, dark and deep— That seem'd a still intenser night to make, Wherein the quiet waters sank to sleep,— And, whatso'er was prison'd in that keep, A monstrous Snake was warden:—round and round In sable ringlets I beheld him creep Blackest amid black shadows to the ground, Whilst his enormous head, the topmost turret crown'd. III. From whence he shot fierce light against the stars, Making the pale moon paler with affright; And with his ruby eye out-threaten'd Mars— That blaz'd in the mid-heavens, hot and bright— Nor slept, nor wink'd, but with a steadfast spite Watch'd their wan looks and tremblings in the skies; And that he might not slumber in the night, The curtain-lids were pluck'd from his large eyes, So he might never drowse, but watch his secret prize. IV. Prince or princess in dismal durance pent, Victims of old Enchantment's love or hate, Their lives must all in painful sighs be spent, Watching the lonely waters soon and late, And clouds that pass and leave them to their fate, Or company their grief with heavy tears:— Meanwhile that Hope can spy no golden gate For sweet escapement, but in darksome fears They weep and pine away as if immortal years. V. No gentle bird with gold upon its wing Will perch upon the grate—the gentle bird Is safe in leafy dell, and will not bring Freedom's sweet key-note and commission-word Learn'd of a fairy's lips, for pity stirr'd— Lest while he trembling sings, untimely guest! Watch'd by that cruel Snake and darkly heard, He leave a widow on her lonely nest, To press in silent grief the darlings of her breast. VI. No gallant knight, adventurous, in his bark, Will seek the fruitful perils of the place, To rouse with dipping oar the waters dark That bear that serpent image on their face. And Love, brave Love! though he attempt the base, Nerved to his loyal death, he may not win His captive lady from the strict embrace Of that foul Serpent, clasping her within His sable folds—like Eve enthrall'd by the old Sin. VII. But there is none—no knight in panoply, Nor Love, intrench'd in his strong steely coat: No little speck—no sail—no helper nigh, No sign—no whispering—no plash of boat:— The distant shores show dimly and remote, Made of a deeper mist,—serene and gray,— And slow and mute the cloudy shadows float Over the gloomy wave, and pass away, Chased by the silver beams that on their marges play. VIII. And bright and silvery the willows sleep Over the shady verge—no mad winds tease Their hoary heads; but quietly they weep Their sprinkling leaves—half fountains and half trees: Their lilies be—and fairer than all these, A solitary Swan her breast of snow Launches against the wave that seems to freeze Into a chaste reflection, still below Twin shadow of herself wherever she may go. IX. And forth she paddles in the very noon Of solemn midnight like an elfin thing, Charm'd into being by the argent moon— Whose silver light for love of her fair wing Goes with her in the shade, still worshipping Her dainty plumage:—all around her grew A radiant circlet, like a fairy ring; And all behind, a tiny little clue Of light, to guide her back across the waters blue. X. And sure she is no meaner than a fay, Redeem'd from sleepy death, for beauty's sake, By old ordainment:—silent as she lay, Touched by a moonlight wand I saw her wake, And cut her leafy slough, and so forsake The verdant prison of her lily peers, That slept amidst the stars upon the lake— A breathing shape—restored to human fears, And new-born love and grief—self-conscious of her tears. XI. And now she clasps her wings around her heart, And near that lonely isle begins to glide, Pale as her fears, and oft-times with a start Turns her impatient head from side to side In universal terrors—all too wide To watch; and often to that marble keep Upturns her pearly eyes, as if she spied Some foe, and crouches in the shadows steep That in the gloomy wave go diving fathoms deep. XII. And well she may, to spy that fearful thing All down the dusky walls in circlets wound; Alas! for what rare prize, with many a ring Girding the marble casket round and round? His folded tail, lost in the gloom profound, Terribly darkeneth the rocky base; But on the top his monstrous head is crown'd With prickly spears, and on his doubtful face Gleam his unwearied eyes, red watchers of the place. XIII. Alas! of the hot fires that nightly fall, No one will scorch him in those orbs of spite, So he may never see beneath the wall That timid little creature, all too bright, That stretches her fair neck, slender and white, Invoking the pale moon, and vainly tries Her throbbing throat, as if to charm the night With song—but, hush—it perishes in sighs, And there will be no dirge sad-swelling, though she dies! XIV. She droops—she sinks—she leans upon the lake, Fainting again into a lifeless flower; But soon the chilly springs anoint and wake Her spirit from its death, and with new power She sheds her stifled sorrows in a shower Of tender song, timed to her falling tears— That wins the shady summit of that tower, And, trembling all the sweeter for its fears, Fills with imploring moan that cruel monster's ears. XV. And, lo! the scaly beast is all deprest, Subdued like Argus by the might of sound— What time Apollo his sweet lute addrest To magic converse with the air, and bound The many monster eyes, all slumber-drown'd:— So on the turret-top that watchful Snake Pillows his giant head, and lists profound, As if his wrathful spite would never wake, Charm'd into sudden sleep for Love and Beauty's sake! XVI. His prickly crest lies prone upon his crown, And thirsty lip from lip disparted flies, To drink that dainty flood of music down— His scaly throat is big with pent-up sighs— And whilst his hollow ear entranced lies, His looks for envy of the charmed sense Are fain to listen, till his steadfast eyes, Stung into pain by their own impotence, Distil enormous tears into the lake immense. XVII. Oh, tuneful Swan! oh, melancholy bird! Sweet was that midnight miracle of song, Rich with ripe sorrow, needful of no word To tell of pain, and love, and love's deep wrong— Hinting a piteous tale—perchance how long Thy unknown tears were mingled with the lake, What time disguised thy leafy mates among— And no eye knew what human love and ache Dwelt in those dewy leaves, and heart so nigh to break. XVIII. Therefore no poet will ungently touch The water-lily, on whose eyelids dew Trembles like tears; but ever hold it such As human pain may wander through and through, Turning the pale leaf paler in its hue— Wherein life dwells, transfigured, not entomb'd, By magic spells. Alas! who ever knew Sorrow in all its shapes, leafy and plumed, Or in gross husks of brutes eternally inhumed? XIX. And now the winged song has scaled the height Of that dark dwelling, builded for despair, And soon a little casement flashing bright Widens self-open'd into the cool air— That music like a bird may enter there And soothe the captive in his stony cage; For there is nought of grief, or painful care, But plaintive song may happily engage From sense of its own ill, and tenderly assuage. XX. And forth into the light, small and remote, A creature, like the fair son of a king, Draws to the lattice in his jewell'd coat Against the silver moonlight glistening, And leans upon his white hand listening To that sweet music that with tenderer tone Salutes him, wondering what kindly thing Is come to soothe him with so tuneful moan, Singing beneath the walls as if for him alone! XI. And while he listens, the mysterious song, Woven with timid particles of speech. Twines into passionate words that grieve along The melancholy notes, and softly teach The secrets of true love,—that trembling reach His earnest ear, and through the shadows dun He missions like replies, and each to each Their silver voices mingle into one, Like blended streams that make one music as they run. XII. "Ah! Love, my hope is swooning in my heart,—" "Ay, sweet, my cage is strong and hung full high—" "Alas! our lips are held so far apart, Thy words come faint,—they have so far to fly!—" "If I may only shun that serpent-eye,—" "Ah me! that serpent-eye doth never sleep;—" "Then, nearer thee, Love's martyr, I will die!—" "Alas, alas! that word has made me weep! For pity's sake remain safe in thy marble keep!" XIII. "My marble keep! it is my marble tomb—" "Nay, sweet! but thou hast there thy living breath—" "Aye to expend in sighs for this hard doom;—" "But I will come to thee and sing beneath," "And nightly so beguile this serpent wreath;—" "Nay, I will find a path from these despairs." "Ah, needs then thou must tread the back of death, Making his stony ribs thy stony stairs.— Behold his ruby eye, how fearfully it glares!" XIV. Full sudden at these words, the princely youth Leaps on the scaly back that slumbers, still Unconscious of his foot, yet not for ruth, But numb'd to dulness by the fairy skill Of that sweet music (all more wild and shrill For intense fear) that charm'd him as he lay— Meanwhile the lover nerves his desperate will, Held some short throbs by natural dismay, Then down the serpent-track begins his darksome way. XV. Now dimly seen—now toiling out of sight, Eclipsed and cover'd by the envious wall; Now fair and spangled in the sudden light, And clinging with wide arms for fear of fall; Now dark and shelter'd by a kindly pall Of dusky shadow from his wakeful foe; Slowly he winds adown—dimly and small, Watch'd by the gentle Swan that sings below, Her hope increasing, still, the larger he doth grow. XVI. But nine times nine the serpent folds embrace The marble walls about—which he must tread Before his anxious foot may touch the base: Long in the dreary path, and must be sped! But Love, that holds the mastery of dread, Braces his spirit, and with constant toil He wins his way, and now, with arms outspread, Impatient plunges from the last long coil; So may all gentle Love ungentle Malice foil! XVII. The song is hush'd, the charm is all complete, And two fair Swans are swimming on the lake: But scarce their tender bills have time to meet, When fiercely drops adown that cruel Snake— His steely scales a fearful rustling make, Like autumn leaves that tremble and foretell The sable storm;—the plumy lovers quake— And feel the troubled waters pant and swell, Heaved by the giant bulk of their pursuer fell. XVIII. His jaws, wide yawning like the gates of Death, Hiss horrible pursuit—his red eyes glare The waters into blood—his eager breath Grows hot upon their plumes:—now, minstrel fair! She drops her ring into the waves, and there It widens all around, a fairy ring Wrought of the silver light—the fearful pair Swim in the very midst, and pant and cling The closer for their fears, and tremble wing to wing. XIX. Bending their course over the pale gray lake, Against the pallid East, wherein light play'd In tender flushes, still the baffled Snake Circled them round continually, and bay'd Hoarsely and loud, forbidden to invade The sanctuary ring—his sable mail Roll'd darkly through the flood, and writhed and made A shining track over the waters pale, Lash'd into boiling foam by his enormous tail. XX. And so they sail'd into the distance dim, Into the very distance—small and white, Like snowy blossoms of the spring that swim Over the brooklets—follow'd by the spite Of that huge Serpent, that with wild affright Worried them on their course, and sore annoy, Till on the grassy marge I saw them 'light, And change, anon, a gentle girl and boy, Lock'd in embrace of sweet unutterable joy! XXI. Then came the Morn, and with her pearly showers Wept on them, like a mother, in whose eyes Tears are no grief; and from his rosy bowers The Oriental sun began to rise, Chasing the darksome shadows from the skies; Wherewith that sable Serpent far away Fled, like a part of night—delicious sighs From waking blossoms purified the day, And little birds were singing sweetly from each spray.

ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF CLAPHAM ACADEMY.[5]

I. Ah me! those old familiar bounds! That classic house, those classic grounds My pensive thought recalls! What tender urchins now confine, What little captives now repine, Within yon irksome walls? II. Ay, that's the very house! I know Its ugly windows, ten a-row! Its chimneys in the rear! And there's the iron rod so high, That drew the thunder from the sky And turn'd our table-beer! III. There I was birch'd! there I was bred! There like a little Adam fed From Learning's woeful tree! The weary tasks I used to con!— The hopeless leaves I wept upon!— Most fruitless leaves to me!— IV. The summon'd class!—the awful bow!— I wonder who is master now And wholesome anguish sheds! How many ushers now employs, How many maids to see the boys Have nothing in their heads! V. And Mrs. S——?—Doth she abet (Like Pallas in the parlor) yet Some favor'd two or three,— The little Crichtons of the hour, Her muffin-medals that devour, And swill her prize—bohea? VI. Ay, there's the playground! there's the lime, Beneath whose shade in summer's prime So wildly I have read!— Who sits there now, and skims the cream Of young Romance, and weaves a dream Of Love and Cottage-bread? VII. Who struts the Randall of the walk? Who models tiny heads in chalk? Who scoops the light canoe? What early genius buds apace? Where's Poynter? Harris? Bowers? Chase? Hal Baylis? blithe Carew? VIII. Alack! they're gone—a thousand ways! And some are serving in "the Greys," And some have perish'd young!— Jack Harris weds his second wife; Hal Baylis drives the wane of life; And blithe Carew—is hung! IX. Grave Bowers teaches A B C To savages at Owhyee; Poor Chase is with the worms!— All, all are gone—the olden breed!— New crops of mushroon boys succeed, "And push us from our forms!" X. Lo! where they scramble forth, and shout, And leap, and skip, and mob about, At play where we have play'd! Some hop, some run, (some fall,) some twine Their crony arms; some in the shine,— And some are in the shade! XI. Lo there what mix'd conditions run! The orphan lad; the widow's son; And Fortune's favor'd care— The wealthy-born, for whom she hath Mac-Adamised the future path— The Nabob's pamper'd heir! XII. Some brightly starr'd—some evil born,— For honor some, and some for scorn,— For fair or foul renown! Good, bad, indiff'rent—none may lack! Look, here's a White, and there's a Black And there's a Creole brown! XIII. Some laugh and sing, some mope and weep, And wish their frugal sires would keep Their only sons at home;— Some tease their future tense, and plan The full-grown doings of the man, And plant for years to come! XIV. A foolish wish! There's one at hoop; And four at fives! and five who stoop The marble taw to speed! And one that curvets in and out, Reining his fellow Cob about,— Would I were in his steed! XV. Yet he would glady halt and drop That boyish harness off, to swop With this world's heavy van— To toil, to tug. O little fool! While thou canst be a horse at school, To wish to be a man! XVI. Perchance thou deem'st it were a thing To wear a crown,—to be a king! And sleep on regal down! Alas! thou know'st not kingly cares; For happier is thy head that wears That hat without a crown! XVII. And dost thou think that years acquire New added joys? Dost think thy sire More happy than his son? That manhood's mirth?—Oh, go thy ways To Drury-lane when—plays, And see how forced our fun! XVIII. Thy taws are brave!—thy tops are rare!— Our tops are spun with coils of care, Our dumps are no delight!— The Elgin marbles are but tame, And 'tis at best a sorry game To fly the Muse's kite! XIX. Our hearts are dough, our heels are lead, Our topmost joys fall dull and dead Like balls with no rebound! And often with a faded eye We look behind, and send a sigh Towards that merry ground! XX. Then be contented. Thou hast got The most of heaven in thy young lot; There's sky-blue in thy cup! Thou'lt find thy Manhood all too fast— Soon come, soon gone! and Age at last A sorry breaking-up!

SONG. There is dew for the flow'ret[6] And honey for the bee, And bowers for the wild bird, And love for you and me. There are tears for the many And pleasures for the few; But let the world pass on, dear, There's love for me and you. There is care that will not leave us, And pain that will not flee; But on our hearth unalter'd Sits Love—'tween you and me. Our love it ne'er was reckon'd, Yet good it is and true, It's half the world to me, dear, It's all the world to you.

THE WATER LADY.[7]

Alas, the moon should ever beam To show what man should never see!— I saw a maiden on a stream, And fair was she! I staid awhile, to see her throw Her tresses black, that all beset The fair horizon of her brow With clouds of jet. I staid a little while to view Her cheek, that wore in place of red The bloom of water, tender blue, Daintily spread. I staid to watch, a little space, Her parted lips if she would sing; The waters closed above her face With many a ring. And still I staid a little more, Alas! she never comes again! I throw my flowers from the shore, And watch in vain. I know my life will fade away, I know that I must vainly pine, For I am made of mortal clay, But she's divine!

AUTUMN. The Autumn is old, The sere leaves are flying;— He hath gather'd up gold, And now he is dying;— Old Age, begin sighing! The vintage is ripe, The harvest is heaping;— But some that have sow'd Have no riches for reaping;— Poor wretch, fall a-weeping! The year's in the wane, There is nothing adorning, The night has no eve, And the day has no morning;— Cold winter gives warning. The rivers run chill, The red sun is sinking, And I am grown old, And life is fast shrinking; Here's enow for sad thinking!

I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. I remember, I remember, The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn; He never came a wink too soon, Nor brought too long a day, But now, I often wish the night Had borne my breath away! I remember, I remember, The roses, red and white, The violets, and the lily-cups, Those flowers made of light! The lilacs where the robin built, And where my brother set The laburnum on his birthday,— The tree is living yet! I remember, I remember, Where I was used to swing, And thought the air must rush as fresh To swallows on the wing; My spirit flew in feathers then, That is so heavy now, And summer pools could hardly cool The fever on my brow! I remember, I remember, The fir trees dark and high; I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky: It was a childish ignorance, But now 'tis little joy To know I'm farther off from Heav'n Than when I was a boy.

THE POET'S PORTION. What is a mine—a treasury—a dower— A magic talisman of mighty power? A poet's wide possession of the earth. He has th' enjoyment of a flower's birth Before its budding—ere the first red streaks,— And Winter cannot rob him of their cheeks. Look—if his dawn be not as other men's! Twenty bright flushes—ere another kens The first of sunlight is abroad—he sees Its golden 'lection of the topmost trees, And opes the splendid fissures of the morn. When do his fruits delay, when doth his corn Linger for harvesting? Before the leaf Is commonly abroad, in his piled sheaf The flagging poppies lose their ancient flame. No sweet there is, no pleasure I can name, But he will sip it first—before the lees. 'Tis his to taste rich honey,—ere the bees Are busy with the brooms. He may forestall June's rosy advent for his coronal; Before th' expectant buds upon the bough, Twining his thoughts to bloom upon his brow. Oh! blest to see the flower in its seed, Before its leafy presence; for indeed Leaves are but wings on which the summer flies, And each thing perishable fades and dies, Escap'd in thought; but his rich thinkings be Like overflows of immortality: So that what there is steep'd shall perish never, But live and bloom, and be a joy forever.

ODE TO THE MOON. I. Mother of light! how fairly dost thou go Over those hoary crests, divinely led!— Art thou that huntress of the silver bow, Fabled of old? Or rather dost thou tread Those cloudy summits thence to gaze below, Like the wild Chamois from her Alpine snow, Where hunter never climb'd,—secure from dread? How many antique fancies have I read Of that mild presence! and how many wrought! Wondrous and bright, Upon the silver light, Chasing fair figures with the artist, Thought! II. What art thou like?—Sometimes I see thee ride A far-bound galley on its perilous way, Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray;— Sometimes behold thee glide, Cluster'd by all thy family of stars, Like a lone widow, through the welkin wide, Whose pallid cheek the midnight sorrow mars;— Sometimes I watch thee on from steep to steep, Timidly lighted by thy vestal torch, Till in some Latmian cave I see thee creep, To catch the young Endymion asleep,— Leaving thy splendor at the jagged porch!— III. Oh, thou art beautiful, howe'er it be! Huntress, or Dian, or whatever named; And he, the veriest Pagan, that first framed A silver idol, and ne'er worshipp'd thee!— It is too late—or thou should'st have my knee— Too late now for the old Ephesian vows, And not divine the crescent on thy brows!— Yet, call thee nothing but the mere mild Moon, Behind those chestnut boughs, Casting their dappled shadows at my feet; I will be grateful for that simple boon, In many a thoughtful verse and anthem sweet, And bless thy dainty face when'er we meet. IV. In nights far gone,—ay, far away and dead,— Before Care-fretted, with a lidless eye,— I was thy wooer on my little bed, Letting the early hours of rest go by, To see thee flood the heaven with milky light, And feed thy snow-white swans, before I slept; For thou wert then purveyor of my dreams,— Thou wert the fairies' armourer, that kept Their burnish'd helms, and crowns, and corslets bright, Their spears, and glittering mails; And ever thou didst spill in winding streams Sparkles and midnight gleams, For fishes to new gloss their ardent scales!— V. Why sighs?—why creeping tears?—why clasped hands?— Is it to count the boy's expended dow'r? That fairies since have broke their gifted wands? That young Delight, like any o'erblown flower, Gave, one by one, its sweet leaves to the ground?— Why then, fair Moon, for all thou mark'st no hour, Thou art a sadder dial to old Time Than ever I have found On sunny garden-plot, or moss-grown tow'r, Motto'd with stern and melancholy rhyme. VI. Why should I grieve for this?—Oh I must yearn Whilst Time, conspirator with Memory, Keeps his cold ashes in an ancient urn, Richly emboss'd with childhood's revelry, With leaves and cluster'd fruits, and flow'rs eterne,— (Eternal to the world, though not to me), Aye there will those brave sports and blossoms be, The deathless wreath, and undecay'd festoon, When I am hearsed within,— Less than the pallid primrose to the Moon, That now she watches through a vapor thin. VII. So let it be:—Before I lived to sigh, Thou wert in Avon, and a thousand rills, Beautiful Orb! and so, whene'er I lie Trodden, thou wilt be gazing from thy hills. Blest be thy loving light, where'er it spills, And blessëd thy fair face, O Mother mild! Still shine, the soul of rivers as they run, Still lend thy lonely lamp to lovers fond, And blend their plighted shadows into one:— Still smile at even on the bedded child, And close his eyelids with thy silver wand!

SONNET. WRITTEN IN A VOLUME OF SHAKSPEARE. How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled! Hues of all flow'rs, that in their ashes lie, Trophied in that fair light whereon they fed,— Tulip, and hyacinth, and sweet rose red,— Like exhalations from the leafy mould, Look here how honor glorifies the dead, And warms their scutcheons with a glance of gold!— Such is the memory of poets old, Who on Parnassus' hill have bloom'd elate; Now they are laid under their marbles cold, And turned to clay, whereof they were create; But god Apollo hath them all enroll'd, And blazon'd on the very clouds of Fate!

A RETROSPECTIVE REVIEW. I. Oh, when I was a tiny boy, My days and nights were full of joy, My mates were blithe and kind!— No wonder that I sometimes sigh, And dash the tear-drop from my eye, To cast a look behind! II. A hoop was an eternal round Of pleasure. In those days I found A top a joyous thing;— But now those past delights I drop, My head, alas! is all my top, And careful thoughts the string! III. My marbles—once my bag was stored,— Now I must play with Elgin's lord, With Theseus for a taw! My playful horse has slipt his string, Forgotten all his capering, And harness'd to the law! IV. My kite—how fast and far it flew! Whilst I, a sort of Franklin, drew My pleasure from the sky! 'Twas paper'd o'er with studious themes, The tasks I wrote—my present dreams Will never soar so high! V. My joys are wingless all and dead; My dumps are made of more than lead;— My flights soon find a fall; My fears prevail, my fancies droop, Joy never cometh with a hoop, And seldom with a call! VI. My football's laid upon the shelf; I am a shuttlecock myself The world knocks to and fro;— My archery is all unlearn'd, And grief against myself has turn'd My arrows and my bow! VII. No more in noontide sun I bask; My authorship's an endless task, My head's ne'er out of school: My heart is pain'd with scorn and slight, I have too many foes to fight, And friends grown strangely cool! VIII. The very chum that shared my cake Holds out so cold a hand to shake, It makes me shrink and sigh:— On this I will not dwell and hang,— The changeling would not feel a pang Though these should meet his eye! IX. No skies so blue or so serene As then;—no leaves look half so green As clothed the playground tree! All things I loved are altered so, Nor does it ease my heart to know That change resides in me! X. Oh for the garb that marked the boy, The trousers made of corduroy, Well ink'd with black and red; The crownless hat, ne'er deem'd an ill— It only let the sunshine still Repose upon my head! XI. Oh for the riband round the neck! The careless dogs-ears apt to deck My book and collar both! How can this formal man be styled Merely an Alexandrine child, A boy of larger growth? XII. Oh for that small, small beer anew! And (heaven's own type) that mild sky-blue That wash'd my sweet meals down; The master even!—and that small Turk That fagg'd me!—worse is now my work— A fag for all the town! XIII. Oh for the lessons learned by heart! Ay, though the very birch's smart Should mark those hours again; I'd "kiss the rod," and be resign'd Beneath the stroke, and even find Some sugar in the cane! XIV. The Arabian Nights rehearsed in bed! The Fairy Tales in school-time read, By stealth, 'twixt verb and noun! The angel form that always walk'd In all my dreams, and look'd and talk'd Exactly like Miss Brown! XV. The omne bene—Christmas come! The prize of merit, won for home— Merit had prizes then! But now I write for days and days, For fame—a deal of empty praise, Without the silver pen! XVI. Then "home, sweet home!" the crowded coach— The joyous shout—the loud approach— The winding horns like rams'! The meeting sweet that made me thrill, The sweetmeats, almost sweeter still, No 'satis' to the 'jams'!— XVII. When that I was a tiny boy My days and nights were full of joy, My mates were blithe and kind! No wonder that I sometimes sigh, And dash the tear-drop from my eye, To cast a look behind!

BALLAD. It was not in the Winter Our loving lot was cast; It was the Time of Roses,— We plucked them as we passed! That churlish season never frown'd On early lovers yet:— Oh, no—the world was newly crown'd With flowers when first we met! 'Twas twilight, and I bade you go, But still you held me fast; It was the Time of Roses,— We pluck'd them as we pass'd.— What else could peer thy glowing cheek, That tears began to stud? And when I ask'd the like of Love, You snatched a damask bud; And oped it to the dainty core, Still glowing to the last.— It was the Time of Roses,— We plucked them as we pass'd!

TIME, HOPE, AND MEMORY. I heard a gentle maiden, in the spring, Set her sweet sighs to music, and thus sing: "Fly through the world, and I will follow thee, Only for looks that may turn back on me; "Only for roses that your chance may throw— Though withered—Twill wear them on my brow, To be a thoughtful fragrance to my brain,— Warm'd with such love, that they will bloom again." "Thy love before thee, I must tread behind, Kissing thy foot-prints, though to me unkind; But trust not all her fondness, though it seem, Lest thy true love should rest on a false dream." "Her face is smiling, and her voice is sweet; But smiles betray, and music sings deceit; And words speak false;—yet, if they welcome prove, I'll be their echo, and repeat their love." "Only if waken'd to sad truth, at last, The bitterness to come, and sweetness past; When thou art vext, then turn again, and see Thou hast loved Hope, but Memory loved thee."

FLOWERS. I will not have the mad Clytie, Whose head is turned by the sun; The tulip is a courtly queen, Whom, therefore, I will shun; The cowslip is a country wench, The violet is a nun;— But I will woo the dainty rose, The queen of every one. The pea is but a wanton witch, In too much haste to wed, And clasps her rings on every hand; The wolfsbane I should dread; Nor will I dreary rosemarye, That always mourns the dead;— But I will woo the dainty rose, With her cheeks of tender red. The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me— And the daisy's cheek is tipped with a blush, She is of such low degree; Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves, And the broom's betroth'd to the bee;— But I will plight with the dainty rose, For fairest of all is she.