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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Ionica, by William Cory (AKA William Johnson)
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Ionica
+
+Author: William Cory (AKA William Johnson)
+
+Release Date: June 8, 2007 [EBook #21766]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IONICA ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by David Widger
+
+
+
+
+
+IONICA
+
+BY
+
+WILLIAM CORY
+
+(AKA Johnson)
+
+
+WITH BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION AND NOTES BY ARTHUR C. BENSON FELLOW OF
+MAGDALENE COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE
+
+THIRD EDITION
+
+LONDON: GEORGE ALLEN
+
+156, CHARING CROSS ROAD
+
+1905
+
+
+
+
+NOTE
+
+William Johnson published in 1858 a slender volume bound in green cloth,
+(Smith, Elder & Co.) which was entitled "Ionica," and which comprised
+forty-eight poems.
+
+In 1877 he printed privately a little paper-covered book (Cambridge
+University Press), entitled "Ionica II," containing twenty-five poems.
+This book is a rare bibliographical curiosity. It has neither titlepage
+nor index; it bears no author's name; and it is printed without
+punctuation, on a theory of the author's, spaces being left, instead of
+stops, to indicate pauses.
+
+In 1891 he published a book, "Ionica" (George Allen), which contained
+most of the contents of the two previous volumes, together with some
+pieces not previously published--eighty-five poems in all.
+
+The present volume is a reprint of the 1891 volume; but it has been
+thought well to include, in an appendix, certain of the poems which
+appeared in one or other of the first two issues, but were omitted from
+the 1891 issue, together with a little Greek lyric, with its English
+equivalent, from the "Letters and Journals."
+
+The poems from page 1 to page 104, Desiderato to All that was possible,
+appeared in the 1858 volume, together with those on pages 211 to 216, To
+the Infallible, The Swimmer's Wish, and An Apology. The poems from page
+105 to page 162, Scheveningen Avenue to L'Oiseau Bleu, appeared in the
+1877 volume, together with those on pages 217 and 218, Notre Dame and
+In Honour of Matthew Prior. The remainder of the poems, from page 163
+to page 210, appeared in the 1891 volume for the first time. The dates
+subjoined to the poems are those which he himself added, and indicate
+the date of composition.
+
+
+
+
+INTRODUCTION
+
+WILLIAM CORY (Johnson) was born at Torrington in Devonshire, on January
+9, 1823. He was the son of Charles William Johnson, a merchant, who
+retired at the early age of thirty, with a modest competence, and
+married his cousin, Theresa Furse, of Halsdon, near Torrington, to whom
+he had long been attached. He lived a quiet, upright, peaceable life
+at Torrington, content with little, and discharging simple, kindly,
+neighbourly duties, alike removed from ambition and indolence. William
+Cory had always a deep love of his old home, a strong sense of local
+sanctities and tender associations. "I hope you will always feel," his
+mother used to say, "wherever you live, that Torrington belongs to
+you." He said himself, in later years, "I want to be a Devon man and a
+Torrington man." His memory lingered over the vine-shaded verandah, the
+jessamine that grew by the balustrade of the steps, the broad-leaved
+myrtle that covered the wall of the little yard.
+
+The boy was elected on the foundation at Eton in 1832, little guessing
+that it was to be his home for forty years. He worked hard at school,
+became a first-rate classical scholar, winning the Newcastle Scholarship
+in 1841, and being elected Scholar of King's in 1842. He seems to have
+been a quiet, retiring boy, with few intimate friends, respected for
+his ability and his courtesy, living a self-contained, bookish life,
+yet with a keen sense of school patriotism--though he had few pleasant
+memories of his boyhood.
+
+Honours came to him fast at Cambridge. He won the Chancellor's English
+Medal with a poem on Plato in 1843, the Craven Scholarship in 1844. In
+those days Kingsmen did not enter for the Tripos, but received a degree,
+without examination, by ancient privilege. He succeeded to a Fellowship
+in 1845, and in the same year was appointed to a Mastership at Eton by
+Dr. Hawtrey. At Cambridge he seems to have read widely, to have thought
+much, and to have been interested in social questions. Till that time
+he had been an unreflecting Tory and a strong High Churchman, but he
+now adopted more Liberal principles, and for the rest of his life was a
+convinced Whig. The underlying principle of Whiggism, as he understood
+it, was a firm faith in human reason. Thus, in a letter of 1875, he
+represents the Whigs as saying to their adversaries, "You are in a
+majority now: if I were an ultra-democrat or counter of noses, I
+should submit to you as having a transcendental --sometimes called
+divine--right; if I were a redcap, I should buy dynamite and blow you
+up; if I were a Tory, I should go to church or to bed; as it is, I go to
+work to turn your majority into a minority. I shall do it by reasoning
+and by attractive virtue." He intended in his university days, and
+for some time after, to take Anglican Orders, though he had also some
+thought of going to the Bar; but he accepted a Mastership with much
+relief, with the hope, as he wrote in an early letter, "that before my
+time is out, I may rejoice in having turned out of my pupil-room perhaps
+one brave soldier, or one wise historian, or one generous legislator, or
+one patient missionary." The whole of his professional life, a period of
+twenty-seven years, was to be spent at Eton.
+
+No one who knew William Cory will think it an exaggeration to say that
+his mind was probably one of the most vigorous and commanding minds
+of the century. He had a mental equipment of the foremost order, great
+intellectual curiosity, immense vigour and many-sidedness, combined with
+a firm grasp of a subject, perfect clearness of thought, and absolute
+lucidity of expression.
+
+He never lost sight of principles among a crowd of details; and though
+he had a strong bias in certain directions, he had a just and catholic
+appreciation even of facts which told against his case. Yet his
+knowledge was never dry or cold; it was full to the brim of deep
+sentiment and natural feeling.
+
+He had a wide knowledge of history, of politics, both home and foreign,
+of political economy, of moral science. Indeed, he examined more than
+once in the Moral Science Tripos at Cambridge.
+
+He had a thorough acquaintance with and a deep love of literature; and
+all this in spite of the fact that he lived a very laborious and wearing
+life as a school-teacher, with impossibly large classes, and devoted
+himself with whole-hearted enthusiasm to his profession. His knowledge
+was, moreover, not mere erudition and patient accumulation. It was all
+ready for use, and at his fingers' ends. Moreover, he combined with
+this a quality, which is not generally found in combination with the
+highly-developed faculties of the doctrinaire, namely an intense and
+fervent emotion. He was a lover of political and social liberty,
+a patriot to the marrow of his bones; he loved his country with a
+passionate devotion, and worshipped the heroes of his native land,
+statesmen, soldiers, sailors, poets, with an ardent adoration; the glory
+and honour of England were the breath of his nostrils. Deeds of heroism,
+examples of high courage and noble self-sacrifice, were the memories
+that thrilled his heart. As a man of fifty he wept over Lanfrey's
+account of Nelson's death; he felt our defeat at Majuba Hill like a keen
+personal humiliation; his letter on the subject is as the words of one
+mourning for his mother.
+
+But his was not a mere poetical emotion, supplying him with
+highly-coloured rhetoric, or sentimental panegyric. He had a technical
+and minute acquaintance with the detailed movement of wars, the precise
+ships and regiments engaged, the personalities and characters of
+commanders and officers, the conduct of the rank and file.
+
+Many delightful stories remain in the memories of his friends and
+hearers to attest this. His pupil-room at Eton, in what was formerly
+the old Christopher Inn, was close to the street, and the passage of the
+Guards through Eton, to and from their Windsor quarters, is an incident
+of constant occurrence. When the stately military music was heard far
+off, in gusty splendour, in the little town, or the fifes and drums of
+some detachment swept blithely past, he would throw down his pen and
+go down the little staircase to the road, the boys crowding round
+him. "Brats, the British army!" he would say, and stand, looking and
+listening, his eyes filled with gathering tears, and his heart full of
+proud memories, while the rhythmical beat of the footsteps went briskly
+echoing by.
+
+Again, he went down to Portsmouth to see a friend who was in command of
+a man-of-war; he was rowed about among the hulks; the sailors in the gig
+looked half contemptuously at the sturdy landsman, huddled in a cloak,
+hunched up in the stem-sheets, peering about through his spectacles. But
+contempt became first astonishment, and then bewildered admiration, when
+they found that he knew the position of every ship, and the engagements
+in which each had fought.
+
+He was of course a man of strong preferences and prejudices; he thought
+of statesmen and patriots, such as Pitt, Nelson, Castlereagh, Melbourne,
+and Wellington, with an almost personal affection. The one title to his
+vehement love was that a man should have served his country, striven to
+enhance her greatness, extended her empire, and safeguarded her liberty.
+
+It was the same with his feeling for authors. He loved Virgil as a
+friend; he almost worshipped Charlotte Brontë. He spoke of Tennyson
+as "the light and joy of my poor life." In 1868 he saw Sir W. Scott's
+portrait in London, and wrote: "Sir Walter Scott, shrewd yet wistful,
+boyish yet dry, looking as if he would ask and answer questions of the
+fairies--him I saw through a mist of weeping. He is my lost childhood,
+he is my first great friend. I long for him, and hate the death that
+parts us."
+
+In literature, the first claim on his regard was that a writer should
+have looked on life with a high-hearted, generous gaze, should have
+cared intensely for humanity, should have hoped, loved, suffered, not
+in selfish isolation, but with eager affection. Thus he was not only a
+philosophical historian, nor a mere technical critic; he was for ever
+dominated by an intense personal fervour. He cared little for the manner
+of saying a thing, so long as the heart spoke out frankly and freely;
+he strove to discern the energy of the soul in all men; he could forgive
+everything except meanness, cowardice, egotism and conceit; there was no
+fault of a generous and impulsive nature that he could not condone.
+
+Thus he was for many boys a deeply inspiring teacher; he had the art
+of awakening enthusiasm, of investing all he touched with a mysterious
+charm, the charm of wide and accurate knowledge illuminated by feeling
+and emotion. He rebuked ignorance in a way which communicated the desire
+to know. There are many men alive who trace the fruit and flower of
+their intellectual life to his generous and free-handed sowing. But
+in spite of the fact that the work of a teacher of boys was intensely
+congenial to him, that he loved generous boyhood, and tender souls, and
+awakening minds with all his heart, he was not wholly in the right place
+as an instructor of youth. With all his sympathy for what was weak and
+immature, he was yet impatient of dullness, of stupidity, of caution;
+much that he said was too mature, too exalted for the cramped and
+limited minds of boyhood. He was sensitive to the charm of eager,
+high-spirited, and affectionate natures, but he had also the equable,
+just, paternal interest in boys which is an essential quality in a wise
+schoolmaster. Yet he was apt to make favourites; and though he demanded
+of his chosen pupils and friends a high intellectual zeal, though he
+was merciless to all sloppiness and lack of interest, yet he forfeited
+a wider influence by his reputation for partiality, and by an obvious
+susceptibility to grace of manner and unaffected courtesy. Boys who
+did not understand him, and whom he did not care to try to understand,
+thought him simply fanciful and eccentric. It is perhaps to be regretted
+that unforeseen difficulties prevented his being elected Tutor of his
+old College, and still more that in 1860 he was passed over in favour of
+Kingsley, when the Prime Minister, Lord Palmerston, submitted his name
+to the Queen for the Professorship of Modern History at Cambridge. Four
+men were suggested, of whom Blakesley and Venables refused the post. Sir
+Arthur Helps was set aside, and it would have been offered to Johnson,
+if the Prince Consort had not suggested Kingsley. Yet Johnson would
+hardly have been in his right place as a teacher of young men. He would
+have been, on the one hand, brought into contact with more vigorous and
+independent minds, capable of appreciating the force and width of
+his teaching, and of comprehending the quality and beauty of his
+enthusiasms. But, on the other hand, he was too impatient of any
+difference of opinion, and, though he loved equal talk, he hated
+argument. And after all, he did a great work at Eton; for nearly a
+quarter of a century he sent out boys who cared eagerly and generously
+for the things of the mind.
+
+A second attempt was made, in 1869, to get him appointed to the history
+professorship, but Seeley was considered to have a better claim. Writing
+to a friend on the subject, Johnson said: "I am not learned. I don't
+care about history in the common meaning of the word."
+
+It is astonishing to see in his Diaries the immense trouble he took to
+awaken interest among his pupils. He was for ever trying experiments;
+he would read a dozen books to enable him to give a little scientific
+lecture, for he was one of the first to appreciate the educational value
+of science; he spent money on chemical apparatus, and tried to interest
+the boys by simple demonstrations. His educational ideals can best
+be seen in an essay full of poetical genius, on the education of the
+reasoning faculties, which he contributed to the "Essays on a Liberal
+Education," edited in 1867 by F. W. Farrar. Any one who wishes to
+understand Johnson's point of view, should study this brilliant
+and beautiful discourse. It is not only wise and liberal, but it is
+intensely practical, besides containing a number of suggestive and
+poetical thoughts.
+
+He loved his Eton life more and more every year. As with Eumelus of
+Corinth, "dear to his heart was the muse that has the simple lyre and
+the sandals of freedom." He took refuge, as it became clear to him that
+his wider ambitions could not be realised, that he would not set the
+mark he might have set upon the age, in a "proud unworldliness," in
+heightened and intensified emotion. He made many friendships. He taught,
+as the years went on, as well or better than ever; he took great delight
+in the society of a few pupils and younger colleagues; but a shadow fell
+on him; he began to feel his strength unequal to the demands upon it;
+and he made a sudden resolution to retire from his Eton work.
+
+He had taken some years before, as a house for his holidays, Halsdon, a
+country place near his native Torrington, which belonged to his brother,
+Archdeacon Wellington Furse of Westminster, who had changed his name
+from Johnson to Furse, on succeeding to the property of an uncle.
+Here he retired, and strove to live an active and philosophical life,
+fighting bravely with regret, and feeling with sensitive sorrow the
+turning of the sweet page. He tried, too, to serve and help his simple
+country neighbours, as indeed he had desired to do even at Eton, by
+showing them many small, thoughtful, and unobtrusive kindnesses, just
+as his father had done. But he lived much, like all poetical natures, in
+tender retrospect; and the ending of the bright days brought with it
+a heartache that even nature, which he worshipped like a poet, was
+powerless to console. But he loved his woods and sloping fields, and the
+clear river passing under its high banks through deep pools. It served
+to remind him sadly of his beloved Thames, the green banks fringed with
+comfrey and loosestrife, the drooping willows, the cool smell of
+the weedy weir; of glad hours of light-hearted enjoyment with his
+boy-companions, full of blithe gaiety and laughter.
+
+After a few years, he went out to Madeira, where he married a wife
+much younger than himself, Miss Rosa Caroline Guille, daughter of a
+Devonshire clergyman; and at Madeira his only son was born, whom he
+named Andrew, because it was a name never borne by a Pope, or, as he
+sometimes said, "by a sneak." He devoted himself at this time to the
+composition of two volumes of a "Guide to Modern English History." But
+his want of practice in historical writing is here revealed, though it
+must be borne in mind that it was originally drawn up for the use of a
+Japanese student. The book is full of acute perceptions, fine judgments,
+felicitous epigrams--but it is too allusive, too fantastic; neither has
+it the balance and justice required for so serious and comprehensive a
+task. At the same time the learning it displays is extraordinary. It was
+written almost without books of reference, and out of the recollections
+of a man of genius, who remembered all that he read, and considered
+reading the newspaper to be one of the first duties of life.
+
+Cory's other writings are few. Two little educational books are worth
+mentioning: a book of Latin prose exercises, called _Nuces_, the
+sentences of which are full of recondite allusions, curious humour, and
+epigrammatic expression; and a slender volume for teaching Latin lyrics,
+called _Lucretilis_, the exercises being literally translated from the
+Latin originals which he first composed. _Lucretilis_ is not only, as
+Munro said, the most Horatian verse ever written since Horace, but full
+of deep and pathetic poetry. Such a poem as No. xxvii., recording the
+abandoning of Hercules by the Argonauts, is intensely autobiographical.
+He speaks, in a parable, of the life of Eton going on without him, and
+of his faith in her great future:
+
+ "sed Argo
+ Vela facit tamen, aureumque
+
+ "Vellus petendum est. Tiphys ad hoc tenet
+ Clavum magister; stat Telamon vigil,
+ Stat Castor in prora, paratus
+ Ferre maris salientis ictus."
+
+After some years in Madeira, he came back to England and settled in
+Hampstead; his later days were clouded with anxieties and illness. But
+he took great delight in the teaching of Greek to a class of girls, and
+his attitude of noble resignation, tender dignity, and resolute interest
+in the growing history of his race and nation is deeply impressive. He
+died in 1892, on June II, of a heart-complaint to which he had long been
+subject.
+
+In person William Cory was short and sturdy; he was strong and vigorous;
+he was like the leader whom Archilochus desired, "one who is compact of
+frame, showing legs that bend outward, standing firm upon his feet, full
+of courage." He had a vigorous, massive head, with aquiline nose,
+and mobile lips. He was extraordinarily near-sighted, and used strong
+glasses, holding his book close to his eyes. He was accustomed to bewail
+his limited vision, as hiding from him much natural beauty, much human
+drama; but he observed more closely than many men of greater clearness
+of sight, making the most of his limited resources. He depended much
+upon a hearing which was preternaturally acute and sensitive, and was
+guided as much by the voice and manner, as by the aspect of those among
+whom he lived. He had a brisk, peremptory mode of address, full
+of humorous mannerisms of speech. He spoke and taught crisply and
+decisively, and uttered fine and feeling thoughts with a telling
+brevity. He had strong common sense, and much practical judgment.
+
+He was intensely loyal both to institutions and friends, but never
+spared trenchant and luminous criticisms, and had a keen eye for
+weakness in any shape. He was formidable in a sense, though truly
+lovable; he had neither time nor inclination to make enemies, and had a
+generous perception of nobility of character, and of enthusiasms however
+dissimilar to his own. He hankered often for the wider world; he would
+have liked to have a hand in politics, and to have helped to make
+history. He often desired to play a larger part; but the very stirrings
+of regret only made him throw himself with intensified energy into the
+work of his life. He lived habitually on a higher plane than others,
+among the memories of great events, with a consciousness of high
+impersonal forces, great issues, big affairs; and yet he held on with
+both hands to life; he loved all that was tender and beautiful. He never
+lost himself in ambitious dreams or abstract speculations. He was a
+psychologist rather than a philosopher, and his interest and zest
+in life, in the relationships of simple people, the intermingling of
+personal emotions and happy comradeships, kept him from ever forming
+cynical or merely spectatorial views of humanity. He would have been far
+happier, indeed, if he could have practised a greater detachment; but,
+as it was, he gathered in, like the old warrior, a hundred spears; like
+Shelley he might have said--
+
+"I fall upon the thorns of life; I bleed."
+
+His is thus a unique personality, in its blending of intense mental
+energy with almost passionate emotions. Few natures can stand the strain
+of the excessive development of even a single faculty; and with William
+Cory the qualities of both heart and head were over-developed. There
+resulted a want of balance, of moral force; he was impetuous where he
+should have been calm, impulsive where he should have been discreet.
+But on the other hand he was possessed of an almost Spartan courage;
+and through sorrow and suffering, through disappointment and failure,
+he bore himself with a high and stately tenderness, without a touch of
+acrimony or peevishness. He never questioned the love or justice of God;
+he never raged against fate, or railed at circumstance. He gathered up
+the fragments with a quiet hand; he never betrayed envy or jealousy; he
+never deplored the fact that he had not realised his own possibilities;
+he suffered silently, he endured patiently.
+
+And thus he is a deeply pathetic figure, because his great gifts and
+high qualities never had full scope. He might have been a great
+jurist, a great lawyer, a great professor, a great writer, a great
+administrator; and he ended as a man of erratic genius, as a teacher in
+a restricted sphere, though sowing, generously and prodigally, rich and
+fruitful seed. With great poetical force of conception, and a style
+both resonant and suggestive, he left a single essay of high genius, a
+fantastic historical work, a few books of school exercises. A privately
+printed volume of Letters and Journals reveals the extraordinary quality
+of his mind, its delicacy, its beauty, its wistfulness, its charm. There
+remains but the little volume of verse which is here presented, which
+stands apart from the poetical literature of the age. We see in these
+poems a singular and original contribution to the poetry of the century.
+The verse is in its general characteristics of the school of Tennyson,
+with its equable progression, its honied epithets, its soft cadences,
+its gentle melody. But the poems are deeply original, because they,
+combine a peculiar classical quality, with a frank delight in the spirit
+of generous boyhood. For all their wealth of idealised sentiment, they
+never lose sight of the fuller life of the world that waits beyond the
+threshold of youth, the wider issues, the glory of the battle, the hopes
+of the patriot, the generous visions of manhood. They are full of the
+romance of boyish friendships, the echoes of the river and the cricket
+field, the ingenuous ambitions, the chivalry, the courage of youth and
+health, the brilliant charm of the opening world. These things are but
+the prelude to, the presage of, the energies of the larger stage; his
+young heroes are to learn the lessons of patriotism, of manliness, of
+activity, of generosity, that they may display them in a wider field.
+Thus he wrote in "A Retrospect of School Life":--
+
+ "Much lost I; something stayed behind,
+ A snatch, maybe, of ancient song.
+ Some breathings of a deathless mind,
+ Some love of truth, some hate of wrong.
+
+ And to myself in games I said,
+ 'What mean the books? can I win fame
+ I would be like the faithful dead,
+ A fearless man, and pure of blame.'"
+
+Then, too, there are poems of a sombre yet tender philosophy, of an
+Epicureanism that is seldom languid, of a Stoicism that is never hard.
+In this world, where so much is dark, he seems to say, we must all clasp
+hands and move forwards, shoulder to shoulder, never forgetting the
+warm companionship in the presence of the blind chaotic forces that wave
+their shadowy wings about us. We must love what is near and dear, we
+must be courageous and tender-hearted in the difficult valley. The book
+is full of the passionate sadness of one who feels alike the intensity
+and the brevity of life, and who cannot conjecture why fair things must
+fade as surely as they bloom.
+
+The poems then reflect a kind of Platonic agnosticism; they offer no
+solution of the formless mystery; but they seem rather to indicate the
+hope that, in the multiplying of human relationship, in devotion to all
+we hold dear, in the enkindling of the soul by all that is generous and
+noble and unselfish, lies the best hope of the individual and of the
+race. Uncheered by Christian hopefulness, and yet strong in their belief
+in the ardours and passions of humanity, these poems may help us to
+remember and love the best of life, its days of sunshine and youth, its
+generous companionships, its sweet ties of loyalty and love, its brave
+hopes and ardent impulses, which may be ours, if we are only loving and
+generous and high-hearted, to the threshold of the dark, and perhaps
+beyond.
+
+ARTHUR C. BENSON.
+
+
+
+
+DESIDERATO
+
+     Oh, lost and unforgotten friend,
+     Whose presence change and chance deny;
+     If angels turn your soft proud eye
+     To lines your cynic playmate penned,
+
+     Look on them, as you looked on me,
+     When both were young; when, as we went
+     Through crowds or forest ferns, you leant
+     On him who loved your staff to be;
+
+     And slouch your lazy length again
+     On cushions fit for aching brow
+     (Yours always ached, you know), and now
+
+     As dainty languishing as then,
+     Give them but one fastidious look,
+     And if you see a trace of him
+     Who humoured you in every whim,
+
+     Seek for his heart within his book:
+     For though there be enough to mark
+     The man's divergence from the boy,
+     Yet shines my faith without alloy
+
+     For him who led me through that park;
+     And though a stranger throw aside
+     Such grains of common sentiment,
+     Yet let your haughty head be bent
+
+     To take the jetsom of the tide;
+     Because this brackish turbid sea
+     Throws toward thee things that pleased of yore,
+     And though it wash thy feet no more,
+
+     Its murmurs mean: "I yearn for thee."
+     The world may like, for all I care,
+     The gentler voice, the cooler head,
+     That bows a rival to despair,
+
+     And cheaply compliments the dead;
+     That smiles at all that's coarse and rash,
+     Yet wins the trophies of the fight,
+     Unscathed, in honour's wreck and crash,
+
+     Heartless, but always in the right;.
+     Thanked for good counsel by the judge
+     Who tramples on the bleeding brave,
+     Thanked too by him who will not budge
+     From claims thrice hallowed by the grave.
+
+     Thanked, and self-pleased: ay, let him wear
+     What to that noble breast was due;
+     And I, dear passionate Teucer, dare
+     Go through the homeless world with you.
+
+
+
+
+MIMNERMUS IN CHURCH
+
+     You promise heavens free from strife,
+     Pure truth, and perfect change of will;
+     But sweet, sweet is this human life,
+     So sweet, I fain would breathe it still;
+     Your chilly stars I can forego,
+     This warm kind world is all I know.
+
+     You say there is no substance here,
+     One great reality above:
+     Back from that void I shrink in fear,
+     And child-like hide myself in love:
+     Show me what angels feel. Till then,
+     I cling, a mere weak man, to men.
+
+     You bid me lift my mean desires
+     From faltering lips and fitful veins
+     To sexless souls, ideal quires,
+     Unwearied voices, wordless strains:
+     My mind with fonder welcome owns
+     One dear dead friend's remembered tones.
+
+     Forsooth the present we must give
+     To that which cannot pass away;
+     All beauteous things for which we live
+     By laws of time and space decay.
+     But oh, the very reason why
+     I clasp them, is because they die.
+
+
+
+
+HERACLITUS
+
+     They told me, Heraclitus, they told me you were dead,
+     They brought me bitter news to hear and bitter tears to shed.
+     I wept, as I remembered, how often you and I
+     Had tired the sun with talking and sent him down the sky.
+
+     And now that thou art lying, my dear old Carian guest,
+     A handful of grey ashes, long long ago at rest,
+     Still are thy pleasant voices, thy nightingales, awake;
+     For Death, he taketh all away, but them he cannot take.
+
+
+
+
+IOLE
+
+     I will not leave the smouldering pyre:
+     Enough remains to light again:
+     But who am I to dare desire
+     A place beside the king of men?
+
+     So burnt my dear Ochalian town;
+     And I an outcast gazed and groaned.
+     But, when my father's roof fell down,
+     For all that wrong sweet love atoned.
+
+     He led me trembling to the ship,
+     He seemed at least to love me then;
+     He soothed, he clasped me lip to lip:
+     How strange, to wed the king of men.
+
+     I linger, orphan, widow, slave,
+     I lived when sire and brethren died;
+     Oh, had I shared my mother's grave, .
+     Or clomb unto the hero's side!
+
+     That comrade old hath made his moan;
+     The centaur cowers within his den:
+     And I abide to guard alone
+     The ashes of the king of men.
+
+     Alone, beneath the night divine--
+     Alone, another weeps elsewhere:
+     Her love for him is unlike mine,
+     Her wail she will not let me share.
+
+
+
+
+STESICHORUS
+
+     Queen of the Argives, (thus the poet spake,)
+     Great lady Helen, thou hast made me wise;
+     Veiled is the world, but all the soul awake,
+     Purged by thine anger, clearer far than eyes.
+
+     Peep is the darkness; for my bride is hidden,
+     Crown of my glory, guerdon of my song:
+     Preod is the vision; thou art here unbidden,
+     Mute and reproachful, since I did thee wrong.
+
+     Sweetest of wanderers, grievest thou for friends
+     Tricked by a phantom, cheated to the grave?
+     Woe worth the God, the mocking God, that sends
+     Lies to the pious, furies to the brave.
+
+     Pardon our falsehood: thou wert far away,
+     Gathering the lotus down the Egypt-water,
+     Wifely and duteous, hearing not the fray,
+     Taking no stain from all those years of slaughter:
+
+     Guiltless, yet mournful. Tell the poets truths;
+     Tell them real beauty leadeth not to strife;
+     Weep for the slain, those many blooming youths:
+     Tears such as thine might bring them back to life.
+
+     Dear, gentle lady, if the web's unthreaded,
+     Slander and fable fairly rent in twain,
+     Then, by the days when thou wert loved and wedded,
+     Give me, I pray, my bride's glad smile again.
+
+     The lord, who leads the Spartan host,
+     Stands with a little maid,
+     To greet a stranger from the coast
+     Who comes to seek his aid.
+
+     What brings the guest? a disk of brass
+     With curious lines engraven:
+     What mean the lines? stream, road, and pass,
+     Forest, and town, and haven.
+
+     "Lo, here Choaspes' lilied field:
+     Lo, here the Hermian plain:
+     What need we save the Doric shield
+     To stop the Persian's reign?
+
+     Or shall barbarians drink their nil
+     Upon the slopes of Tmolus?
+     Or trowsered robbers spoil at will
+     The bounties of Pactolus?
+
+     Salt lakes, burnt uplands, lie between;
+     The distant king moves slow;
+     He starts, ere Smyrna's vines are green,
+     Comes, when their juices flow.
+
+     Waves bright with morning smoothe thy course,
+     Swift row the Samian galleys;
+     Unconquered Colophon sounds to horse
+     Up the broad eastern valleys.
+
+     Is not Apollo's call enough,
+     The god of every Greek?
+     Then take our gold, and household stuff;
+     Claim what thou wilt, but speak."
+
+     He falters; for the waves he fears,
+     The roads he cannot measure;
+     But rates full high the gleam of spears
+     And dreams of yellow treasure.
+
+     He listens; he is yielding now;
+     Outspoke the fearless child:
+
+     "Oh, father, come away, lest thou
+     Be by this man beguiled."
+     Her lowly judgement barred the plea,
+     So low, it could not reach her.
+
+     The man knows more of land and sea,
+     But she's the truer teacher.
+     I mind the day, when thou didst cheat
+     Those rival dames with answer meet;
+
+     When, toiling at the loom,
+     Unblest with bracelet, ring, or chain,
+     Thou alone didst dare disdain
+     To toil in tiring-room.
+
+     Merely thou saidst: "At set of sun
+     My humble taskwork will be done;
+     And through the twilight street
+     Come back to view my jewels, when
+     Pattering through the throng of men
+     Go merry schoolboys' feet."
+
+
+
+
+CAIUS GRACCHUS
+
+     They came, and sneered: for thou didst stand!
+     The web well finished up, one hand
+     Laid on my yielding shoulder:
+     The sternest stripling in the land
+     Grasped the other, boldly scanned
+     Their faces, and grew bolder:
+
+     And said: "Fair ladies, by your leave
+     I would exhort you spin and weave
+     Some frugal homely cloth.
+     I warn you, when I lead the tribes
+     Law shall strip you; threats nor bribes
+     Shall blunt the just man's wrath."
+
+     How strongly, gravely did he speak!
+     I shivered, hid my tingling cheek
+     Behind thy marble face;
+     And prayed the gods to be like him,
+     Firm in temper, lithe of limb,
+     Right worthy of our race.
+
+     Oh, mother, didst thou bear me brave?
+     Or was I weak, till, from the grave
+     So early hollowed out,
+     Tiberius sought me yesternight,
+     Blood upon his mantle white,
+     A vision clear of doubt?
+
+     What can I fear, oh mother, now?
+     His dead cold hand is on my brow;
+     Rest thou thereon thy lips:
+     His voice is in the night-wind's breath,
+     "Do as I did," still he saith;
+     With blood his finger drips.
+
+
+
+
+ASTEROPE
+
+     Child of the summer cloud, upon thy birth,--
+     And thou art often born to die again,--
+     Follow loud groans, that shake the darkening earth,
+     And break the troublous sleep of guilty men.
+
+     Thou leapest from the thinner streams of air
+     To crags where vapours cling, where ocean frets;
+     No cave so deep, so cold, but thou art there,
+     Wrath in thy smile, and beauty in thy threats.
+
+     The molten sands beneath thy burning feet
+     Run, as thou runnest, into tubes of glass;
+     Old towers and trees, that proudly stood to meet
+     The whirlwind, let their fair invader pass.
+
+     The lone ship warring on the Indian sea
+     Bursts into splinters at thy sudden stroke;
+     Siberian mines fired long ago by thee
+     Still waste in helpless flame and barren smoke.
+
+     Such is thy dreadful pastime, Angel-queen,
+     When swooping headlong from the Armament
+     Thou spreadest fear along the village green,
+     Fear of the day when gravestones shall be rent.
+
+     And we that fear remember not, that thou,
+     Slewest the Theban maid, who vainly strove
+     To rival Juno, when the lover's vow
+     Was kept in wedlock by unwilling Jove.
+
+     And we forget, that when Oileus went
+     From the wronged virgin and the ruined fane,
+     When storms were howling round "Repent, Repent,"
+     Thy holy arrow pierced the spoiler's brain.
+
+     To perish all the proud! but chiefly he,
+     Who at the tramp of steeds and cymbal-beat
+     Proclaimed, "I thunder! Why not worship me?"
+     And thou didst slay him for his counterfeit.
+
+
+
+
+A DIRGE
+
+      Naiad, hid beneath the bank
+      By the willowy river-side,
+      Where Narcissus gently sank,
+      Where unmarried Echo died,
+      Unto thy serene repose
+      Waft the stricken Anterôs.
+
+      Where the tranquil swan is borne,
+      Imaged in a watery glass,
+      Where the sprays of fresh pink thorn
+      Stoop to catch the boats that pass,
+      Where the earliest orchis grows,
+      Bury thou fair Anterôs.
+
+      Glide we by, with prow and oar:
+      Ripple shadows off the wave,
+      And reflected on the shore,
+      Haply play about the grave.
+      Folds of summer-light enclose
+      All that once was Anterôs.
+
+      On a flickering wave we gaze,
+      Not upon his answering eyes:
+      Flower and bird we scarce can praise,
+      Having lost his sweet replies:
+      Cold and mute the river flows
+      With our tears for Anterôs.
+
+
+
+
+AN INVOCATION
+
+     I never prayed for Dryads, to haunt the woods again;
+     More welcome were the presence of hungering, thirst-
+     ing men,
+     Whose doubts we could unravel, whose hopes we
+     could fulfil,
+     Our wisdom tracing backward, the river to the rill;
+     Were such beloved forerunners one summer day
+     restored,
+     Then, then we might discover the Muse's mystic hoard.
+
+     Oh dear divine Comatas, I would that thou and I
+     Beneath this broken sunlight this leisure day might lie;
+     Where trees from distant forests, whose names were
+     strange to thee,
+     Should bend their amorous branches within thy reach
+     to be,
+     And flowers thine Hellas knew not, which art hath
+     made more fair,
+     Should shed their shining petals upon thy fragrant
+     hair.
+
+     Then thou shouldst calmly listen with ever-changing
+     looks
+     To songs of younger minstrels and plots of modern
+     books,
+     And wonder at the daring of poets later born,
+     Whose thoughts are unto thy thoughts as noon-tide is
+     to morn;
+     And little shouldst thou grudge them their greater
+     strength of soul,
+     Thy partners in the torch-race, though nearer to the
+     goal.
+
+     As when ancestoral portraits look gravely from the walls
+     Uplift youthful baron who treads their echoing
+     halls;
+     And whilst he builds new turrets, the thrice ennobled
+     heir
+     Would gladly wake his grandsire his home and feast
+     to share;
+     So from Ægean laurels that hide thine ancient urn
+     I fain would call thee hither, my sweeter lore to learn.
+
+     Or in thy cedarn prison thou waitest for the bee:
+     Ah, leave that simple honey, and take thy food from
+     me.
+     My sun is stooping westward. Entranced dreamer,
+     haste;
+     There's fruitage in my garden, that I would have thee
+     taste.
+     Now lift the lid a moment; now, Dorian shepherd,
+     speak:
+     Two minds shall flow together, the English and the
+     Greek.
+
+
+
+
+ACADEMUS
+
+     Perhaps there's neither tear nor smile,
+     When once beyond the grave.
+     Woe's me: but let me live meanwhile
+     Amongst the bright and brave;
+
+     My summers lapse away beneath
+     Their cool Athenian shade:
+     And I a string for myrtle-wreath,
+     A whetstone unto blade;
+
+     I cheer the games I cannot play;
+     As stands a crippled squire
+     To watch his master through the fray,
+     Uplifted by desire.
+
+     I roam, where little pleasures fall,
+     As morn to morn succeeds,
+     To melt, or ere the sweetness pall,
+     Like glittering manna-beads.
+
+     The wishes dawning in the eyes,
+     The softly murmured thanks;
+     The zeal of those that miss the prize
+     On clamorous river-banks;
+
+     The quenchless hope, the honest choice,
+     The self-reliant pride,
+     The music of the pleading voice
+     That will not be denied;
+
+     The wonder flushing in the cheek,
+     The questions many a score,
+     When I grow eloquent, and speak
+     Of England, and of war--
+
+     Oh, better than the world of dress
+     And pompous dining, out,
+     Better than simpering and finesse
+     Is all this stir and rout.
+
+     I'll borrow life, and not grow old;
+     And nightingales and trees
+     Shall keep me, though the veins be cold,
+     As young as Sophocles.
+
+     And when I may no longer live,
+     They'll say, who know the truth,
+     He gave whatever he had to give
+     To freedom and to youth.
+
+
+
+
+PROSPERO
+
+     Farewell, my airy pursuivants, farewell.
+     We part to-day, and I resign
+     This lonely island, and this rocky cell,
+     And all that hath been mine.
+
+     "Ah, whither go we? Why not follow thee,
+     Our human king, across the wave,
+     The man that rescued us from rifted tree,
+     Bleak marsh, and howling cave."
+
+     Oh no. The wand I wielded then is buried,
+     Broken, and buried in the sand.
+     Oh no. By mortal hands I must be ferried
+     Unto the Tuscan strand.
+
+     You came to cheer my exile, and to lift
+     The weight of silence off my lips:
+     With you I ruled the clouds, and ocean-drift,
+     Meteors, and wandering ships.
+
+     Your fancies glinting on my central mind
+     Fell off in beams of many hues,
+     Soft lambent light. Yet, severed from mankind,
+     Not light, but heat, I lose.
+
+     I go, before my heart be chilled. Behold,
+     The bark that bears me waves her flag,
+     To chide my loitering. Back to your mountain-hold,
+     And flee the tyrant hag.
+
+     Away. I hear your little voices sinking
+     Into the wood-notes of the breeze:
+     I hear you say: "Enough, enough of thinking;
+     Love lies beyond the seas."
+
+
+
+
+AMATURUS
+
+     Somewhere beneath the sun,
+     These quivering heart-strings prove it,
+     Somewhere there must be one
+     Made for this soul, to move it;
+
+     Some one that hides her sweetness
+     From neighbours whom she slights,
+     Nor can attain completeness,
+     Nor give her heart its rights;
+
+     Some one whom I could court
+     With no great change of manner,
+     Still holding reason's fort,
+     Though waving fancy's banner;
+
+     A lady, not so queenly
+     As to disdain my hand,
+     Yet born to smile serenely
+     Like those that rule the land;
+
+     Noble, but not too proud;
+     With soft hair simply folded,
+     And bright face crescent-browed,
+     And throat by Muses moulded;
+
+     And eyelids lightly falling
+     On little glistening seas,
+     Deep-calm, when gales are brawling,
+     Though stirred by every breeze:
+
+     Swift voice, like flight of dove
+     Through minster arches floating,
+     With sudden turns, when love
+     Gets overnear to doting;
+
+     Keen lips, that shape soft sayings
+     Like crystals of the snow,
+     With pretty half-betrayings
+     Of things one may not know;
+
+     Fair hand, whose touches thrill,
+     Like golden rod of wonder,
+     Which Hermes wields at will
+     Spirit and flesh to sunder;
+
+     Light foot, to press the stirrup
+     In fearlessness and glee,
+     Or dance, till finches chirrup,
+     And stars sink to the sea.
+
+     Forth, Love, and find this maid,
+     Wherever she be hidden:
+     Speak, Love, be not afraid,
+     But plead as thou art bidden;
+
+     And say, that he who taught thee
+     His yearning want and pain,
+     Too dearly, dearly bought thee
+     To part with thee in vain.
+
+
+
+
+MORTEM, QUAE VIOLAT SUAVI A PELLIT AMOR
+
+     The plunging rocks, whose ravenous throats
+     The sea in wrath and mockery fills,
+     The smoke, that up the valley floats,
+     The girlhood of the growing hills;
+
+     The thunderings from the miners' ledge,
+     The wild assaults on nature's hoard,
+     The peak, that stormward bares an edge
+     Ground sharp in days when Titans warred;
+
+     Grim heights, by wandering clouds embraced
+     Where lightning's ministers conspire,
+     Grey glens, with tarn and streamlet laced,
+     Stark forgeries of primeval fire;
+
+     These scenes may gladden many a mind
+     Awhile from homelier thoughts released,
+     And here my fellow-men may find
+     A Sabbath and a vision-feast.
+
+     I bless them in the good they feel;
+     And yet I bless them with a sigh:
+     On me this grandeur stamps the seal
+     Of tyrannous mortality.
+
+     The pitiless mountain stands so sure,
+     The human breast so weakly heaves;
+     That brains decay, while rocks endure,
+     At this the insatiate spirit grieves.
+
+     But hither, oh ideal bride!
+     For whom this heart in silence aches,
+     Love is unwearied as the tide,
+     Love is perennial as the lakes;
+
+     Come thou. The spiky crags will seem
+     One harvest of one heavenly year,
+     And fear of death, like childish dream,
+     Will pass and flee, when thou art here.
+
+
+
+
+TWO FRAGMENTS OF CHILDHOOD
+
+     When these locks were yellow as gold,
+     When past days were easily told,
+     Well I knew the voice of the sea,
+     Once he spake as a friend to me.
+
+     Thunder-roarings carelessly heard,
+     Once that poor little heart they stirred.
+     Why, oh, why?
+     Memory, Memory!
+     She that I wished to be with was by.
+
+     Sick was I in those misanthrope days
+     Of soft caresses, womanly ways;
+     Once that maid on the stairs I met,
+     Lip on brow she suddenly set.
+
+     Then flushed up my chivalrous blood
+     Like Swiss streams in a midsummer flood.
+     Then, oh, then,
+     Imogen, Imogen!
+     Hadst thou a lover, whose years were ten.
+
+
+
+
+WAR MUSIC
+
+     One hour of my boyhood, one glimpse of the past,
+     One beam of the dawn ere the heavens were o'ercast.
+
+     I came to a castle by royalty's grace,
+     Forgot I was bashful, and feeble, and base.
+     For stepping to music I dreamt of a siege,
+     A vow to my mistress, a fight for my liege.
+     The first sound of trumpets that fell on mine ear
+     Set warriors around me and made me their peer.
+     Meseemed we were arming, the bold for the fair,
+     In joyous devotion and haughty despair:
+     The warders were waiting to draw bolt and bar,
+     The maidens attiring to gaze from afar:
+
+     I thought of the sally, but not the retreat,
+     The cause was so glorious, the dying so sweet.
+
+     I live, I am old, I return to the ground:
+     Blow trumpets, and still I can dream to the sound.
+
+
+
+
+NUBENTI
+
+     Though the lark that upward flies
+     Recks not of the opening skies,
+     Nor discerneth grey from blue,
+     Nor the rain-drop from the dew:
+     Yet the tune which no man taught
+     So can quicken human thought,
+     That the startled fancies spring
+     Faster far than voice or wing.
+
+     And the songstress as she floats
+     Rising on her buoyant notes,
+     Though she may the while refuse
+     Homage to the nobler Muse,
+     Though she cannot truly tell
+     How her voice hath wrought the spell,
+     Fills the listener's eyes with tears,
+     Lifts him to the inner spheres.
+
+     Lark, thy morning song is done;
+     Overhead the silent sun
+     Bids thee pause. But he that heard
+     Such a strain must bless the bird.
+     Lady, thou hast hushed too soon
+     Sounds that cheered my weary noon;
+     Let met, warned by marriage bell,
+     Whisper, Queen of Song, farewell.
+
+
+
+
+WORDS FOR A PORTUGUESE AIR
+
+     They're sleeping beneath the roses;
+     Oh, kiss them before they rise,
+     And tickle their tiny noses,
+     And sprinkle the dew on their eyes.
+     Make haste, make haste;
+     The fairies are caught;
+     Make haste.
+
+     We'll put them in silver cages,
+     And send them full-drest to court,
+     And maids of honour and pages
+     Shall turn the poor things to sport.
+     Be quick, be quick;
+     Be quicker than thought;
+     Be quick.
+
+     Their scarfs shall be pennons for lancers,
+     We'll tie up our flowers with their curls,
+     Their plumes will make fans for dancers,
+     Their tears shall be set with pearls.
+     Be wise, be wise,
+     Make the most of the prize;
+     Be wise.
+
+     They'll scatter sweet scents by winking,
+     With sparks from under their feet;
+     They'll save us the trouble of thinking,
+     Their voices will sound so sweet.
+     Oh stay, oh stay!
+     They're up and away;
+     Oh stay!
+
+
+
+
+ADRIENNE AND MAURICE
+
+(Words For The Air Commonly Called "Pestal")
+
+     I.
+
+     Fly, poor soul, fly on,
+     No early clouds shall stop thy roaming;
+     Fly, till day be gone,
+     Nor fold thy wings before the gloaming.
+     He thou lov'st will soon be far beyond thy flight,
+     Other lands to light,
+     Leaving thee in night.
+     Let no fear of loss thy heavenly pathway cross;
+     Better then to lose than now.
+
+
+     II.
+
+     Now, faint heart, arise,
+     And proudly feel that he regards thee;
+     Draw from godlike eyes
+     Some grace to last when love discards thee.
+     Once thou hast been blest by one too high for thee;
+     Fate will have him be
+     Great and fancy-free,
+     When some noble maid her hand in his hath laid,
+     Give him up, poor heart, and break.
+
+
+
+
+THE HALLOWING OF THE FLEET
+
+     Her captains for the Baltic bound
+     In silent homage stood around;
+     Silent, whilst holy dew
+     Dimmed her kind eyes. She stood in tears,
+     For she had felt a mother's fears,
+     And wifely cares she knew.
+
+     She wept; she could not bear to say,
+     "Sail forth, my mariners, and slay
+     The liegemen of my foe."
+     Meanwhile on Russian steppe and lake
+     Are women weeping for the sake
+     Of them that seaward go.
+
+     Oh warriors, when you stain with gore,
+     If this indeed must be, the floor
+     Whereon that lady stept,
+     When the fierce joy of battle won
+     Hardens the heart of sire and son,
+     Remember that she wept
+
+
+
+
+THE CAIRN AND THE CHURCH
+
+     A Prince went down the banks of Dee
+     That widen out from bleak Braemar,
+     To drive the deer that wander free
+     Amidst the pines of Lochnagar.
+
+     And stepping on beneath the birks
+     On the road-side he found a spot,
+     Which told of pibrochs, kilts, and dirks,
+     And wars the courtiers had forgot;
+
+     Where with the streams, as each alone
+     Down to the gathering river runs,
+     Each on one heap to cast a stone,
+     Came twice three hundred Farquharsons.
+
+     They raised that pile to keep for ever
+     The memory of the loyal clan;
+     Then, grudging not their vain endeavour,
+     Fell at Culloden to a man.
+
+     And she, whose grandsire's uncle slew
+     Those dwellers on the banks of Dee,
+     Sighed for those tender hearts and true,
+     And whispered: "Who would die for me?"
+
+     Oh, lady, turn thee southward. Show
+     Thy standard on thine own Thames-side;
+     Let us be called to meet thy foe,
+     Our Kith be pledged, our honour tried.
+
+     Now, on the stone by Albert laid,
+     We'll build a pile as high as theirs,
+     So sworn to bring our Sovereign aid,
+     If not with war-cries, yet with prayers.
+
+
+
+
+A QUEEN'S VISIT
+
+June 4, 1851
+
+     From vale to vale, from shore to shore,
+     The lady Gloriana passed,
+     To view her realms: the south wind bore
+     Her shallop to Belleisle at last.
+
+     A quiet mead, where willows bend
+     Above the curving wave, which rolls
+     On slowly crumbling banks, to send
+     Its hard-won spoils to lazy shoals.
+
+     Beneath an oak weird eddies play,
+     Where fate was writ for Saxon seer;
+     And yonder park is white with may,
+     Where shadowy hunters chased the deer.
+
+     In rows half up the chestnut, perch
+     Stiff-silvered fairies; busy rooks
+     Caw front the elm; and, rung to church,
+     Mute anglers drop their caddised hooks.
+
+     They troop between the dark-red walls,
+     When the twin towers give four-fold chimes;
+     And lo! the breaking groups, where falls
+     'Tim chequered shade of quivering limes.
+
+     'They come from field and wharf and street
+     With dewy hair and veined throat,
+     One fluor to tread with reverent feet,--
+     One hour of rest for ball and boat:
+
+     Like swallows gathering for their flight,
+     When autumn whispers, play no more,
+     They check the laugh, with fancies bright
+     Still hovering round the sacred door.
+
+     Lo! childhood swelling into seed,
+     Lo! manhood bursting from the bud:
+     Two growths, unlike; yet all agreed
+     To trust the movement of the blood.
+
+     They toil at games, and play with books:
+     They love the winner of the race,
+     If only he that prospers looks
+     On prizes with a simple grace.
+
+     The many leave the few to choose;
+     They scorn not him who turns aside
+     To woo alone a milder Muse,
+     If shielded by a tranquil pride.
+
+     When thought is claimed, when pain is borne,
+     Whate'er is done in this sweet isle,
+     There's none that may not lift his horn,
+     If only lifted with a smile.
+
+     So here dwells freedom; nor could she,
+     Who ruled in every clime on earth,
+     Find any spring more fit to be
+     The fountain of her festal mirth.
+
+     Elsewhere she sought for lore and art,
+     But hither came for vernal joy:
+     Nor was this all: she smote the heart
+     And woke the hero in the boy.
+
+
+
+
+MOON-SET
+
+     Sweet moon, twice rounded in a blithe July,
+     Once down a wandering English stream thou leddest
+     My lonely boat; swans gleamed around; the sky
+     Throbbed overhead with meteors. Now thou sheddest
+     Faint radiance on a cold Arvernian plain,
+     Where I, far severed from that youthful crew,
+     Far from the gay disguise thy witcheries threw
+     On wave and dripping oar, still own thy reign,
+     Travelling with thee through many a sleepless hour.
+     Now shrink, like my weak will: a sterner power
+     Empurpleth yonder hills beneath thee piled,
+     Hills, where Cæsarian sovereignty was won
+     On high basaltic levels blood-defiled,
+     The Druid moonlight quenched beneath the Roman
+     sun.
+
+
+
+
+AFTER READING "MAUD"
+
+September, 1855
+
+     Twelve years ago, if he had died,
+     His critic friends had surely cried:
+     "Death does us wrong, the fates are cross;
+     Nor will this age repair the loss.
+     Fine was the promise of his youth;
+     Time would have brought him deeper truth.
+     Some earnest of his wealth he gave,
+     Then hid his treasures in the grave."
+     And proud that they alone on earth
+     Perceived what might have been his worth,
+     They would have kept their leader's name
+     Linked with a fragmentary fame.
+     Forsooth the beech's knotless stem,
+     If early felled, were dear to them.
+
+     But the fair tree lives on, and spreads
+     Its scatheless boughs above their heads,
+     And they are pollarded by cares,
+     And give themselves religious airs,
+     And grow not, whilst the forest-king
+     Strikes high and deep from spring to spring.
+     So they would have his branches rise
+     In theoretic symmetries;
+     They see a twist in yonder limb,
+     The foliage not precisely trim;
+     Some gnarled roughness they lament,
+     Take credit for their discontent,
+     And count his flaws, serenely wise
+     With motes of pity in their eyes;
+     As if they could, the prudent fools,
+     Adjust such live-long growth to rules,
+     As if so strong a soul could thrive
+     Fixed in one shape at thirty-five.
+     Leave him to us, ye good and sage,
+     Who stiffen in your middle age.
+
+     Ye loved him once, but now forbear;
+     Yield him to those who hope and dare,
+     And have not yet to forms consigned
+     A rigid, ossifying mind.
+
+     One's feelings lose poetic flow
+     Soon after twenty-seven or so;
+     Professionizing moral men
+     Thenceforth admire what pleased them then;
+     The poems bought in youth they read,
+     And say them over like their creed.
+     All autumn crops of rhyme seem strange;
+     Their intellect resents the change.
+
+     They cannot follow to the end
+     Their more susceptive college-friend:
+     He runs from field to field, and they
+     Stroll in their paddocks making hay:
+     He's ever young, and they get old;
+     Poor things, they deem him over-bold:
+     What wonder, if they stare and scold?
+
+
+
+
+A SONG
+
+     i.
+
+     Oh, earlier shall the rosebuds blow,
+     In after years, those happier years,
+     And children weep, when we lie low,
+     Far fewer tears, far softer tears.
+
+     ii.
+
+     Oh, true shall boyish laughter ring,
+     Like tinkling chimes in kinder times!
+     And merrier shall the maiden sing:
+     And I not there, and I not there.
+
+     iii.
+
+     Like lightning in the summer night
+     Their mirth shall be, so quick and free;
+     And oh! the flash of their delight
+     I shall not see, I may not see.
+
+     iv.
+
+     In deeper dream, with wider range,
+     Those eyes shall shine, but not on mine:
+     Unmoved, unblest, by worldly change,
+     The dead must rest, the dead shall rest.
+
+
+
+
+A STUDY OF BOYHOOD
+
+     So young, and yet so worn with pain!
+     No sign of youth upon that stooping head,
+     Save weak half-curls, like beechen boughs that spread
+     With up-turned edge to catch the hurrying rain;
+
+     Such little lint-white locks, as wound
+     About a mother's finger long ago,
+     When he was blither, not more dear, for woe
+     Was then far off, and other sons stood round.
+
+     And she has wept since then with him
+     Watching together, where the ocean gave
+     To her child's counted breathings wave for wave,
+     Whilst the heart fluttered, and the eye grew dim.
+
+     And when the sun and day-breeze fell,
+     She kept with him the vigil of despair;
+     Knit hands for comfort, blended sounds of prayer,
+     Saw him at dawn face death, and take farewell;
+
+     Saw him grow holier through his grief,
+     The early grief that lined his withering brow,
+     As one by one her stars were quenched. And now
+     He that so mourned can play, though life is brief;
+
+     Not gay, but gracious; plain of speech,
+     And freely kindling under beauty's ray,
+     He dares to speak of what he loves; to-day
+     He talked of art, and led me on to teach,
+
+     And glanced, as poets glance, at pages
+     Full of bright Florence and warm Umbrian skies;
+     Not slighting modern greatness, for the wise
+     Can sort the treasures of the circling ages;
+
+     Not echoing the sickly praise,
+     Which boys repeat, who hear a father's guest
+     Prate of the London show-rooms; what is best
+     He firmly lights upon, as birds on sprays;
+
+     All honest, and all delicate:
+     No room for flattery, no smiles that ask
+     For tender pleasantries, no looks that mask
+     The genial impulses of love and hate.
+
+     Oh bards that call to bank and glen,
+     Ye bid me go to nature to be healed!
+     And lo! a purer fount is here revealed:
+     My lady-nature dwells in heart of men.
+
+
+
+
+MERCURIALIA
+
+     Sweet eyes, that aim a level shaft
+     At pleasure flying from afar,
+     Sweet lips, just parted for a draught
+     Of Hebe's nectar, shall I mar
+     By stress of disciplinary craft
+     The joys that in your freedom are?
+
+     Shall the bright Queen who rules the tide
+     Now forward thrown, now bridled back,
+     Smile o'er each answering smile, then hide
+     Her grandeur in the transient rack,
+     And yield her power, and veil her pride,
+     And move along a ruffled track:
+
+     And shall not I give jest for jest,
+     Though king of fancy all the while,
+     Catch up your wishes half expressed,
+     Endure your whimsies void of guile,
+     Albeit with risk of such unrest
+     As may disturb, but not defile?
+
+     Oh, twine me myrtle round the sword,
+     Soft wit round wisdom over-keen:
+     Let me but lead my peers, no lord
+     With brows high arched; and lofty mien,
+     Set comrades round my council board
+     For bold debates, with jousts between.
+
+     There quiver lips, there glisten eyes,
+     There throb young hearts with generous hope;
+     Thence, playmates, rise for high emprize;
+     For, though he fail, yet shall ye cope
+     With worldling wrapped in silken lies,
+     With pedant, hypocrite, and pope.
+
+
+
+
+REPARABO
+
+     The world will rob me of my friends,
+     For time with her conspires;
+     But they shall both to make amends
+     Relight my slumbering fires.
+
+     For while my comrades pass away
+     To bow and smirk and gloze,
+     Come others, for as short a stay;
+     And dear are these as those.
+
+     And who was this? they ask; and then
+     The loved and lost I praise:
+     "Like you they frolicked; they are men:
+     "Bless ye my later days."
+
+     Why fret? the hawks I trained are flown:
+     'Twas nature bade them range;
+     I could not keep their wings half-grown,
+     I could not bar the change.
+
+     With lattice opened wide I stand
+     To watch their eager flight;
+     With broken jesses in my hand
+     I muse on their delight.
+
+     And, oh! if one with sullied plume
+     Should droop in mid career,
+     My love makes signals:--"There is room,
+     Oh bleeding wanderer, here."
+
+
+
+
+A BIRTHDAY
+
+     The graces marked the hour, when thou
+     Didst leave thine ante-natal rest,
+     Without a cry to heave a breast
+     Which never ached from then till now.
+
+     That vivid soul then first unsealed
+     Would be, they knew, a torch to wave
+     Within a chill and dusky cave
+     Whose crystals else were unrevealed.
+
+     That fine small mouth they wreathed so well
+     In rosy curves, would rouse to arms
+     A troop then bound in slumber-charms;
+     Such notes they gave the magic shell.
+
+     Those straying fingerlets, that clutched
+     At good and bad, they so did glove,
+     That they might pick the flowers of love,
+     Unscathed, from every briar they touched.
+
+     The bounteous sisters did ordain,
+     That thou one day with jest and whim
+     Should'st rain thy merriment on him
+     Whose life, when thou wert born, was pain.
+
+     For haply on that night they spied
+     A sickly student at his books,
+     Who having basked in loving looks
+     Was freezing into barren pride.
+
+     His squalid discontent they saw,
+     And, for that he had worshipped them
+     With incense and with anadem,
+     They willed his wintry world should thaw;
+
+     And at thy cradle did decree
+     That fifteen years should pass, and thou
+     Should'st breathe upon that pallid brow
+     Favonian airs of mirth and glee.
+
+
+
+
+A NEW YEAR'S DAY
+
+     Our planet runs through liquid space,
+     And sweeps us with her in the race;
+     And wrinkles gather on my face,
+     And Hebe bloom on thine:
+     Our sun with his encircling spheres
+     Around the central sun careers;
+     And unto thee with mustering years
+     Come hopes which I resign.
+
+     'Twere sweet for me to keep thee still
+     Reclining halfway up the hill;
+     But time will not obey the will,
+     And onward thou must climb:
+     'Twere sweet to pause on this descent,
+     To wait for thee and pitch my tent,
+     But march I must with shoulders bent,
+     Yet farther from my prime.
+
+     I shall not tread thy battle-field,
+     Nor see the blazon on thy shield;
+     Take thou the sword I could not wield,
+     And leave me, and forget
+     Be fairer, braver, more admired;
+     So win what feeble hearts desired;
+     Then leave thine arms, when thou art tired,
+     To some one nobler yet.
+
+
+
+
+A CRUISE
+
+     Your princely progress is begun;
+     And pillowed on the bounding deck
+     You break with dark brown hair a sun
+     That falls transfigured on your neck.
+     Sail on, and charm sun, wind, and sea.
+     Oh! might that love-light rest on me!
+
+     Vacantly lingering with the hours,
+     The sacred hours that still remain
+     From that rich month of fruits and flowers
+     Which brought you near me once again,
+     By thoughts of you, though roses die,
+     I strive to make it still July.
+
+     Soft waves are strown beneath your prow,
+     Like carpets for a victor's feet;
+     You call slow zephyrs to your brow,
+     In listless luxury complete:
+     Love, the true Halcyon, guides your ship;
+     Oh, might his pinion touch my lip!
+
+     I by the shrunken river stroll;
+     And changed, since I was left alone,
+     With tangled weed and rising shoal,
+     The loss I mourn he seems to own:
+     This is, how base soe'er his sloth,
+     This is the stream that bore us both.
+
+     For you shall granite peaks uprise
+     As old and scornful as your race,
+     And fringed with firths of lucent dyes
+     The jewelled beach your limbs embrace.
+     Oh bather, may those Western gems
+     Remind you of my lilied Thames.
+
+     I too have seen the castled West,
+     Her Cornish creeks, her Breton ports,
+     Her caves by knees of hermits pressed,
+     Her fairy islets bright with quartz:
+     And dearer now each well-known scene,
+     For what shall be than what hath been.
+
+     Obeisance of kind strangers' eyes,
+     Triumphant cannons' measured roar,
+     Doffed plumes, and martial courtesies,
+     Shall greet you on the Norman shore.
+     Oh, that I were a stranger too,
+     To win that first sweet glance from you.
+
+     I was a stranger once: and soon
+     Beyond desire, above belief,
+     Thy soul was as a crescent moon,
+     A bud expanding leaf by leaf.
+     I'd pray thee now to close, to wane,
+     So that 'twere all to do again.
+
+
+
+
+A SEPARATION
+
+     I may not touch the hand I saw
+     So nimbly weave the violet chain;
+     I may not see my artist draw
+     That southward-sloping lawn again.
+     But joy brimmed over when we met,
+     Nor can I mourn our parting yet.
+
+     Though he lies sick and far away,
+     I play with those that still are here,
+     Not honouring him the less, for they
+     To me by loving him are dear:
+     They share, they soothe my fond regret,
+     Since neither they nor I forget.
+
+     His sweet strong heart so nobly beat
+     With scorn and pity, mirth and zeal,
+     That vibrant hearts of ours repeat
+     What they with him were wont to feel;
+     Still quiring in that higher key,
+     Till he take up the melody.
+
+     If there be any music here,
+     I trust it will not fail, like notes
+     Of May-birds, when the warning year
+     Abates their summer-wearied throats.
+     Shame on us, if we drudge once more
+     As dull and tuneless as before.
+
+     Without him I was weak and coarse,
+     My soul went droning through the hours,
+     His goodness stirred a latent force
+     That drew from others kindred powers.
+     Nor they nor I could think me base,
+     When with their prince I had found grace.
+
+     His influence crowns me, like a cloud
+     Steeped in the light of a lost sun:
+     I reign, for willing knees are bowed
+     And light behests are gladly done:
+     So Rome obeyed the lover-king,
+     Who drank at pure Egeria's spring.
+
+     Such honour doth my mind perplex:
+     For, who is this, I ask, that dares
+     With manhood's wounds, and virtue's wrecks,
+     And tangled creeds, and subtle cares,
+     Affront the look, or speak the name
+     Of one who from Elysium came.
+
+     And yet, though withered and forlorn,
+     I had renounced what man desires,
+     I'd thought some poet might be born
+     To string my lute with silver wires;
+     At least in brighter days to come
+     Such men as I would not lie dumb.
+
+     I saw the Sibyl's finger rest
+     On fate's unturned imagined page,
+     Believed her promise, and was blest
+     With dreams of that heroic age.
+     She sent me, ere my hope was cold,
+     One of the race that she foretold.
+
+     His fellows time will bring, and they,
+     In manifold affections free,
+     Shall scatter pleasures day by day
+     Like blossoms rained from windy tree.
+     So let that garden bloom; and I,
+     Content with one such flower, will die.
+
+
+
+
+A NEW MICHONNET
+
+     The foster-child forgets his nurse:
+     She doth but know what he hath been,
+     Took him for better or for worse,
+     Would pet him, though he be sixteen.
+
+     He helps to weave the soft quadrille;
+     Ah! leave the parlour door ajar;
+     Those thirsting eyes shall take their fill,
+     And watch her darling from afar.
+
+     It is her pride to see the hand,
+     Which wont so wantonly to tear
+     Her unblanched curls, control the band,
+     And change the tune, with such an air.
+
+     And who so good? she thinks, or who
+     So fit for partners rich and tall?
+     Indeed she's looked the ball-room through,
+     And he's the loveliest lad of all.
+
+     So to her lonesome bed: and there,
+     If any wandering notes she hear,
+     She'll say in pauses of her prayer,
+     "He dancing still, my child! my dear!"
+
+     His gladness doth on her redound,
+     Though hair be grey, and eyes be dim:
+     At every waif of broken sound
+     She'll wake, and smile, and think of him.
+
+     So, noblest of the noble, go
+     Through regions echoing thy name;
+     And even on me, thy friend, shall flow
+     Some streamlet from thy river of fame.
+
+     Thou to the gilded youth be kind;
+     Shed all thy genius-rays on them;
+     An ancient comrade stands behind
+     To touch, unseen, thy mantle's hem.
+
+     A stranger to thy peers am I,
+     And slighted, like that poor old crone,
+     And yet some clinging memories try
+     To rate thy conquests as mine own.
+
+     Nay, when at random drops thy praise
+     From lips of happy lookers-on,
+     My tearful eyes I proudly raise,
+     And bid my conscious self be gone.
+
+
+
+
+SAPPHICS
+
+     Love, like an island, held a single heart,
+     Waiting for shoreward flutterings of the breeze,
+     So might it waft to him that sat apart
+     Some angel guest from out the clouded seas.
+
+     Was it mere chance that threw within his reach
+     Fragments and symbols of the bliss unknown?
+     Was it vague hope that murmured down the beach,
+     Tuning the billows and the cavern's moan?
+
+     Oft through the aching void the promise thrilled:
+     "Thou shalt be loved, and Time shall pay his debt."
+     Silence returns upon the wish fulfilled,
+     Joy for a year, and then a sweet regret.
+
+     Idol, mine Idol, whom this touch profanes,
+     Pass as thou cam'st across the glimmering seas:
+     All, all is lost but memory's sacred pains;
+     Leave me, oh leave me, ere I forfeit these.
+
+
+
+
+A FABLE
+
+     An eager girl, whose father buys
+     Some ruined thane's forsaken hall,
+     Explores the new domain, and tries
+     Before the rest to view it all.
+
+     Alone she lifts the latch, and glides
+     Through many a sadly curtained room,
+     As daylight through the doorway slides
+     And struggles with the muffled gloom.
+
+     With mimicries of dance she wakes
+     The lordly gallery's silent floor,
+     And climbing up on tiptoe, makes
+     The old-world mirror smile once more.
+
+     With tankards dry she chills her lip,
+     With yellowing laces veils the head,
+     And leaps in pride of ownership
+     Upon the faded marriage bed.
+
+     A harp in some dark nook she sees,
+     Long left a prey to heat and frost.
+     She smites it: can such tinklings please?
+     Is not all worth, all beauty, lost?
+
+     Ah! who'd have thought such sweetness clung
+     To loose neglected strings like those?
+     They answered to whate'er was sung,
+     And sounded as the lady chose.
+
+     Her pitying finger hurried by
+     Each vacant space, each slackened chord;
+     Nor would her wayward zeal let die
+     The music-spirit she restored.
+
+     The fashion quaint, the time-worn flaws,
+     The narrow range, the doubtful tone,
+     All was excused awhile, because
+     It seemed a creature of her own.
+
+     Perfection tires; the new in old,
+     The mended wrecks that need her skill,
+     Amuse her. If the truth be told,
+     She loves the triumph of her will.
+
+     With this, she dares herself persuade,
+     She'll be for many a month content,
+     Quite sure no duchess ever played
+     Upon a sweeter instrument.
+
+     And thus in sooth she can beguile
+     Girlhood's romantic hours: but soon
+     She yields to taste and mode and style,
+     A siren of the gay saloon;
+
+     And wonders how she once could like
+     Those drooping wires, those failing notes,
+     And leaves her toy for bats to strike
+     Amongst the cobwebs and the motes.
+
+     But enter in, thou freezing wind,
+     And snap the harp-strings one by one;
+     It was a maiden blithe and kind:
+     They felt her touch; their task is done.
+
+
+
+
+AMAVI
+
+     Ask, mournful Muse, by one alone inspired:
+     What change? am I less fond, or thou less fair?
+     Or is it, that thy mounting soul is tired
+     Of duteous homage and religious care?
+
+     So many court thee that my reverent gaze
+     Vexes that wilful and capricious eye;
+     Such fine rare flatteries flow to thee, that praise,
+     From one whose thoughts thou know'st, seems poor
+     and dry.
+
+     So must it be. Thus monarchs blandly greet
+     Strange heralds offering tribute, and forget
+     The vassals ranked behind the golden seat,
+     Whose annual gift is counted as a debt.
+
+     Since sure of me thy liegeman once in thrall
+     Thou need'st not waste on me those gracious looks.
+     Stirred by the newborn wish to conquer all,
+     Leave thy first subject to his rhymes and books.
+
+     Ah! those impetuous claims that drew me forth
+     From my cold shadows to thy dazzling day,
+     Those spells that lured me to the stately North,
+     Those pleas against my scruples, where are they?
+
+     Oh, glorious bondage in a dreamful bower!
+     Oh, freedom thrice abhorred, unblest release!
+     Why, why hath cruel circumstance the power
+     To make such worship, such obedience cease?
+
+     Surely I served thee, as the wrinkled elm
+     Yieldeth his nature to the jocund vine,
+     Strength unto beauty: may the flood o'erwhelm
+     Root, trunk, and branch, if they have not been thine.
+
+     If thine no more, if lightly left behind,
+     To guard the dancing clusters thought unmeet,
+     It is because with gilded trellis twined
+     Thy liberal growth demands untempered heat.
+
+     Yet, while they spread more freely to the sun,
+     Those tendrils; while they wanton in the breeze
+     Gathering all heaven's bounties, henceforth one
+     Abides more honoured than the neighbouring trees.
+
+     Ah dear, there's something left of that great gift;
+     And humbly marvelling at thy former choice
+     A head once crowned with love I dare uplift,
+     And, for that once I pleased thee, still rejoice.
+
+
+
+
+NOTES OF AN INTERVIEW
+
+     It is but little that remaineth
+     Of the kindness that you gave me,
+     And that little precious remnant you withhold.
+     Go free; I know that time constraineth,
+     Wilful blindness could not save me:
+     Yet you say I caused the change that I foretold.
+
+     At every sweet unasked relenting,
+     Though you'd tried me with caprice,
+     Did my welcome, did my gladness ever fail?
+     To-day not loud is my lamenting:
+     Do not chide me; it shall cease:
+     Could I think of vanished love without a wail?
+
+     Elsewhere, you lightly say, are blooming
+     All the graces I desire:
+     Thus you goad me to the treason of content:
+     If ever, when your brow is glooming,
+     Softer faces I admire,
+     Then your lightnings make me tremble and repent.
+
+     Grant this: whatever else beguileth
+     Restless dreaming, drowsy toil,
+     As a plaything, as a windfall, let me hail it.
+     Believe: the brightest one that smileth
+     To your beaming is a foil,
+     To the splendour breaking from you, though you veil it.
+
+
+
+
+PREPARATION
+
+     Too weak am I to pray, as some have prayed,
+     That love might hurry straightway out of mind,
+     And leave an ever-vacant waste behind.
+
+     I thank thee rather, that through every grade
+     Of less and less affection we decline,
+     As month by month thy strong importunate fate
+     Thrusts back my claims, and draws thee toward the
+     great,
+     And shares amongst a hundred what was mine.
+
+     Proud heroes ask to perish in high noon:
+     I'd have refractions of the fallen day,
+     And heavings when the gale hath flown away,
+     And this slow disenchantment: since too soon,
+     Too surely, comes the death of my poor heart,
+     Be it inured to pain, in mercy, ere we part.
+
+
+
+
+DETERIORA
+
+     One year I lived in high romance,
+     A soul ennobled by the grace
+     Of one whose very frowns enhance
+     The regal lustre of the face,
+     And in the magic of a smile
+     I dwelt as in Calypso's isle.
+
+     One year, a narrow line of blue,
+     With clouds both ways awhile held back:
+     And dull the vault that line goes through,
+     And frequent now the crossing rack;
+     And who shall pierce the upper sky,
+     And count the spheres? Not I, not I!
+
+     Sweet year, it was not hope you brought,
+     Nor after toil and storm repose,
+     But a fresh growth of tender thought,
+     And all of love my spirit knows.
+     You let my lifetime pause, and bade
+     The noontide dial cast no shade.
+
+     If fate and nature screen from me
+     The sovran front I bowed before,
+     And set the glorious creature free,
+     Whom I would clasp, detain, adore;
+     If I forego that strange delight,
+     Must all be lost? Not quite, not quite.
+
+     Die, little Love, without complaint,
+     Whom Honour standeth by to shrive:
+     Assoilèd from all selfish taint,
+     Die, Love, whom Friendship will survive.
+     Nor heat nor folly gave thee birth;
+     And briefness does but raise thy worth.
+
+     Let the grey hermit Friendship hoard
+     Whatever sainted Love bequeathed,
+     And in some hidden scroll record
+     The vows in pious moments breathed.
+     Vex not the lost with idle suit,
+     Oh lonely heart, be mute, be mute.
+
+
+
+
+PARTING
+
+     As when a traveller, forced to journey back,
+     Takes coin by coin, and gravely counts them o'er,
+     Grudging each payment, fearing lest he lack,
+     Before he can regain the friendly shore;
+     So reckoned I your sojourn, day by day,
+     So grudged I every week that dropt away.
+
+     And as a prisoner, doomed and bound, upstarts
+     From shattered dreams of wedlock and repose,
+     At sudden rumblings of the market-carts,
+     Which bring to town the strawberry and the rose,
+     And wakes to meet sure death; so shuddered I,
+     To hear you meditate your gay Good-bye.
+
+     But why not gay? For, if there's aught you lose,
+     It is but drawing off a wrinkled glove
+     To turn the keys of treasuries, free to choose
+     Throughout the hundred-chambered house of love,
+     This pathos draws from you, though true and kind,
+     Only bland pity for the left-behind.
+
+     We part; you comfort one bereaved, unmanned;
+     You calmly chide the silence and the grief;
+     You touch me once with light and courteous hand,
+     And with a sense of something like relief
+     You turn away from what may seem to be
+     Too hard a trial of your charity.
+
+     So closes in the life of life; so ends
+     The soaring of the spirit. What remains?
+     To take whate'er the Muse's mother lends,
+     One sweet sad thought in many soft refrains
+     And half reveal in Coan gauze of rhyme
+     A cherished image of your joyous prime.
+
+
+
+
+ALL THAT WAS POSSIBLE
+
+     Slope under slope the pastures dip
+     With ribboned waterfalls, and make
+     Scant room for just a village strip,
+     The setting of a sapphire lake.
+
+     And here, when summer draws the kine
+     To upland grasses patched with snow,
+     Our travellers rest not, only dine,
+     Then driven by Furies, onward go.
+
+     For pilgrims of the pointed stick,
+     With passport case for scallop shell,
+     Scramble for worshipped Alps too quick
+     To care for vales where mortals dwell.
+
+     Twice daily swarms the hostel's pier,
+     Twice daily is the table laid;
+     And, "Oh, that some would tarry here!"
+     Sighs Madeline, the serving-maid.
+
+     She shows them silly carven stuff;
+     Some sneer, but others smile and buy;
+     And these light smiles are quite enough
+     To make the wistful maiden sigh.
+
+     She scans the face, but not the mind;
+     She learns their taste in wines and toys,
+     But, seem they thoughtful and refined,
+     She fain would know their cares, their joys.
+
+     For man is not as horse and hound,
+     Who turn to meet their lord's caress,
+     Yet never miss the touch or sound,
+     When absence brings unconsciousness.
+
+     Not such the souls that can reflect;
+     Too mild they may be to repine;
+     But sometimes, winged with intellect,
+     They strain to pass the bounding line.
+
+     And to have learnt our pleasant tongue
+     In English mansions, gave a sense
+     Of something bitter-sweet, that stung
+     The pensive maiden of Brientz.
+
+     I will not say she wished for aught;
+     For, failing guests, she duly spun,
+     And saved for marriage; but one thought
+     Would still in alien channels run.
+
+     And when at last a lady came,
+     Not lovely, but with twofold grace,
+     For courtly France had tuned her name,
+     Whilst England reigned in hair and face;
+
+     And illness bound her many a day,
+     A willing captive, to the mere,
+     In peace, though home was far away,
+     For Madeline's talking brought it near.
+
+     Then delicate words unused before
+     Rose to her lips, as amber shines
+     Thrown by the wave upon the shore
+     From unimagined ocean-mines;
+
+     And then perceptions multiplied,
+     Foreshadowings of the heart came true,
+     And interlaced on every side
+     Old girlish fancies bloomed and grew;
+
+     And looks of higher meaning gleamed
+     Like azure sheen of mountain ice,
+     And common household service seemed
+     The wageless work of Paradise.
+
+     But autumn downward drove the kine,
+     And clothed the wheel with flaxen thread,
+     And sprinkled snow upon the pine,
+     And bowed the silent spinster's head.
+
+     Then Europe's tumult scared the spring,
+     And checked the Northern travel-drift:
+     Yet to Brientz did summer bring
+     An English letter and a gift;
+
+     And Madeline took them with a tear:
+     "How gracious to remember me!
+     Her words I'll keep from year to year,
+     Her face in heaven I hope to see."
+
+
+
+
+SCHEVENINGEN AVENUE
+
+     Oh, that the road were longer,
+     A mile, or two, or three!
+     So might the thought grow stronger
+     That flows from touch of thee.
+
+     Oh little slumbering maid,
+     If thou wert five years older,
+     Thine head would not be laid
+     So simply on my shoulder!
+
+     Oh, would that I were younger,
+     Oh, were I more like thee,
+     I should not faintly hunger
+     For love that cannot be.
+
+     A girl might be caressed,
+     Beside me freely sitting;
+     A child on me might rest,
+     And not like thee, unwitting.
+
+     Such honour is thy mother's
+     Who smileth on thy sleep,
+     Or for the nurse who smothers
+     Thy cheek in kisses deep.
+
+     And but for parting day,
+     And but for forest shady,
+     From me they'd take away
+     The burden of their lady.
+
+     Ah thus to feel thee leaning
+     Above the nursemaid's hand,
+     Is like a stranger's gleaning,
+     Where rich men own the land;
+
+     Chance gains, and humble thrift,
+     With shyness much like thieving,
+     No notice with the gift,
+     No thanks with the receiving.
+
+     Oh peasant, when thou starvest
+     Outside the fair domain,
+     Imagine there's a harvest
+     In every treasured grain.
+
+     Make with thy thoughts high cheer,
+     Say grace for others dining,
+     And keep thy pittance clear
+     From poison of repining.
+
+     1859.
+
+
+
+
+MELLIREN
+
+     Can you so fair and young forecast
+     The sure, the cruel day of doom;
+     Must I believe that you at last
+     Will fall, fall, fall down to the tomb?
+     Unclouded, fearless, gentle soul,
+     You greet the foe whose threats you hear;
+     Your lifted eyes discern the goal,
+     Your blood declares it is not near.
+
+     Feel deeply; toil through weal and woe,
+     Love England, love a friend, a bride.
+     Bid wisdom grow, let sorrow flow,
+     Make many weep when you have died.
+     When you shall die--what seasons lie
+     'Twixt that great Then and this sweet Now!
+     What blooms of courage for that eye,
+     What thorns of honour for that brow!
+
+     Oh mortal, too dear to me, tell me thy choice,
+     Say how wouldst thou die, and in dying rejoice?
+
+     Will you perish, calmly sinking
+     To a sunless deep sea cave,
+     Folding hands, and kindly thinking
+     Of the friend you tried to save?
+     Will you let your sweet breath pass
+     On the arms of children bending,
+     Gazing on the sea of glass,
+     Where the lovelight has no ending?
+
+     Or in victory stern and fateful,
+     Colours wrapt round shattered breast,
+     English maidens rescued, grateful,
+     Whispering near you, "Conqueror, rest;"
+     Or an old tune played once more,
+     Tender cadence oft repeated,
+     Moonlight shed through open door,
+     Angel wife beside you seated.
+
+     Whatever thy death may be, child of my heart,
+     Long, long shall they mourn thee that see thee depart.
+
+     1860
+
+
+
+
+A MERRY PARTING
+
+     With half a moon, and cloudlets pink,
+     And water-lilies just in bud,
+     With iris on the river brink,
+     And white weed garlands on the mud,
+     And roses thin and pale as dreams,
+     And happy cygnets born in May,
+     No wonder if our country seems
+     Drest out for Freedom's natal day.
+
+     We keep the day; but who can brood
+     On memories of unkingly John,
+     Or of the leek His Highness chewed,
+     Or of the stone he wrote upon?
+     To Freedom born so long ago,
+     We do devoir in very deed,
+     If heedless as the clouds we row
+     With fruit and wine to Runnymede.
+
+     Ah! life is short, and learning long;
+     We're midway through our mirthful June,
+     And feel about for words of song
+     To help us through some dear old tune.
+     We firmly, fondly seize the joy,
+     As tight as fingers press the oar,
+     With love and laughter girl and boy
+     Hold the sweet days, and make them more.
+
+     And when our northern stars have set
+     For ever on the maid we lose,
+     Beneath our feet she'll not forget
+     How speed the hours with Eton crews.
+     Then round the world, good river, run,
+     And though with you no boat may glide,
+     Kind river, bear some drift of fun
+     And friendship to the exile bride.
+
+     June 15th, 1861.
+
+
+
+
+SCHOOL FENCIBLES
+
+     We come in arms, we stand ten score,
+     Embattled on the castle green;
+     We grasp our firelocks tight, for war
+     Is threatening, and we see our Queen.
+
+     And "will the churls last out till we
+     Have duly hardened bones and thews
+     For scouring leagues of swamp and sea
+     Of braggart mobs and corsair crews?
+
+     We ask; we fear not scoff or smile
+     At meek attire of blue and grey,
+     For the proud wrath that thrills our isle
+     Gives faith and force to this array.
+
+     So great a charm is England's right,
+     That hearts enlarged together flow,
+     And each man rises up a knight
+     To work the evil-thinkers woe.
+
+     And, girt with ancient truth and grace,
+     We do our service and our suit,
+     And each can be, what'er his race,
+     A Chandos or a Montacute.
+
+     Thou, Mistress, whom we serve to-day,
+     Bless the real swords that we shall wield,
+     Repeat the call we now obey
+     In sunset lands, on some fair field.
+
+     Thy flag shall make some Huron Rock
+     As dear to us as Windsor's keep,
+     And arms thy Thames hath nerved shall mock
+     The surgings of th' Ontarian deep.
+
+     The stately music of thy Guards,
+     Which times our march beneath thy ken,
+     Shall sound, with spells of sacred bards,
+     From heart to heart, when we are men.
+
+     And when we bleed on alien earth,
+     We'll call to mind how cheers of ours
+     Proclaimed a loud uncourtly mirth
+     Amongst thy glowing orange bowers.
+
+     And if for England's sake we fall,
+     So be it, so thy cross be won,
+     Fixed by kind hands on silvered pall,
+     And worn in death, for duty done.
+
+     Ah! thus we fondle Death, the soldier's mate,
+     Blending his image with the hopes of youth
+     To hallow all; meanwhile the hidden fate
+     Chills not our fancies with the iron truth.
+
+     Death from afar we call, and Death is here,
+     To choose out him who wears the loftiest mien;
+     And Grief, the cruel lord who knows no peer,
+     Breaks through the shield of love to pierce our
+     Queen.
+
+     1861.
+
+
+
+
+BOCONNOC
+
+     Who so distraught could ramble here,
+     From gentle beech to simple gorse,
+     From glen to moor, nor cease to fear
+     The world's impetuous bigot force,
+     Which drives the young before they will,
+     And when they will not drives them still.
+
+     Come hither, thou that would'st forget
+     The gamester's smile, the trader's vaunt,
+     The statesman actor's face hard set,
+     The kennel cry that cheers his taunt,
+     Come where pure winds and rills combine
+     To murmur peace round virtue's shrine.
+
+     Virtue--men thrust her back, when these
+     Rode down for Charles and right divine,
+     And those with dogma Genevese
+     Restored in faith their wavering line.
+     No virtue in religious camps,
+     No heathen oil in Gideon's lamps.
+
+     And now, when forcing seasons bud
+     With prophet, hero, saint, and quack,
+     When creeds and fashions heat the blood,
+     And transcendental tonguelets clack,
+     Sweet Virtue's lyre we hardly know,
+     And think her odes quite rococo.
+
+     Well, be it Roman, be it worse,
+     When Pelhams reigned in George's name
+     Poets were safe from sneer or curse
+     Who gave a patriot classic fame,
+     And goodness, void of passion, knit
+     The hearts of Lyttelton and Pitt.
+
+     That age was as a neutral vale
+     'Twixt uplands of tumultuous strife,
+     And turning from the sects to hail
+     Composure and a graceful life,
+     Here, where the fern-clad streamlet flows,
+     Boconnoc's guests ensured repose.
+
+     That charm remains; and he who knows
+     The root and stock of freedom's laws,
+     Unscared by frenzied nations' throes,
+     And hugging yet the good old cause,
+     Finds in the shade these beeches cast
+     The wit, the fragrance of the past.
+
+     Octave of St. Bartholomew, 1862.
+
+
+
+
+A SKETCH AFTER BRANTÔME
+
+     The door hath closed behind the sighing priest,
+     The last absolving Latin duly said,
+     And night, barred slowly backward from the East,
+     Lets in the dawn to mock a sleepless bed;
+
+     The bed of one who yester even took
+     From scented aumbries store of silk and lace,
+     From caskets beads and rings, for one last look,
+     One look, which left the teardrops on her face;
+
+     A lady, who hath loved the world, the court,
+     Loved youth and splendour, loved her own sweet
+     soul,
+     And meekly stoops to learn that life is short,
+     Dame Nature's pitiful gift, a beggar's dole.
+
+     Sweet life, ah! let her live what yet remains.
+     Call, quickly call, the page who bears the lute;
+     Bid him attune to descant of sad strains
+     The lily voice we thought for ever mute.
+
+     The sorrowing minstrel at the casement stands
+     And bends before the sun that gilds his wires,
+     And prays a blessing on his faltering hands,
+     That they may serve his lady's last desires.
+
+     "Play something old and soft, a song I knew;
+     Play _La défaite des Suisses,_" Then pearly notes
+     Come dropping one by one, and with the dew
+     Down on the breath of morning music floats.
+
+     He played as far as _tout est perdu_ and wept.
+     "_Tout est perdu_ again, once more," she sighed;
+     And on, still softer on, the music crept,
+     And softly, at the pause, the listener died.
+
+     1862.
+
+
+
+
+ON LIVERMEAD SANDS
+
+     For waste of scheme and toil we grieve,
+     For snowflakes on the wave we sigh,
+     For writings on the sand that leave
+     Naught for to-morrow's passer-by.
+
+     Waste, waste; each knoweth his own worth,
+     And would be something ere he sink
+     To silence, ere he mix with earth,
+     And part with love, and cease to think.
+
+     Shall I then comfort thee and me,
+     My neighbour, preaching thus of waste?
+     Count yonder planet fragments; see,
+     The meteors into darkness haste.
+
+     Lo! myriad germs at random float,
+     Fall on no fostering home, and die
+     Back to mere elements; every mote
+     Was framed for life as thou, as I.
+
+     For ages over soulless eyes,
+     Ere man was born, the heavens in vain
+     Dipt clouds in dawn and sunset dyes
+     Unheeded, and shall we complain?
+
+     Aye, Nature plays that wanton game
+     And Nature's hierophants may smile,
+     Contented with their lore; no blame
+     To rhymers if they groan meanwhile.
+
+     Since that which yearns towards minds of men,
+     Which flashes down from brain to lip,
+     Finds but cold truth in mammoth den,
+     With spores, with stars, no fellowship.
+
+     Say we that our ungamered thought
+     Drifts on the stream of all men's fate,
+     Our travail is a thing of naught,
+     Only because mankind is great.
+
+     Born to be wasted, even so,
+     And doomed to feel, and lift no voice;
+     Yet not unblessed, because I know
+     So many other souls rejoice.
+
+     1863.
+
+
+
+
+LACORDAIRE AT OXFORD
+
+     Lost to the Church and deaf to me, this town
+     Yet wears a reverend garniture of peace.
+     Set in a land of trade, like Gideon's fleece
+     Bedewed where all is dry; the Pope may frown;
+     But, if this city is the shrine of youth,
+     How shall the Preacher lord of virgin souls,
+     When by glad streams and laughing lawns he strolls,
+     How can he bless them not? Yet in sad sooth,
+     When I would love these English gownsmen, sighs
+     Heave my frail breast, and weakness dims mine eyes.
+
+     These strangers heed me not. Far off in France
+     Are young men not so fair, and not so cold,
+     My listeners. Were they here, their greeting glance
+     Might charm me to forget that I were old.
+
+     1863.
+
+
+
+
+A RETROSPECT OF SCHOOL LIFE
+
+     I go, and men who know me not,
+     When I am reckoned man, will ask,
+     "What is it then that thou hast got
+     By drudging through that five-year task?
+
+     "What knowledge or what art is thine?
+     Set out thy stock, thy craft declare."
+     Then this child-answer shall be mine,
+     "I only know they loved me there."
+
+     There courteous strivings with my peers,
+     And duties not bound up in books,
+     And courage fanned by stormy cheers,
+     And wisdom writ in pleasant looks,
+
+     And hardship buoyed with hope, and pain
+     Encountered for the common weal,
+     And glories void of vulgar gain,
+     Were mine to take, were mine to feel.
+
+     Nor from Apollo did I shrink
+     Like Titans chained; but sweet and low
+     Whispered the Nymphs, who seldom think:
+     "Up, up for action, run and row!"
+
+     He let me, though his smile was grave,
+     Seek an Egeria out of town
+     Beneath the chestnuts; he forgave;
+     And should the jealous Muses frown?
+
+     Fieldward some remnants of their lore
+     Went with me, as the rhymes of Gray
+     Annealed the heart of Wolfe for war
+     When drifting on his starlit way.
+
+     Much lost I; something stayed behind,
+     A snatch, maybe, of ancient song;
+     Some breathings of a deathless mind,
+     Some love of truth, some hate of wrong.
+
+     And to myself in games I said,
+     "What mean the books? Can I win fame?
+     I would be like the faithful dead
+     A fearless man, and pure of blame.
+
+     I may have failed, my School may fail;
+     I tremble, but thus much I dare;
+     I love her. Let the critics rail,
+     My brethren and my home are there.
+
+     July 28th, 1863.
+
+
+
+
+CLOVELLY BEACH
+
+     Oh, music! breathe me something old to-day,
+     Some fine air gliding in from far away,
+     Through to the soul that lies behind the clay.
+
+     This hour, if thou did'st ever speak before,
+     Speak in the wave that sobs upon the shore,
+     Speak in the rill that trickles from the moor.
+
+     Known was this sea's slow chant when I was young;
+     To me these rivulets sing as once they sung,
+     No need this hour of human throat and tongue.
+
+     The Dead who loved me heard this selfsame tide.
+     Oh that the Dead were listening by my side,
+     And I could give the fondness then denied.
+
+     Once in the parlour of my mother's sire
+     One sang, "And ye shall walk in silk attire."
+     Then my cold childhood woke to strange desire.
+
+     That was an unconfessed and idle spell,
+     A drop of dew that on a blossom fell;
+     And what it wrought I cannot surely tell.
+
+     Far off that thought and changed, like lines that stay
+     On withered canvas, pink and pearly grey,
+     When rose and violet hues have passed away.
+
+     Oh, had I dwelt with music since that night!
+     What life but that is life, what other flight
+     Escapes the plaguing doubts of wrong and right!
+
+     Oh music! once I felt the touch of thee,
+     Once when this soul was as the chainless sea.
+     Oh, could'st thou bid me even now be free!
+
+     April, 1865.
+
+
+
+
+AN EPOCH IN A SWEET LIFE
+
+     This sun, whose javelins strike and gild the wheat,
+     Who gives the nectarine half an orb of bloom,
+     Burns on my life no less, and beat by beat
+     Shapes that grave hour when boyhood hears her
+     doom.
+
+     Between this glow of pious eve and me,
+     Lost moments, thick as clouds of summer flies,
+     Specks of old time, which else one could not see,
+     Made manifest in the windless calm, arise.
+
+     Streaks fairy green are traced on backward ways,
+     Through vacant regions lightly overleapt,
+     With pauses, where in soft pathetic haze
+     Are phantoms of the joys that died unwept.
+
+     Seven years since one, who bore with me the yoke
+     Of household schooling, missed me from her side.
+     When called away from sorrowing woman folk
+     A prouder task with brothers twain I plied.
+
+     I came a child, and home was round me still,
+     No terror snapt the silken cord of trust;
+     My accents changed not, and the low "I will"
+     Silenced like halcyon plumes the loud "you must."
+
+     I lisped my Latin underneath the gloom
+     Of timbers dark as frowning usher's looks,
+     Where thought would stray beyond that sordid room
+     To saucy chessmen and to feathered hooks.
+
+     And soon I sat below my grandsire's bust,
+     Which in the school he loved not deigns to stand,
+     That Earl, who forced his compeers to be just,
+     And wrought in brave old age what youth had
+     planned.
+
+     But no ancestral majesties could fix
+     The wistful eye, which fell, and fondly read,
+     Fresh carven on the panel, letters six,
+     A brother's name, more sacred than the dead.
+
+     How far too sweet for school he seemed to me,
+     How ripe for combat with the wits of men,
+     How childlike in his manhood! Can it be?
+     Can I indeed be now what he was then?
+
+     He past from sight; my laughing life remained
+     Like merry waves that ripple to the bank,
+     Curved round the spot where longing eyes are strained,
+     Because beneath the lake a treasure sank.
+
+     Dear as the token of a loss to some,
+     And praised for likeness, this was well; and yet
+     'Twas better still that younger friends should come,
+     Whose love might grow entwined with no regret.
+
+     They came; and one was of a northern race,
+     Who bore the island galley on his shield,
+     Grand histories on his name, and in his face
+     A bright soul's ardour fearlessly revealed.
+
+     We trifled, toiled, and feasted, far apart
+     From churls, who wondered what our friendship
+     meant;
+     And in that coy retirement heart to heart
+     Drew closer, and our natures were content.
+
+     My noblest playmate lost, I still withdrew
+     From dull excitement which the Graces dread,
+     And talked in saunterings with the gentle few
+     Of tunes we practised, and of rhymes we read.
+
+     We swam through twilight waters, or we played
+     Like spellbound captives in the Naiad's grot;
+     Coquetted with the oar, and wooed the shade
+     On dainty banks of shy forget-me-not.
+
+     Oh Thames! my memories bloom with all thy flowers,
+     Thy kindness sighs to me from every tree:
+     Farewell I I thank thee for the frolic hours,
+     I bid thee, whilst thou flowest, speak of me.
+
+     July 28th, 1864.
+
+
+
+
+PHAEDRA'S NURSE
+
+     A plague on the whimsies of sickly folk!
+     What am I to do? What not?
+     Why, here's the fair sky, and here you lie
+     With your couch in a sunny spot.
+     For this you were puling whenever you spoke,
+     Craving to lie outside,
+     And now you'll be sure not to bide.
+
+     You won't lie still for an hour;
+     You'll want to be back to your bower--
+     Longing, and never enjoying,
+     Shifting from yea to nay.
+     For all that you taste is cloying,
+     And sweet is the far away.
+
+     'Tis hard to be sick, but worse
+     To have to sit by and nurse,
+     For that is single, but this is double,
+     The mind in pain, and the hands in trouble.
+     The life men live is a weary coil,
+     There is no rest from woe and toil;
+     And if there's aught elsewhere more dear
+     Than drawing breath as we do here,
+     That darkness holds
+     In black inextricable folds.
+
+     Lovesick it seems are we
+     Of this, whate'er it be,
+     That gleams upon the earth;
+     Because that second birth,
+     That other life no man hath tried.
+
+     What lies below
+     No god will show,
+     And we to whom the truth's denied
+     Drift upon idle fables to and fro.
+
+
+
+
+BELOW BOULTER'S LOCK
+
+     The aspen grows on the maiden's bank,
+     Down swoops the breeze on the bough,
+     Quick rose the gust, and suddenly sank,
+     Like wrath on my sweetheart's brow.
+
+     The tree is caught, the boat dreads nought,
+     Sheltered and safe below;
+     The bank is high, and the wind runs by,
+     Giving us leave to row.
+
+     The bank was dipping low and lower,
+     Showing the glowing west,
+     The oar went slower, for either rower
+     The river was heaving her breast.
+
+     That sunset seemed to my dauntless steerer
+     The lifting and breaking of day,
+     That flush on the wave to me was dearer
+     Than shade on a windless way.
+
+     June 2nd, 1868.
+
+
+
+
+FROM HALS DON TO CHELTENHAM TO TWO LITTLE LADIES.
+
+     Across three shires I stretch and lean,
+     To gaze beyond the hills that screen
+     The trustful eyes and gracious mien
+     Of unforgotten Geraldine.
+
+     Up Severn sea my fancy leadeth,
+     And past the springs of Thames it speedeth,
+     On to the brilliant town, which needeth,
+     Far less than I, the laugh of Edith.
+
+     Sad gales have changed my woodland scene
+     To russet-brown from gold and green;
+     Cold and forlorn like me hath been
+     The boat that carried Geraldine.
+
+     On silent paths the whistler weedeth,
+     And what his tune is no one heedeth;
+     On hay beneath the linhay feedeth
+     The ass that felt the hand of Edith.
+
+     Oh cherished thought of Geraldine,
+     I'd rhyme till summer, if the Queen
+     Would blow her trumpets and proclaim
+     Fresh rhymes for that heroic name.
+
+     Oh babbler gay as river stickle,
+     Next year you'll be too old to tickle;
+     But while my Torridge flows I'll say
+     "Blithe Edith liked me half day."
+
+
+
+
+A POOR FRENCH SAILOR'S SCOTTISH SWEETHEART
+
+     I cannot forget my jo,
+     I bid him be mine in sleep;
+     But battle and woe have changed him so,
+     There's nothing to do but weep.
+
+     My mother rebukes me yet,
+     And I never was meek before;
+     His jacket is wet, his lip cold set,
+     He'll trouble our home no more.
+
+     Oh breaker of reeds that bend!
+     Oh quencher of tow that smokes!
+     I'd rather descend to my sailor friend
+     Than prosper with lofty folks.
+
+     I'm lying beside the gowan,
+     My jo in the English bay;
+     I'm Annie Rowan, his Annie Rowan,
+     He called me his _bien-aimêe_.
+
+     I'll hearken to all you quote,
+     Though I'd rather be deaf and free;
+     The little he wrote in the sinking boat
+     Is Bible and charm for me.
+
+
+
+
+A GARDEN GIRL
+
+     Oh, scanty white garment! they ask why I wear you,
+     Such thin chilly vesture for one that is frail,
+     And dull words of prose cannot truly declare you
+     To be what I bid you be, love's coat of mail.
+
+     You were but a symbol of cleanness and rest,
+     To don in the summer time, three years ago;
+     And now you encompass a care-stricken breast
+     With fabric of fancy to keep it aglow.
+
+     For when it was Lammastide two before this,
+     When freshening my face after freshening my lilies,
+     A door opened quickly, and down fell a kiss,
+     The lips unforeseen were my passionate Willie's.
+
+     My Willie was travel-worn, Willie was cold,
+     And I might not keep but a dear lock of hair.
+     I clad him in silk and I decked him with gold,
+     But welcome and fondness were choked in despair.
+
+     I follow the wheels, and he turns with a sob,
+     We fold our mute hands on the death of the hour;
+     For heart-breaking virtues and destinies rob
+     The soul of her nursling, the thorn of her flower.
+
+     The lad's mind is rooted, his passion red-fruited,
+     The head I caressed is another's delight;
+     And I, though I stray through the year sorrow-suited,
+     At Lammas, for Willie's sake, robe me in white.
+
+
+
+
+TO TWO YOUNG LADIES
+
+     There are, I've read, two troops of years,
+     One troop is called the teens;
+     They bring sweet gifts to little dears,
+     Ediths and Geraldines.
+
+     The others have no certain name,
+     Though children of the sun,
+     They come to wrinkled men, and claim
+     Their treasures one by one.
+
+     There is a hermit faint and dry,
+     In things called rhymes he dabbles,
+     And seventeen months have heard him sigh
+     For Cissy and for Babbles.
+
+     Once, when he seemed to be bedridden,
+     These girls said, "Make us lines,"
+     He tried to court, as he was bidden,
+     His vanished Valentines.
+
+     Now, three days late, yet ere they ask,
+     He's meekly undertaken
+     To do his sentimental task,
+     Philandering, though forsaken.
+
+     I pace my paradise, and long
+     To show it off to Peris;
+     They come not, but it can't be wrong
+     To raise their ghosts by queries.
+
+     Is Geraldine in flowing robes?
+     Has Edith rippling curls?
+     And do their ears prolong the lobes
+     Weighed down with gold and pearls?
+
+     And do they know the verbs of France?
+     And do they play duetts?
+     And do they blush when led to dance?
+     And are they called coquettes?
+
+     Oh, Cissy, if the heartless year
+     Sets our brief loves asunder!
+     Oh, Babbles, whom I daren't call dear!
+     What can I do but wonder?
+
+     I wonder what you're both become,
+     Whether you're children still;
+     I pause with fingers twain and thumb
+     Closed on my faltering quill;
+
+     I pause to think how I decay,
+     And you win grace from Time.
+     Perhaps ill-natured folks would say
+     He's pausing for a rhyme.
+
+     The sun, who drew us far apart,
+     Might lessen my regrets,
+     Would he but deign to use his art
+     In painting your vignettes.
+
+     Then though I groaned for losing half
+     Of joys that memory traces,
+     I could forego the talk, the laugh,
+     In welcoming the faces.
+
+
+
+
+A HOUSE AND A GIRL
+
+     The strawberry tree and the crimson thorn,
+     And Fanny's myrtle and William's vine,
+     And honey of bountiful jessamine,
+     Are gone from the homestead where I was born.
+
+     I gaze from my Grandfather's terrace wall,
+     And then I bethink me how once I stept
+     Through rooms where my Mother had blest me,
+     and wept
+     To yield them to strangers, and part with them all.
+
+     My Father, like Matthew the publican, ceased
+     Full early from hoarding with stainless mind,
+     To Torrington only and home inclined,
+     Where brotherhood, cousinhood, graced his feast.
+
+     I meet his remembrance in market lane,
+     'Neath town-hall pillars and churchyard limes,
+     In streets where he tried a thousand times
+     To chasten anger and soften pain.
+
+     Ah I would there were some one that I could aid,
+     Though lacking the simpleness, lacking the worth,
+     Yet wanted and trusted by right of birth,
+     Some townfellow stripling, some Torrington maid.
+
+     Oh pitiful waste! oh stubborn neglect!
+     Oh pieties smothered for thirty years!
+     Oh gleanings of kindness in dreams and tears!
+     Oh drift cast up from a manhood wrecked!
+
+     There's one merry maiden hath carelessly crossed
+     The threshold I dread, and she never discerns
+     In keepsakes she thanks me for, lessons she learns,
+     A sign of the grace that I squandered and lost.
+
+     My birthplace to Meg is but window and stone,
+     My knowledge a wilderness where she can stray,
+     To keep what she gathers or throw it away;
+     So Meg lets me laugh with her, mourning alone.
+
+
+
+
+A FELLOW PASSENGER UNKNOWN
+
+     Maiden, hastening to be wise,
+     Maiden, reading with a rage,
+     Envy fluttereth round the page
+     Whereupon thy downward eyes
+     Rove and rest, and melt maybe--
+     Virgin eyes one may not see,
+     Gathering as the bee
+     Takes from cherry tree;
+     As the robin's bill
+     Frets the window sill,
+     Maiden, bird, and bee,
+     Three from me half hid,
+     Doing what we did
+     When our minds were free.
+
+     Those romantic pages wist
+     What romance is in the look.
+     Oh, that I could be so bold,
+     So romantic as to bold
+     Half an hour the pensive wrist,
+     And the burden of the book.
+
+
+
+
+NUREMBERG CEMETERY
+
+     Outside quaint Albert Durer's town,
+     Where Freedom set her stony crown,
+     Whereof the gables red and brown
+     Curve over peaceful forts that screen
+     Spring bloom and garden lanes between
+     The scarp and counter-scarp. Her feet
+     One highday of Saint Paraclete
+     Were led along the dolorous street
+     By stepping stones towards love and heaven
+     And pauses of the soul twice seven.
+
+     Beneath the flowerless trees, where May,
+     Proud of her orchards' fine array,
+     Abates her claim and holds no sway,
+     Past iron tombs, the useless shields
+     Of cousins slain in Elsass fields,
+     The girl, with fair neck meekly bowed.
+
+     Mores bravely through a sauntering crowd,
+     Hastening, as she was bid, to breathe
+     Above the breathless, and enwreathe,
+     With pansies earned by spinster thrift,
+     And lillybells, a wooer's gift,
+     A stone which glimmers in the shade
+     Of yonder silent colonnade,
+     Over against the slates that hold
+     Marie in lines of slender gold,
+     A token wrought by fictive fingers,
+     A garland, last year's offering, lingers,
+     Hung out of reach, and facing north.
+     And lo! thereout a wren flies forth,
+     And Gertrude, straining on toetips,
+     Just touches with her prayerful lips
+     The warm home which a bird unskilled
+     In grief and hope knows how to build.
+
+     The maid can mourn, but not the wren.
+     Birds die, death's shade belongs to men.
+
+     1877.
+
+
+
+
+MORTAL THING NOT WHOLLY CLAY
+
+     J'aurai passé sur la terre,
+     N'ayant rien aimé que l'amour.
+
+     Mortal thing not wholly clay,
+     Mellowing only to decay,
+     Speak, for airs of spring unfold
+     Wistful sorrows long untold.
+
+     Under a poplar turning green,
+     Say for age that seems so bold,
+     Oh, the saddest words to say,
+     "This might have been."
+
+     Twenty, thirty years ago--
+     Woe, woe, the seasons flow--
+     Beatings of a zephyr's plume
+     Might have broken down the doom.
+
+     Gossamer scruples fell between
+     Thee and this that might have been;
+     Now the clinging cobwebs grow;
+     Ah! the saddest loss is this,
+     A good maid's kiss.
+
+     Soon, full soon, they will be here,
+     Twisting withies for the bier;
+     Under a heathen yew-tree's shade
+     Will a wasted heart be laid--
+     Heart that never dared be dear.
+
+     Leave it so, to lie unblest,
+     Priest of love, just half confessed.
+
+
+
+
+A SICK FRENCH POET'S ENGLISH FRIENDS
+
+     When apple buds began to swell,
+     And Procne called for Philomel,
+     Down there, where Seine caresseth sea
+     Two lassies deigned, or chanced, to be
+     Playmates or votaries for me,
+     Miss Euphrasie, Miss Eulalie.
+
+     Then dates of birth dropt out of mind,
+     For one was brave as two were kind;
+     In cheerful vigil one designed
+     A maze of wit for two to wind;
+     And that grey Muse who served the three
+     Broke daylight into reverie.
+
+     Peace lit upon a fluttering vein,
+     And, self forgetting, on the brain,
+     On rifts, by passion wrought, again
+     Splashed from the sky of childhood rain;
+     And rid of afterthought were we,
+     And from foreboding sweetly free.
+
+     Now falls the apple, bleeds the vine,
+     And moved by some autumnal sign,
+     I, who in spring was glad, repine,
+     And ache without my anodyne.
+     Oh things that were, oh things that are,
+     Oh setting of my double star!
+
+     This day this way an Iris came,
+     And brought a scroll, and showed a name.
+     Now surely they who thus reclaim
+     Acquaintance should relight a flame.
+     So speed, gay steed, that I may see
+     Dear Euphrasie, dear Eulalie.
+
+     Behind this ivy screen are they
+     Whose girlhood flowered on me last May.
+     The world is lord of all; I pray
+     They be not courtly--who can say?
+     Well, well, remembrance held in fee
+     Is good, nay, best. I turn and flee.
+
+
+
+
+L'OISEAU BLEU
+
+     Down with the oar, I toil no more.
+     Trust to the boat; we rest, we float.
+     Under the loosestrife and alder we roam
+     To seek and search for the halcyon's home.
+
+     Blue bird, pause; thou hast no cause
+     To grudge me the sight of fishbones white.
+     Thine is the only nest now to find.
+     Show it me, birdie; be calm, be kind.
+
+     Wander all day in quest of prey,
+     Dart and gleam, and ruffle the stream;
+     Then for the truth that the old folks sing,
+     Comfort the twilight, and droop thy wing.
+
+
+
+
+HOME, PUP!
+
+     Euphemia Seton of Urchinhope,
+     The wife of the farmer of Tynnerandoon,
+     Stands lifting her eyes to the whitening slope,
+     And longs for her laddies at suppertime soon.
+
+     The laddies, the dog, and the witless sheep,
+     Are bound to come home, for the snow will be deep.
+     The mother is pickling a scornful word
+     To throw at the head of the elder lad, Hugh;
+     But talkative Jamie, as gay as a bird,
+     Will have nothing beaten save snow from his shoe.
+     He has fire in his eyes, he has curls on his head,
+     And a silver brooch and a kerchief red.
+
+     Poor Hugh, trudging on with his collie pup Jess,
+     Has kept his plain mind to himself all the way,
+     Just quietly giving his dog the caress
+     Which no one gave him for a year and a day.
+     And luckily quadrupeds seldom despise
+     Our lumbering wits and our lack-lustre eyes.
+
+     Deep down in the corrie, high up on the brae,
+     Where Shinnel and Scar tumble down from the rock
+     The wicked white ladies have been at their play,
+     The wind has been pushing the leewardly flock.
+     The white land should tell where the creatures are gone,
+     But snow hides the snow that their hooves have been on.
+
+     Ah! down there in Urchinhope nobody knows
+     How blinding the flakes, and the north wind how cruel.
+     Euphemia's gudeman will come for his brose,
+     But far up the hill is her darling, her jewel.
+     She sees something crimson. "Oh, gudeman, look up!
+     There's Jamie's cravat on the neck of the pup."
+
+     "Where, where have ye been, Jess, and where did ye
+     leave him?
+     Now just get a bite, pup, then show me my pet.
+     Poor Jamie 'll be tired, and the sleep will deceive him;
+     Oh, stir him, oh, guide him, before the sun set!"
+     "Quick, Jock, bring a lantern! quick, Sandie, some
+     wraps!
+     Before ye win till him 'twill darken, perhaps."
+
+     Jess whimpered; the young moon was down in the
+     west;
+     A shelter-stone jutted from under the hill;
+     Stiff hands beneath Jamie's blue bonnet were pressed,
+     And over his beating heart one that was still.
+     Bareheaded and coatless, to windward lay Hugh,
+     And high on his back the snow gathered and grew.
+
+     "Now fold them in plaids, they'll be up with the sun;
+     Their bed will be warm, and the blood is so strong.
+     How wise to send Jessie; now cannily run.
+     Poor pup, are ye tired? we'll be home before long."
+     Jess licked a cold cheek, and the bonny boy spoke:
+     "Where's Hugh?" The pup whimpered, but Hugh
+     never woke.
+
+
+
+
+A SOLDIER'S MIRACLE
+
+     'Twas when we learnt we could be beat;
+     Our star misled us, and' we strayed.
+     Elsewhere the host was in retreat;
+     We were a guideless lost brigade.
+
+     We stumbled on a town in doubt,
+     To halt and sup we were full fain,
+     The man that held the chart cried out,
+     "'Tis Vaucouleurs in old Lorraine."
+
+     In Vaucouleurs we will not doubt,
+     For here, when need was sore, Saint Jane
+     Arose, and girt herself to rout
+     The foes that troubled her Lorraine.
+
+     So here we feast in faith to-night,
+     To-morrow we'll rejoin the host
+     Drink, drink! the wine is pure and bright,
+     And Jane our maiden is the toast.
+
+     But I, that faced the window, caught
+     A passing cloud, a foreign plume,
+     A Prussian helmet; and the thought
+     Of peril chilled the tavern room.
+
+     We rose, we glared through twilight panes,
+     We muttered curses bosom-deep;
+     A tell-tale gallop scared the lanes,
+     We grudged to spoil our comrades' sleep.
+
+     Then louder than the Uhlan's hoof
+     Fell storm from sky and flood on banks,
+     September's passion smote the roof;
+     We blest it, and to Jane gave thanks.
+
+     Betwixt us and that Uhlan's mates
+     A bridgless river strongly flowed.
+     A sign was shown that checked the fates,
+     And on that storm our maiden rode.
+
+
+
+
+A BALLAD FOR A BOY
+
+     When George the Third was reigning a hundred
+     years ago,
+     He ordered Captain Farmer to chase the foreign foe.
+     "You're not afraid of shot," said he, "you're not
+     afraid of wreck,
+     So cruise about the west of France in the frigate
+     called _Quebec_.
+
+     Quebec was once a Frenchman's town, but twenty
+     years ago
+     King George the Second sent a man called General
+     Wolfe, you know,
+     To clamber up a precipice and look into Quebec,
+     As you'd look down a hatchway when standing on
+     the deck.
+
+     If Wolfe could beat the Frenchmen then so you can
+     beat them now.
+     Before he got inside the town he died, I must allow.
+     But since the town was won for us it is a lucky name,
+     And you'll remember Wolfe's good work, and you
+     shall do the same."
+
+     Then Farmer said, "I'll try, sir," and Farmer bowed
+     so low
+     That George could see his pigtail tied in a velvet bow.
+     George gave him his commission, and that it might be
+     safer,
+     Signed "King of Britain, King of France," and sealed
+     it with a wafer.
+
+     Then proud was Captain Farmer in a frigate of his
+     own,
+     And grander on his quarter-deck than George upon
+     his throne.
+     He'd two guns in his cabin, and on the spar-deck ten,
+     And twenty on the gun-deck, and more than ten score
+     men.
+
+     And as a huntsman scours the brakes with sixteen
+     brace of dogs,
+     With two-and-thirty cannon the ship explored the fogs.
+     From Cape la Hogue to Ushant, from Rochefort to
+     Belleisle,
+     She hunted game till reef and mud were rubbing on
+     her keel.
+
+     The fogs are dried, the frigate's side is bright with
+     melting tar,
+     The lad up in the foretop sees square white sails afar;
+     The east wind drives three square-sailed masts from
+     out the Breton bay,
+     And "Clear for action!" Farmer shouts, and reefers
+     yell "Hooray!"
+
+     The Frenchmen's captain had a name I wish I could
+     pronounce;
+     A Breton gentleman was he, and wholly free from
+     bounce,
+     One like those famous fellows who died by guillotine
+     For honour and the fleurs-de-lys, and Antoinette the
+     Queen.
+
+     The Catholic for Louis, the Protestant for George,
+     Each captain drew as bright a sword as saintly smiths
+     could forge;
+     And both were simple seamen, but both could under-
+     stand
+     How each was bound to win or die for flag and native
+     land.
+
+     The French ship was _La Surveillante_, which means
+     the watchful maid;
+     She folded up her head-dress and began to cannonade.
+     Her hull was clean, and ours was foul; we had to
+     spread more sail.
+     On canvas, stays, and topsail yards her bullets came
+     like hail.
+
+     Sore smitten were both captains, and many lads beside,
+     And still to cut our rigging the foreign gunners tried.
+     A sail-clad spar came flapping down athwart a blazing
+     gun;
+     We could not quench the rushing flames, and so the
+     Frenchman won.
+
+     Our quarter-deck was crowded, the waist was all
+     aglow;
+     Men clung upon the taffrail half scorched, but loth
+     to go;
+     Our captain sat where once he stood, and would not
+     quit his chair.
+     He bade his comrades leap for life, and leave him
+     bleeding there.
+
+     The guns were hushed on either side, the Frenchmen
+     lowered boats,
+     They flung us planks and hencoops, and everything
+     that floats.
+     They risked their lives, good fellows! to bring their
+     rivals aid.
+     'Twas by the conflagration the peace was strangely
+     made.
+
+     _La Surveillante_ was like a sieve; the victors had no rest.
+     They had to dodge the east wind to reach the port of
+     Brest.
+     And where the waves leapt lower and the riddled ship
+     went slower,
+     In triumph, yet in funeral guise, came fisher-boats to
+     tow her.
+
+     They dealt with us as brethren, they mourned for
+     Farmer dead;
+     And as the wounded captives passed each Breton
+     bowed the head.
+     Then spoke the French Lieutenant, "'Twas fire that
+     won, not we.
+     You never struck your flag to us; you'll go to
+     England free."
+
+     'Twas the sixth day of October, seventeen hundred
+     seventy-nine,
+     A year when nations ventured against us to combine,
+     _Quebec_ was burnt and Farmer slain, by us remem-
+     bered not;
+     But thanks be to the French book wherein they're
+     not forgot.
+
+     Now you, if you've to fight the French, my youngster,
+     bear in mind
+     Those seamen of King Louis so chivalrous and kind;
+     Think of the Breton gentlemen who took our lads to
+     Brest,
+     And treat some rescued Breton as a comrade and a
+     guest.
+
+     1885.
+
+
+
+
+EPILOGUE.
+
+     Exactos, puer, esse decern tibi gratulor annos;
+     Hactenus es matris cura patrisque decus.
+     Incumbis studiis, et amas et amaris, et audes
+     Pro patria raucis obvius ire fretis.
+     Non erimus comites, fili, tibi; sed memor esto
+     Matris in oceano cum vigil astra leges.
+     Imbelli patre natus habe tamen arma Britannus,
+     Militiam perfer, spemque fidemque fove.
+
+     1889.
+
+
+
+
+JE MAINTIENDRAI
+
+     (FOR THE TUNE CALLED SANTA LUCIA)
+
+     Rise, rise, ye Devon folk!
+     Toss off the traitor's yoke,
+     Peer through the rain and smoke,
+     Look, look again!
+     Run down to Brixham pier--
+     Quick, quick, the Prince is near!
+     All the rights ye reckon dear
+     He will maintain.
+
+     Chorus--
+     Welcome, sweet English rose!
+     Welcome, Dutch Roman nose!
+     Scatter, scatter all the Gospel's foes,
+     William and Mary!
+
+     High over gulls and boats
+     Bright, free the banner floats;
+     Hearken, hear the clarion notes!
+     Lift hats and stare.
+     Courtiers who break the laws,
+     Tame cats with velvet paws,
+     Hypocrites with poisoned claws,
+     Croppies, beware!
+
+     Trust, Sir, the western shires,
+     Trust those who baffled Spain;
+     We'll be hardy like our sires.
+     Down, Pope, again!
+     Off, off with sneak and thief!
+     We'll have an honest chief.
+     England is no Popish fief;
+     Free kings shall reign.
+
+
+
+
+SAPPHICS FOR A TUNE
+
+MADE BY REQUEST OF A SONGSTRESS, AND REJECTED
+
+     Relics of battle dropt in sandy valley,
+     Bugle that screamed a warning of surprise,
+     Shreds of the colour torn before the rally,
+     Jewel of troth-plight seen by dying eyes--
+     Welcome, dear tokens of the lad we mourn.
+     Tell how that day his faithful heart was leaping;
+     Help me, who linger in the home forlorn,
+     Throw me a rainbow on my endless weeping.
+
+     1885.
+
+
+
+
+JOHNNIE OF BRAIDISLEE
+
+A SECOND ATTEMPT, ACCEPTED
+
+     Down the burnside hurry thee, gentle mavis,
+     Find the bothie, and flutter about the doorway.
+     Touch the lattice tenderly, bid my mother
+     Fetch away Johnnie.
+
+     Mother, uprouse thee! many bitter arrows
+     Out of one bosom gather, and for ever
+     Pray for one resting in a chilly forest
+     Under an oak tree.
+
+     Gentle mavis! hover about the window
+     Where the sun shines on happy things of home life,
+     Bid the clansmen troop to the gory dingle.
+     Clansmen, avenge me!
+
+     Mother! oh, my mother! upon a cradle
+     Woven of willows, with a bow beside me,
+     Near the kirk of Durrisdeer, under yew boughs,
+     Rock thy beloved.
+
+     1885.
+
+
+
+
+EUROPA
+
+     May the foemen's wives, the foemen's children,
+     Feel the kid leaping when he lifts the surge,
+     Tumult of swart sea, and the reefs that shudder
+     Under the scourge.
+
+     On such a day to the false bull Europa
+     Trusted her snowy limbs; and courage failed her,
+     Where the whales swarmed, the terror of sea-change
+     and
+     Treason assailed her.
+
+     For the meadow-fays had she duly laboured,
+     Eager for flowers to bind at eventide;
+     Shimmering night revealed the stars, the billows,
+     Nothing beside.
+
+     Brought to Crete, the realm of a hundred cities,
+     "Oh, my sire! my duty!" she clamoured sadly.
+     "Oh, the forfeit! and oh, the girl unfathered,
+     Wilfully, madly!
+
+     What shore is this, and what have I left behind me?
+     When a maid sins 'tis not enough to die.
+     Am I awake? or through the ivory gateway
+     Cometh a lie?
+
+     Cometh a hollow fantasy to the guiltless?
+     Am I in dreamland? Was it best to wander
+     Through the long waves, or better far to gather
+     Rosebuds out yonder?
+
+     Now, were he driven within the reach of anger,
+     Steel would I point against the villain steer,
+     Grappling, rending the horns of the bull, the monster
+     Lately so dear.
+
+     Shameless I left the homestead and the worship,
+     Shameless, 'fore hell's mouth, wide agape, I pause.
+     Hear me, some god, and set me among the lions
+     Stript for their jaws.
+
+     Ere on the cheek that is so fair to look on
+     Swoop the grim fiends of hunger and decay,
+     Tigers shall spring and raven, ere the sweetness
+     Wither away.
+
+     Worthless Europa! cries the severed father,
+     Why dost thou loiter, cling to life, and doat?
+     Hang on this rowan; hast thou not thy girdle
+     Meet for thy throat?
+
+     Lo, the cliff, the precipice, edged for cleaving,
+     Trust the quick wind, or take a leman's doom.
+     Live on and spin; thou wast a prince's daughter;
+     Toil at the loom.
+
+     Pass beneath the hand of a foreign lady;
+     Serve a proud rival." Lo, behind her back
+     Slyly laughed Venus, and her archer minion
+     Held the bow slack.
+
+     Then, the game played out, "Put away," she whispered,
+     "Wrath and upbraiding, and the quarrel's heat,
+     When the loathed bull surrenders horns, for riving,
+     Low at your feet.
+
+     Bride of high Jove's majesty, bride unwitting,
+     Cease from your sobbing; rise, your luck is rare.
+     Your name's the name which half the world divided
+     Henceforth shall bear."
+
+
+
+
+
+HYPERMNESTRA
+
+     Let me tell Lydè of wedding-law slighted,
+     Penance of maidens and bootless task,
+     Wasting of water down leaky cask,
+     Crime in the prison-pit slowly requited.
+
+     Miscreant brides! for their grooms they slew.
+     One out of many is not attainted,
+     One alone blest and for ever sainted,
+     False to her father, to wedlock true.
+
+     Praise her! she gave her young husband the warning.
+     Praise her for ever! She cried, "Arise!
+     Flee from the slumber that deadens the eyes;
+     Flee from the night that hath never a morning.
+
+     Baffle your host who contrived our espousing,
+     Baffle my sisters, the forty and nine,
+     Raging like lions that mangle the kink,
+     Each on the blood of a quarry carousing.
+
+     I am more gentle, I strike not thee,
+     I will not hold thee in dungeon tower.
+     Though the king chain me, I will not cower,
+     Though my sire banish me over the sea.
+
+     Freely run, freely sail, good luck attend thee;
+     Go with the favour of Venus and Night.
+     On thy tomb somewhere and some day bid write
+     Record of her who hath dared to befriend thee."
+
+
+
+
+BARINE
+
+     Lady, if you ever paid
+     Forfeit for a heart betrayed,
+     If for broken pledge you were
+     By one tooth, one nail less fair,
+
+     I would trust. But when a vow
+     Slips from off your faithless brow,
+     Forth you flash with purer lustre,
+     And a fonder troop you muster.
+
+     You with vantage mock the shade
+     Of a mother lowly laid,
+     Silent stars and depths of sky,
+     And high saints that cannot die.
+
+     Laughs the Queen of love, I say,
+     Laughs at this each silly fay,
+     Laughs the rogue who's ever whetting
+     Darts of fire on flint of fretting.
+
+     Ay, the crop of youth is yours,
+     Fresh enlistments throng your doors,
+     Veterans swear you serve them ill,
+     Threaten flight, and linger still.
+
+     Dames and thrifty greybeards dread
+     Lest you turn a stripling's head;
+     Poor young brides are in dismay
+     Lest you sigh their lords away.
+
+
+
+
+TO BRITOMART MUSING
+
+     Classic throat and wrist and ear
+     Tempt a gallant to draw near;
+     Must romantic lip and eye
+     Make him falter, bid him fly?
+
+     If Camilla's upright lance
+     By the contrast did enhance
+     Charms of curving neck and waist,
+     Yet she never was embraced.
+
+     She was girt to take the field,
+     And her aventayle concealed
+     Half the grace that might have won
+     Homage from Evander's son.
+
+     Countess Montfort, clad in steel,
+     Showed she could both dare and feel;
+     Smiled to greet the champion ships,
+     Touched Sir Walter with the lips.
+
+     She could charm, although in dress
+     Like the sainted shepherdess,
+     Jeanne, a leader void of guile,
+     Jeanne, a woman all the while.
+
+     Damsel with the mind of man,
+     Lay not softness under ban;
+     For the glory of thy sex
+     Twine with myrtle manly necks.
+
+
+
+
+HERSILIA
+
+     I see her stand with arms a-kimbo,
+     A blue and blonde s_ub aureo nimbo_;
+     She scans her literary limbo,
+     The reliques of her teens;
+
+     Things like the chips of broken stilts,
+     Or tatters of embroidered quilts,
+     Or nosegays tossed away by jilts,
+     Notes, ballads, tales, and scenes.
+
+     Soon will she gambol like a lamb,
+     Fenced, but not tethered, near the Cam.
+     Maybe she'll swim where Byron swam,
+     And chat beneath the limes,
+
+     Where Arthur, Alfred, Fitz, and Brooks
+     Lit thought by one another's looks,
+     Embraced their jests and kicked their books,
+     In England's happier times;
+
+     Ere magic poets felt the gout,
+     Ere Darwin whelmed the Church in doubt
+     Ere Apologia had found out
+     The round world must be right;
+
+     When Gladstone, bluest of the blue,
+     Read all Augustine's folios through;
+     When France was tame, and no one knew
+     We and the Czar would fight.
+
+     "Sixty years since" (said dear old Scott;
+     We're bound, you know, to quote Sir Wat)
+     This isle had not a sweeter spot
+     Than Neville's Court by Granta;
+
+     No Newnham then, no kirtled scribes,
+     No Clelia to harangue the tribes,
+     No race for girls, no apple bribes
+     To tempt an Atalanta.
+
+     We males talked fast, we meant to be
+     World-betterers all at twenty-three,
+     But somehow failed to level thee,
+     Oh battered fort of Edom!
+
+     Into the breach our daughters press,
+     Brave patriots in unwarlike dress,
+     Adepts at thought-in-idleness,
+     Sweet devotees of freedom.
+
+     And now it is your turn, fair soul,
+     To see the fervent car-wheels roll,
+     Your rivals clashing past the goal,
+     Some sly Milanion leading.
+
+     Ah! with them may your Genius bring
+     Some Celia, some Miss Mannering;
+     For youthful friendship is a thing
+     More precious than succeeding.
+
+
+
+
+SAPPHO'S CURSING
+
+     Woman dead, lie there;
+     No record of thee
+     Shall there ever be,
+     Since thou dost not share
+     Roses in Pieria grown.
+     In the deathful cave,
+     With the feeble troop
+     Of the folk that droop,
+     Lurk and flit and crave,
+     Woman severed and far-flown.
+
+
+
+
+A SERVING MAN'S EPITAPH
+
+     A slave--oh yes, a slave!
+     But in a freeman's grave.
+     By thee, when work was done,
+     Timanthes, foster-son,
+     By thee whom I obeyed,
+     My master, I was laid.
+     Live long, from trouble free;
+     But if thou com'st to me,
+     Paying to age thy debt,
+     Thine am I, master, yet.
+
+
+
+
+A SONG TO A SINGER
+
+     Dura fida rubecula,
+     Cur moraris in arbore
+     Dum cadunt folia et brevi
+     Flavet luce November.
+
+     Quid boni tibi destinât
+     Hora crastina? quid petes
+     Antris ex hiemalibus?
+     Quid speras oriturum?
+
+     Est ut hospita te vocet
+     Myrtis, et reseret fores,
+     Ut te vere nitentibus
+     Emiretur ocellis.
+
+     Quod si contigerit tibi,
+     Ter beata vocaberis,
+     Invidenda volucribus,
+     Invidenda poetæ.
+
+
+
+
+AGE AND GIRLHOOD
+
+[Illustration: Greek Passage-199]
+
+     A dry cicale chirps to a lass making hay,
+     "Why creak'st thou, Tithonus?" quoth she. "I don't
+     play;
+     It doubles my toil, your importunate lay;
+     I've earned a sweet pillow, lo! Hesper is nigh;
+     I clasp a good wisp, and in fragrance I lie;
+     But thou art unwearied, and empty, and dry."
+
+
+
+
+A LEGEND OF PORTO SANTO
+
+     A time-worn sage without a home,
+     A man of dim and tearful sight,
+     Up from the hallowed haven clomb
+     In lowly longing for the height.
+
+     He loiters on a half-way rock
+     To hear the waves that pant and seethe,
+     Which give the beats of Nature's clock
+     To mortals conscious that they breathe.
+
+     The buxom waves may nurse a boat,
+     May well nigh seem to soothe and lull
+     The crying of a tethered goat,
+     The trouble of a searching gull.
+
+     There might be comfort in the tide,
+     There might be Lethè in the surge,
+     Could they but hint that oceans hide,
+     That pangs absolve, bereavements purge.
+
+     The thinker, not despairing yet,
+     Upraises limbs not wholly stiff,
+     Half envying him that draws the net,
+     Half proud to combat with the cliff.
+
+     He groans, but soon around his lips
+     Tear-channels bend into a smile,
+     He thinks "They're saying in the ships
+     I'm looking for the hidden isle.
+
+     I climb but as my humours lead,
+     My thoughts are mazed, my will is faint,
+     Yon men who see me roam, they need
+     No Lethè-fount, no shriving saint."
+
+     Good faith! can we believe, or feign
+     Believing, that such lands exist
+     Through ages drenched with blotting rain,
+     For ever folded in the mist?
+
+     Maybe some babe by sirens clothed
+     Swam thence, and brought report thereof.
+     Some hopeful virgin just betrothed
+     Braved the incredulous pilot's scoff;
+
+     And murmuring to a friendly lute,
+     While greybeards snored and beldames laughed,
+     Some minstrel-corsair made pursuit
+     Along the moon's white hunting-shaft;
+
+     Along the straight illumined track
+     The bride, the singer, and the child
+     Fled, far from sceptics, came not back,
+     Engulped? Who knows? perhaps enisled.
+
+     Now were there such another crew,
+     Now would their bark make room for me,
+     Now were that island false or true,
+     I'd go, forgetting, with the three.
+
+
+
+
+TO A LINNET
+
+     My cheerful mate, you fret not for the wires,
+     The changeless limits of your small desires;
+     You heed not winter rime or summer dew,
+     You feel no difference 'twixt old and new;
+     You kindly take the lettuce or the cress
+     Without the cognizance of more and less,
+     Content with light and movement in a cage.
+     Not reckoning hours, nor mortified by age,
+     You bear no penance, you resent no wrong,
+     Your timeless soul exists in each unconscious song.
+
+
+
+
+A SONG FOR A PARTING
+
+     I.
+     Flora will pass from firth to firth;
+     Duty must draw, and vows must bind.
+     Flora will sail half round the earth,
+     Yet will she leave some grace behind.
+
+     II.
+     Waft her, on Faith, from friend to friend,
+     Make her a saint in some far isle;
+     Yet will we keep, till memories end,
+     Something that once was Flora's smile.
+
+
+
+
+MIR IST LEIDE
+
+     Woe worth old Time the lord,
+     Pointing his senseless sword
+     Down on our festal board,
+     Where we would dine,
+     Chilling the kindly hall,
+     Bidding the dainties pall,
+     Making the garlands fall,
+     Souring the wine.
+
+
+
+
+LEBEWOHL--WORDS FOR A TUNE
+
+     I.
+     With these words, Good-bye, Adieu
+     Take I leave to part from you,
+     Leave to go beyond your view,
+     Through the haze of that which is to be;
+     Fare thou forth, and wing thy way,
+     So our language makes me say.
+     Though it yield, the forward spirit needs must pray
+     In the word that is hope's old token.
+
+     II.
+     Though the fountain cease to play,
+     Dew must glitter near the brink,
+     Though the weary mind decay,
+     As of old it thought so must it think.
+     Leave alone the darkling eyes
+     Fixed upon the moving skies,
+     Cross the hands upon the bosom, there to rise
+     To the throb of the faith not spoken.
+
+
+
+
+REMEMBER
+
+[Illustration: Greek Passage-210]
+
+     You come not, as aforetime, to the headstone every
+     day,
+     And I, who died, I do not chide because, my friend,
+     you play;
+     Only, in playing, think of him who once was kind and
+     dear,
+     And, if you see a beauteous thing, just say, he is not
+     here.
+
+
+
+
+APPENDIX
+
+
+
+
+TO THE INFALLIBLE
+
+     ("Ionica," 1858, p. 60)
+
+     Old angler, what device is thine
+     To draw my pleasant friends from me?
+     Thou fishest with a silken line
+     Not the coarse nets of Galilee.
+
+     In stagnant vivaries they lie,
+     Forgetful of their ancient haunts;
+     And how shall he that standeth by
+     Refrain his open mouth from taunts?
+
+     How? by remembering this, that he,
+     Like them, in eddies whirled about,
+     Felt less: for thus they disagree:
+     He can, they could not, bear to doubt.
+
+
+
+
+THE SWIMMER'S WISH
+
+     ("Ionica," 1858, p. 81)
+
+     Fresh from the summer wave, under the beech,
+     Looking through leaves with a far-darting eye,
+     Tossing those river-pearled locks about,
+     Throwing those delicate limbs straight out,
+     Chiding the clouds as they sailed out of reach,
+     Murmured the swimmer, I wish I could fly.
+
+     Laugh, if you like, at the bold reply,
+     Answer disdainfully, flouting my words:
+     How should the listener at simple sixteen
+     Guess what a foolish old rhymer could mean
+     Calmly predicting, "You will surely fly"--
+     Fish one might vie with, but how be like birds?
+
+     Sweet maiden-fancies, at present they range
+     Close to a sister's engarlanded brows,
+     Over the diamonds a mother will wear,
+     In the false flowers to be shaped for her hair.--
+     Slow glide the hours to thee, late be the change,
+     Long be thy rest 'neath the cool beechen boughs!
+
+     Genius and love will uplift thee: not yet,
+     Walk through some passionless years by my side,
+     Chasing the silly sheep, snapping the lily stalk,
+     Drawing my secrets forth, witching my soul with talk.
+     When the sap stays, and the blossom is set,
+     Others will take the fruit, I shall have died.
+
+
+
+
+AN APOLOGY
+
+     ("Ionica," 1858, p. 115)
+
+     Uprose the temple of my love
+     Sculptured with many a mystic theme,
+     All frail and fanciful above,
+     But pillared on a deep esteem.
+
+     It might have been a simpler plan,
+     And traced on more majestic lines;
+     But he that built it was a man
+     Of will unstrung, and vague designs;
+
+     Not worthy, though indeed he wrought
+     With reverence and a meek content,
+     To keep that presence: yet the thought
+     Is there, in frieze and pediment.
+
+     The trophied arms and treasured gold
+     Have passed beneath the spoiler's hand;
+     The shrine is bare, the altar cold,
+     But let the outer fabric stand.
+
+
+
+
+NOTRE DAME--FROM THE SOUTH-EAST
+
+     ("Ionica," 1877)
+
+     Oh lord of high compassion, strong to scorn
+     Ephemeral monsters, who with tragic pain
+     Purgest our trivial humours, once again
+     Through thine own Paris have I roamed, to mourn
+
+     For freemen plagued with cant, ere we were born,
+     For feasts of death, and hatred's harvest wain
+     Piled high, for princes from proud mothers torn,
+     And soft despairs hushed in the waves of Seine.
+
+     Oh Victor, oh my prophet, wilt thou chide
+     If Gudule's pangs, and Marion's frustrate plea,
+     And Gauvrain's promise of a heavenly France,
+     Thy sadly worshipt creatures, almost died
+     This evening, for that spring was on the tree,
+     And April dared in children's eyes to dance?
+
+     April 1877.
+
+
+
+
+IN HONOUR OF MATTHEW PRIOR
+
+[Illustration: Greek Passage-218]
+
+     ("Ionica," 1877)
+
+     I am Her mirror, framed by him
+     Who likes and knows her. On my rim
+     No fret, no bead, no lace.
+     He tells me not to mind the scorning
+     Of every semblance of adorning,
+     Since I receive Her face.
+
+     Sept. 1877.
+
+
+The following little Greek lyric occurs in a letter of December 18,
+1862, to the Rev. E. D. Stone. "My lines," wrote William Johnson, "are
+suggested by the death of Thorwaldsen: he died at the age of seventy,
+imperceptibly, having fallen asleep at a concert. But when I had done
+them, I remembered Provost Hawtrey's last appearance in public at a
+music party, where he fell asleep: and so I value my lines as a bit of
+honour done to him, and it seems odd that I should unintentionally have
+caught in the second and third lines his characteristic sympathy with
+the young...."
+
+
+
+
+NEC CITHARA CARENTEM
+
+[Illustration: Greek Passage-220]
+
+     Guide me with song, kind Muse, to death's dark shade;
+     Keep me in sweet accord with boy and maid,
+     Still in fresh blooms of art and truth arrayed.
+
+     Bear with old age, blithe child of memory!
+     Time loves the good; and youth and thou art nigh
+     To Sophocles and Plato, till they die.
+
+     Playmate of freedom, queen of nightingales,
+     Draw near; thy voice grows faint: my spirit fails
+     Still with thee, whether sleep or death assails.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of Project Gutenberg's Ionica, by William Cory (AKA William Johnson)
+
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+<?xml version="1.0" encoding="iso-8859-1"?>
+
+<!DOCTYPE html
+   PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN"
+   "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" >
+
+<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en">
+  <head>
+    <title>
+      Ionica, by William Cory
+    </title>
+    <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve">
+    
+    body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify}
+    P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; }
+    H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; }
+    hr  { width: 50%; text-align: center;}
+    .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; }
+    blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;}
+    .mynote    {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;}
+    .toc       { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;}
+    .toc2      { margin-left: 20%;}
+    div.fig    { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; }
+    div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; }
+    .figleft   {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;}
+    .figright  {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;}
+    .pagenum   {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal;
+               margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%;
+               text-align: right;}
+    pre        { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;}
+    
+</style>
+  </head>
+  <body>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+
+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Ionica, by William Cory (AKA William Johnson)
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Ionica
+
+Author: William Cory (AKA William Johnson)
+
+Release Date: June 8, 2007 [EBook #21766]
+Last Updated: January 26, 2013
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IONICA ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by David Widger
+
+
+
+
+
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <br /> <br />
+    </p>
+    <h1>
+      IONICA
+    </h1>
+    <h2>
+      BY WILLIAM CORY
+    </h2>
+    <h3>
+      (AKA Johnson)
+    </h3>
+    <p>
+      <br />
+    </p>
+    <div class="fig" style="width:80%">
+      <img alt="IonicaTP (26K)" src="images/IonicaTP.jpg" width="100%" /><br />
+    </div>
+    <p>
+      <br />
+    </p>
+    <h4>
+      WITH BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION AND NOTES BY ARTHUR C. BENSON <br /> FELLOW
+      OF MAGDALENE COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE <br /><br /> THIRD EDITION <br /> <br />
+      LONDON: GEORGE ALLEN <br /> <br /> 1905
+    </h4>
+    <p>
+      <br /> <br />
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <p>
+      <br /> <br />
+    </p>
+    <blockquote>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big>
+      </p>
+      <p>
+        <br />
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> NOTE </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_INTR"> INTRODUCTION </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> DESIDERATO </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> MIMNERMUS IN CHURCH </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> HERACLITUS </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> IOLE </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> STESICHORUS </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> CAIUS GRACCHUS </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> ASTEROPE </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> A DIRGE </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> AN INVOCATION </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> ACADEMUS </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> PROSPERO </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> AMATURUS </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> MORTEM, QUAE VIOLAT SUAVI A PELLIT AMOR </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> TWO FRAGMENTS OF CHILDHOOD </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> WAR MUSIC </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> NUBENTI </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> WORDS FOR A PORTUGUESE AIR </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> ADRIENNE AND MAURICE </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> THE HALLOWING OF THE FLEET </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> THE CAIRN AND THE CHURCH </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> A QUEEN'S VISIT </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> MOON-SET </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> AFTER READING "MAUD" </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> A SONG </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0027"> A STUDY OF BOYHOOD </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0028"> MERCURIALIA </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0029"> REPARABO </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0030"> A BIRTHDAY </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0031"> A NEW YEAR'S DAY </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0032"> A CRUISE </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0033"> A SEPARATION </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0034"> A NEW MICHONNET </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0035"> SAPPHICS </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0036"> A FABLE </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0037"> AMAVI </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_NOTE"> NOTES OF AN INTERVIEW </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0039"> PREPARATION </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0040"> DETERIORA </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0041"> PARTING </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0042"> ALL THAT WAS POSSIBLE </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0043"> SCHEVENINGEN AVENUE </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0044"> MELLIREN </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0045"> A MERRY PARTING </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0046"> SCHOOL FENCIBLES </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0047"> BOCONNOC </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0048"> A SKETCH AFTER BRANTÔME </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0049"> ON LIVERMEAD SANDS </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0050"> LACORDAIRE AT OXFORD </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0051"> A RETROSPECT OF SCHOOL LIFE </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0052"> CLOVELLY BEACH </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0053"> AN EPOCH IN A SWEET LIFE </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0054"> PHAEDRA'S NURSE </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0055"> BELOW BOULTER'S LOCK </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0056"> FROM HALS DON TO CHELTENHAM TO TWO LITTLE
+        LADIES. </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0057"> A POOR FRENCH SAILOR'S SCOTTISH SWEETHEART
+        </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0058"> A GARDEN GIRL </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0059"> TO TWO YOUNG LADIES </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0060"> A HOUSE AND A GIRL </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0061"> A FELLOW PASSENGER UNKNOWN </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0062"> NUREMBERG CEMETERY </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0063"> MORTAL THING NOT WHOLLY CLAY </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0064"> A SICK FRENCH POET'S ENGLISH FRIENDS </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0065"> L'OISEAU BLEU </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0066"> HOME, PUP! </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0067"> A SOLDIER'S MIRACLE </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0068"> A BALLAD FOR A BOY </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_EPIL"> EPILOGUE. </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0070"> JE MAINTIENDRAI </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0071"> SAPPHICS FOR A TUNE </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0072"> JOHNNIE OF BRAIDISLEE </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0073"> EUROPA </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0074"> HYPERMNESTRA </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0075"> BARINE </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0076"> TO BRITOMART MUSING </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0077"> HERSILIA </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0078"> SAPPHO'S CURSING </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0079"> A SERVING MAN'S EPITAPH </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0080"> A SONG TO A SINGER </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0081"> AGE AND GIRLHOOD </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0082"> A LEGEND OF PORTO SANTO </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0083"> TO A LINNET </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0084"> A SONG FOR A PARTING </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0085"> MIR IST LEIDE </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0086"> LEBEWOHL&mdash;WORDS FOR A TUNE </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0087"> REMEMBER </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_APPE"> APPENDIX </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0089"> TO THE INFALLIBLE </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0090"> THE SWIMMER'S WISH </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0091"> AN APOLOGY </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0092"> NOTRE DAME&mdash;FROM THE SOUTH-EAST </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0093"> IN HONOUR OF MATTHEW PRIOR </a>
+      </p>
+      <p class="toc">
+        <a href="#link2H_4_0094"> NEC CITHARA CARENTEM </a>
+      </p>
+    </blockquote>
+    <p>
+      <br /> <br />
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <p>
+      <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      NOTE
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      William Johnson published in 1858 a slender volume bound in green cloth,
+      (Smith, Elder &amp; Co.) which was entitled "Ionica," and which comprised
+      forty-eight poems.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      In 1877 he printed privately a little paper-covered book (Cambridge
+      University Press), entitled "Ionica II," containing twenty-five poems.
+      This book is a rare bibliographical curiosity. It has neither titlepage
+      nor index; it bears no author's name; and it is printed without
+      punctuation, on a theory of the author's, spaces being left, instead of
+      stops, to indicate pauses.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      In 1891 he published a book, "Ionica" (George Allen), which contained most
+      of the contents of the two previous volumes, together with some pieces not
+      previously published&mdash;eighty-five poems in all.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The present volume is a reprint of the 1891 volume; but it has been
+      thought well to include, in an appendix, certain of the poems which
+      appeared in one or other of the first two issues, but were omitted from
+      the 1891 issue, together with a little Greek lyric, with its English
+      equivalent, from the "Letters and Journals."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The poems from page 1 to page 104, Desiderato to All that was possible,
+      appeared in the 1858 volume, together with those on pages 211 to 216, To
+      the Infallible, The Swimmer's Wish, and An Apology. The poems from page
+      105 to page 162, Scheveningen Avenue to L'Oiseau Bleu, appeared in the
+      1877 volume, together with those on pages 217 and 218, Notre Dame and In
+      Honour of Matthew Prior. The remainder of the poems, from page 163 to page
+      210, appeared in the 1891 volume for the first time. The dates subjoined
+      to the poems are those which he himself added, and indicate the date of
+      composition.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_INTR" id="link2H_INTR">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      INTRODUCTION
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      WILLIAM CORY (Johnson) was born at Torrington in Devonshire, on January 9,
+      1823. He was the son of Charles William Johnson, a merchant, who retired
+      at the early age of thirty, with a modest competence, and married his
+      cousin, Theresa Furse, of Halsdon, near Torrington, to whom he had long
+      been attached. He lived a quiet, upright, peaceable life at Torrington,
+      content with little, and discharging simple, kindly, neighbourly duties,
+      alike removed from ambition and indolence. William Cory had always a deep
+      love of his old home, a strong sense of local sanctities and tender
+      associations. "I hope you will always feel," his mother used to say,
+      "wherever you live, that Torrington belongs to you." He said himself, in
+      later years, "I want to be a Devon man and a Torrington man." His memory
+      lingered over the vine-shaded verandah, the jessamine that grew by the
+      balustrade of the steps, the broad-leaved myrtle that covered the wall of
+      the little yard.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The boy was elected on the foundation at Eton in 1832, little guessing
+      that it was to be his home for forty years. He worked hard at school,
+      became a first-rate classical scholar, winning the Newcastle Scholarship
+      in 1841, and being elected Scholar of King's in 1842. He seems to have
+      been a quiet, retiring boy, with few intimate friends, respected for his
+      ability and his courtesy, living a self-contained, bookish life, yet with
+      a keen sense of school patriotism&mdash;though he had few pleasant
+      memories of his boyhood.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Honours came to him fast at Cambridge. He won the Chancellor's English
+      Medal with a poem on Plato in 1843, the Craven Scholarship in 1844. In
+      those days Kingsmen did not enter for the Tripos, but received a degree,
+      without examination, by ancient privilege. He succeeded to a Fellowship in
+      1845, and in the same year was appointed to a Mastership at Eton by Dr.
+      Hawtrey. At Cambridge he seems to have read widely, to have thought much,
+      and to have been interested in social questions. Till that time he had
+      been an unreflecting Tory and a strong High Churchman, but he now adopted
+      more Liberal principles, and for the rest of his life was a convinced
+      Whig. The underlying principle of Whiggism, as he understood it, was a
+      firm faith in human reason. Thus, in a letter of 1875, he represents the
+      Whigs as saying to their adversaries, "You are in a majority now: if I
+      were an ultra-democrat or counter of noses, I should submit to you as
+      having a transcendental &mdash;sometimes called divine&mdash;right; if I
+      were a redcap, I should buy dynamite and blow you up; if I were a Tory, I
+      should go to church or to bed; as it is, I go to work to turn your
+      majority into a minority. I shall do it by reasoning and by attractive
+      virtue." He intended in his university days, and for some time after, to
+      take Anglican Orders, though he had also some thought of going to the Bar;
+      but he accepted a Mastership with much relief, with the hope, as he wrote
+      in an early letter, "that before my time is out, I may rejoice in having
+      turned out of my pupil-room perhaps one brave soldier, or one wise
+      historian, or one generous legislator, or one patient missionary." The
+      whole of his professional life, a period of twenty-seven years, was to be
+      spent at Eton.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      No one who knew William Cory will think it an exaggeration to say that his
+      mind was probably one of the most vigorous and commanding minds of the
+      century. He had a mental equipment of the foremost order, great
+      intellectual curiosity, immense vigour and many-sidedness, combined with a
+      firm grasp of a subject, perfect clearness of thought, and absolute
+      lucidity of expression.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He never lost sight of principles among a crowd of details; and though he
+      had a strong bias in certain directions, he had a just and catholic
+      appreciation even of facts which told against his case. Yet his knowledge
+      was never dry or cold; it was full to the brim of deep sentiment and
+      natural feeling.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He had a wide knowledge of history, of politics, both home and foreign, of
+      political economy, of moral science. Indeed, he examined more than once in
+      the Moral Science Tripos at Cambridge.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He had a thorough acquaintance with and a deep love of literature; and all
+      this in spite of the fact that he lived a very laborious and wearing life
+      as a school-teacher, with impossibly large classes, and devoted himself
+      with whole-hearted enthusiasm to his profession. His knowledge was,
+      moreover, not mere erudition and patient accumulation. It was all ready
+      for use, and at his fingers' ends. Moreover, he combined with this a
+      quality, which is not generally found in combination with the
+      highly-developed faculties of the doctrinaire, namely an intense and
+      fervent emotion. He was a lover of political and social liberty, a patriot
+      to the marrow of his bones; he loved his country with a passionate
+      devotion, and worshipped the heroes of his native land, statesmen,
+      soldiers, sailors, poets, with an ardent adoration; the glory and honour
+      of England were the breath of his nostrils. Deeds of heroism, examples of
+      high courage and noble self-sacrifice, were the memories that thrilled his
+      heart. As a man of fifty he wept over Lanfrey's account of Nelson's death;
+      he felt our defeat at Majuba Hill like a keen personal humiliation; his
+      letter on the subject is as the words of one mourning for his mother.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      But his was not a mere poetical emotion, supplying him with
+      highly-coloured rhetoric, or sentimental panegyric. He had a technical and
+      minute acquaintance with the detailed movement of wars, the precise ships
+      and regiments engaged, the personalities and characters of commanders and
+      officers, the conduct of the rank and file.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Many delightful stories remain in the memories of his friends and hearers
+      to attest this. His pupil-room at Eton, in what was formerly the old
+      Christopher Inn, was close to the street, and the passage of the Guards
+      through Eton, to and from their Windsor quarters, is an incident of
+      constant occurrence. When the stately military music was heard far off, in
+      gusty splendour, in the little town, or the fifes and drums of some
+      detachment swept blithely past, he would throw down his pen and go down
+      the little staircase to the road, the boys crowding round him. "Brats, the
+      British army!" he would say, and stand, looking and listening, his eyes
+      filled with gathering tears, and his heart full of proud memories, while
+      the rhythmical beat of the footsteps went briskly echoing by.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Again, he went down to Portsmouth to see a friend who was in command of a
+      man-of-war; he was rowed about among the hulks; the sailors in the gig
+      looked half contemptuously at the sturdy landsman, huddled in a cloak,
+      hunched up in the stem-sheets, peering about through his spectacles. But
+      contempt became first astonishment, and then bewildered admiration, when
+      they found that he knew the position of every ship, and the engagements in
+      which each had fought.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He was of course a man of strong preferences and prejudices; he thought of
+      statesmen and patriots, such as Pitt, Nelson, Castlereagh, Melbourne, and
+      Wellington, with an almost personal affection. The one title to his
+      vehement love was that a man should have served his country, striven to
+      enhance her greatness, extended her empire, and safeguarded her liberty.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      It was the same with his feeling for authors. He loved Virgil as a friend;
+      he almost worshipped Charlotte Brontë. He spoke of Tennyson as "the light
+      and joy of my poor life." In 1868 he saw Sir W. Scott's portrait in
+      London, and wrote: "Sir Walter Scott, shrewd yet wistful, boyish yet dry,
+      looking as if he would ask and answer questions of the fairies&mdash;him I
+      saw through a mist of weeping. He is my lost childhood, he is my first
+      great friend. I long for him, and hate the death that parts us."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      In literature, the first claim on his regard was that a writer should have
+      looked on life with a high-hearted, generous gaze, should have cared
+      intensely for humanity, should have hoped, loved, suffered, not in selfish
+      isolation, but with eager affection. Thus he was not only a philosophical
+      historian, nor a mere technical critic; he was for ever dominated by an
+      intense personal fervour. He cared little for the manner of saying a
+      thing, so long as the heart spoke out frankly and freely; he strove to
+      discern the energy of the soul in all men; he could forgive everything
+      except meanness, cowardice, egotism and conceit; there was no fault of a
+      generous and impulsive nature that he could not condone.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Thus he was for many boys a deeply inspiring teacher; he had the art of
+      awakening enthusiasm, of investing all he touched with a mysterious charm,
+      the charm of wide and accurate knowledge illuminated by feeling and
+      emotion. He rebuked ignorance in a way which communicated the desire to
+      know. There are many men alive who trace the fruit and flower of their
+      intellectual life to his generous and free-handed sowing. But in spite of
+      the fact that the work of a teacher of boys was intensely congenial to
+      him, that he loved generous boyhood, and tender souls, and awakening minds
+      with all his heart, he was not wholly in the right place as an instructor
+      of youth. With all his sympathy for what was weak and immature, he was yet
+      impatient of dullness, of stupidity, of caution; much that he said was too
+      mature, too exalted for the cramped and limited minds of boyhood. He was
+      sensitive to the charm of eager, high-spirited, and affectionate natures,
+      but he had also the equable, just, paternal interest in boys which is an
+      essential quality in a wise schoolmaster. Yet he was apt to make
+      favourites; and though he demanded of his chosen pupils and friends a high
+      intellectual zeal, though he was merciless to all sloppiness and lack of
+      interest, yet he forfeited a wider influence by his reputation for
+      partiality, and by an obvious susceptibility to grace of manner and
+      unaffected courtesy. Boys who did not understand him, and whom he did not
+      care to try to understand, thought him simply fanciful and eccentric. It
+      is perhaps to be regretted that unforeseen difficulties prevented his
+      being elected Tutor of his old College, and still more that in 1860 he was
+      passed over in favour of Kingsley, when the Prime Minister, Lord
+      Palmerston, submitted his name to the Queen for the Professorship of
+      Modern History at Cambridge. Four men were suggested, of whom Blakesley
+      and Venables refused the post. Sir Arthur Helps was set aside, and it
+      would have been offered to Johnson, if the Prince Consort had not
+      suggested Kingsley. Yet Johnson would hardly have been in his right place
+      as a teacher of young men. He would have been, on the one hand, brought
+      into contact with more vigorous and independent minds, capable of
+      appreciating the force and width of his teaching, and of comprehending the
+      quality and beauty of his enthusiasms. But, on the other hand, he was too
+      impatient of any difference of opinion, and, though he loved equal talk,
+      he hated argument. And after all, he did a great work at Eton; for nearly
+      a quarter of a century he sent out boys who cared eagerly and generously
+      for the things of the mind.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      A second attempt was made, in 1869, to get him appointed to the history
+      professorship, but Seeley was considered to have a better claim. Writing
+      to a friend on the subject, Johnson said: "I am not learned. I don't care
+      about history in the common meaning of the word."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      It is astonishing to see in his Diaries the immense trouble he took to
+      awaken interest among his pupils. He was for ever trying experiments; he
+      would read a dozen books to enable him to give a little scientific
+      lecture, for he was one of the first to appreciate the educational value
+      of science; he spent money on chemical apparatus, and tried to interest
+      the boys by simple demonstrations. His educational ideals can best be seen
+      in an essay full of poetical genius, on the education of the reasoning
+      faculties, which he contributed to the "Essays on a Liberal Education,"
+      edited in 1867 by F. W. Farrar. Any one who wishes to understand Johnson's
+      point of view, should study this brilliant and beautiful discourse. It is
+      not only wise and liberal, but it is intensely practical, besides
+      containing a number of suggestive and poetical thoughts.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He loved his Eton life more and more every year. As with Eumelus of
+      Corinth, "dear to his heart was the muse that has the simple lyre and the
+      sandals of freedom." He took refuge, as it became clear to him that his
+      wider ambitions could not be realised, that he would not set the mark he
+      might have set upon the age, in a "proud unworldliness," in heightened and
+      intensified emotion. He made many friendships. He taught, as the years
+      went on, as well or better than ever; he took great delight in the society
+      of a few pupils and younger colleagues; but a shadow fell on him; he began
+      to feel his strength unequal to the demands upon it; and he made a sudden
+      resolution to retire from his Eton work.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He had taken some years before, as a house for his holidays, Halsdon, a
+      country place near his native Torrington, which belonged to his brother,
+      Archdeacon Wellington Furse of Westminster, who had changed his name from
+      Johnson to Furse, on succeeding to the property of an uncle. Here he
+      retired, and strove to live an active and philosophical life, fighting
+      bravely with regret, and feeling with sensitive sorrow the turning of the
+      sweet page. He tried, too, to serve and help his simple country
+      neighbours, as indeed he had desired to do even at Eton, by showing them
+      many small, thoughtful, and unobtrusive kindnesses, just as his father had
+      done. But he lived much, like all poetical natures, in tender retrospect;
+      and the ending of the bright days brought with it a heartache that even
+      nature, which he worshipped like a poet, was powerless to console. But he
+      loved his woods and sloping fields, and the clear river passing under its
+      high banks through deep pools. It served to remind him sadly of his
+      beloved Thames, the green banks fringed with comfrey and loosestrife, the
+      drooping willows, the cool smell of the weedy weir; of glad hours of
+      light-hearted enjoyment with his boy-companions, full of blithe gaiety and
+      laughter.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      After a few years, he went out to Madeira, where he married a wife much
+      younger than himself, Miss Rosa Caroline Guille, daughter of a Devonshire
+      clergyman; and at Madeira his only son was born, whom he named Andrew,
+      because it was a name never borne by a Pope, or, as he sometimes said, "by
+      a sneak." He devoted himself at this time to the composition of two
+      volumes of a "Guide to Modern English History." But his want of practice
+      in historical writing is here revealed, though it must be borne in mind
+      that it was originally drawn up for the use of a Japanese student. The
+      book is full of acute perceptions, fine judgments, felicitous epigrams&mdash;but
+      it is too allusive, too fantastic; neither has it the balance and justice
+      required for so serious and comprehensive a task. At the same time the
+      learning it displays is extraordinary. It was written almost without books
+      of reference, and out of the recollections of a man of genius, who
+      remembered all that he read, and considered reading the newspaper to be
+      one of the first duties of life.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      Cory's other writings are few. Two little educational books are worth
+      mentioning: a book of Latin prose exercises, called <i>Nuces</i>, the
+      sentences of which are full of recondite allusions, curious humour, and
+      epigrammatic expression; and a slender volume for teaching Latin lyrics,
+      called <i>Lucretilis</i>, the exercises being literally translated from
+      the Latin originals which he first composed. <i>Lucretilis</i> is not
+      only, as Munro said, the most Horatian verse ever written since Horace,
+      but full of deep and pathetic poetry. Such a poem as No. xxvii., recording
+      the abandoning of Hercules by the Argonauts, is intensely
+      autobiographical. He speaks, in a parable, of the life of Eton going on
+      without him, and of his faith in her great future:
+    </p>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+ "sed Argo
+ Vela facit tamen, aureumque
+
+ "Vellus petendum est. Tiphys ad hoc tenet
+ Clavum magister; stat Telamon vigil,
+ Stat Castor in prora, paratus
+ Ferre maris salientis ictus."
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      After some years in Madeira, he came back to England and settled in
+      Hampstead; his later days were clouded with anxieties and illness. But he
+      took great delight in the teaching of Greek to a class of girls, and his
+      attitude of noble resignation, tender dignity, and resolute interest in
+      the growing history of his race and nation is deeply impressive. He died
+      in 1892, on June II, of a heart-complaint to which he had long been
+      subject.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      In person William Cory was short and sturdy; he was strong and vigorous;
+      he was like the leader whom Archilochus desired, "one who is compact of
+      frame, showing legs that bend outward, standing firm upon his feet, full
+      of courage." He had a vigorous, massive head, with aquiline nose, and
+      mobile lips. He was extraordinarily near-sighted, and used strong glasses,
+      holding his book close to his eyes. He was accustomed to bewail his
+      limited vision, as hiding from him much natural beauty, much human drama;
+      but he observed more closely than many men of greater clearness of sight,
+      making the most of his limited resources. He depended much upon a hearing
+      which was preternaturally acute and sensitive, and was guided as much by
+      the voice and manner, as by the aspect of those among whom he lived. He
+      had a brisk, peremptory mode of address, full of humorous mannerisms of
+      speech. He spoke and taught crisply and decisively, and uttered fine and
+      feeling thoughts with a telling brevity. He had strong common sense, and
+      much practical judgment.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      He was intensely loyal both to institutions and friends, but never spared
+      trenchant and luminous criticisms, and had a keen eye for weakness in any
+      shape. He was formidable in a sense, though truly lovable; he had neither
+      time nor inclination to make enemies, and had a generous perception of
+      nobility of character, and of enthusiasms however dissimilar to his own.
+      He hankered often for the wider world; he would have liked to have a hand
+      in politics, and to have helped to make history. He often desired to play
+      a larger part; but the very stirrings of regret only made him throw
+      himself with intensified energy into the work of his life. He lived
+      habitually on a higher plane than others, among the memories of great
+      events, with a consciousness of high impersonal forces, great issues, big
+      affairs; and yet he held on with both hands to life; he loved all that was
+      tender and beautiful. He never lost himself in ambitious dreams or
+      abstract speculations. He was a psychologist rather than a philosopher,
+      and his interest and zest in life, in the relationships of simple people,
+      the intermingling of personal emotions and happy comradeships, kept him
+      from ever forming cynical or merely spectatorial views of humanity. He
+      would have been far happier, indeed, if he could have practised a greater
+      detachment; but, as it was, he gathered in, like the old warrior, a
+      hundred spears; like Shelley he might have said&mdash;
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      "I fall upon the thorns of life; I bleed."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      His is thus a unique personality, in its blending of intense mental energy
+      with almost passionate emotions. Few natures can stand the strain of the
+      excessive development of even a single faculty; and with William Cory the
+      qualities of both heart and head were over-developed. There resulted a
+      want of balance, of moral force; he was impetuous where he should have
+      been calm, impulsive where he should have been discreet. But on the other
+      hand he was possessed of an almost Spartan courage; and through sorrow and
+      suffering, through disappointment and failure, he bore himself with a high
+      and stately tenderness, without a touch of acrimony or peevishness. He
+      never questioned the love or justice of God; he never raged against fate,
+      or railed at circumstance. He gathered up the fragments with a quiet hand;
+      he never betrayed envy or jealousy; he never deplored the fact that he had
+      not realised his own possibilities; he suffered silently, he endured
+      patiently.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      And thus he is a deeply pathetic figure, because his great gifts and high
+      qualities never had full scope. He might have been a great jurist, a great
+      lawyer, a great professor, a great writer, a great administrator; and he
+      ended as a man of erratic genius, as a teacher in a restricted sphere,
+      though sowing, generously and prodigally, rich and fruitful seed. With
+      great poetical force of conception, and a style both resonant and
+      suggestive, he left a single essay of high genius, a fantastic historical
+      work, a few books of school exercises. A privately printed volume of
+      Letters and Journals reveals the extraordinary quality of his mind, its
+      delicacy, its beauty, its wistfulness, its charm. There remains but the
+      little volume of verse which is here presented, which stands apart from
+      the poetical literature of the age. We see in these poems a singular and
+      original contribution to the poetry of the century. The verse is in its
+      general characteristics of the school of Tennyson, with its equable
+      progression, its honied epithets, its soft cadences, its gentle melody.
+      But the poems are deeply original, because they, combine a peculiar
+      classical quality, with a frank delight in the spirit of generous boyhood.
+      For all their wealth of idealised sentiment, they never lose sight of the
+      fuller life of the world that waits beyond the threshold of youth, the
+      wider issues, the glory of the battle, the hopes of the patriot, the
+      generous visions of manhood. They are full of the romance of boyish
+      friendships, the echoes of the river and the cricket field, the ingenuous
+      ambitions, the chivalry, the courage of youth and health, the brilliant
+      charm of the opening world. These things are but the prelude to, the
+      presage of, the energies of the larger stage; his young heroes are to
+      learn the lessons of patriotism, of manliness, of activity, of generosity,
+      that they may display them in a wider field. Thus he wrote in "A
+      Retrospect of School Life":&mdash;
+    </p>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+ "Much lost I; something stayed behind,
+ A snatch, maybe, of ancient song.
+ Some breathings of a deathless mind,
+ Some love of truth, some hate of wrong.
+
+ And to myself in games I said,
+ 'What mean the books? can I win fame
+ I would be like the faithful dead,
+ A fearless man, and pure of blame.'"
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      Then, too, there are poems of a sombre yet tender philosophy, of an
+      Epicureanism that is seldom languid, of a Stoicism that is never hard. In
+      this world, where so much is dark, he seems to say, we must all clasp
+      hands and move forwards, shoulder to shoulder, never forgetting the warm
+      companionship in the presence of the blind chaotic forces that wave their
+      shadowy wings about us. We must love what is near and dear, we must be
+      courageous and tender-hearted in the difficult valley. The book is full of
+      the passionate sadness of one who feels alike the intensity and the
+      brevity of life, and who cannot conjecture why fair things must fade as
+      surely as they bloom.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      The poems then reflect a kind of Platonic agnosticism; they offer no
+      solution of the formless mystery; but they seem rather to indicate the
+      hope that, in the multiplying of human relationship, in devotion to all we
+      hold dear, in the enkindling of the soul by all that is generous and noble
+      and unselfish, lies the best hope of the individual and of the race.
+      Uncheered by Christian hopefulness, and yet strong in their belief in the
+      ardours and passions of humanity, these poems may help us to remember and
+      love the best of life, its days of sunshine and youth, its generous
+      companionships, its sweet ties of loyalty and love, its brave hopes and
+      ardent impulses, which may be ours, if we are only loving and generous and
+      high-hearted, to the threshold of the dark, and perhaps beyond.
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      ARTHUR C. BENSON. <br /> <br />
+    </p>
+    <hr />
+    <p>
+      <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a> <br /> <br />
+    </p>
+    <h2>
+      DESIDERATO
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     Oh, lost and unforgotten friend,
+     Whose presence change and chance deny;
+     If angels turn your soft proud eye
+     To lines your cynic playmate penned,
+
+     Look on them, as you looked on me,
+     When both were young; when, as we went
+     Through crowds or forest ferns, you leant
+     On him who loved your staff to be;
+
+     And slouch your lazy length again
+     On cushions fit for aching brow
+     (Yours always ached, you know), and now
+
+     As dainty languishing as then,
+     Give them but one fastidious look,
+     And if you see a trace of him
+     Who humoured you in every whim,
+
+     Seek for his heart within his book:
+     For though there be enough to mark
+     The man's divergence from the boy,
+     Yet shines my faith without alloy
+
+     For him who led me through that park;
+     And though a stranger throw aside
+     Such grains of common sentiment,
+     Yet let your haughty head be bent
+
+     To take the jetsom of the tide;
+     Because this brackish turbid sea
+     Throws toward thee things that pleased of yore,
+     And though it wash thy feet no more,
+
+     Its murmurs mean: "I yearn for thee."
+     The world may like, for all I care,
+     The gentler voice, the cooler head,
+     That bows a rival to despair,
+
+     And cheaply compliments the dead;
+     That smiles at all that's coarse and rash,
+     Yet wins the trophies of the fight,
+     Unscathed, in honour's wreck and crash,
+
+     Heartless, but always in the right;.
+     Thanked for good counsel by the judge
+     Who tramples on the bleeding brave,
+     Thanked too by him who will not budge
+     From claims thrice hallowed by the grave.
+
+     Thanked, and self-pleased: ay, let him wear
+     What to that noble breast was due;
+     And I, dear passionate Teucer, dare
+     Go through the homeless world with you.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      MIMNERMUS IN CHURCH
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     You promise heavens free from strife,
+     Pure truth, and perfect change of will;
+     But sweet, sweet is this human life,
+     So sweet, I fain would breathe it still;
+     Your chilly stars I can forego,
+     This warm kind world is all I know.
+
+     You say there is no substance here,
+     One great reality above:
+     Back from that void I shrink in fear,
+     And child-like hide myself in love:
+     Show me what angels feel. Till then,
+     I cling, a mere weak man, to men.
+
+     You bid me lift my mean desires
+     From faltering lips and fitful veins
+     To sexless souls, ideal quires,
+     Unwearied voices, wordless strains:
+     My mind with fonder welcome owns
+     One dear dead friend's remembered tones.
+
+     Forsooth the present we must give
+     To that which cannot pass away;
+     All beauteous things for which we live
+     By laws of time and space decay.
+     But oh, the very reason why
+     I clasp them, is because they die.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      HERACLITUS
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     They told me, Heraclitus, they told me you were dead,
+     They brought me bitter news to hear and bitter tears to shed.
+     I wept, as I remembered, how often you and I
+     Had tired the sun with talking and sent him down the sky.
+
+     And now that thou art lying, my dear old Carian guest,
+     A handful of grey ashes, long long ago at rest,
+     Still are thy pleasant voices, thy nightingales, awake;
+     For Death, he taketh all away, but them he cannot take.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      IOLE
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     I will not leave the smouldering pyre:
+     Enough remains to light again:
+     But who am I to dare desire
+     A place beside the king of men?
+
+     So burnt my dear Ochalian town;
+     And I an outcast gazed and groaned.
+     But, when my father's roof fell down,
+     For all that wrong sweet love atoned.
+
+     He led me trembling to the ship,
+     He seemed at least to love me then;
+     He soothed, he clasped me lip to lip:
+     How strange, to wed the king of men.
+
+     I linger, orphan, widow, slave,
+     I lived when sire and brethren died;
+     Oh, had I shared my mother's grave, .
+     Or clomb unto the hero's side!
+
+     That comrade old hath made his moan;
+     The centaur cowers within his den:
+     And I abide to guard alone
+     The ashes of the king of men.
+
+     Alone, beneath the night divine&mdash;
+     Alone, another weeps elsewhere:
+     Her love for him is unlike mine,
+     Her wail she will not let me share.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      STESICHORUS
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     Queen of the Argives, (thus the poet spake,)
+     Great lady Helen, thou hast made me wise;
+     Veiled is the world, but all the soul awake,
+     Purged by thine anger, clearer far than eyes.
+
+     Peep is the darkness; for my bride is hidden,
+     Crown of my glory, guerdon of my song:
+     Preod is the vision; thou art here unbidden,
+     Mute and reproachful, since I did thee wrong.
+
+     Sweetest of wanderers, grievest thou for friends
+     Tricked by a phantom, cheated to the grave?
+     Woe worth the God, the mocking God, that sends
+     Lies to the pious, furies to the brave.
+
+     Pardon our falsehood: thou wert far away,
+     Gathering the lotus down the Egypt-water,
+     Wifely and duteous, hearing not the fray,
+     Taking no stain from all those years of slaughter:
+
+     Guiltless, yet mournful. Tell the poets truths;
+     Tell them real beauty leadeth not to strife;
+     Weep for the slain, those many blooming youths:
+     Tears such as thine might bring them back to life.
+
+     Dear, gentle lady, if the web's unthreaded,
+     Slander and fable fairly rent in twain,
+     Then, by the days when thou wert loved and wedded,
+     Give me, I pray, my bride's glad smile again.
+
+     The lord, who leads the Spartan host,
+     Stands with a little maid,
+     To greet a stranger from the coast
+     Who comes to seek his aid.
+
+     What brings the guest? a disk of brass
+     With curious lines engraven:
+     What mean the lines? stream, road, and pass,
+     Forest, and town, and haven.
+
+     "Lo, here Choaspes' lilied field:
+     Lo, here the Hermian plain:
+     What need we save the Doric shield
+     To stop the Persian's reign?
+
+     Or shall barbarians drink their nil
+     Upon the slopes of Tmolus?
+     Or trowsered robbers spoil at will
+     The bounties of Pactolus?
+
+     Salt lakes, burnt uplands, lie between;
+     The distant king moves slow;
+     He starts, ere Smyrna's vines are green,
+     Comes, when their juices flow.
+
+     Waves bright with morning smoothe thy course,
+     Swift row the Samian galleys;
+     Unconquered Colophon sounds to horse
+     Up the broad eastern valleys.
+
+     Is not Apollo's call enough,
+     The god of every Greek?
+     Then take our gold, and household stuff;
+     Claim what thou wilt, but speak."
+
+     He falters; for the waves he fears,
+     The roads he cannot measure;
+     But rates full high the gleam of spears
+     And dreams of yellow treasure.
+
+     He listens; he is yielding now;
+     Outspoke the fearless child:
+
+     "Oh, father, come away, lest thou
+     Be by this man beguiled."
+     Her lowly judgement barred the plea,
+     So low, it could not reach her.
+
+     The man knows more of land and sea,
+     But she's the truer teacher.
+     I mind the day, when thou didst cheat
+     Those rival dames with answer meet;
+
+     When, toiling at the loom,
+     Unblest with bracelet, ring, or chain,
+     Thou alone didst dare disdain
+     To toil in tiring-room.
+
+     Merely thou saidst: "At set of sun
+     My humble taskwork will be done;
+     And through the twilight street
+     Come back to view my jewels, when
+     Pattering through the throng of men
+     Go merry schoolboys' feet."
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      CAIUS GRACCHUS
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     They came, and sneered: for thou didst stand!
+     The web well finished up, one hand
+     Laid on my yielding shoulder:
+     The sternest stripling in the land
+     Grasped the other, boldly scanned
+     Their faces, and grew bolder:
+
+     And said: "Fair ladies, by your leave
+     I would exhort you spin and weave
+     Some frugal homely cloth.
+     I warn you, when I lead the tribes
+     Law shall strip you; threats nor bribes
+     Shall blunt the just man's wrath."
+
+     How strongly, gravely did he speak!
+     I shivered, hid my tingling cheek
+     Behind thy marble face;
+     And prayed the gods to be like him,
+     Firm in temper, lithe of limb,
+     Right worthy of our race.
+
+     Oh, mother, didst thou bear me brave?
+     Or was I weak, till, from the grave
+     So early hollowed out,
+     Tiberius sought me yesternight,
+     Blood upon his mantle white,
+     A vision clear of doubt?
+
+     What can I fear, oh mother, now?
+     His dead cold hand is on my brow;
+     Rest thou thereon thy lips:
+     His voice is in the night-wind's breath,
+     "Do as I did," still he saith;
+     With blood his finger drips.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      ASTEROPE
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     Child of the summer cloud, upon thy birth,&mdash;
+     And thou art often born to die again,&mdash;
+     Follow loud groans, that shake the darkening earth,
+     And break the troublous sleep of guilty men.
+
+     Thou leapest from the thinner streams of air
+     To crags where vapours cling, where ocean frets;
+     No cave so deep, so cold, but thou art there,
+     Wrath in thy smile, and beauty in thy threats.
+
+     The molten sands beneath thy burning feet
+     Run, as thou runnest, into tubes of glass;
+     Old towers and trees, that proudly stood to meet
+     The whirlwind, let their fair invader pass.
+
+     The lone ship warring on the Indian sea
+     Bursts into splinters at thy sudden stroke;
+     Siberian mines fired long ago by thee
+     Still waste in helpless flame and barren smoke.
+
+     Such is thy dreadful pastime, Angel-queen,
+     When swooping headlong from the Armament
+     Thou spreadest fear along the village green,
+     Fear of the day when gravestones shall be rent.
+
+     And we that fear remember not, that thou,
+     Slewest the Theban maid, who vainly strove
+     To rival Juno, when the lover's vow
+     Was kept in wedlock by unwilling Jove.
+
+     And we forget, that when Oileus went
+     From the wronged virgin and the ruined fane,
+     When storms were howling round "Repent, Repent,"
+     Thy holy arrow pierced the spoiler's brain.
+
+     To perish all the proud! but chiefly he,
+     Who at the tramp of steeds and cymbal-beat
+     Proclaimed, "I thunder! Why not worship me?"
+     And thou didst slay him for his counterfeit.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      A DIRGE
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+      Naiad, hid beneath the bank
+      By the willowy river-side,
+      Where Narcissus gently sank,
+      Where unmarried Echo died,
+      Unto thy serene repose
+      Waft the stricken Anterôs.
+
+      Where the tranquil swan is borne,
+      Imaged in a watery glass,
+      Where the sprays of fresh pink thorn
+      Stoop to catch the boats that pass,
+      Where the earliest orchis grows,
+      Bury thou fair Anterôs.
+
+      Glide we by, with prow and oar:
+      Ripple shadows off the wave,
+      And reflected on the shore,
+      Haply play about the grave.
+      Folds of summer-light enclose
+      All that once was Anterôs.
+
+      On a flickering wave we gaze,
+      Not upon his answering eyes:
+      Flower and bird we scarce can praise,
+      Having lost his sweet replies:
+      Cold and mute the river flows
+      With our tears for Anterôs.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      AN INVOCATION
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     I never prayed for Dryads, to haunt the woods again;
+     More welcome were the presence of hungering, thirst-
+     ing men,
+     Whose doubts we could unravel, whose hopes we
+     could fulfil,
+     Our wisdom tracing backward, the river to the rill;
+     Were such beloved forerunners one summer day
+     restored,
+     Then, then we might discover the Muse's mystic hoard.
+
+     Oh dear divine Comatas, I would that thou and I
+     Beneath this broken sunlight this leisure day might lie;
+     Where trees from distant forests, whose names were
+     strange to thee,
+     Should bend their amorous branches within thy reach
+     to be,
+     And flowers thine Hellas knew not, which art hath
+     made more fair,
+     Should shed their shining petals upon thy fragrant
+     hair.
+
+     Then thou shouldst calmly listen with ever-changing
+     looks
+     To songs of younger minstrels and plots of modern
+     books,
+     And wonder at the daring of poets later born,
+     Whose thoughts are unto thy thoughts as noon-tide is
+     to morn;
+     And little shouldst thou grudge them their greater
+     strength of soul,
+     Thy partners in the torch-race, though nearer to the
+     goal.
+
+     As when ancestoral portraits look gravely from the walls
+     Uplift youthful baron who treads their echoing
+     halls;
+     And whilst he builds new turrets, the thrice ennobled
+     heir
+     Would gladly wake his grandsire his home and feast
+     to share;
+     So from Ægean laurels that hide thine ancient urn
+     I fain would call thee hither, my sweeter lore to learn.
+
+     Or in thy cedarn prison thou waitest for the bee:
+     Ah, leave that simple honey, and take thy food from
+     me.
+     My sun is stooping westward. Entranced dreamer,
+     haste;
+     There's fruitage in my garden, that I would have thee
+     taste.
+     Now lift the lid a moment; now, Dorian shepherd,
+     speak:
+     Two minds shall flow together, the English and the
+     Greek.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      ACADEMUS
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     Perhaps there's neither tear nor smile,
+     When once beyond the grave.
+     Woe's me: but let me live meanwhile
+     Amongst the bright and brave;
+
+     My summers lapse away beneath
+     Their cool Athenian shade:
+     And I a string for myrtle-wreath,
+     A whetstone unto blade;
+
+     I cheer the games I cannot play;
+     As stands a crippled squire
+     To watch his master through the fray,
+     Uplifted by desire.
+
+     I roam, where little pleasures fall,
+     As morn to morn succeeds,
+     To melt, or ere the sweetness pall,
+     Like glittering manna-beads.
+
+     The wishes dawning in the eyes,
+     The softly murmured thanks;
+     The zeal of those that miss the prize
+     On clamorous river-banks;
+
+     The quenchless hope, the honest choice,
+     The self-reliant pride,
+     The music of the pleading voice
+     That will not be denied;
+
+     The wonder flushing in the cheek,
+     The questions many a score,
+     When I grow eloquent, and speak
+     Of England, and of war&mdash;
+
+     Oh, better than the world of dress
+     And pompous dining, out,
+     Better than simpering and finesse
+     Is all this stir and rout.
+
+     I'll borrow life, and not grow old;
+     And nightingales and trees
+     Shall keep me, though the veins be cold,
+     As young as Sophocles.
+
+     And when I may no longer live,
+     They'll say, who know the truth,
+     He gave whatever he had to give
+     To freedom and to youth.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      PROSPERO
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     Farewell, my airy pursuivants, farewell.
+     We part to-day, and I resign
+     This lonely island, and this rocky cell,
+     And all that hath been mine.
+
+     "Ah, whither go we? Why not follow thee,
+     Our human king, across the wave,
+     The man that rescued us from rifted tree,
+     Bleak marsh, and howling cave."
+
+     Oh no. The wand I wielded then is buried,
+     Broken, and buried in the sand.
+     Oh no. By mortal hands I must be ferried
+     Unto the Tuscan strand.
+
+     You came to cheer my exile, and to lift
+     The weight of silence off my lips:
+     With you I ruled the clouds, and ocean-drift,
+     Meteors, and wandering ships.
+
+     Your fancies glinting on my central mind
+     Fell off in beams of many hues,
+     Soft lambent light. Yet, severed from mankind,
+     Not light, but heat, I lose.
+
+     I go, before my heart be chilled. Behold,
+     The bark that bears me waves her flag,
+     To chide my loitering. Back to your mountain-hold,
+     And flee the tyrant hag.
+
+     Away. I hear your little voices sinking
+     Into the wood-notes of the breeze:
+     I hear you say: "Enough, enough of thinking;
+     Love lies beyond the seas."
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      AMATURUS
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     Somewhere beneath the sun,
+     These quivering heart-strings prove it,
+     Somewhere there must be one
+     Made for this soul, to move it;
+
+     Some one that hides her sweetness
+     From neighbours whom she slights,
+     Nor can attain completeness,
+     Nor give her heart its rights;
+
+     Some one whom I could court
+     With no great change of manner,
+     Still holding reason's fort,
+     Though waving fancy's banner;
+
+     A lady, not so queenly
+     As to disdain my hand,
+     Yet born to smile serenely
+     Like those that rule the land;
+
+     Noble, but not too proud;
+     With soft hair simply folded,
+     And bright face crescent-browed,
+     And throat by Muses moulded;
+
+     And eyelids lightly falling
+     On little glistening seas,
+     Deep-calm, when gales are brawling,
+     Though stirred by every breeze:
+
+     Swift voice, like flight of dove
+     Through minster arches floating,
+     With sudden turns, when love
+     Gets overnear to doting;
+
+     Keen lips, that shape soft sayings
+     Like crystals of the snow,
+     With pretty half-betrayings
+     Of things one may not know;
+
+     Fair hand, whose touches thrill,
+     Like golden rod of wonder,
+     Which Hermes wields at will
+     Spirit and flesh to sunder;
+
+     Light foot, to press the stirrup
+     In fearlessness and glee,
+     Or dance, till finches chirrup,
+     And stars sink to the sea.
+
+     Forth, Love, and find this maid,
+     Wherever she be hidden:
+     Speak, Love, be not afraid,
+     But plead as thou art bidden;
+
+     And say, that he who taught thee
+     His yearning want and pain,
+     Too dearly, dearly bought thee
+     To part with thee in vain.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      MORTEM, QUAE VIOLAT SUAVI A PELLIT AMOR
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     The plunging rocks, whose ravenous throats
+     The sea in wrath and mockery fills,
+     The smoke, that up the valley floats,
+     The girlhood of the growing hills;
+
+     The thunderings from the miners' ledge,
+     The wild assaults on nature's hoard,
+     The peak, that stormward bares an edge
+     Ground sharp in days when Titans warred;
+
+     Grim heights, by wandering clouds embraced
+     Where lightning's ministers conspire,
+     Grey glens, with tarn and streamlet laced,
+     Stark forgeries of primeval fire;
+
+     These scenes may gladden many a mind
+     Awhile from homelier thoughts released,
+     And here my fellow-men may find
+     A Sabbath and a vision-feast.
+
+     I bless them in the good they feel;
+     And yet I bless them with a sigh:
+     On me this grandeur stamps the seal
+     Of tyrannous mortality.
+
+     The pitiless mountain stands so sure,
+     The human breast so weakly heaves;
+     That brains decay, while rocks endure,
+     At this the insatiate spirit grieves.
+
+     But hither, oh ideal bride!
+     For whom this heart in silence aches,
+     Love is unwearied as the tide,
+     Love is perennial as the lakes;
+
+     Come thou. The spiky crags will seem
+     One harvest of one heavenly year,
+     And fear of death, like childish dream,
+     Will pass and flee, when thou art here.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      TWO FRAGMENTS OF CHILDHOOD
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     When these locks were yellow as gold,
+     When past days were easily told,
+     Well I knew the voice of the sea,
+     Once he spake as a friend to me.
+
+     Thunder-roarings carelessly heard,
+     Once that poor little heart they stirred.
+     Why, oh, why?
+     Memory, Memory!
+     She that I wished to be with was by.
+
+     Sick was I in those misanthrope days
+     Of soft caresses, womanly ways;
+     Once that maid on the stairs I met,
+     Lip on brow she suddenly set.
+
+     Then flushed up my chivalrous blood
+     Like Swiss streams in a midsummer flood.
+     Then, oh, then,
+     Imogen, Imogen!
+     Hadst thou a lover, whose years were ten.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      WAR MUSIC
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     One hour of my boyhood, one glimpse of the past,
+     One beam of the dawn ere the heavens were o'ercast.
+
+     I came to a castle by royalty's grace,
+     Forgot I was bashful, and feeble, and base.
+     For stepping to music I dreamt of a siege,
+     A vow to my mistress, a fight for my liege.
+     The first sound of trumpets that fell on mine ear
+     Set warriors around me and made me their peer.
+     Meseemed we were arming, the bold for the fair,
+     In joyous devotion and haughty despair:
+     The warders were waiting to draw bolt and bar,
+     The maidens attiring to gaze from afar:
+
+     I thought of the sally, but not the retreat,
+     The cause was so glorious, the dying so sweet.
+
+     I live, I am old, I return to the ground:
+     Blow trumpets, and still I can dream to the sound.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      NUBENTI
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     Though the lark that upward flies
+     Recks not of the opening skies,
+     Nor discerneth grey from blue,
+     Nor the rain-drop from the dew:
+     Yet the tune which no man taught
+     So can quicken human thought,
+     That the startled fancies spring
+     Faster far than voice or wing.
+
+     And the songstress as she floats
+     Rising on her buoyant notes,
+     Though she may the while refuse
+     Homage to the nobler Muse,
+     Though she cannot truly tell
+     How her voice hath wrought the spell,
+     Fills the listener's eyes with tears,
+     Lifts him to the inner spheres.
+
+     Lark, thy morning song is done;
+     Overhead the silent sun
+     Bids thee pause. But he that heard
+     Such a strain must bless the bird.
+     Lady, thou hast hushed too soon
+     Sounds that cheered my weary noon;
+     Let met, warned by marriage bell,
+     Whisper, Queen of Song, farewell.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      WORDS FOR A PORTUGUESE AIR
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     They're sleeping beneath the roses;
+     Oh, kiss them before they rise,
+     And tickle their tiny noses,
+     And sprinkle the dew on their eyes.
+     Make haste, make haste;
+     The fairies are caught;
+     Make haste.
+
+     We'll put them in silver cages,
+     And send them full-drest to court,
+     And maids of honour and pages
+     Shall turn the poor things to sport.
+     Be quick, be quick;
+     Be quicker than thought;
+     Be quick.
+
+     Their scarfs shall be pennons for lancers,
+     We'll tie up our flowers with their curls,
+     Their plumes will make fans for dancers,
+     Their tears shall be set with pearls.
+     Be wise, be wise,
+     Make the most of the prize;
+     Be wise.
+
+     They'll scatter sweet scents by winking,
+     With sparks from under their feet;
+     They'll save us the trouble of thinking,
+     Their voices will sound so sweet.
+     Oh stay, oh stay!
+     They're up and away;
+     Oh stay!
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      ADRIENNE AND MAURICE
+    </h2>
+    <h3>
+      (Words For The Air Commonly Called "Pestal")
+    </h3>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     I.
+
+     Fly, poor soul, fly on,
+     No early clouds shall stop thy roaming;
+     Fly, till day be gone,
+     Nor fold thy wings before the gloaming.
+     He thou lov'st will soon be far beyond thy flight,
+     Other lands to light,
+     Leaving thee in night.
+     Let no fear of loss thy heavenly pathway cross;
+     Better then to lose than now.
+</pre>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     II.
+
+     Now, faint heart, arise,
+     And proudly feel that he regards thee;
+     Draw from godlike eyes
+     Some grace to last when love discards thee.
+     Once thou hast been blest by one too high for thee;
+     Fate will have him be
+     Great and fancy-free,
+     When some noble maid her hand in his hath laid,
+     Give him up, poor heart, and break.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      THE HALLOWING OF THE FLEET
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     Her captains for the Baltic bound
+     In silent homage stood around;
+     Silent, whilst holy dew
+     Dimmed her kind eyes. She stood in tears,
+     For she had felt a mother's fears,
+     And wifely cares she knew.
+
+     She wept; she could not bear to say,
+     "Sail forth, my mariners, and slay
+     The liegemen of my foe."
+     Meanwhile on Russian steppe and lake
+     Are women weeping for the sake
+     Of them that seaward go.
+
+     Oh warriors, when you stain with gore,
+     If this indeed must be, the floor
+     Whereon that lady stept,
+     When the fierce joy of battle won
+     Hardens the heart of sire and son,
+     Remember that she wept
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      THE CAIRN AND THE CHURCH
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     A Prince went down the banks of Dee
+     That widen out from bleak Braemar,
+     To drive the deer that wander free
+     Amidst the pines of Lochnagar.
+
+     And stepping on beneath the birks
+     On the road-side he found a spot,
+     Which told of pibrochs, kilts, and dirks,
+     And wars the courtiers had forgot;
+
+     Where with the streams, as each alone
+     Down to the gathering river runs,
+     Each on one heap to cast a stone,
+     Came twice three hundred Farquharsons.
+
+     They raised that pile to keep for ever
+     The memory of the loyal clan;
+     Then, grudging not their vain endeavour,
+     Fell at Culloden to a man.
+
+     And she, whose grandsire's uncle slew
+     Those dwellers on the banks of Dee,
+     Sighed for those tender hearts and true,
+     And whispered: "Who would die for me?"
+
+     Oh, lady, turn thee southward. Show
+     Thy standard on thine own Thames-side;
+     Let us be called to meet thy foe,
+     Our Kith be pledged, our honour tried.
+
+     Now, on the stone by Albert laid,
+     We'll build a pile as high as theirs,
+     So sworn to bring our Sovereign aid,
+     If not with war-cries, yet with prayers.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      A QUEEN'S VISIT
+    </h2>
+    <h3>
+      June 4, 1851
+    </h3>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     From vale to vale, from shore to shore,
+     The lady Gloriana passed,
+     To view her realms: the south wind bore
+     Her shallop to Belleisle at last.
+
+     A quiet mead, where willows bend
+     Above the curving wave, which rolls
+     On slowly crumbling banks, to send
+     Its hard-won spoils to lazy shoals.
+
+     Beneath an oak weird eddies play,
+     Where fate was writ for Saxon seer;
+     And yonder park is white with may,
+     Where shadowy hunters chased the deer.
+
+     In rows half up the chestnut, perch
+     Stiff-silvered fairies; busy rooks
+     Caw front the elm; and, rung to church,
+     Mute anglers drop their caddised hooks.
+
+     They troop between the dark-red walls,
+     When the twin towers give four-fold chimes;
+     And lo! the breaking groups, where falls
+     'Tim chequered shade of quivering limes.
+
+     'They come from field and wharf and street
+     With dewy hair and veined throat,
+     One fluor to tread with reverent feet,&mdash;
+     One hour of rest for ball and boat:
+
+     Like swallows gathering for their flight,
+     When autumn whispers, play no more,
+     They check the laugh, with fancies bright
+     Still hovering round the sacred door.
+
+     Lo! childhood swelling into seed,
+     Lo! manhood bursting from the bud:
+     Two growths, unlike; yet all agreed
+     To trust the movement of the blood.
+
+     They toil at games, and play with books:
+     They love the winner of the race,
+     If only he that prospers looks
+     On prizes with a simple grace.
+
+     The many leave the few to choose;
+     They scorn not him who turns aside
+     To woo alone a milder Muse,
+     If shielded by a tranquil pride.
+
+     When thought is claimed, when pain is borne,
+     Whate'er is done in this sweet isle,
+     There's none that may not lift his horn,
+     If only lifted with a smile.
+
+     So here dwells freedom; nor could she,
+     Who ruled in every clime on earth,
+     Find any spring more fit to be
+     The fountain of her festal mirth.
+
+     Elsewhere she sought for lore and art,
+     But hither came for vernal joy:
+     Nor was this all: she smote the heart
+     And woke the hero in the boy.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      MOON-SET
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     Sweet moon, twice rounded in a blithe July,
+     Once down a wandering English stream thou leddest
+     My lonely boat; swans gleamed around; the sky
+     Throbbed overhead with meteors. Now thou sheddest
+     Faint radiance on a cold Arvernian plain,
+     Where I, far severed from that youthful crew,
+     Far from the gay disguise thy witcheries threw
+     On wave and dripping oar, still own thy reign,
+     Travelling with thee through many a sleepless hour.
+     Now shrink, like my weak will: a sterner power
+     Empurpleth yonder hills beneath thee piled,
+     Hills, where Cæsarian sovereignty was won
+     On high basaltic levels blood-defiled,
+     The Druid moonlight quenched beneath the Roman
+     sun.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      AFTER READING "MAUD"
+    </h2>
+    <h3>
+      September, 1855
+    </h3>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     Twelve years ago, if he had died,
+     His critic friends had surely cried:
+     "Death does us wrong, the fates are cross;
+     Nor will this age repair the loss.
+     Fine was the promise of his youth;
+     Time would have brought him deeper truth.
+     Some earnest of his wealth he gave,
+     Then hid his treasures in the grave."
+     And proud that they alone on earth
+     Perceived what might have been his worth,
+     They would have kept their leader's name
+     Linked with a fragmentary fame.
+     Forsooth the beech's knotless stem,
+     If early felled, were dear to them.
+
+     But the fair tree lives on, and spreads
+     Its scatheless boughs above their heads,
+     And they are pollarded by cares,
+     And give themselves religious airs,
+     And grow not, whilst the forest-king
+     Strikes high and deep from spring to spring.
+     So they would have his branches rise
+     In theoretic symmetries;
+     They see a twist in yonder limb,
+     The foliage not precisely trim;
+     Some gnarled roughness they lament,
+     Take credit for their discontent,
+     And count his flaws, serenely wise
+     With motes of pity in their eyes;
+     As if they could, the prudent fools,
+     Adjust such live-long growth to rules,
+     As if so strong a soul could thrive
+     Fixed in one shape at thirty-five.
+     Leave him to us, ye good and sage,
+     Who stiffen in your middle age.
+
+     Ye loved him once, but now forbear;
+     Yield him to those who hope and dare,
+     And have not yet to forms consigned
+     A rigid, ossifying mind.
+
+     One's feelings lose poetic flow
+     Soon after twenty-seven or so;
+     Professionizing moral men
+     Thenceforth admire what pleased them then;
+     The poems bought in youth they read,
+     And say them over like their creed.
+     All autumn crops of rhyme seem strange;
+     Their intellect resents the change.
+
+     They cannot follow to the end
+     Their more susceptive college-friend:
+     He runs from field to field, and they
+     Stroll in their paddocks making hay:
+     He's ever young, and they get old;
+     Poor things, they deem him over-bold:
+     What wonder, if they stare and scold?
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0026" id="link2H_4_0026">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      A SONG
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     i.
+
+     Oh, earlier shall the rosebuds blow,
+     In after years, those happier years,
+     And children weep, when we lie low,
+     Far fewer tears, far softer tears.
+
+     ii.
+
+     Oh, true shall boyish laughter ring,
+     Like tinkling chimes in kinder times!
+     And merrier shall the maiden sing:
+     And I not there, and I not there.
+
+     iii.
+
+     Like lightning in the summer night
+     Their mirth shall be, so quick and free;
+     And oh! the flash of their delight
+     I shall not see, I may not see.
+
+     iv.
+
+     In deeper dream, with wider range,
+     Those eyes shall shine, but not on mine:
+     Unmoved, unblest, by worldly change,
+     The dead must rest, the dead shall rest.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0027" id="link2H_4_0027">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      A STUDY OF BOYHOOD
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     So young, and yet so worn with pain!
+     No sign of youth upon that stooping head,
+     Save weak half-curls, like beechen boughs that spread
+     With up-turned edge to catch the hurrying rain;
+
+     Such little lint-white locks, as wound
+     About a mother's finger long ago,
+     When he was blither, not more dear, for woe
+     Was then far off, and other sons stood round.
+
+     And she has wept since then with him
+     Watching together, where the ocean gave
+     To her child's counted breathings wave for wave,
+     Whilst the heart fluttered, and the eye grew dim.
+
+     And when the sun and day-breeze fell,
+     She kept with him the vigil of despair;
+     Knit hands for comfort, blended sounds of prayer,
+     Saw him at dawn face death, and take farewell;
+
+     Saw him grow holier through his grief,
+     The early grief that lined his withering brow,
+     As one by one her stars were quenched. And now
+     He that so mourned can play, though life is brief;
+
+     Not gay, but gracious; plain of speech,
+     And freely kindling under beauty's ray,
+     He dares to speak of what he loves; to-day
+     He talked of art, and led me on to teach,
+
+     And glanced, as poets glance, at pages
+     Full of bright Florence and warm Umbrian skies;
+     Not slighting modern greatness, for the wise
+     Can sort the treasures of the circling ages;
+
+     Not echoing the sickly praise,
+     Which boys repeat, who hear a father's guest
+     Prate of the London show-rooms; what is best
+     He firmly lights upon, as birds on sprays;
+
+     All honest, and all delicate:
+     No room for flattery, no smiles that ask
+     For tender pleasantries, no looks that mask
+     The genial impulses of love and hate.
+
+     Oh bards that call to bank and glen,
+     Ye bid me go to nature to be healed!
+     And lo! a purer fount is here revealed:
+     My lady-nature dwells in heart of men.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0028" id="link2H_4_0028">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      MERCURIALIA
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     Sweet eyes, that aim a level shaft
+     At pleasure flying from afar,
+     Sweet lips, just parted for a draught
+     Of Hebe's nectar, shall I mar
+     By stress of disciplinary craft
+     The joys that in your freedom are?
+
+     Shall the bright Queen who rules the tide
+     Now forward thrown, now bridled back,
+     Smile o'er each answering smile, then hide
+     Her grandeur in the transient rack,
+     And yield her power, and veil her pride,
+     And move along a ruffled track:
+
+     And shall not I give jest for jest,
+     Though king of fancy all the while,
+     Catch up your wishes half expressed,
+     Endure your whimsies void of guile,
+     Albeit with risk of such unrest
+     As may disturb, but not defile?
+
+     Oh, twine me myrtle round the sword,
+     Soft wit round wisdom over-keen:
+     Let me but lead my peers, no lord
+     With brows high arched; and lofty mien,
+     Set comrades round my council board
+     For bold debates, with jousts between.
+
+     There quiver lips, there glisten eyes,
+     There throb young hearts with generous hope;
+     Thence, playmates, rise for high emprize;
+     For, though he fail, yet shall ye cope
+     With worldling wrapped in silken lies,
+     With pedant, hypocrite, and pope.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0029" id="link2H_4_0029">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      REPARABO
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     The world will rob me of my friends,
+     For time with her conspires;
+     But they shall both to make amends
+     Relight my slumbering fires.
+
+     For while my comrades pass away
+     To bow and smirk and gloze,
+     Come others, for as short a stay;
+     And dear are these as those.
+
+     And who was this? they ask; and then
+     The loved and lost I praise:
+     "Like you they frolicked; they are men:
+     "Bless ye my later days."
+
+     Why fret? the hawks I trained are flown:
+     'Twas nature bade them range;
+     I could not keep their wings half-grown,
+     I could not bar the change.
+
+     With lattice opened wide I stand
+     To watch their eager flight;
+     With broken jesses in my hand
+     I muse on their delight.
+
+     And, oh! if one with sullied plume
+     Should droop in mid career,
+     My love makes signals:&mdash;"There is room,
+     Oh bleeding wanderer, here."
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0030" id="link2H_4_0030">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      A BIRTHDAY
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     The graces marked the hour, when thou
+     Didst leave thine ante-natal rest,
+     Without a cry to heave a breast
+     Which never ached from then till now.
+
+     That vivid soul then first unsealed
+     Would be, they knew, a torch to wave
+     Within a chill and dusky cave
+     Whose crystals else were unrevealed.
+
+     That fine small mouth they wreathed so well
+     In rosy curves, would rouse to arms
+     A troop then bound in slumber-charms;
+     Such notes they gave the magic shell.
+
+     Those straying fingerlets, that clutched
+     At good and bad, they so did glove,
+     That they might pick the flowers of love,
+     Unscathed, from every briar they touched.
+
+     The bounteous sisters did ordain,
+     That thou one day with jest and whim
+     Should'st rain thy merriment on him
+     Whose life, when thou wert born, was pain.
+
+     For haply on that night they spied
+     A sickly student at his books,
+     Who having basked in loving looks
+     Was freezing into barren pride.
+
+     His squalid discontent they saw,
+     And, for that he had worshipped them
+     With incense and with anadem,
+     They willed his wintry world should thaw;
+
+     And at thy cradle did decree
+     That fifteen years should pass, and thou
+     Should'st breathe upon that pallid brow
+     Favonian airs of mirth and glee.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0031" id="link2H_4_0031">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      A NEW YEAR'S DAY
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     Our planet runs through liquid space,
+     And sweeps us with her in the race;
+     And wrinkles gather on my face,
+     And Hebe bloom on thine:
+     Our sun with his encircling spheres
+     Around the central sun careers;
+     And unto thee with mustering years
+     Come hopes which I resign.
+
+     'Twere sweet for me to keep thee still
+     Reclining halfway up the hill;
+     But time will not obey the will,
+     And onward thou must climb:
+     'Twere sweet to pause on this descent,
+     To wait for thee and pitch my tent,
+     But march I must with shoulders bent,
+     Yet farther from my prime.
+
+     I shall not tread thy battle-field,
+     Nor see the blazon on thy shield;
+     Take thou the sword I could not wield,
+     And leave me, and forget
+     Be fairer, braver, more admired;
+     So win what feeble hearts desired;
+     Then leave thine arms, when thou art tired,
+     To some one nobler yet.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0032" id="link2H_4_0032">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      A CRUISE
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     Your princely progress is begun;
+     And pillowed on the bounding deck
+     You break with dark brown hair a sun
+     That falls transfigured on your neck.
+     Sail on, and charm sun, wind, and sea.
+     Oh! might that love-light rest on me!
+
+     Vacantly lingering with the hours,
+     The sacred hours that still remain
+     From that rich month of fruits and flowers
+     Which brought you near me once again,
+     By thoughts of you, though roses die,
+     I strive to make it still July.
+
+     Soft waves are strown beneath your prow,
+     Like carpets for a victor's feet;
+     You call slow zephyrs to your brow,
+     In listless luxury complete:
+     Love, the true Halcyon, guides your ship;
+     Oh, might his pinion touch my lip!
+
+     I by the shrunken river stroll;
+     And changed, since I was left alone,
+     With tangled weed and rising shoal,
+     The loss I mourn he seems to own:
+     This is, how base soe'er his sloth,
+     This is the stream that bore us both.
+
+     For you shall granite peaks uprise
+     As old and scornful as your race,
+     And fringed with firths of lucent dyes
+     The jewelled beach your limbs embrace.
+     Oh bather, may those Western gems
+     Remind you of my lilied Thames.
+
+     I too have seen the castled West,
+     Her Cornish creeks, her Breton ports,
+     Her caves by knees of hermits pressed,
+     Her fairy islets bright with quartz:
+     And dearer now each well-known scene,
+     For what shall be than what hath been.
+
+     Obeisance of kind strangers' eyes,
+     Triumphant cannons' measured roar,
+     Doffed plumes, and martial courtesies,
+     Shall greet you on the Norman shore.
+     Oh, that I were a stranger too,
+     To win that first sweet glance from you.
+
+     I was a stranger once: and soon
+     Beyond desire, above belief,
+     Thy soul was as a crescent moon,
+     A bud expanding leaf by leaf.
+     I'd pray thee now to close, to wane,
+     So that 'twere all to do again.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0033" id="link2H_4_0033">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      A SEPARATION
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     I may not touch the hand I saw
+     So nimbly weave the violet chain;
+     I may not see my artist draw
+     That southward-sloping lawn again.
+     But joy brimmed over when we met,
+     Nor can I mourn our parting yet.
+
+     Though he lies sick and far away,
+     I play with those that still are here,
+     Not honouring him the less, for they
+     To me by loving him are dear:
+     They share, they soothe my fond regret,
+     Since neither they nor I forget.
+
+     His sweet strong heart so nobly beat
+     With scorn and pity, mirth and zeal,
+     That vibrant hearts of ours repeat
+     What they with him were wont to feel;
+     Still quiring in that higher key,
+     Till he take up the melody.
+
+     If there be any music here,
+     I trust it will not fail, like notes
+     Of May-birds, when the warning year
+     Abates their summer-wearied throats.
+     Shame on us, if we drudge once more
+     As dull and tuneless as before.
+
+     Without him I was weak and coarse,
+     My soul went droning through the hours,
+     His goodness stirred a latent force
+     That drew from others kindred powers.
+     Nor they nor I could think me base,
+     When with their prince I had found grace.
+
+     His influence crowns me, like a cloud
+     Steeped in the light of a lost sun:
+     I reign, for willing knees are bowed
+     And light behests are gladly done:
+     So Rome obeyed the lover-king,
+     Who drank at pure Egeria's spring.
+
+     Such honour doth my mind perplex:
+     For, who is this, I ask, that dares
+     With manhood's wounds, and virtue's wrecks,
+     And tangled creeds, and subtle cares,
+     Affront the look, or speak the name
+     Of one who from Elysium came.
+
+     And yet, though withered and forlorn,
+     I had renounced what man desires,
+     I'd thought some poet might be born
+     To string my lute with silver wires;
+     At least in brighter days to come
+     Such men as I would not lie dumb.
+
+     I saw the Sibyl's finger rest
+     On fate's unturned imagined page,
+     Believed her promise, and was blest
+     With dreams of that heroic age.
+     She sent me, ere my hope was cold,
+     One of the race that she foretold.
+
+     His fellows time will bring, and they,
+     In manifold affections free,
+     Shall scatter pleasures day by day
+     Like blossoms rained from windy tree.
+     So let that garden bloom; and I,
+     Content with one such flower, will die.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0034" id="link2H_4_0034">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      A NEW MICHONNET
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     The foster-child forgets his nurse:
+     She doth but know what he hath been,
+     Took him for better or for worse,
+     Would pet him, though he be sixteen.
+
+     He helps to weave the soft quadrille;
+     Ah! leave the parlour door ajar;
+     Those thirsting eyes shall take their fill,
+     And watch her darling from afar.
+
+     It is her pride to see the hand,
+     Which wont so wantonly to tear
+     Her unblanched curls, control the band,
+     And change the tune, with such an air.
+
+     And who so good? she thinks, or who
+     So fit for partners rich and tall?
+     Indeed she's looked the ball-room through,
+     And he's the loveliest lad of all.
+
+     So to her lonesome bed: and there,
+     If any wandering notes she hear,
+     She'll say in pauses of her prayer,
+     "He dancing still, my child! my dear!"
+
+     His gladness doth on her redound,
+     Though hair be grey, and eyes be dim:
+     At every waif of broken sound
+     She'll wake, and smile, and think of him.
+
+     So, noblest of the noble, go
+     Through regions echoing thy name;
+     And even on me, thy friend, shall flow
+     Some streamlet from thy river of fame.
+
+     Thou to the gilded youth be kind;
+     Shed all thy genius-rays on them;
+     An ancient comrade stands behind
+     To touch, unseen, thy mantle's hem.
+
+     A stranger to thy peers am I,
+     And slighted, like that poor old crone,
+     And yet some clinging memories try
+     To rate thy conquests as mine own.
+
+     Nay, when at random drops thy praise
+     From lips of happy lookers-on,
+     My tearful eyes I proudly raise,
+     And bid my conscious self be gone.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0035" id="link2H_4_0035">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      SAPPHICS
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     Love, like an island, held a single heart,
+     Waiting for shoreward flutterings of the breeze,
+     So might it waft to him that sat apart
+     Some angel guest from out the clouded seas.
+
+     Was it mere chance that threw within his reach
+     Fragments and symbols of the bliss unknown?
+     Was it vague hope that murmured down the beach,
+     Tuning the billows and the cavern's moan?
+
+     Oft through the aching void the promise thrilled:
+     "Thou shalt be loved, and Time shall pay his debt."
+     Silence returns upon the wish fulfilled,
+     Joy for a year, and then a sweet regret.
+
+     Idol, mine Idol, whom this touch profanes,
+     Pass as thou cam'st across the glimmering seas:
+     All, all is lost but memory's sacred pains;
+     Leave me, oh leave me, ere I forfeit these.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0036" id="link2H_4_0036">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      A FABLE
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     An eager girl, whose father buys
+     Some ruined thane's forsaken hall,
+     Explores the new domain, and tries
+     Before the rest to view it all.
+
+     Alone she lifts the latch, and glides
+     Through many a sadly curtained room,
+     As daylight through the doorway slides
+     And struggles with the muffled gloom.
+
+     With mimicries of dance she wakes
+     The lordly gallery's silent floor,
+     And climbing up on tiptoe, makes
+     The old-world mirror smile once more.
+
+     With tankards dry she chills her lip,
+     With yellowing laces veils the head,
+     And leaps in pride of ownership
+     Upon the faded marriage bed.
+
+     A harp in some dark nook she sees,
+     Long left a prey to heat and frost.
+     She smites it: can such tinklings please?
+     Is not all worth, all beauty, lost?
+
+     Ah! who'd have thought such sweetness clung
+     To loose neglected strings like those?
+     They answered to whate'er was sung,
+     And sounded as the lady chose.
+
+     Her pitying finger hurried by
+     Each vacant space, each slackened chord;
+     Nor would her wayward zeal let die
+     The music-spirit she restored.
+
+     The fashion quaint, the time-worn flaws,
+     The narrow range, the doubtful tone,
+     All was excused awhile, because
+     It seemed a creature of her own.
+
+     Perfection tires; the new in old,
+     The mended wrecks that need her skill,
+     Amuse her. If the truth be told,
+     She loves the triumph of her will.
+
+     With this, she dares herself persuade,
+     She'll be for many a month content,
+     Quite sure no duchess ever played
+     Upon a sweeter instrument.
+
+     And thus in sooth she can beguile
+     Girlhood's romantic hours: but soon
+     She yields to taste and mode and style,
+     A siren of the gay saloon;
+
+     And wonders how she once could like
+     Those drooping wires, those failing notes,
+     And leaves her toy for bats to strike
+     Amongst the cobwebs and the motes.
+
+     But enter in, thou freezing wind,
+     And snap the harp-strings one by one;
+     It was a maiden blithe and kind:
+     They felt her touch; their task is done.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0037" id="link2H_4_0037">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      AMAVI
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     Ask, mournful Muse, by one alone inspired:
+     What change? am I less fond, or thou less fair?
+     Or is it, that thy mounting soul is tired
+     Of duteous homage and religious care?
+
+     So many court thee that my reverent gaze
+     Vexes that wilful and capricious eye;
+     Such fine rare flatteries flow to thee, that praise,
+     From one whose thoughts thou know'st, seems poor
+     and dry.
+
+     So must it be. Thus monarchs blandly greet
+     Strange heralds offering tribute, and forget
+     The vassals ranked behind the golden seat,
+     Whose annual gift is counted as a debt.
+
+     Since sure of me thy liegeman once in thrall
+     Thou need'st not waste on me those gracious looks.
+     Stirred by the newborn wish to conquer all,
+     Leave thy first subject to his rhymes and books.
+
+     Ah! those impetuous claims that drew me forth
+     From my cold shadows to thy dazzling day,
+     Those spells that lured me to the stately North,
+     Those pleas against my scruples, where are they?
+
+     Oh, glorious bondage in a dreamful bower!
+     Oh, freedom thrice abhorred, unblest release!
+     Why, why hath cruel circumstance the power
+     To make such worship, such obedience cease?
+
+     Surely I served thee, as the wrinkled elm
+     Yieldeth his nature to the jocund vine,
+     Strength unto beauty: may the flood o'erwhelm
+     Root, trunk, and branch, if they have not been thine.
+
+     If thine no more, if lightly left behind,
+     To guard the dancing clusters thought unmeet,
+     It is because with gilded trellis twined
+     Thy liberal growth demands untempered heat.
+
+     Yet, while they spread more freely to the sun,
+     Those tendrils; while they wanton in the breeze
+     Gathering all heaven's bounties, henceforth one
+     Abides more honoured than the neighbouring trees.
+
+     Ah dear, there's something left of that great gift;
+     And humbly marvelling at thy former choice
+     A head once crowned with love I dare uplift,
+     And, for that once I pleased thee, still rejoice.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_NOTE" id="link2H_NOTE">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      NOTES OF AN INTERVIEW
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     It is but little that remaineth
+     Of the kindness that you gave me,
+     And that little precious remnant you withhold.
+     Go free; I know that time constraineth,
+     Wilful blindness could not save me:
+     Yet you say I caused the change that I foretold.
+
+     At every sweet unasked relenting,
+     Though you'd tried me with caprice,
+     Did my welcome, did my gladness ever fail?
+     To-day not loud is my lamenting:
+     Do not chide me; it shall cease:
+     Could I think of vanished love without a wail?
+
+     Elsewhere, you lightly say, are blooming
+     All the graces I desire:
+     Thus you goad me to the treason of content:
+     If ever, when your brow is glooming,
+     Softer faces I admire,
+     Then your lightnings make me tremble and repent.
+
+     Grant this: whatever else beguileth
+     Restless dreaming, drowsy toil,
+     As a plaything, as a windfall, let me hail it.
+     Believe: the brightest one that smileth
+     To your beaming is a foil,
+     To the splendour breaking from you, though you veil it.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0039" id="link2H_4_0039">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      PREPARATION
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     Too weak am I to pray, as some have prayed,
+     That love might hurry straightway out of mind,
+     And leave an ever-vacant waste behind.
+
+     I thank thee rather, that through every grade
+     Of less and less affection we decline,
+     As month by month thy strong importunate fate
+     Thrusts back my claims, and draws thee toward the
+     great,
+     And shares amongst a hundred what was mine.
+
+     Proud heroes ask to perish in high noon:
+     I'd have refractions of the fallen day,
+     And heavings when the gale hath flown away,
+     And this slow disenchantment: since too soon,
+     Too surely, comes the death of my poor heart,
+     Be it inured to pain, in mercy, ere we part.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0040" id="link2H_4_0040">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      DETERIORA
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     One year I lived in high romance,
+     A soul ennobled by the grace
+     Of one whose very frowns enhance
+     The regal lustre of the face,
+     And in the magic of a smile
+     I dwelt as in Calypso's isle.
+
+     One year, a narrow line of blue,
+     With clouds both ways awhile held back:
+     And dull the vault that line goes through,
+     And frequent now the crossing rack;
+     And who shall pierce the upper sky,
+     And count the spheres? Not I, not I!
+
+     Sweet year, it was not hope you brought,
+     Nor after toil and storm repose,
+     But a fresh growth of tender thought,
+     And all of love my spirit knows.
+     You let my lifetime pause, and bade
+     The noontide dial cast no shade.
+
+     If fate and nature screen from me
+     The sovran front I bowed before,
+     And set the glorious creature free,
+     Whom I would clasp, detain, adore;
+     If I forego that strange delight,
+     Must all be lost? Not quite, not quite.
+
+     Die, little Love, without complaint,
+     Whom Honour standeth by to shrive:
+     Assoilèd from all selfish taint,
+     Die, Love, whom Friendship will survive.
+     Nor heat nor folly gave thee birth;
+     And briefness does but raise thy worth.
+
+     Let the grey hermit Friendship hoard
+     Whatever sainted Love bequeathed,
+     And in some hidden scroll record
+     The vows in pious moments breathed.
+     Vex not the lost with idle suit,
+     Oh lonely heart, be mute, be mute.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0041" id="link2H_4_0041">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      PARTING
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     As when a traveller, forced to journey back,
+     Takes coin by coin, and gravely counts them o'er,
+     Grudging each payment, fearing lest he lack,
+     Before he can regain the friendly shore;
+     So reckoned I your sojourn, day by day,
+     So grudged I every week that dropt away.
+
+     And as a prisoner, doomed and bound, upstarts
+     From shattered dreams of wedlock and repose,
+     At sudden rumblings of the market-carts,
+     Which bring to town the strawberry and the rose,
+     And wakes to meet sure death; so shuddered I,
+     To hear you meditate your gay Good-bye.
+
+     But why not gay? For, if there's aught you lose,
+     It is but drawing off a wrinkled glove
+     To turn the keys of treasuries, free to choose
+     Throughout the hundred-chambered house of love,
+     This pathos draws from you, though true and kind,
+     Only bland pity for the left-behind.
+
+     We part; you comfort one bereaved, unmanned;
+     You calmly chide the silence and the grief;
+     You touch me once with light and courteous hand,
+     And with a sense of something like relief
+     You turn away from what may seem to be
+     Too hard a trial of your charity.
+
+     So closes in the life of life; so ends
+     The soaring of the spirit. What remains?
+     To take whate'er the Muse's mother lends,
+     One sweet sad thought in many soft refrains
+     And half reveal in Coan gauze of rhyme
+     A cherished image of your joyous prime.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0042" id="link2H_4_0042">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      ALL THAT WAS POSSIBLE
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     Slope under slope the pastures dip
+     With ribboned waterfalls, and make
+     Scant room for just a village strip,
+     The setting of a sapphire lake.
+
+     And here, when summer draws the kine
+     To upland grasses patched with snow,
+     Our travellers rest not, only dine,
+     Then driven by Furies, onward go.
+
+     For pilgrims of the pointed stick,
+     With passport case for scallop shell,
+     Scramble for worshipped Alps too quick
+     To care for vales where mortals dwell.
+
+     Twice daily swarms the hostel's pier,
+     Twice daily is the table laid;
+     And, "Oh, that some would tarry here!"
+     Sighs Madeline, the serving-maid.
+
+     She shows them silly carven stuff;
+     Some sneer, but others smile and buy;
+     And these light smiles are quite enough
+     To make the wistful maiden sigh.
+
+     She scans the face, but not the mind;
+     She learns their taste in wines and toys,
+     But, seem they thoughtful and refined,
+     She fain would know their cares, their joys.
+
+     For man is not as horse and hound,
+     Who turn to meet their lord's caress,
+     Yet never miss the touch or sound,
+     When absence brings unconsciousness.
+
+     Not such the souls that can reflect;
+     Too mild they may be to repine;
+     But sometimes, winged with intellect,
+     They strain to pass the bounding line.
+
+     And to have learnt our pleasant tongue
+     In English mansions, gave a sense
+     Of something bitter-sweet, that stung
+     The pensive maiden of Brientz.
+
+     I will not say she wished for aught;
+     For, failing guests, she duly spun,
+     And saved for marriage; but one thought
+     Would still in alien channels run.
+
+     And when at last a lady came,
+     Not lovely, but with twofold grace,
+     For courtly France had tuned her name,
+     Whilst England reigned in hair and face;
+
+     And illness bound her many a day,
+     A willing captive, to the mere,
+     In peace, though home was far away,
+     For Madeline's talking brought it near.
+
+     Then delicate words unused before
+     Rose to her lips, as amber shines
+     Thrown by the wave upon the shore
+     From unimagined ocean-mines;
+
+     And then perceptions multiplied,
+     Foreshadowings of the heart came true,
+     And interlaced on every side
+     Old girlish fancies bloomed and grew;
+
+     And looks of higher meaning gleamed
+     Like azure sheen of mountain ice,
+     And common household service seemed
+     The wageless work of Paradise.
+
+     But autumn downward drove the kine,
+     And clothed the wheel with flaxen thread,
+     And sprinkled snow upon the pine,
+     And bowed the silent spinster's head.
+
+     Then Europe's tumult scared the spring,
+     And checked the Northern travel-drift:
+     Yet to Brientz did summer bring
+     An English letter and a gift;
+
+     And Madeline took them with a tear:
+     "How gracious to remember me!
+     Her words I'll keep from year to year,
+     Her face in heaven I hope to see."
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0043" id="link2H_4_0043">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      SCHEVENINGEN AVENUE
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     Oh, that the road were longer,
+     A mile, or two, or three!
+     So might the thought grow stronger
+     That flows from touch of thee.
+
+     Oh little slumbering maid,
+     If thou wert five years older,
+     Thine head would not be laid
+     So simply on my shoulder!
+
+     Oh, would that I were younger,
+     Oh, were I more like thee,
+     I should not faintly hunger
+     For love that cannot be.
+
+     A girl might be caressed,
+     Beside me freely sitting;
+     A child on me might rest,
+     And not like thee, unwitting.
+
+     Such honour is thy mother's
+     Who smileth on thy sleep,
+     Or for the nurse who smothers
+     Thy cheek in kisses deep.
+
+     And but for parting day,
+     And but for forest shady,
+     From me they'd take away
+     The burden of their lady.
+
+     Ah thus to feel thee leaning
+     Above the nursemaid's hand,
+     Is like a stranger's gleaning,
+     Where rich men own the land;
+
+     Chance gains, and humble thrift,
+     With shyness much like thieving,
+     No notice with the gift,
+     No thanks with the receiving.
+
+     Oh peasant, when thou starvest
+     Outside the fair domain,
+     Imagine there's a harvest
+     In every treasured grain.
+
+     Make with thy thoughts high cheer,
+     Say grace for others dining,
+     And keep thy pittance clear
+     From poison of repining.
+
+     1859.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0044" id="link2H_4_0044">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      MELLIREN
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     Can you so fair and young forecast
+     The sure, the cruel day of doom;
+     Must I believe that you at last
+     Will fall, fall, fall down to the tomb?
+     Unclouded, fearless, gentle soul,
+     You greet the foe whose threats you hear;
+     Your lifted eyes discern the goal,
+     Your blood declares it is not near.
+
+     Feel deeply; toil through weal and woe,
+     Love England, love a friend, a bride.
+     Bid wisdom grow, let sorrow flow,
+     Make many weep when you have died.
+     When you shall die&mdash;what seasons lie
+     'Twixt that great Then and this sweet Now!
+     What blooms of courage for that eye,
+     What thorns of honour for that brow!
+
+     Oh mortal, too dear to me, tell me thy choice,
+     Say how wouldst thou die, and in dying rejoice?
+
+     Will you perish, calmly sinking
+     To a sunless deep sea cave,
+     Folding hands, and kindly thinking
+     Of the friend you tried to save?
+     Will you let your sweet breath pass
+     On the arms of children bending,
+     Gazing on the sea of glass,
+     Where the lovelight has no ending?
+
+     Or in victory stern and fateful,
+     Colours wrapt round shattered breast,
+     English maidens rescued, grateful,
+     Whispering near you, "Conqueror, rest;"
+     Or an old tune played once more,
+     Tender cadence oft repeated,
+     Moonlight shed through open door,
+     Angel wife beside you seated.
+
+     Whatever thy death may be, child of my heart,
+     Long, long shall they mourn thee that see thee depart.
+
+     1860
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0045" id="link2H_4_0045">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      A MERRY PARTING
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     With half a moon, and cloudlets pink,
+     And water-lilies just in bud,
+     With iris on the river brink,
+     And white weed garlands on the mud,
+     And roses thin and pale as dreams,
+     And happy cygnets born in May,
+     No wonder if our country seems
+     Drest out for Freedom's natal day.
+
+     We keep the day; but who can brood
+     On memories of unkingly John,
+     Or of the leek His Highness chewed,
+     Or of the stone he wrote upon?
+     To Freedom born so long ago,
+     We do devoir in very deed,
+     If heedless as the clouds we row
+     With fruit and wine to Runnymede.
+
+     Ah! life is short, and learning long;
+     We're midway through our mirthful June,
+     And feel about for words of song
+     To help us through some dear old tune.
+     We firmly, fondly seize the joy,
+     As tight as fingers press the oar,
+     With love and laughter girl and boy
+     Hold the sweet days, and make them more.
+
+     And when our northern stars have set
+     For ever on the maid we lose,
+     Beneath our feet she'll not forget
+     How speed the hours with Eton crews.
+     Then round the world, good river, run,
+     And though with you no boat may glide,
+     Kind river, bear some drift of fun
+     And friendship to the exile bride.
+
+     June 15th, 1861.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0046" id="link2H_4_0046">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      SCHOOL FENCIBLES
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     We come in arms, we stand ten score,
+     Embattled on the castle green;
+     We grasp our firelocks tight, for war
+     Is threatening, and we see our Queen.
+
+     And "will the churls last out till we
+     Have duly hardened bones and thews
+     For scouring leagues of swamp and sea
+     Of braggart mobs and corsair crews?
+
+     We ask; we fear not scoff or smile
+     At meek attire of blue and grey,
+     For the proud wrath that thrills our isle
+     Gives faith and force to this array.
+
+     So great a charm is England's right,
+     That hearts enlarged together flow,
+     And each man rises up a knight
+     To work the evil-thinkers woe.
+
+     And, girt with ancient truth and grace,
+     We do our service and our suit,
+     And each can be, what'er his race,
+     A Chandos or a Montacute.
+
+     Thou, Mistress, whom we serve to-day,
+     Bless the real swords that we shall wield,
+     Repeat the call we now obey
+     In sunset lands, on some fair field.
+
+     Thy flag shall make some Huron Rock
+     As dear to us as Windsor's keep,
+     And arms thy Thames hath nerved shall mock
+     The surgings of th' Ontarian deep.
+
+     The stately music of thy Guards,
+     Which times our march beneath thy ken,
+     Shall sound, with spells of sacred bards,
+     From heart to heart, when we are men.
+
+     And when we bleed on alien earth,
+     We'll call to mind how cheers of ours
+     Proclaimed a loud uncourtly mirth
+     Amongst thy glowing orange bowers.
+
+     And if for England's sake we fall,
+     So be it, so thy cross be won,
+     Fixed by kind hands on silvered pall,
+     And worn in death, for duty done.
+
+     Ah! thus we fondle Death, the soldier's mate,
+     Blending his image with the hopes of youth
+     To hallow all; meanwhile the hidden fate
+     Chills not our fancies with the iron truth.
+
+     Death from afar we call, and Death is here,
+     To choose out him who wears the loftiest mien;
+     And Grief, the cruel lord who knows no peer,
+     Breaks through the shield of love to pierce our
+     Queen.
+
+     1861.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0047" id="link2H_4_0047">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      BOCONNOC
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     Who so distraught could ramble here,
+     From gentle beech to simple gorse,
+     From glen to moor, nor cease to fear
+     The world's impetuous bigot force,
+     Which drives the young before they will,
+     And when they will not drives them still.
+
+     Come hither, thou that would'st forget
+     The gamester's smile, the trader's vaunt,
+     The statesman actor's face hard set,
+     The kennel cry that cheers his taunt,
+     Come where pure winds and rills combine
+     To murmur peace round virtue's shrine.
+
+     Virtue&mdash;men thrust her back, when these
+     Rode down for Charles and right divine,
+     And those with dogma Genevese
+     Restored in faith their wavering line.
+     No virtue in religious camps,
+     No heathen oil in Gideon's lamps.
+
+     And now, when forcing seasons bud
+     With prophet, hero, saint, and quack,
+     When creeds and fashions heat the blood,
+     And transcendental tonguelets clack,
+     Sweet Virtue's lyre we hardly know,
+     And think her odes quite rococo.
+
+     Well, be it Roman, be it worse,
+     When Pelhams reigned in George's name
+     Poets were safe from sneer or curse
+     Who gave a patriot classic fame,
+     And goodness, void of passion, knit
+     The hearts of Lyttelton and Pitt.
+
+     That age was as a neutral vale
+     'Twixt uplands of tumultuous strife,
+     And turning from the sects to hail
+     Composure and a graceful life,
+     Here, where the fern-clad streamlet flows,
+     Boconnoc's guests ensured repose.
+
+     That charm remains; and he who knows
+     The root and stock of freedom's laws,
+     Unscared by frenzied nations' throes,
+     And hugging yet the good old cause,
+     Finds in the shade these beeches cast
+     The wit, the fragrance of the past.
+
+     Octave of St. Bartholomew, 1862.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0048" id="link2H_4_0048">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      A SKETCH AFTER BRANTÔME
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     The door hath closed behind the sighing priest,
+     The last absolving Latin duly said,
+     And night, barred slowly backward from the East,
+     Lets in the dawn to mock a sleepless bed;
+
+     The bed of one who yester even took
+     From scented aumbries store of silk and lace,
+     From caskets beads and rings, for one last look,
+     One look, which left the teardrops on her face;
+
+     A lady, who hath loved the world, the court,
+     Loved youth and splendour, loved her own sweet
+     soul,
+     And meekly stoops to learn that life is short,
+     Dame Nature's pitiful gift, a beggar's dole.
+
+     Sweet life, ah! let her live what yet remains.
+     Call, quickly call, the page who bears the lute;
+     Bid him attune to descant of sad strains
+     The lily voice we thought for ever mute.
+
+     The sorrowing minstrel at the casement stands
+     And bends before the sun that gilds his wires,
+     And prays a blessing on his faltering hands,
+     That they may serve his lady's last desires.
+
+     "Play something old and soft, a song I knew;
+     Play <i>La défaite des Suisses,</i>" Then pearly notes
+     Come dropping one by one, and with the dew
+     Down on the breath of morning music floats.
+
+     He played as far as <i>tout est perdu</i> and wept.
+     "<i>Tout est perdu</i> again, once more," she sighed;
+     And on, still softer on, the music crept,
+     And softly, at the pause, the listener died.
+
+     1862.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0049" id="link2H_4_0049">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      ON LIVERMEAD SANDS
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     For waste of scheme and toil we grieve,
+     For snowflakes on the wave we sigh,
+     For writings on the sand that leave
+     Naught for to-morrow's passer-by.
+
+     Waste, waste; each knoweth his own worth,
+     And would be something ere he sink
+     To silence, ere he mix with earth,
+     And part with love, and cease to think.
+
+     Shall I then comfort thee and me,
+     My neighbour, preaching thus of waste?
+     Count yonder planet fragments; see,
+     The meteors into darkness haste.
+
+     Lo! myriad germs at random float,
+     Fall on no fostering home, and die
+     Back to mere elements; every mote
+     Was framed for life as thou, as I.
+
+     For ages over soulless eyes,
+     Ere man was born, the heavens in vain
+     Dipt clouds in dawn and sunset dyes
+     Unheeded, and shall we complain?
+
+     Aye, Nature plays that wanton game
+     And Nature's hierophants may smile,
+     Contented with their lore; no blame
+     To rhymers if they groan meanwhile.
+
+     Since that which yearns towards minds of men,
+     Which flashes down from brain to lip,
+     Finds but cold truth in mammoth den,
+     With spores, with stars, no fellowship.
+
+     Say we that our ungamered thought
+     Drifts on the stream of all men's fate,
+     Our travail is a thing of naught,
+     Only because mankind is great.
+
+     Born to be wasted, even so,
+     And doomed to feel, and lift no voice;
+     Yet not unblessed, because I know
+     So many other souls rejoice.
+
+     1863.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0050" id="link2H_4_0050">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      LACORDAIRE AT OXFORD
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     Lost to the Church and deaf to me, this town
+     Yet wears a reverend garniture of peace.
+     Set in a land of trade, like Gideon's fleece
+     Bedewed where all is dry; the Pope may frown;
+     But, if this city is the shrine of youth,
+     How shall the Preacher lord of virgin souls,
+     When by glad streams and laughing lawns he strolls,
+     How can he bless them not? Yet in sad sooth,
+     When I would love these English gownsmen, sighs
+     Heave my frail breast, and weakness dims mine eyes.
+
+     These strangers heed me not. Far off in France
+     Are young men not so fair, and not so cold,
+     My listeners. Were they here, their greeting glance
+     Might charm me to forget that I were old.
+
+     1863.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0051" id="link2H_4_0051">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      A RETROSPECT OF SCHOOL LIFE
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     I go, and men who know me not,
+     When I am reckoned man, will ask,
+     "What is it then that thou hast got
+     By drudging through that five-year task?
+
+     "What knowledge or what art is thine?
+     Set out thy stock, thy craft declare."
+     Then this child-answer shall be mine,
+     "I only know they loved me there."
+
+     There courteous strivings with my peers,
+     And duties not bound up in books,
+     And courage fanned by stormy cheers,
+     And wisdom writ in pleasant looks,
+
+     And hardship buoyed with hope, and pain
+     Encountered for the common weal,
+     And glories void of vulgar gain,
+     Were mine to take, were mine to feel.
+
+     Nor from Apollo did I shrink
+     Like Titans chained; but sweet and low
+     Whispered the Nymphs, who seldom think:
+     "Up, up for action, run and row!"
+
+     He let me, though his smile was grave,
+     Seek an Egeria out of town
+     Beneath the chestnuts; he forgave;
+     And should the jealous Muses frown?
+
+     Fieldward some remnants of their lore
+     Went with me, as the rhymes of Gray
+     Annealed the heart of Wolfe for war
+     When drifting on his starlit way.
+
+     Much lost I; something stayed behind,
+     A snatch, maybe, of ancient song;
+     Some breathings of a deathless mind,
+     Some love of truth, some hate of wrong.
+
+     And to myself in games I said,
+     "What mean the books? Can I win fame?
+     I would be like the faithful dead
+     A fearless man, and pure of blame.
+
+     I may have failed, my School may fail;
+     I tremble, but thus much I dare;
+     I love her. Let the critics rail,
+     My brethren and my home are there.
+
+     July 28th, 1863.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0052" id="link2H_4_0052">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      CLOVELLY BEACH
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     Oh, music! breathe me something old to-day,
+     Some fine air gliding in from far away,
+     Through to the soul that lies behind the clay.
+
+     This hour, if thou did'st ever speak before,
+     Speak in the wave that sobs upon the shore,
+     Speak in the rill that trickles from the moor.
+
+     Known was this sea's slow chant when I was young;
+     To me these rivulets sing as once they sung,
+     No need this hour of human throat and tongue.
+
+     The Dead who loved me heard this selfsame tide.
+     Oh that the Dead were listening by my side,
+     And I could give the fondness then denied.
+
+     Once in the parlour of my mother's sire
+     One sang, "And ye shall walk in silk attire."
+     Then my cold childhood woke to strange desire.
+
+     That was an unconfessed and idle spell,
+     A drop of dew that on a blossom fell;
+     And what it wrought I cannot surely tell.
+
+     Far off that thought and changed, like lines that stay
+     On withered canvas, pink and pearly grey,
+     When rose and violet hues have passed away.
+
+     Oh, had I dwelt with music since that night!
+     What life but that is life, what other flight
+     Escapes the plaguing doubts of wrong and right!
+
+     Oh music! once I felt the touch of thee,
+     Once when this soul was as the chainless sea.
+     Oh, could'st thou bid me even now be free!
+
+     April, 1865.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0053" id="link2H_4_0053">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      AN EPOCH IN A SWEET LIFE
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     This sun, whose javelins strike and gild the wheat,
+     Who gives the nectarine half an orb of bloom,
+     Burns on my life no less, and beat by beat
+     Shapes that grave hour when boyhood hears her
+     doom.
+
+     Between this glow of pious eve and me,
+     Lost moments, thick as clouds of summer flies,
+     Specks of old time, which else one could not see,
+     Made manifest in the windless calm, arise.
+
+     Streaks fairy green are traced on backward ways,
+     Through vacant regions lightly overleapt,
+     With pauses, where in soft pathetic haze
+     Are phantoms of the joys that died unwept.
+
+     Seven years since one, who bore with me the yoke
+     Of household schooling, missed me from her side.
+     When called away from sorrowing woman folk
+     A prouder task with brothers twain I plied.
+
+     I came a child, and home was round me still,
+     No terror snapt the silken cord of trust;
+     My accents changed not, and the low "I will"
+     Silenced like halcyon plumes the loud "you must."
+
+     I lisped my Latin underneath the gloom
+     Of timbers dark as frowning usher's looks,
+     Where thought would stray beyond that sordid room
+     To saucy chessmen and to feathered hooks.
+
+     And soon I sat below my grandsire's bust,
+     Which in the school he loved not deigns to stand,
+     That Earl, who forced his compeers to be just,
+     And wrought in brave old age what youth had
+     planned.
+
+     But no ancestral majesties could fix
+     The wistful eye, which fell, and fondly read,
+     Fresh carven on the panel, letters six,
+     A brother's name, more sacred than the dead.
+
+     How far too sweet for school he seemed to me,
+     How ripe for combat with the wits of men,
+     How childlike in his manhood! Can it be?
+     Can I indeed be now what he was then?
+
+     He past from sight; my laughing life remained
+     Like merry waves that ripple to the bank,
+     Curved round the spot where longing eyes are strained,
+     Because beneath the lake a treasure sank.
+
+     Dear as the token of a loss to some,
+     And praised for likeness, this was well; and yet
+     'Twas better still that younger friends should come,
+     Whose love might grow entwined with no regret.
+
+     They came; and one was of a northern race,
+     Who bore the island galley on his shield,
+     Grand histories on his name, and in his face
+     A bright soul's ardour fearlessly revealed.
+
+     We trifled, toiled, and feasted, far apart
+     From churls, who wondered what our friendship
+     meant;
+     And in that coy retirement heart to heart
+     Drew closer, and our natures were content.
+
+     My noblest playmate lost, I still withdrew
+     From dull excitement which the Graces dread,
+     And talked in saunterings with the gentle few
+     Of tunes we practised, and of rhymes we read.
+
+     We swam through twilight waters, or we played
+     Like spellbound captives in the Naiad's grot;
+     Coquetted with the oar, and wooed the shade
+     On dainty banks of shy forget-me-not.
+
+     Oh Thames! my memories bloom with all thy flowers,
+     Thy kindness sighs to me from every tree:
+     Farewell I I thank thee for the frolic hours,
+     I bid thee, whilst thou flowest, speak of me.
+
+     July 28th, 1864.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0054" id="link2H_4_0054">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      PHAEDRA'S NURSE
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     A plague on the whimsies of sickly folk!
+     What am I to do? What not?
+     Why, here's the fair sky, and here you lie
+     With your couch in a sunny spot.
+     For this you were puling whenever you spoke,
+     Craving to lie outside,
+     And now you'll be sure not to bide.
+
+     You won't lie still for an hour;
+     You'll want to be back to your bower&mdash;
+     Longing, and never enjoying,
+     Shifting from yea to nay.
+     For all that you taste is cloying,
+     And sweet is the far away.
+
+     'Tis hard to be sick, but worse
+     To have to sit by and nurse,
+     For that is single, but this is double,
+     The mind in pain, and the hands in trouble.
+     The life men live is a weary coil,
+     There is no rest from woe and toil;
+     And if there's aught elsewhere more dear
+     Than drawing breath as we do here,
+     That darkness holds
+     In black inextricable folds.
+
+     Lovesick it seems are we
+     Of this, whate'er it be,
+     That gleams upon the earth;
+     Because that second birth,
+     That other life no man hath tried.
+
+     What lies below
+     No god will show,
+     And we to whom the truth's denied
+     Drift upon idle fables to and fro.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0055" id="link2H_4_0055">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      BELOW BOULTER'S LOCK
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     The aspen grows on the maiden's bank,
+     Down swoops the breeze on the bough,
+     Quick rose the gust, and suddenly sank,
+     Like wrath on my sweetheart's brow.
+
+     The tree is caught, the boat dreads nought,
+     Sheltered and safe below;
+     The bank is high, and the wind runs by,
+     Giving us leave to row.
+
+     The bank was dipping low and lower,
+     Showing the glowing west,
+     The oar went slower, for either rower
+     The river was heaving her breast.
+
+     That sunset seemed to my dauntless steerer
+     The lifting and breaking of day,
+     That flush on the wave to me was dearer
+     Than shade on a windless way.
+
+     June 2nd, 1868.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0056" id="link2H_4_0056">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      FROM HALS DON TO CHELTENHAM TO TWO LITTLE LADIES.
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     Across three shires I stretch and lean,
+     To gaze beyond the hills that screen
+     The trustful eyes and gracious mien
+     Of unforgotten Geraldine.
+
+     Up Severn sea my fancy leadeth,
+     And past the springs of Thames it speedeth,
+     On to the brilliant town, which needeth,
+     Far less than I, the laugh of Edith.
+
+     Sad gales have changed my woodland scene
+     To russet-brown from gold and green;
+     Cold and forlorn like me hath been
+     The boat that carried Geraldine.
+
+     On silent paths the whistler weedeth,
+     And what his tune is no one heedeth;
+     On hay beneath the linhay feedeth
+     The ass that felt the hand of Edith.
+
+     Oh cherished thought of Geraldine,
+     I'd rhyme till summer, if the Queen
+     Would blow her trumpets and proclaim
+     Fresh rhymes for that heroic name.
+
+     Oh babbler gay as river stickle,
+     Next year you'll be too old to tickle;
+     But while my Torridge flows I'll say
+     "Blithe Edith liked me half day."
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0057" id="link2H_4_0057">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      A POOR FRENCH SAILOR'S SCOTTISH SWEETHEART
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     I cannot forget my jo,
+     I bid him be mine in sleep;
+     But battle and woe have changed him so,
+     There's nothing to do but weep.
+
+     My mother rebukes me yet,
+     And I never was meek before;
+     His jacket is wet, his lip cold set,
+     He'll trouble our home no more.
+
+     Oh breaker of reeds that bend!
+     Oh quencher of tow that smokes!
+     I'd rather descend to my sailor friend
+     Than prosper with lofty folks.
+
+     I'm lying beside the gowan,
+     My jo in the English bay;
+     I'm Annie Rowan, his Annie Rowan,
+     He called me his <i>bien-aimêe</i>.
+
+     I'll hearken to all you quote,
+     Though I'd rather be deaf and free;
+     The little he wrote in the sinking boat
+     Is Bible and charm for me.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0058" id="link2H_4_0058">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      A GARDEN GIRL
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     Oh, scanty white garment! they ask why I wear you,
+     Such thin chilly vesture for one that is frail,
+     And dull words of prose cannot truly declare you
+     To be what I bid you be, love's coat of mail.
+
+     You were but a symbol of cleanness and rest,
+     To don in the summer time, three years ago;
+     And now you encompass a care-stricken breast
+     With fabric of fancy to keep it aglow.
+
+     For when it was Lammastide two before this,
+     When freshening my face after freshening my lilies,
+     A door opened quickly, and down fell a kiss,
+     The lips unforeseen were my passionate Willie's.
+
+     My Willie was travel-worn, Willie was cold,
+     And I might not keep but a dear lock of hair.
+     I clad him in silk and I decked him with gold,
+     But welcome and fondness were choked in despair.
+
+     I follow the wheels, and he turns with a sob,
+     We fold our mute hands on the death of the hour;
+     For heart-breaking virtues and destinies rob
+     The soul of her nursling, the thorn of her flower.
+
+     The lad's mind is rooted, his passion red-fruited,
+     The head I caressed is another's delight;
+     And I, though I stray through the year sorrow-suited,
+     At Lammas, for Willie's sake, robe me in white.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0059" id="link2H_4_0059">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      TO TWO YOUNG LADIES
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     There are, I've read, two troops of years,
+     One troop is called the teens;
+     They bring sweet gifts to little dears,
+     Ediths and Geraldines.
+
+     The others have no certain name,
+     Though children of the sun,
+     They come to wrinkled men, and claim
+     Their treasures one by one.
+
+     There is a hermit faint and dry,
+     In things called rhymes he dabbles,
+     And seventeen months have heard him sigh
+     For Cissy and for Babbles.
+
+     Once, when he seemed to be bedridden,
+     These girls said, "Make us lines,"
+     He tried to court, as he was bidden,
+     His vanished Valentines.
+
+     Now, three days late, yet ere they ask,
+     He's meekly undertaken
+     To do his sentimental task,
+     Philandering, though forsaken.
+
+     I pace my paradise, and long
+     To show it off to Peris;
+     They come not, but it can't be wrong
+     To raise their ghosts by queries.
+
+     Is Geraldine in flowing robes?
+     Has Edith rippling curls?
+     And do their ears prolong the lobes
+     Weighed down with gold and pearls?
+
+     And do they know the verbs of France?
+     And do they play duetts?
+     And do they blush when led to dance?
+     And are they called coquettes?
+
+     Oh, Cissy, if the heartless year
+     Sets our brief loves asunder!
+     Oh, Babbles, whom I daren't call dear!
+     What can I do but wonder?
+
+     I wonder what you're both become,
+     Whether you're children still;
+     I pause with fingers twain and thumb
+     Closed on my faltering quill;
+
+     I pause to think how I decay,
+     And you win grace from Time.
+     Perhaps ill-natured folks would say
+     He's pausing for a rhyme.
+
+     The sun, who drew us far apart,
+     Might lessen my regrets,
+     Would he but deign to use his art
+     In painting your vignettes.
+
+     Then though I groaned for losing half
+     Of joys that memory traces,
+     I could forego the talk, the laugh,
+     In welcoming the faces.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0060" id="link2H_4_0060">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      A HOUSE AND A GIRL
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     The strawberry tree and the crimson thorn,
+     And Fanny's myrtle and William's vine,
+     And honey of bountiful jessamine,
+     Are gone from the homestead where I was born.
+
+     I gaze from my Grandfather's terrace wall,
+     And then I bethink me how once I stept
+     Through rooms where my Mother had blest me,
+     and wept
+     To yield them to strangers, and part with them all.
+
+     My Father, like Matthew the publican, ceased
+     Full early from hoarding with stainless mind,
+     To Torrington only and home inclined,
+     Where brotherhood, cousinhood, graced his feast.
+
+     I meet his remembrance in market lane,
+     'Neath town-hall pillars and churchyard limes,
+     In streets where he tried a thousand times
+     To chasten anger and soften pain.
+
+     Ah I would there were some one that I could aid,
+     Though lacking the simpleness, lacking the worth,
+     Yet wanted and trusted by right of birth,
+     Some townfellow stripling, some Torrington maid.
+
+     Oh pitiful waste! oh stubborn neglect!
+     Oh pieties smothered for thirty years!
+     Oh gleanings of kindness in dreams and tears!
+     Oh drift cast up from a manhood wrecked!
+
+     There's one merry maiden hath carelessly crossed
+     The threshold I dread, and she never discerns
+     In keepsakes she thanks me for, lessons she learns,
+     A sign of the grace that I squandered and lost.
+
+     My birthplace to Meg is but window and stone,
+     My knowledge a wilderness where she can stray,
+     To keep what she gathers or throw it away;
+     So Meg lets me laugh with her, mourning alone.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0061" id="link2H_4_0061">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      A FELLOW PASSENGER UNKNOWN
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     Maiden, hastening to be wise,
+     Maiden, reading with a rage,
+     Envy fluttereth round the page
+     Whereupon thy downward eyes
+     Rove and rest, and melt maybe&mdash;
+     Virgin eyes one may not see,
+     Gathering as the bee
+     Takes from cherry tree;
+     As the robin's bill
+     Frets the window sill,
+     Maiden, bird, and bee,
+     Three from me half hid,
+     Doing what we did
+     When our minds were free.
+
+     Those romantic pages wist
+     What romance is in the look.
+     Oh, that I could be so bold,
+     So romantic as to bold
+     Half an hour the pensive wrist,
+     And the burden of the book.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0062" id="link2H_4_0062">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      NUREMBERG CEMETERY
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     Outside quaint Albert Durer's town,
+     Where Freedom set her stony crown,
+     Whereof the gables red and brown
+     Curve over peaceful forts that screen
+     Spring bloom and garden lanes between
+     The scarp and counter-scarp. Her feet
+     One highday of Saint Paraclete
+     Were led along the dolorous street
+     By stepping stones towards love and heaven
+     And pauses of the soul twice seven.
+
+     Beneath the flowerless trees, where May,
+     Proud of her orchards' fine array,
+     Abates her claim and holds no sway,
+     Past iron tombs, the useless shields
+     Of cousins slain in Elsass fields,
+     The girl, with fair neck meekly bowed.
+
+     Mores bravely through a sauntering crowd,
+     Hastening, as she was bid, to breathe
+     Above the breathless, and enwreathe,
+     With pansies earned by spinster thrift,
+     And lillybells, a wooer's gift,
+     A stone which glimmers in the shade
+     Of yonder silent colonnade,
+     Over against the slates that hold
+     Marie in lines of slender gold,
+     A token wrought by fictive fingers,
+     A garland, last year's offering, lingers,
+     Hung out of reach, and facing north.
+     And lo! thereout a wren flies forth,
+     And Gertrude, straining on toetips,
+     Just touches with her prayerful lips
+     The warm home which a bird unskilled
+     In grief and hope knows how to build.
+
+     The maid can mourn, but not the wren.
+     Birds die, death's shade belongs to men.
+
+     1877.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0063" id="link2H_4_0063">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      MORTAL THING NOT WHOLLY CLAY
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     J'aurai passé sur la terre,
+     N'ayant rien aimé que l'amour.
+
+     Mortal thing not wholly clay,
+     Mellowing only to decay,
+     Speak, for airs of spring unfold
+     Wistful sorrows long untold.
+
+     Under a poplar turning green,
+     Say for age that seems so bold,
+     Oh, the saddest words to say,
+     "This might have been."
+
+     Twenty, thirty years ago&mdash;
+     Woe, woe, the seasons flow&mdash;
+     Beatings of a zephyr's plume
+     Might have broken down the doom.
+
+     Gossamer scruples fell between
+     Thee and this that might have been;
+     Now the clinging cobwebs grow;
+     Ah! the saddest loss is this,
+     A good maid's kiss.
+
+     Soon, full soon, they will be here,
+     Twisting withies for the bier;
+     Under a heathen yew-tree's shade
+     Will a wasted heart be laid&mdash;
+     Heart that never dared be dear.
+
+     Leave it so, to lie unblest,
+     Priest of love, just half confessed.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0064" id="link2H_4_0064">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      A SICK FRENCH POET'S ENGLISH FRIENDS
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     When apple buds began to swell,
+     And Procne called for Philomel,
+     Down there, where Seine caresseth sea
+     Two lassies deigned, or chanced, to be
+     Playmates or votaries for me,
+     Miss Euphrasie, Miss Eulalie.
+
+     Then dates of birth dropt out of mind,
+     For one was brave as two were kind;
+     In cheerful vigil one designed
+     A maze of wit for two to wind;
+     And that grey Muse who served the three
+     Broke daylight into reverie.
+
+     Peace lit upon a fluttering vein,
+     And, self forgetting, on the brain,
+     On rifts, by passion wrought, again
+     Splashed from the sky of childhood rain;
+     And rid of afterthought were we,
+     And from foreboding sweetly free.
+
+     Now falls the apple, bleeds the vine,
+     And moved by some autumnal sign,
+     I, who in spring was glad, repine,
+     And ache without my anodyne.
+     Oh things that were, oh things that are,
+     Oh setting of my double star!
+
+     This day this way an Iris came,
+     And brought a scroll, and showed a name.
+     Now surely they who thus reclaim
+     Acquaintance should relight a flame.
+     So speed, gay steed, that I may see
+     Dear Euphrasie, dear Eulalie.
+
+     Behind this ivy screen are they
+     Whose girlhood flowered on me last May.
+     The world is lord of all; I pray
+     They be not courtly&mdash;who can say?
+     Well, well, remembrance held in fee
+     Is good, nay, best. I turn and flee.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0065" id="link2H_4_0065">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      L'OISEAU BLEU
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     Down with the oar, I toil no more.
+     Trust to the boat; we rest, we float.
+     Under the loosestrife and alder we roam
+     To seek and search for the halcyon's home.
+
+     Blue bird, pause; thou hast no cause
+     To grudge me the sight of fishbones white.
+     Thine is the only nest now to find.
+     Show it me, birdie; be calm, be kind.
+
+     Wander all day in quest of prey,
+     Dart and gleam, and ruffle the stream;
+     Then for the truth that the old folks sing,
+     Comfort the twilight, and droop thy wing.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0066" id="link2H_4_0066">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      HOME, PUP!
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     Euphemia Seton of Urchinhope,
+     The wife of the farmer of Tynnerandoon,
+     Stands lifting her eyes to the whitening slope,
+     And longs for her laddies at suppertime soon.
+
+     The laddies, the dog, and the witless sheep,
+     Are bound to come home, for the snow will be deep.
+     The mother is pickling a scornful word
+     To throw at the head of the elder lad, Hugh;
+     But talkative Jamie, as gay as a bird,
+     Will have nothing beaten save snow from his shoe.
+     He has fire in his eyes, he has curls on his head,
+     And a silver brooch and a kerchief red.
+
+     Poor Hugh, trudging on with his collie pup Jess,
+     Has kept his plain mind to himself all the way,
+     Just quietly giving his dog the caress
+     Which no one gave him for a year and a day.
+     And luckily quadrupeds seldom despise
+     Our lumbering wits and our lack-lustre eyes.
+
+     Deep down in the corrie, high up on the brae,
+     Where Shinnel and Scar tumble down from the rock
+     The wicked white ladies have been at their play,
+     The wind has been pushing the leewardly flock.
+     The white land should tell where the creatures are gone,
+     But snow hides the snow that their hooves have been on.
+
+     Ah! down there in Urchinhope nobody knows
+     How blinding the flakes, and the north wind how cruel.
+     Euphemia's gudeman will come for his brose,
+     But far up the hill is her darling, her jewel.
+     She sees something crimson. "Oh, gudeman, look up!
+     There's Jamie's cravat on the neck of the pup."
+
+     "Where, where have ye been, Jess, and where did ye
+     leave him?
+     Now just get a bite, pup, then show me my pet.
+     Poor Jamie 'll be tired, and the sleep will deceive him;
+     Oh, stir him, oh, guide him, before the sun set!"
+     "Quick, Jock, bring a lantern! quick, Sandie, some
+     wraps!
+     Before ye win till him 'twill darken, perhaps."
+
+     Jess whimpered; the young moon was down in the
+     west;
+     A shelter-stone jutted from under the hill;
+     Stiff hands beneath Jamie's blue bonnet were pressed,
+     And over his beating heart one that was still.
+     Bareheaded and coatless, to windward lay Hugh,
+     And high on his back the snow gathered and grew.
+
+     "Now fold them in plaids, they'll be up with the sun;
+     Their bed will be warm, and the blood is so strong.
+     How wise to send Jessie; now cannily run.
+     Poor pup, are ye tired? we'll be home before long."
+     Jess licked a cold cheek, and the bonny boy spoke:
+     "Where's Hugh?" The pup whimpered, but Hugh
+     never woke.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0067" id="link2H_4_0067">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      A SOLDIER'S MIRACLE
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     'Twas when we learnt we could be beat;
+     Our star misled us, and' we strayed.
+     Elsewhere the host was in retreat;
+     We were a guideless lost brigade.
+
+     We stumbled on a town in doubt,
+     To halt and sup we were full fain,
+     The man that held the chart cried out,
+     "'Tis Vaucouleurs in old Lorraine."
+
+     In Vaucouleurs we will not doubt,
+     For here, when need was sore, Saint Jane
+     Arose, and girt herself to rout
+     The foes that troubled her Lorraine.
+
+     So here we feast in faith to-night,
+     To-morrow we'll rejoin the host
+     Drink, drink! the wine is pure and bright,
+     And Jane our maiden is the toast.
+
+     But I, that faced the window, caught
+     A passing cloud, a foreign plume,
+     A Prussian helmet; and the thought
+     Of peril chilled the tavern room.
+
+     We rose, we glared through twilight panes,
+     We muttered curses bosom-deep;
+     A tell-tale gallop scared the lanes,
+     We grudged to spoil our comrades' sleep.
+
+     Then louder than the Uhlan's hoof
+     Fell storm from sky and flood on banks,
+     September's passion smote the roof;
+     We blest it, and to Jane gave thanks.
+
+     Betwixt us and that Uhlan's mates
+     A bridgless river strongly flowed.
+     A sign was shown that checked the fates,
+     And on that storm our maiden rode.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0068" id="link2H_4_0068">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      A BALLAD FOR A BOY
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     When George the Third was reigning a hundred
+     years ago,
+     He ordered Captain Farmer to chase the foreign foe.
+     "You're not afraid of shot," said he, "you're not
+     afraid of wreck,
+     So cruise about the west of France in the frigate
+     called <i>Quebec</i>.
+
+     Quebec was once a Frenchman's town, but twenty
+     years ago
+     King George the Second sent a man called General
+     Wolfe, you know,
+     To clamber up a precipice and look into Quebec,
+     As you'd look down a hatchway when standing on
+     the deck.
+
+     If Wolfe could beat the Frenchmen then so you can
+     beat them now.
+     Before he got inside the town he died, I must allow.
+     But since the town was won for us it is a lucky name,
+     And you'll remember Wolfe's good work, and you
+     shall do the same."
+
+     Then Farmer said, "I'll try, sir," and Farmer bowed
+     so low
+     That George could see his pigtail tied in a velvet bow.
+     George gave him his commission, and that it might be
+     safer,
+     Signed "King of Britain, King of France," and sealed
+     it with a wafer.
+
+     Then proud was Captain Farmer in a frigate of his
+     own,
+     And grander on his quarter-deck than George upon
+     his throne.
+     He'd two guns in his cabin, and on the spar-deck ten,
+     And twenty on the gun-deck, and more than ten score
+     men.
+
+     And as a huntsman scours the brakes with sixteen
+     brace of dogs,
+     With two-and-thirty cannon the ship explored the fogs.
+     From Cape la Hogue to Ushant, from Rochefort to
+     Belleisle,
+     She hunted game till reef and mud were rubbing on
+     her keel.
+
+     The fogs are dried, the frigate's side is bright with
+     melting tar,
+     The lad up in the foretop sees square white sails afar;
+     The east wind drives three square-sailed masts from
+     out the Breton bay,
+     And "Clear for action!" Farmer shouts, and reefers
+     yell "Hooray!"
+
+     The Frenchmen's captain had a name I wish I could
+     pronounce;
+     A Breton gentleman was he, and wholly free from
+     bounce,
+     One like those famous fellows who died by guillotine
+     For honour and the fleurs-de-lys, and Antoinette the
+     Queen.
+
+     The Catholic for Louis, the Protestant for George,
+     Each captain drew as bright a sword as saintly smiths
+     could forge;
+     And both were simple seamen, but both could under-
+     stand
+     How each was bound to win or die for flag and native
+     land.
+
+     The French ship was <i>La Surveillante</i>, which means
+     the watchful maid;
+     She folded up her head-dress and began to cannonade.
+     Her hull was clean, and ours was foul; we had to
+     spread more sail.
+     On canvas, stays, and topsail yards her bullets came
+     like hail.
+
+     Sore smitten were both captains, and many lads beside,
+     And still to cut our rigging the foreign gunners tried.
+     A sail-clad spar came flapping down athwart a blazing
+     gun;
+     We could not quench the rushing flames, and so the
+     Frenchman won.
+
+     Our quarter-deck was crowded, the waist was all
+     aglow;
+     Men clung upon the taffrail half scorched, but loth
+     to go;
+     Our captain sat where once he stood, and would not
+     quit his chair.
+     He bade his comrades leap for life, and leave him
+     bleeding there.
+
+     The guns were hushed on either side, the Frenchmen
+     lowered boats,
+     They flung us planks and hencoops, and everything
+     that floats.
+     They risked their lives, good fellows! to bring their
+     rivals aid.
+     'Twas by the conflagration the peace was strangely
+     made.
+
+     <i>La Surveillante</i> was like a sieve; the victors had no rest.
+     They had to dodge the east wind to reach the port of
+     Brest.
+     And where the waves leapt lower and the riddled ship
+     went slower,
+     In triumph, yet in funeral guise, came fisher-boats to
+     tow her.
+
+     They dealt with us as brethren, they mourned for
+     Farmer dead;
+     And as the wounded captives passed each Breton
+     bowed the head.
+     Then spoke the French Lieutenant, "'Twas fire that
+     won, not we.
+     You never struck your flag to us; you'll go to
+     England free."
+
+     'Twas the sixth day of October, seventeen hundred
+     seventy-nine,
+     A year when nations ventured against us to combine,
+     <i>Quebec</i> was burnt and Farmer slain, by us remem-
+     bered not;
+     But thanks be to the French book wherein they're
+     not forgot.
+
+     Now you, if you've to fight the French, my youngster,
+     bear in mind
+     Those seamen of King Louis so chivalrous and kind;
+     Think of the Breton gentlemen who took our lads to
+     Brest,
+     And treat some rescued Breton as a comrade and a
+     guest.
+
+     1885.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_EPIL" id="link2H_EPIL">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      EPILOGUE.
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     Exactos, puer, esse decern tibi gratulor annos;
+     Hactenus es matris cura patrisque decus.
+     Incumbis studiis, et amas et amaris, et audes
+     Pro patria raucis obvius ire fretis.
+     Non erimus comites, fili, tibi; sed memor esto
+     Matris in oceano cum vigil astra leges.
+     Imbelli patre natus habe tamen arma Britannus,
+     Militiam perfer, spemque fidemque fove.
+
+     1889.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0070" id="link2H_4_0070">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      JE MAINTIENDRAI
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     (FOR THE TUNE CALLED SANTA LUCIA)
+
+     Rise, rise, ye Devon folk!
+     Toss off the traitor's yoke,
+     Peer through the rain and smoke,
+     Look, look again!
+     Run down to Brixham pier&mdash;
+     Quick, quick, the Prince is near!
+     All the rights ye reckon dear
+     He will maintain.
+
+     Chorus&mdash;
+     Welcome, sweet English rose!
+     Welcome, Dutch Roman nose!
+     Scatter, scatter all the Gospel's foes,
+     William and Mary!
+
+     High over gulls and boats
+     Bright, free the banner floats;
+     Hearken, hear the clarion notes!
+     Lift hats and stare.
+     Courtiers who break the laws,
+     Tame cats with velvet paws,
+     Hypocrites with poisoned claws,
+     Croppies, beware!
+
+     Trust, Sir, the western shires,
+     Trust those who baffled Spain;
+     We'll be hardy like our sires.
+     Down, Pope, again!
+     Off, off with sneak and thief!
+     We'll have an honest chief.
+     England is no Popish fief;
+     Free kings shall reign.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0071" id="link2H_4_0071">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      SAPPHICS FOR A TUNE
+    </h2>
+    <h3>
+      MADE BY REQUEST OF A SONGSTRESS, AND REJECTED
+    </h3>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     Relics of battle dropt in sandy valley,
+     Bugle that screamed a warning of surprise,
+     Shreds of the colour torn before the rally,
+     Jewel of troth-plight seen by dying eyes&mdash;
+     Welcome, dear tokens of the lad we mourn.
+     Tell how that day his faithful heart was leaping;
+     Help me, who linger in the home forlorn,
+     Throw me a rainbow on my endless weeping.
+
+     1885.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0072" id="link2H_4_0072">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      JOHNNIE OF BRAIDISLEE
+    </h2>
+    <h3>
+      A SECOND ATTEMPT, ACCEPTED
+    </h3>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     Down the burnside hurry thee, gentle mavis,
+     Find the bothie, and flutter about the doorway.
+     Touch the lattice tenderly, bid my mother
+     Fetch away Johnnie.
+
+     Mother, uprouse thee! many bitter arrows
+     Out of one bosom gather, and for ever
+     Pray for one resting in a chilly forest
+     Under an oak tree.
+
+     Gentle mavis! hover about the window
+     Where the sun shines on happy things of home life,
+     Bid the clansmen troop to the gory dingle.
+     Clansmen, avenge me!
+
+     Mother! oh, my mother! upon a cradle
+     Woven of willows, with a bow beside me,
+     Near the kirk of Durrisdeer, under yew boughs,
+     Rock thy beloved.
+
+     1885.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0073" id="link2H_4_0073">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      EUROPA
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     May the foemen's wives, the foemen's children,
+     Feel the kid leaping when he lifts the surge,
+     Tumult of swart sea, and the reefs that shudder
+     Under the scourge.
+
+     On such a day to the false bull Europa
+     Trusted her snowy limbs; and courage failed her,
+     Where the whales swarmed, the terror of sea-change
+     and
+     Treason assailed her.
+
+     For the meadow-fays had she duly laboured,
+     Eager for flowers to bind at eventide;
+     Shimmering night revealed the stars, the billows,
+     Nothing beside.
+
+     Brought to Crete, the realm of a hundred cities,
+     "Oh, my sire! my duty!" she clamoured sadly.
+     "Oh, the forfeit! and oh, the girl unfathered,
+     Wilfully, madly!
+
+     What shore is this, and what have I left behind me?
+     When a maid sins 'tis not enough to die.
+     Am I awake? or through the ivory gateway
+     Cometh a lie?
+
+     Cometh a hollow fantasy to the guiltless?
+     Am I in dreamland? Was it best to wander
+     Through the long waves, or better far to gather
+     Rosebuds out yonder?
+
+     Now, were he driven within the reach of anger,
+     Steel would I point against the villain steer,
+     Grappling, rending the horns of the bull, the monster
+     Lately so dear.
+
+     Shameless I left the homestead and the worship,
+     Shameless, 'fore hell's mouth, wide agape, I pause.
+     Hear me, some god, and set me among the lions
+     Stript for their jaws.
+
+     Ere on the cheek that is so fair to look on
+     Swoop the grim fiends of hunger and decay,
+     Tigers shall spring and raven, ere the sweetness
+     Wither away.
+
+     Worthless Europa! cries the severed father,
+     Why dost thou loiter, cling to life, and doat?
+     Hang on this rowan; hast thou not thy girdle
+     Meet for thy throat?
+
+     Lo, the cliff, the precipice, edged for cleaving,
+     Trust the quick wind, or take a leman's doom.
+     Live on and spin; thou wast a prince's daughter;
+     Toil at the loom.
+
+     Pass beneath the hand of a foreign lady;
+     Serve a proud rival." Lo, behind her back
+     Slyly laughed Venus, and her archer minion
+     Held the bow slack.
+
+     Then, the game played out, "Put away," she whispered,
+     "Wrath and upbraiding, and the quarrel's heat,
+     When the loathed bull surrenders horns, for riving,
+     Low at your feet.
+
+     Bride of high Jove's majesty, bride unwitting,
+     Cease from your sobbing; rise, your luck is rare.
+     Your name's the name which half the world divided
+     Henceforth shall bear."
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0074" id="link2H_4_0074">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      HYPERMNESTRA
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     Let me tell Lydè of wedding-law slighted,
+     Penance of maidens and bootless task,
+     Wasting of water down leaky cask,
+     Crime in the prison-pit slowly requited.
+
+     Miscreant brides! for their grooms they slew.
+     One out of many is not attainted,
+     One alone blest and for ever sainted,
+     False to her father, to wedlock true.
+
+     Praise her! she gave her young husband the warning.
+     Praise her for ever! She cried, "Arise!
+     Flee from the slumber that deadens the eyes;
+     Flee from the night that hath never a morning.
+
+     Baffle your host who contrived our espousing,
+     Baffle my sisters, the forty and nine,
+     Raging like lions that mangle the kink,
+     Each on the blood of a quarry carousing.
+
+     I am more gentle, I strike not thee,
+     I will not hold thee in dungeon tower.
+     Though the king chain me, I will not cower,
+     Though my sire banish me over the sea.
+
+     Freely run, freely sail, good luck attend thee;
+     Go with the favour of Venus and Night.
+     On thy tomb somewhere and some day bid write
+     Record of her who hath dared to befriend thee."
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0075" id="link2H_4_0075">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      BARINE
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     Lady, if you ever paid
+     Forfeit for a heart betrayed,
+     If for broken pledge you were
+     By one tooth, one nail less fair,
+
+     I would trust. But when a vow
+     Slips from off your faithless brow,
+     Forth you flash with purer lustre,
+     And a fonder troop you muster.
+
+     You with vantage mock the shade
+     Of a mother lowly laid,
+     Silent stars and depths of sky,
+     And high saints that cannot die.
+
+     Laughs the Queen of love, I say,
+     Laughs at this each silly fay,
+     Laughs the rogue who's ever whetting
+     Darts of fire on flint of fretting.
+
+     Ay, the crop of youth is yours,
+     Fresh enlistments throng your doors,
+     Veterans swear you serve them ill,
+     Threaten flight, and linger still.
+
+     Dames and thrifty greybeards dread
+     Lest you turn a stripling's head;
+     Poor young brides are in dismay
+     Lest you sigh their lords away.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0076" id="link2H_4_0076">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      TO BRITOMART MUSING
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     Classic throat and wrist and ear
+     Tempt a gallant to draw near;
+     Must romantic lip and eye
+     Make him falter, bid him fly?
+
+     If Camilla's upright lance
+     By the contrast did enhance
+     Charms of curving neck and waist,
+     Yet she never was embraced.
+
+     She was girt to take the field,
+     And her aventayle concealed
+     Half the grace that might have won
+     Homage from Evander's son.
+
+     Countess Montfort, clad in steel,
+     Showed she could both dare and feel;
+     Smiled to greet the champion ships,
+     Touched Sir Walter with the lips.
+
+     She could charm, although in dress
+     Like the sainted shepherdess,
+     Jeanne, a leader void of guile,
+     Jeanne, a woman all the while.
+
+     Damsel with the mind of man,
+     Lay not softness under ban;
+     For the glory of thy sex
+     Twine with myrtle manly necks.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0077" id="link2H_4_0077">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      HERSILIA
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     I see her stand with arms a-kimbo,
+     A blue and blonde s<i>ub aureo nimbo</i>;
+     She scans her literary limbo,
+     The reliques of her teens;
+
+     Things like the chips of broken stilts,
+     Or tatters of embroidered quilts,
+     Or nosegays tossed away by jilts,
+     Notes, ballads, tales, and scenes.
+
+     Soon will she gambol like a lamb,
+     Fenced, but not tethered, near the Cam.
+     Maybe she'll swim where Byron swam,
+     And chat beneath the limes,
+
+     Where Arthur, Alfred, Fitz, and Brooks
+     Lit thought by one another's looks,
+     Embraced their jests and kicked their books,
+     In England's happier times;
+
+     Ere magic poets felt the gout,
+     Ere Darwin whelmed the Church in doubt
+     Ere Apologia had found out
+     The round world must be right;
+
+     When Gladstone, bluest of the blue,
+     Read all Augustine's folios through;
+     When France was tame, and no one knew
+     We and the Czar would fight.
+
+     "Sixty years since" (said dear old Scott;
+     We're bound, you know, to quote Sir Wat)
+     This isle had not a sweeter spot
+     Than Neville's Court by Granta;
+
+     No Newnham then, no kirtled scribes,
+     No Clelia to harangue the tribes,
+     No race for girls, no apple bribes
+     To tempt an Atalanta.
+
+     We males talked fast, we meant to be
+     World-betterers all at twenty-three,
+     But somehow failed to level thee,
+     Oh battered fort of Edom!
+
+     Into the breach our daughters press,
+     Brave patriots in unwarlike dress,
+     Adepts at thought-in-idleness,
+     Sweet devotees of freedom.
+
+     And now it is your turn, fair soul,
+     To see the fervent car-wheels roll,
+     Your rivals clashing past the goal,
+     Some sly Milanion leading.
+
+     Ah! with them may your Genius bring
+     Some Celia, some Miss Mannering;
+     For youthful friendship is a thing
+     More precious than succeeding.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0078" id="link2H_4_0078">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      SAPPHO'S CURSING
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     Woman dead, lie there;
+     No record of thee
+     Shall there ever be,
+     Since thou dost not share
+     Roses in Pieria grown.
+     In the deathful cave,
+     With the feeble troop
+     Of the folk that droop,
+     Lurk and flit and crave,
+     Woman severed and far-flown.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0079" id="link2H_4_0079">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      A SERVING MAN'S EPITAPH
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     A slave&mdash;oh yes, a slave!
+     But in a freeman's grave.
+     By thee, when work was done,
+     Timanthes, foster-son,
+     By thee whom I obeyed,
+     My master, I was laid.
+     Live long, from trouble free;
+     But if thou com'st to me,
+     Paying to age thy debt,
+     Thine am I, master, yet.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0080" id="link2H_4_0080">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      A SONG TO A SINGER
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     Dura fida rubecula,
+     Cur moraris in arbore
+     Dum cadunt folia et brevi
+     Flavet luce November.
+
+     Quid boni tibi destinât
+     Hora crastina? quid petes
+     Antris ex hiemalibus?
+     Quid speras oriturum?
+
+     Est ut hospita te vocet
+     Myrtis, et reseret fores,
+     Ut te vere nitentibus
+     Emiretur ocellis.
+
+     Quod si contigerit tibi,
+     Ter beata vocaberis,
+     Invidenda volucribus,
+     Invidenda poetæ.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0081" id="link2H_4_0081">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      AGE AND GIRLHOOD
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      <a name="linkimage-0001" id="linkimage-0001">
+      <!-- IMG --></a>
+    </p>
+    <div class="fig" style="width:80%">
+      <img src="images/greek199.jpg" alt="Greek Passage-199 " width="100%" /><br />
+    </div>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     A dry cicale chirps to a lass making hay,
+     "Why creak'st thou, Tithonus?" quoth she. "I don't
+     play;
+     It doubles my toil, your importunate lay;
+     I've earned a sweet pillow, lo! Hesper is nigh;
+     I clasp a good wisp, and in fragrance I lie;
+     But thou art unwearied, and empty, and dry."
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0082" id="link2H_4_0082">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      A LEGEND OF PORTO SANTO
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     A time-worn sage without a home,
+     A man of dim and tearful sight,
+     Up from the hallowed haven clomb
+     In lowly longing for the height.
+
+     He loiters on a half-way rock
+     To hear the waves that pant and seethe,
+     Which give the beats of Nature's clock
+     To mortals conscious that they breathe.
+
+     The buxom waves may nurse a boat,
+     May well nigh seem to soothe and lull
+     The crying of a tethered goat,
+     The trouble of a searching gull.
+
+     There might be comfort in the tide,
+     There might be Lethè in the surge,
+     Could they but hint that oceans hide,
+     That pangs absolve, bereavements purge.
+
+     The thinker, not despairing yet,
+     Upraises limbs not wholly stiff,
+     Half envying him that draws the net,
+     Half proud to combat with the cliff.
+
+     He groans, but soon around his lips
+     Tear-channels bend into a smile,
+     He thinks "They're saying in the ships
+     I'm looking for the hidden isle.
+
+     I climb but as my humours lead,
+     My thoughts are mazed, my will is faint,
+     Yon men who see me roam, they need
+     No Lethè-fount, no shriving saint."
+
+     Good faith! can we believe, or feign
+     Believing, that such lands exist
+     Through ages drenched with blotting rain,
+     For ever folded in the mist?
+
+     Maybe some babe by sirens clothed
+     Swam thence, and brought report thereof.
+     Some hopeful virgin just betrothed
+     Braved the incredulous pilot's scoff;
+
+     And murmuring to a friendly lute,
+     While greybeards snored and beldames laughed,
+     Some minstrel-corsair made pursuit
+     Along the moon's white hunting-shaft;
+
+     Along the straight illumined track
+     The bride, the singer, and the child
+     Fled, far from sceptics, came not back,
+     Engulped? Who knows? perhaps enisled.
+
+     Now were there such another crew,
+     Now would their bark make room for me,
+     Now were that island false or true,
+     I'd go, forgetting, with the three.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0083" id="link2H_4_0083">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      TO A LINNET
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     My cheerful mate, you fret not for the wires,
+     The changeless limits of your small desires;
+     You heed not winter rime or summer dew,
+     You feel no difference 'twixt old and new;
+     You kindly take the lettuce or the cress
+     Without the cognizance of more and less,
+     Content with light and movement in a cage.
+     Not reckoning hours, nor mortified by age,
+     You bear no penance, you resent no wrong,
+     Your timeless soul exists in each unconscious song.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0084" id="link2H_4_0084">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      A SONG FOR A PARTING
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     I.
+     Flora will pass from firth to firth;
+     Duty must draw, and vows must bind.
+     Flora will sail half round the earth,
+     Yet will she leave some grace behind.
+
+     II.
+     Waft her, on Faith, from friend to friend,
+     Make her a saint in some far isle;
+     Yet will we keep, till memories end,
+     Something that once was Flora's smile.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0085" id="link2H_4_0085">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      MIR IST LEIDE
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     Woe worth old Time the lord,
+     Pointing his senseless sword
+     Down on our festal board,
+     Where we would dine,
+     Chilling the kindly hall,
+     Bidding the dainties pall,
+     Making the garlands fall,
+     Souring the wine.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0086" id="link2H_4_0086">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      LEBEWOHL&mdash;WORDS FOR A TUNE
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     I.
+     With these words, Good-bye, Adieu
+     Take I leave to part from you,
+     Leave to go beyond your view,
+     Through the haze of that which is to be;
+     Fare thou forth, and wing thy way,
+     So our language makes me say.
+     Though it yield, the forward spirit needs must pray
+     In the word that is hope's old token.
+
+     II.
+     Though the fountain cease to play,
+     Dew must glitter near the brink,
+     Though the weary mind decay,
+     As of old it thought so must it think.
+     Leave alone the darkling eyes
+     Fixed upon the moving skies,
+     Cross the hands upon the bosom, there to rise
+     To the throb of the faith not spoken.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0087" id="link2H_4_0087">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      REMEMBER
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      <a name="linkimage-0002" id="linkimage-0002">
+      <!-- IMG --></a>
+    </p>
+    <div class="fig" style="width:80%">
+      <img src="images/greek210.jpg" alt="Greek Passage-210 " width="100%" /><br />
+    </div>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     You come not, as aforetime, to the headstone every
+     day,
+     And I, who died, I do not chide because, my friend,
+     you play;
+     Only, in playing, think of him who once was kind and
+     dear,
+     And, if you see a beauteous thing, just say, he is not
+     here.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_APPE" id="link2H_APPE">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      APPENDIX
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0089" id="link2H_4_0089">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      TO THE INFALLIBLE
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     ("Ionica," 1858, p. 60)
+
+     Old angler, what device is thine
+     To draw my pleasant friends from me?
+     Thou fishest with a silken line
+     Not the coarse nets of Galilee.
+
+     In stagnant vivaries they lie,
+     Forgetful of their ancient haunts;
+     And how shall he that standeth by
+     Refrain his open mouth from taunts?
+
+     How? by remembering this, that he,
+     Like them, in eddies whirled about,
+     Felt less: for thus they disagree:
+     He can, they could not, bear to doubt.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0090" id="link2H_4_0090">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      THE SWIMMER'S WISH
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     ("Ionica," 1858, p. 81)
+
+     Fresh from the summer wave, under the beech,
+     Looking through leaves with a far-darting eye,
+     Tossing those river-pearled locks about,
+     Throwing those delicate limbs straight out,
+     Chiding the clouds as they sailed out of reach,
+     Murmured the swimmer, I wish I could fly.
+
+     Laugh, if you like, at the bold reply,
+     Answer disdainfully, flouting my words:
+     How should the listener at simple sixteen
+     Guess what a foolish old rhymer could mean
+     Calmly predicting, "You will surely fly"&mdash;
+     Fish one might vie with, but how be like birds?
+
+     Sweet maiden-fancies, at present they range
+     Close to a sister's engarlanded brows,
+     Over the diamonds a mother will wear,
+     In the false flowers to be shaped for her hair.&mdash;
+     Slow glide the hours to thee, late be the change,
+     Long be thy rest 'neath the cool beechen boughs!
+
+     Genius and love will uplift thee: not yet,
+     Walk through some passionless years by my side,
+     Chasing the silly sheep, snapping the lily stalk,
+     Drawing my secrets forth, witching my soul with talk.
+     When the sap stays, and the blossom is set,
+     Others will take the fruit, I shall have died.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0091" id="link2H_4_0091">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      AN APOLOGY
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     ("Ionica," 1858, p. 115)
+
+     Uprose the temple of my love
+     Sculptured with many a mystic theme,
+     All frail and fanciful above,
+     But pillared on a deep esteem.
+
+     It might have been a simpler plan,
+     And traced on more majestic lines;
+     But he that built it was a man
+     Of will unstrung, and vague designs;
+
+     Not worthy, though indeed he wrought
+     With reverence and a meek content,
+     To keep that presence: yet the thought
+     Is there, in frieze and pediment.
+
+     The trophied arms and treasured gold
+     Have passed beneath the spoiler's hand;
+     The shrine is bare, the altar cold,
+     But let the outer fabric stand.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0092" id="link2H_4_0092">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      NOTRE DAME&mdash;FROM THE SOUTH-EAST
+    </h2>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     ("Ionica," 1877)
+
+     Oh lord of high compassion, strong to scorn
+     Ephemeral monsters, who with tragic pain
+     Purgest our trivial humours, once again
+     Through thine own Paris have I roamed, to mourn
+
+     For freemen plagued with cant, ere we were born,
+     For feasts of death, and hatred's harvest wain
+     Piled high, for princes from proud mothers torn,
+     And soft despairs hushed in the waves of Seine.
+
+     Oh Victor, oh my prophet, wilt thou chide
+     If Gudule's pangs, and Marion's frustrate plea,
+     And Gauvrain's promise of a heavenly France,
+     Thy sadly worshipt creatures, almost died
+     This evening, for that spring was on the tree,
+     And April dared in children's eyes to dance?
+
+     April 1877.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0093" id="link2H_4_0093">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      IN HONOUR OF MATTHEW PRIOR
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      <a name="linkimage-0003" id="linkimage-0003">
+      <!-- IMG --></a>
+    </p>
+    <div class="fig" style="width:80%">
+      <img src="images/greek218.jpg" alt="Greek Passage-218 " width="100%" /><br />
+    </div>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     ("Ionica," 1877)
+
+     I am Her mirror, framed by him
+     Who likes and knows her. On my rim
+     No fret, no bead, no lace.
+     He tells me not to mind the scorning
+     Of every semblance of adorning,
+     Since I receive Her face.
+
+     Sept. 1877.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      The following little Greek lyric occurs in a letter of December 18, 1862,
+      to the Rev. E. D. Stone. "My lines," wrote William Johnson, "are suggested
+      by the death of Thorwaldsen: he died at the age of seventy, imperceptibly,
+      having fallen asleep at a concert. But when I had done them, I remembered
+      Provost Hawtrey's last appearance in public at a music party, where he
+      fell asleep: and so I value my lines as a bit of honour done to him, and
+      it seems odd that I should unintentionally have caught in the second and
+      third lines his characteristic sympathy with the young...."
+    </p>
+    <p>
+      <a name="link2H_4_0094" id="link2H_4_0094">
+      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
+    </p>
+    <div style="height: 4em;">
+      <br /><br /><br /><br />
+    </div>
+    <h2>
+      NEC CITHARA CARENTEM
+    </h2>
+    <p>
+      <a name="linkimage-0004" id="linkimage-0004">
+      <!-- IMG --></a>
+    </p>
+    <div class="fig" style="width:80%">
+      <img src="images/greek220.jpg" alt="Greek Passage-220 " width="100%" /><br />
+    </div>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+     Guide me with song, kind Muse, to death's dark shade;
+     Keep me in sweet accord with boy and maid,
+     Still in fresh blooms of art and truth arrayed.
+
+     Bear with old age, blithe child of memory!
+     Time loves the good; and youth and thou art nigh
+     To Sophocles and Plato, till they die.
+
+     Playmate of freedom, queen of nightingales,
+     Draw near; thy voice grows faint: my spirit fails
+     Still with thee, whether sleep or death assails.
+</pre>
+    <p>
+      <br /> <br />
+    </p>
+    <h4>
+      Printed by Ballantyne, Hansom &amp; Co. Edinburgh &amp; London
+    </h4>
+    <p>
+      <br /> <br />
+    </p>
+<pre xml:space="preserve">
+
+
+
+
+
+End of Project Gutenberg's Ionica, by William Cory (AKA William Johnson)
+
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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Ionica, by William Cory (AKA William Johnson)
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Ionica
+
+Author: William Cory (AKA William Johnson)
+
+Release Date: June 8, 2007 [EBook #21766]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IONICA ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by David Widger
+
+
+
+
+
+IONICA
+
+BY
+
+WILLIAM CORY
+
+(AKA Johnson)
+
+
+WITH BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION AND NOTES BY ARTHUR C. BENSON FELLOW OF
+MAGDALENE COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE
+
+THIRD EDITION
+
+LONDON: GEORGE ALLEN
+
+156, CHARING CROSS ROAD
+
+1905
+
+
+
+
+NOTE
+
+William Johnson published in 1858 a slender volume bound in green cloth,
+(Smith, Elder & Co.) which was entitled "Ionica," and which comprised
+forty-eight poems.
+
+In 1877 he printed privately a little paper-covered book (Cambridge
+University Press), entitled "Ionica II," containing twenty-five poems.
+This book is a rare bibliographical curiosity. It has neither titlepage
+nor index; it bears no author's name; and it is printed without
+punctuation, on a theory of the author's, spaces being left, instead of
+stops, to indicate pauses.
+
+In 1891 he published a book, "Ionica" (George Allen), which contained
+most of the contents of the two previous volumes, together with some
+pieces not previously published--eighty-five poems in all.
+
+The present volume is a reprint of the 1891 volume; but it has been
+thought well to include, in an appendix, certain of the poems which
+appeared in one or other of the first two issues, but were omitted from
+the 1891 issue, together with a little Greek lyric, with its English
+equivalent, from the "Letters and Journals."
+
+The poems from page 1 to page 104, Desiderato to All that was possible,
+appeared in the 1858 volume, together with those on pages 211 to 216, To
+the Infallible, The Swimmer's Wish, and An Apology. The poems from page
+105 to page 162, Scheveningen Avenue to L'Oiseau Bleu, appeared in the
+1877 volume, together with those on pages 217 and 218, Notre Dame and
+In Honour of Matthew Prior. The remainder of the poems, from page 163
+to page 210, appeared in the 1891 volume for the first time. The dates
+subjoined to the poems are those which he himself added, and indicate
+the date of composition.
+
+
+
+
+INTRODUCTION
+
+WILLIAM CORY (Johnson) was born at Torrington in Devonshire, on January
+9, 1823. He was the son of Charles William Johnson, a merchant, who
+retired at the early age of thirty, with a modest competence, and
+married his cousin, Theresa Furse, of Halsdon, near Torrington, to whom
+he had long been attached. He lived a quiet, upright, peaceable life
+at Torrington, content with little, and discharging simple, kindly,
+neighbourly duties, alike removed from ambition and indolence. William
+Cory had always a deep love of his old home, a strong sense of local
+sanctities and tender associations. "I hope you will always feel," his
+mother used to say, "wherever you live, that Torrington belongs to
+you." He said himself, in later years, "I want to be a Devon man and a
+Torrington man." His memory lingered over the vine-shaded verandah, the
+jessamine that grew by the balustrade of the steps, the broad-leaved
+myrtle that covered the wall of the little yard.
+
+The boy was elected on the foundation at Eton in 1832, little guessing
+that it was to be his home for forty years. He worked hard at school,
+became a first-rate classical scholar, winning the Newcastle Scholarship
+in 1841, and being elected Scholar of King's in 1842. He seems to have
+been a quiet, retiring boy, with few intimate friends, respected for
+his ability and his courtesy, living a self-contained, bookish life,
+yet with a keen sense of school patriotism--though he had few pleasant
+memories of his boyhood.
+
+Honours came to him fast at Cambridge. He won the Chancellor's English
+Medal with a poem on Plato in 1843, the Craven Scholarship in 1844. In
+those days Kingsmen did not enter for the Tripos, but received a degree,
+without examination, by ancient privilege. He succeeded to a Fellowship
+in 1845, and in the same year was appointed to a Mastership at Eton by
+Dr. Hawtrey. At Cambridge he seems to have read widely, to have thought
+much, and to have been interested in social questions. Till that time
+he had been an unreflecting Tory and a strong High Churchman, but he
+now adopted more Liberal principles, and for the rest of his life was a
+convinced Whig. The underlying principle of Whiggism, as he understood
+it, was a firm faith in human reason. Thus, in a letter of 1875, he
+represents the Whigs as saying to their adversaries, "You are in a
+majority now: if I were an ultra-democrat or counter of noses, I
+should submit to you as having a transcendental --sometimes called
+divine--right; if I were a redcap, I should buy dynamite and blow you
+up; if I were a Tory, I should go to church or to bed; as it is, I go to
+work to turn your majority into a minority. I shall do it by reasoning
+and by attractive virtue." He intended in his university days, and
+for some time after, to take Anglican Orders, though he had also some
+thought of going to the Bar; but he accepted a Mastership with much
+relief, with the hope, as he wrote in an early letter, "that before my
+time is out, I may rejoice in having turned out of my pupil-room perhaps
+one brave soldier, or one wise historian, or one generous legislator, or
+one patient missionary." The whole of his professional life, a period of
+twenty-seven years, was to be spent at Eton.
+
+No one who knew William Cory will think it an exaggeration to say that
+his mind was probably one of the most vigorous and commanding minds
+of the century. He had a mental equipment of the foremost order, great
+intellectual curiosity, immense vigour and many-sidedness, combined with
+a firm grasp of a subject, perfect clearness of thought, and absolute
+lucidity of expression.
+
+He never lost sight of principles among a crowd of details; and though
+he had a strong bias in certain directions, he had a just and catholic
+appreciation even of facts which told against his case. Yet his
+knowledge was never dry or cold; it was full to the brim of deep
+sentiment and natural feeling.
+
+He had a wide knowledge of history, of politics, both home and foreign,
+of political economy, of moral science. Indeed, he examined more than
+once in the Moral Science Tripos at Cambridge.
+
+He had a thorough acquaintance with and a deep love of literature; and
+all this in spite of the fact that he lived a very laborious and wearing
+life as a school-teacher, with impossibly large classes, and devoted
+himself with whole-hearted enthusiasm to his profession. His knowledge
+was, moreover, not mere erudition and patient accumulation. It was all
+ready for use, and at his fingers' ends. Moreover, he combined with
+this a quality, which is not generally found in combination with the
+highly-developed faculties of the doctrinaire, namely an intense and
+fervent emotion. He was a lover of political and social liberty,
+a patriot to the marrow of his bones; he loved his country with a
+passionate devotion, and worshipped the heroes of his native land,
+statesmen, soldiers, sailors, poets, with an ardent adoration; the glory
+and honour of England were the breath of his nostrils. Deeds of heroism,
+examples of high courage and noble self-sacrifice, were the memories
+that thrilled his heart. As a man of fifty he wept over Lanfrey's
+account of Nelson's death; he felt our defeat at Majuba Hill like a keen
+personal humiliation; his letter on the subject is as the words of one
+mourning for his mother.
+
+But his was not a mere poetical emotion, supplying him with
+highly-coloured rhetoric, or sentimental panegyric. He had a technical
+and minute acquaintance with the detailed movement of wars, the precise
+ships and regiments engaged, the personalities and characters of
+commanders and officers, the conduct of the rank and file.
+
+Many delightful stories remain in the memories of his friends and
+hearers to attest this. His pupil-room at Eton, in what was formerly
+the old Christopher Inn, was close to the street, and the passage of the
+Guards through Eton, to and from their Windsor quarters, is an incident
+of constant occurrence. When the stately military music was heard far
+off, in gusty splendour, in the little town, or the fifes and drums of
+some detachment swept blithely past, he would throw down his pen and
+go down the little staircase to the road, the boys crowding round
+him. "Brats, the British army!" he would say, and stand, looking and
+listening, his eyes filled with gathering tears, and his heart full of
+proud memories, while the rhythmical beat of the footsteps went briskly
+echoing by.
+
+Again, he went down to Portsmouth to see a friend who was in command of
+a man-of-war; he was rowed about among the hulks; the sailors in the gig
+looked half contemptuously at the sturdy landsman, huddled in a cloak,
+hunched up in the stem-sheets, peering about through his spectacles. But
+contempt became first astonishment, and then bewildered admiration, when
+they found that he knew the position of every ship, and the engagements
+in which each had fought.
+
+He was of course a man of strong preferences and prejudices; he thought
+of statesmen and patriots, such as Pitt, Nelson, Castlereagh, Melbourne,
+and Wellington, with an almost personal affection. The one title to his
+vehement love was that a man should have served his country, striven to
+enhance her greatness, extended her empire, and safeguarded her liberty.
+
+It was the same with his feeling for authors. He loved Virgil as a
+friend; he almost worshipped Charlotte Bronte. He spoke of Tennyson
+as "the light and joy of my poor life." In 1868 he saw Sir W. Scott's
+portrait in London, and wrote: "Sir Walter Scott, shrewd yet wistful,
+boyish yet dry, looking as if he would ask and answer questions of the
+fairies--him I saw through a mist of weeping. He is my lost childhood,
+he is my first great friend. I long for him, and hate the death that
+parts us."
+
+In literature, the first claim on his regard was that a writer should
+have looked on life with a high-hearted, generous gaze, should have
+cared intensely for humanity, should have hoped, loved, suffered, not
+in selfish isolation, but with eager affection. Thus he was not only a
+philosophical historian, nor a mere technical critic; he was for ever
+dominated by an intense personal fervour. He cared little for the manner
+of saying a thing, so long as the heart spoke out frankly and freely;
+he strove to discern the energy of the soul in all men; he could forgive
+everything except meanness, cowardice, egotism and conceit; there was no
+fault of a generous and impulsive nature that he could not condone.
+
+Thus he was for many boys a deeply inspiring teacher; he had the art
+of awakening enthusiasm, of investing all he touched with a mysterious
+charm, the charm of wide and accurate knowledge illuminated by feeling
+and emotion. He rebuked ignorance in a way which communicated the desire
+to know. There are many men alive who trace the fruit and flower of
+their intellectual life to his generous and free-handed sowing. But
+in spite of the fact that the work of a teacher of boys was intensely
+congenial to him, that he loved generous boyhood, and tender souls, and
+awakening minds with all his heart, he was not wholly in the right place
+as an instructor of youth. With all his sympathy for what was weak and
+immature, he was yet impatient of dullness, of stupidity, of caution;
+much that he said was too mature, too exalted for the cramped and
+limited minds of boyhood. He was sensitive to the charm of eager,
+high-spirited, and affectionate natures, but he had also the equable,
+just, paternal interest in boys which is an essential quality in a wise
+schoolmaster. Yet he was apt to make favourites; and though he demanded
+of his chosen pupils and friends a high intellectual zeal, though he
+was merciless to all sloppiness and lack of interest, yet he forfeited
+a wider influence by his reputation for partiality, and by an obvious
+susceptibility to grace of manner and unaffected courtesy. Boys who
+did not understand him, and whom he did not care to try to understand,
+thought him simply fanciful and eccentric. It is perhaps to be regretted
+that unforeseen difficulties prevented his being elected Tutor of his
+old College, and still more that in 1860 he was passed over in favour of
+Kingsley, when the Prime Minister, Lord Palmerston, submitted his name
+to the Queen for the Professorship of Modern History at Cambridge. Four
+men were suggested, of whom Blakesley and Venables refused the post. Sir
+Arthur Helps was set aside, and it would have been offered to Johnson,
+if the Prince Consort had not suggested Kingsley. Yet Johnson would
+hardly have been in his right place as a teacher of young men. He would
+have been, on the one hand, brought into contact with more vigorous and
+independent minds, capable of appreciating the force and width of
+his teaching, and of comprehending the quality and beauty of his
+enthusiasms. But, on the other hand, he was too impatient of any
+difference of opinion, and, though he loved equal talk, he hated
+argument. And after all, he did a great work at Eton; for nearly a
+quarter of a century he sent out boys who cared eagerly and generously
+for the things of the mind.
+
+A second attempt was made, in 1869, to get him appointed to the history
+professorship, but Seeley was considered to have a better claim. Writing
+to a friend on the subject, Johnson said: "I am not learned. I don't
+care about history in the common meaning of the word."
+
+It is astonishing to see in his Diaries the immense trouble he took to
+awaken interest among his pupils. He was for ever trying experiments;
+he would read a dozen books to enable him to give a little scientific
+lecture, for he was one of the first to appreciate the educational value
+of science; he spent money on chemical apparatus, and tried to interest
+the boys by simple demonstrations. His educational ideals can best
+be seen in an essay full of poetical genius, on the education of the
+reasoning faculties, which he contributed to the "Essays on a Liberal
+Education," edited in 1867 by F. W. Farrar. Any one who wishes to
+understand Johnson's point of view, should study this brilliant
+and beautiful discourse. It is not only wise and liberal, but it is
+intensely practical, besides containing a number of suggestive and
+poetical thoughts.
+
+He loved his Eton life more and more every year. As with Eumelus of
+Corinth, "dear to his heart was the muse that has the simple lyre and
+the sandals of freedom." He took refuge, as it became clear to him that
+his wider ambitions could not be realised, that he would not set the
+mark he might have set upon the age, in a "proud unworldliness," in
+heightened and intensified emotion. He made many friendships. He taught,
+as the years went on, as well or better than ever; he took great delight
+in the society of a few pupils and younger colleagues; but a shadow fell
+on him; he began to feel his strength unequal to the demands upon it;
+and he made a sudden resolution to retire from his Eton work.
+
+He had taken some years before, as a house for his holidays, Halsdon, a
+country place near his native Torrington, which belonged to his brother,
+Archdeacon Wellington Furse of Westminster, who had changed his name
+from Johnson to Furse, on succeeding to the property of an uncle.
+Here he retired, and strove to live an active and philosophical life,
+fighting bravely with regret, and feeling with sensitive sorrow the
+turning of the sweet page. He tried, too, to serve and help his simple
+country neighbours, as indeed he had desired to do even at Eton, by
+showing them many small, thoughtful, and unobtrusive kindnesses, just
+as his father had done. But he lived much, like all poetical natures, in
+tender retrospect; and the ending of the bright days brought with it
+a heartache that even nature, which he worshipped like a poet, was
+powerless to console. But he loved his woods and sloping fields, and the
+clear river passing under its high banks through deep pools. It served
+to remind him sadly of his beloved Thames, the green banks fringed with
+comfrey and loosestrife, the drooping willows, the cool smell of
+the weedy weir; of glad hours of light-hearted enjoyment with his
+boy-companions, full of blithe gaiety and laughter.
+
+After a few years, he went out to Madeira, where he married a wife
+much younger than himself, Miss Rosa Caroline Guille, daughter of a
+Devonshire clergyman; and at Madeira his only son was born, whom he
+named Andrew, because it was a name never borne by a Pope, or, as he
+sometimes said, "by a sneak." He devoted himself at this time to the
+composition of two volumes of a "Guide to Modern English History." But
+his want of practice in historical writing is here revealed, though it
+must be borne in mind that it was originally drawn up for the use of a
+Japanese student. The book is full of acute perceptions, fine judgments,
+felicitous epigrams--but it is too allusive, too fantastic; neither has
+it the balance and justice required for so serious and comprehensive a
+task. At the same time the learning it displays is extraordinary. It was
+written almost without books of reference, and out of the recollections
+of a man of genius, who remembered all that he read, and considered
+reading the newspaper to be one of the first duties of life.
+
+Cory's other writings are few. Two little educational books are worth
+mentioning: a book of Latin prose exercises, called _Nuces_, the
+sentences of which are full of recondite allusions, curious humour, and
+epigrammatic expression; and a slender volume for teaching Latin lyrics,
+called _Lucretilis_, the exercises being literally translated from the
+Latin originals which he first composed. _Lucretilis_ is not only, as
+Munro said, the most Horatian verse ever written since Horace, but full
+of deep and pathetic poetry. Such a poem as No. xxvii., recording the
+abandoning of Hercules by the Argonauts, is intensely autobiographical.
+He speaks, in a parable, of the life of Eton going on without him, and
+of his faith in her great future:
+
+ "sed Argo
+ Vela facit tamen, aureumque
+
+ "Vellus petendum est. Tiphys ad hoc tenet
+ Clavum magister; stat Telamon vigil,
+ Stat Castor in prora, paratus
+ Ferre maris salientis ictus."
+
+After some years in Madeira, he came back to England and settled in
+Hampstead; his later days were clouded with anxieties and illness. But
+he took great delight in the teaching of Greek to a class of girls, and
+his attitude of noble resignation, tender dignity, and resolute interest
+in the growing history of his race and nation is deeply impressive. He
+died in 1892, on June II, of a heart-complaint to which he had long been
+subject.
+
+In person William Cory was short and sturdy; he was strong and vigorous;
+he was like the leader whom Archilochus desired, "one who is compact of
+frame, showing legs that bend outward, standing firm upon his feet, full
+of courage." He had a vigorous, massive head, with aquiline nose,
+and mobile lips. He was extraordinarily near-sighted, and used strong
+glasses, holding his book close to his eyes. He was accustomed to bewail
+his limited vision, as hiding from him much natural beauty, much human
+drama; but he observed more closely than many men of greater clearness
+of sight, making the most of his limited resources. He depended much
+upon a hearing which was preternaturally acute and sensitive, and was
+guided as much by the voice and manner, as by the aspect of those among
+whom he lived. He had a brisk, peremptory mode of address, full
+of humorous mannerisms of speech. He spoke and taught crisply and
+decisively, and uttered fine and feeling thoughts with a telling
+brevity. He had strong common sense, and much practical judgment.
+
+He was intensely loyal both to institutions and friends, but never
+spared trenchant and luminous criticisms, and had a keen eye for
+weakness in any shape. He was formidable in a sense, though truly
+lovable; he had neither time nor inclination to make enemies, and had a
+generous perception of nobility of character, and of enthusiasms however
+dissimilar to his own. He hankered often for the wider world; he would
+have liked to have a hand in politics, and to have helped to make
+history. He often desired to play a larger part; but the very stirrings
+of regret only made him throw himself with intensified energy into the
+work of his life. He lived habitually on a higher plane than others,
+among the memories of great events, with a consciousness of high
+impersonal forces, great issues, big affairs; and yet he held on with
+both hands to life; he loved all that was tender and beautiful. He never
+lost himself in ambitious dreams or abstract speculations. He was a
+psychologist rather than a philosopher, and his interest and zest
+in life, in the relationships of simple people, the intermingling of
+personal emotions and happy comradeships, kept him from ever forming
+cynical or merely spectatorial views of humanity. He would have been far
+happier, indeed, if he could have practised a greater detachment; but,
+as it was, he gathered in, like the old warrior, a hundred spears; like
+Shelley he might have said--
+
+"I fall upon the thorns of life; I bleed."
+
+His is thus a unique personality, in its blending of intense mental
+energy with almost passionate emotions. Few natures can stand the strain
+of the excessive development of even a single faculty; and with William
+Cory the qualities of both heart and head were over-developed. There
+resulted a want of balance, of moral force; he was impetuous where he
+should have been calm, impulsive where he should have been discreet.
+But on the other hand he was possessed of an almost Spartan courage;
+and through sorrow and suffering, through disappointment and failure,
+he bore himself with a high and stately tenderness, without a touch of
+acrimony or peevishness. He never questioned the love or justice of God;
+he never raged against fate, or railed at circumstance. He gathered up
+the fragments with a quiet hand; he never betrayed envy or jealousy; he
+never deplored the fact that he had not realised his own possibilities;
+he suffered silently, he endured patiently.
+
+And thus he is a deeply pathetic figure, because his great gifts and
+high qualities never had full scope. He might have been a great
+jurist, a great lawyer, a great professor, a great writer, a great
+administrator; and he ended as a man of erratic genius, as a teacher in
+a restricted sphere, though sowing, generously and prodigally, rich and
+fruitful seed. With great poetical force of conception, and a style
+both resonant and suggestive, he left a single essay of high genius, a
+fantastic historical work, a few books of school exercises. A privately
+printed volume of Letters and Journals reveals the extraordinary quality
+of his mind, its delicacy, its beauty, its wistfulness, its charm. There
+remains but the little volume of verse which is here presented, which
+stands apart from the poetical literature of the age. We see in these
+poems a singular and original contribution to the poetry of the century.
+The verse is in its general characteristics of the school of Tennyson,
+with its equable progression, its honied epithets, its soft cadences,
+its gentle melody. But the poems are deeply original, because they,
+combine a peculiar classical quality, with a frank delight in the spirit
+of generous boyhood. For all their wealth of idealised sentiment, they
+never lose sight of the fuller life of the world that waits beyond the
+threshold of youth, the wider issues, the glory of the battle, the hopes
+of the patriot, the generous visions of manhood. They are full of the
+romance of boyish friendships, the echoes of the river and the cricket
+field, the ingenuous ambitions, the chivalry, the courage of youth and
+health, the brilliant charm of the opening world. These things are but
+the prelude to, the presage of, the energies of the larger stage; his
+young heroes are to learn the lessons of patriotism, of manliness, of
+activity, of generosity, that they may display them in a wider field.
+Thus he wrote in "A Retrospect of School Life":--
+
+ "Much lost I; something stayed behind,
+ A snatch, maybe, of ancient song.
+ Some breathings of a deathless mind,
+ Some love of truth, some hate of wrong.
+
+ And to myself in games I said,
+ 'What mean the books? can I win fame
+ I would be like the faithful dead,
+ A fearless man, and pure of blame.'"
+
+Then, too, there are poems of a sombre yet tender philosophy, of an
+Epicureanism that is seldom languid, of a Stoicism that is never hard.
+In this world, where so much is dark, he seems to say, we must all clasp
+hands and move forwards, shoulder to shoulder, never forgetting the
+warm companionship in the presence of the blind chaotic forces that wave
+their shadowy wings about us. We must love what is near and dear, we
+must be courageous and tender-hearted in the difficult valley. The book
+is full of the passionate sadness of one who feels alike the intensity
+and the brevity of life, and who cannot conjecture why fair things must
+fade as surely as they bloom.
+
+The poems then reflect a kind of Platonic agnosticism; they offer no
+solution of the formless mystery; but they seem rather to indicate the
+hope that, in the multiplying of human relationship, in devotion to all
+we hold dear, in the enkindling of the soul by all that is generous and
+noble and unselfish, lies the best hope of the individual and of the
+race. Uncheered by Christian hopefulness, and yet strong in their belief
+in the ardours and passions of humanity, these poems may help us to
+remember and love the best of life, its days of sunshine and youth, its
+generous companionships, its sweet ties of loyalty and love, its brave
+hopes and ardent impulses, which may be ours, if we are only loving and
+generous and high-hearted, to the threshold of the dark, and perhaps
+beyond.
+
+ARTHUR C. BENSON.
+
+
+
+
+DESIDERATO
+
+     Oh, lost and unforgotten friend,
+     Whose presence change and chance deny;
+     If angels turn your soft proud eye
+     To lines your cynic playmate penned,
+
+     Look on them, as you looked on me,
+     When both were young; when, as we went
+     Through crowds or forest ferns, you leant
+     On him who loved your staff to be;
+
+     And slouch your lazy length again
+     On cushions fit for aching brow
+     (Yours always ached, you know), and now
+
+     As dainty languishing as then,
+     Give them but one fastidious look,
+     And if you see a trace of him
+     Who humoured you in every whim,
+
+     Seek for his heart within his book:
+     For though there be enough to mark
+     The man's divergence from the boy,
+     Yet shines my faith without alloy
+
+     For him who led me through that park;
+     And though a stranger throw aside
+     Such grains of common sentiment,
+     Yet let your haughty head be bent
+
+     To take the jetsom of the tide;
+     Because this brackish turbid sea
+     Throws toward thee things that pleased of yore,
+     And though it wash thy feet no more,
+
+     Its murmurs mean: "I yearn for thee."
+     The world may like, for all I care,
+     The gentler voice, the cooler head,
+     That bows a rival to despair,
+
+     And cheaply compliments the dead;
+     That smiles at all that's coarse and rash,
+     Yet wins the trophies of the fight,
+     Unscathed, in honour's wreck and crash,
+
+     Heartless, but always in the right;.
+     Thanked for good counsel by the judge
+     Who tramples on the bleeding brave,
+     Thanked too by him who will not budge
+     From claims thrice hallowed by the grave.
+
+     Thanked, and self-pleased: ay, let him wear
+     What to that noble breast was due;
+     And I, dear passionate Teucer, dare
+     Go through the homeless world with you.
+
+
+
+
+MIMNERMUS IN CHURCH
+
+     You promise heavens free from strife,
+     Pure truth, and perfect change of will;
+     But sweet, sweet is this human life,
+     So sweet, I fain would breathe it still;
+     Your chilly stars I can forego,
+     This warm kind world is all I know.
+
+     You say there is no substance here,
+     One great reality above:
+     Back from that void I shrink in fear,
+     And child-like hide myself in love:
+     Show me what angels feel. Till then,
+     I cling, a mere weak man, to men.
+
+     You bid me lift my mean desires
+     From faltering lips and fitful veins
+     To sexless souls, ideal quires,
+     Unwearied voices, wordless strains:
+     My mind with fonder welcome owns
+     One dear dead friend's remembered tones.
+
+     Forsooth the present we must give
+     To that which cannot pass away;
+     All beauteous things for which we live
+     By laws of time and space decay.
+     But oh, the very reason why
+     I clasp them, is because they die.
+
+
+
+
+HERACLITUS
+
+     They told me, Heraclitus, they told me you were dead,
+     They brought me bitter news to hear and bitter tears to shed.
+     I wept, as I remembered, how often you and I
+     Had tired the sun with talking and sent him down the sky.
+
+     And now that thou art lying, my dear old Carian guest,
+     A handful of grey ashes, long long ago at rest,
+     Still are thy pleasant voices, thy nightingales, awake;
+     For Death, he taketh all away, but them he cannot take.
+
+
+
+
+IOLE
+
+     I will not leave the smouldering pyre:
+     Enough remains to light again:
+     But who am I to dare desire
+     A place beside the king of men?
+
+     So burnt my dear Ochalian town;
+     And I an outcast gazed and groaned.
+     But, when my father's roof fell down,
+     For all that wrong sweet love atoned.
+
+     He led me trembling to the ship,
+     He seemed at least to love me then;
+     He soothed, he clasped me lip to lip:
+     How strange, to wed the king of men.
+
+     I linger, orphan, widow, slave,
+     I lived when sire and brethren died;
+     Oh, had I shared my mother's grave, .
+     Or clomb unto the hero's side!
+
+     That comrade old hath made his moan;
+     The centaur cowers within his den:
+     And I abide to guard alone
+     The ashes of the king of men.
+
+     Alone, beneath the night divine--
+     Alone, another weeps elsewhere:
+     Her love for him is unlike mine,
+     Her wail she will not let me share.
+
+
+
+
+STESICHORUS
+
+     Queen of the Argives, (thus the poet spake,)
+     Great lady Helen, thou hast made me wise;
+     Veiled is the world, but all the soul awake,
+     Purged by thine anger, clearer far than eyes.
+
+     Peep is the darkness; for my bride is hidden,
+     Crown of my glory, guerdon of my song:
+     Preod is the vision; thou art here unbidden,
+     Mute and reproachful, since I did thee wrong.
+
+     Sweetest of wanderers, grievest thou for friends
+     Tricked by a phantom, cheated to the grave?
+     Woe worth the God, the mocking God, that sends
+     Lies to the pious, furies to the brave.
+
+     Pardon our falsehood: thou wert far away,
+     Gathering the lotus down the Egypt-water,
+     Wifely and duteous, hearing not the fray,
+     Taking no stain from all those years of slaughter:
+
+     Guiltless, yet mournful. Tell the poets truths;
+     Tell them real beauty leadeth not to strife;
+     Weep for the slain, those many blooming youths:
+     Tears such as thine might bring them back to life.
+
+     Dear, gentle lady, if the web's unthreaded,
+     Slander and fable fairly rent in twain,
+     Then, by the days when thou wert loved and wedded,
+     Give me, I pray, my bride's glad smile again.
+
+     The lord, who leads the Spartan host,
+     Stands with a little maid,
+     To greet a stranger from the coast
+     Who comes to seek his aid.
+
+     What brings the guest? a disk of brass
+     With curious lines engraven:
+     What mean the lines? stream, road, and pass,
+     Forest, and town, and haven.
+
+     "Lo, here Choaspes' lilied field:
+     Lo, here the Hermian plain:
+     What need we save the Doric shield
+     To stop the Persian's reign?
+
+     Or shall barbarians drink their nil
+     Upon the slopes of Tmolus?
+     Or trowsered robbers spoil at will
+     The bounties of Pactolus?
+
+     Salt lakes, burnt uplands, lie between;
+     The distant king moves slow;
+     He starts, ere Smyrna's vines are green,
+     Comes, when their juices flow.
+
+     Waves bright with morning smoothe thy course,
+     Swift row the Samian galleys;
+     Unconquered Colophon sounds to horse
+     Up the broad eastern valleys.
+
+     Is not Apollo's call enough,
+     The god of every Greek?
+     Then take our gold, and household stuff;
+     Claim what thou wilt, but speak."
+
+     He falters; for the waves he fears,
+     The roads he cannot measure;
+     But rates full high the gleam of spears
+     And dreams of yellow treasure.
+
+     He listens; he is yielding now;
+     Outspoke the fearless child:
+
+     "Oh, father, come away, lest thou
+     Be by this man beguiled."
+     Her lowly judgement barred the plea,
+     So low, it could not reach her.
+
+     The man knows more of land and sea,
+     But she's the truer teacher.
+     I mind the day, when thou didst cheat
+     Those rival dames with answer meet;
+
+     When, toiling at the loom,
+     Unblest with bracelet, ring, or chain,
+     Thou alone didst dare disdain
+     To toil in tiring-room.
+
+     Merely thou saidst: "At set of sun
+     My humble taskwork will be done;
+     And through the twilight street
+     Come back to view my jewels, when
+     Pattering through the throng of men
+     Go merry schoolboys' feet."
+
+
+
+
+CAIUS GRACCHUS
+
+     They came, and sneered: for thou didst stand!
+     The web well finished up, one hand
+     Laid on my yielding shoulder:
+     The sternest stripling in the land
+     Grasped the other, boldly scanned
+     Their faces, and grew bolder:
+
+     And said: "Fair ladies, by your leave
+     I would exhort you spin and weave
+     Some frugal homely cloth.
+     I warn you, when I lead the tribes
+     Law shall strip you; threats nor bribes
+     Shall blunt the just man's wrath."
+
+     How strongly, gravely did he speak!
+     I shivered, hid my tingling cheek
+     Behind thy marble face;
+     And prayed the gods to be like him,
+     Firm in temper, lithe of limb,
+     Right worthy of our race.
+
+     Oh, mother, didst thou bear me brave?
+     Or was I weak, till, from the grave
+     So early hollowed out,
+     Tiberius sought me yesternight,
+     Blood upon his mantle white,
+     A vision clear of doubt?
+
+     What can I fear, oh mother, now?
+     His dead cold hand is on my brow;
+     Rest thou thereon thy lips:
+     His voice is in the night-wind's breath,
+     "Do as I did," still he saith;
+     With blood his finger drips.
+
+
+
+
+ASTEROPE
+
+     Child of the summer cloud, upon thy birth,--
+     And thou art often born to die again,--
+     Follow loud groans, that shake the darkening earth,
+     And break the troublous sleep of guilty men.
+
+     Thou leapest from the thinner streams of air
+     To crags where vapours cling, where ocean frets;
+     No cave so deep, so cold, but thou art there,
+     Wrath in thy smile, and beauty in thy threats.
+
+     The molten sands beneath thy burning feet
+     Run, as thou runnest, into tubes of glass;
+     Old towers and trees, that proudly stood to meet
+     The whirlwind, let their fair invader pass.
+
+     The lone ship warring on the Indian sea
+     Bursts into splinters at thy sudden stroke;
+     Siberian mines fired long ago by thee
+     Still waste in helpless flame and barren smoke.
+
+     Such is thy dreadful pastime, Angel-queen,
+     When swooping headlong from the Armament
+     Thou spreadest fear along the village green,
+     Fear of the day when gravestones shall be rent.
+
+     And we that fear remember not, that thou,
+     Slewest the Theban maid, who vainly strove
+     To rival Juno, when the lover's vow
+     Was kept in wedlock by unwilling Jove.
+
+     And we forget, that when Oileus went
+     From the wronged virgin and the ruined fane,
+     When storms were howling round "Repent, Repent,"
+     Thy holy arrow pierced the spoiler's brain.
+
+     To perish all the proud! but chiefly he,
+     Who at the tramp of steeds and cymbal-beat
+     Proclaimed, "I thunder! Why not worship me?"
+     And thou didst slay him for his counterfeit.
+
+
+
+
+A DIRGE
+
+      Naiad, hid beneath the bank
+      By the willowy river-side,
+      Where Narcissus gently sank,
+      Where unmarried Echo died,
+      Unto thy serene repose
+      Waft the stricken Anteros.
+
+      Where the tranquil swan is borne,
+      Imaged in a watery glass,
+      Where the sprays of fresh pink thorn
+      Stoop to catch the boats that pass,
+      Where the earliest orchis grows,
+      Bury thou fair Anteros.
+
+      Glide we by, with prow and oar:
+      Ripple shadows off the wave,
+      And reflected on the shore,
+      Haply play about the grave.
+      Folds of summer-light enclose
+      All that once was Anteros.
+
+      On a flickering wave we gaze,
+      Not upon his answering eyes:
+      Flower and bird we scarce can praise,
+      Having lost his sweet replies:
+      Cold and mute the river flows
+      With our tears for Anteros.
+
+
+
+
+AN INVOCATION
+
+     I never prayed for Dryads, to haunt the woods again;
+     More welcome were the presence of hungering, thirst-
+     ing men,
+     Whose doubts we could unravel, whose hopes we
+     could fulfil,
+     Our wisdom tracing backward, the river to the rill;
+     Were such beloved forerunners one summer day
+     restored,
+     Then, then we might discover the Muse's mystic hoard.
+
+     Oh dear divine Comatas, I would that thou and I
+     Beneath this broken sunlight this leisure day might lie;
+     Where trees from distant forests, whose names were
+     strange to thee,
+     Should bend their amorous branches within thy reach
+     to be,
+     And flowers thine Hellas knew not, which art hath
+     made more fair,
+     Should shed their shining petals upon thy fragrant
+     hair.
+
+     Then thou shouldst calmly listen with ever-changing
+     looks
+     To songs of younger minstrels and plots of modern
+     books,
+     And wonder at the daring of poets later born,
+     Whose thoughts are unto thy thoughts as noon-tide is
+     to morn;
+     And little shouldst thou grudge them their greater
+     strength of soul,
+     Thy partners in the torch-race, though nearer to the
+     goal.
+
+     As when ancestoral portraits look gravely from the walls
+     Uplift youthful baron who treads their echoing
+     halls;
+     And whilst he builds new turrets, the thrice ennobled
+     heir
+     Would gladly wake his grandsire his home and feast
+     to share;
+     So from AEgean laurels that hide thine ancient urn
+     I fain would call thee hither, my sweeter lore to learn.
+
+     Or in thy cedarn prison thou waitest for the bee:
+     Ah, leave that simple honey, and take thy food from
+     me.
+     My sun is stooping westward. Entranced dreamer,
+     haste;
+     There's fruitage in my garden, that I would have thee
+     taste.
+     Now lift the lid a moment; now, Dorian shepherd,
+     speak:
+     Two minds shall flow together, the English and the
+     Greek.
+
+
+
+
+ACADEMUS
+
+     Perhaps there's neither tear nor smile,
+     When once beyond the grave.
+     Woe's me: but let me live meanwhile
+     Amongst the bright and brave;
+
+     My summers lapse away beneath
+     Their cool Athenian shade:
+     And I a string for myrtle-wreath,
+     A whetstone unto blade;
+
+     I cheer the games I cannot play;
+     As stands a crippled squire
+     To watch his master through the fray,
+     Uplifted by desire.
+
+     I roam, where little pleasures fall,
+     As morn to morn succeeds,
+     To melt, or ere the sweetness pall,
+     Like glittering manna-beads.
+
+     The wishes dawning in the eyes,
+     The softly murmured thanks;
+     The zeal of those that miss the prize
+     On clamorous river-banks;
+
+     The quenchless hope, the honest choice,
+     The self-reliant pride,
+     The music of the pleading voice
+     That will not be denied;
+
+     The wonder flushing in the cheek,
+     The questions many a score,
+     When I grow eloquent, and speak
+     Of England, and of war--
+
+     Oh, better than the world of dress
+     And pompous dining, out,
+     Better than simpering and finesse
+     Is all this stir and rout.
+
+     I'll borrow life, and not grow old;
+     And nightingales and trees
+     Shall keep me, though the veins be cold,
+     As young as Sophocles.
+
+     And when I may no longer live,
+     They'll say, who know the truth,
+     He gave whatever he had to give
+     To freedom and to youth.
+
+
+
+
+PROSPERO
+
+     Farewell, my airy pursuivants, farewell.
+     We part to-day, and I resign
+     This lonely island, and this rocky cell,
+     And all that hath been mine.
+
+     "Ah, whither go we? Why not follow thee,
+     Our human king, across the wave,
+     The man that rescued us from rifted tree,
+     Bleak marsh, and howling cave."
+
+     Oh no. The wand I wielded then is buried,
+     Broken, and buried in the sand.
+     Oh no. By mortal hands I must be ferried
+     Unto the Tuscan strand.
+
+     You came to cheer my exile, and to lift
+     The weight of silence off my lips:
+     With you I ruled the clouds, and ocean-drift,
+     Meteors, and wandering ships.
+
+     Your fancies glinting on my central mind
+     Fell off in beams of many hues,
+     Soft lambent light. Yet, severed from mankind,
+     Not light, but heat, I lose.
+
+     I go, before my heart be chilled. Behold,
+     The bark that bears me waves her flag,
+     To chide my loitering. Back to your mountain-hold,
+     And flee the tyrant hag.
+
+     Away. I hear your little voices sinking
+     Into the wood-notes of the breeze:
+     I hear you say: "Enough, enough of thinking;
+     Love lies beyond the seas."
+
+
+
+
+AMATURUS
+
+     Somewhere beneath the sun,
+     These quivering heart-strings prove it,
+     Somewhere there must be one
+     Made for this soul, to move it;
+
+     Some one that hides her sweetness
+     From neighbours whom she slights,
+     Nor can attain completeness,
+     Nor give her heart its rights;
+
+     Some one whom I could court
+     With no great change of manner,
+     Still holding reason's fort,
+     Though waving fancy's banner;
+
+     A lady, not so queenly
+     As to disdain my hand,
+     Yet born to smile serenely
+     Like those that rule the land;
+
+     Noble, but not too proud;
+     With soft hair simply folded,
+     And bright face crescent-browed,
+     And throat by Muses moulded;
+
+     And eyelids lightly falling
+     On little glistening seas,
+     Deep-calm, when gales are brawling,
+     Though stirred by every breeze:
+
+     Swift voice, like flight of dove
+     Through minster arches floating,
+     With sudden turns, when love
+     Gets overnear to doting;
+
+     Keen lips, that shape soft sayings
+     Like crystals of the snow,
+     With pretty half-betrayings
+     Of things one may not know;
+
+     Fair hand, whose touches thrill,
+     Like golden rod of wonder,
+     Which Hermes wields at will
+     Spirit and flesh to sunder;
+
+     Light foot, to press the stirrup
+     In fearlessness and glee,
+     Or dance, till finches chirrup,
+     And stars sink to the sea.
+
+     Forth, Love, and find this maid,
+     Wherever she be hidden:
+     Speak, Love, be not afraid,
+     But plead as thou art bidden;
+
+     And say, that he who taught thee
+     His yearning want and pain,
+     Too dearly, dearly bought thee
+     To part with thee in vain.
+
+
+
+
+MORTEM, QUAE VIOLAT SUAVI A PELLIT AMOR
+
+     The plunging rocks, whose ravenous throats
+     The sea in wrath and mockery fills,
+     The smoke, that up the valley floats,
+     The girlhood of the growing hills;
+
+     The thunderings from the miners' ledge,
+     The wild assaults on nature's hoard,
+     The peak, that stormward bares an edge
+     Ground sharp in days when Titans warred;
+
+     Grim heights, by wandering clouds embraced
+     Where lightning's ministers conspire,
+     Grey glens, with tarn and streamlet laced,
+     Stark forgeries of primeval fire;
+
+     These scenes may gladden many a mind
+     Awhile from homelier thoughts released,
+     And here my fellow-men may find
+     A Sabbath and a vision-feast.
+
+     I bless them in the good they feel;
+     And yet I bless them with a sigh:
+     On me this grandeur stamps the seal
+     Of tyrannous mortality.
+
+     The pitiless mountain stands so sure,
+     The human breast so weakly heaves;
+     That brains decay, while rocks endure,
+     At this the insatiate spirit grieves.
+
+     But hither, oh ideal bride!
+     For whom this heart in silence aches,
+     Love is unwearied as the tide,
+     Love is perennial as the lakes;
+
+     Come thou. The spiky crags will seem
+     One harvest of one heavenly year,
+     And fear of death, like childish dream,
+     Will pass and flee, when thou art here.
+
+
+
+
+TWO FRAGMENTS OF CHILDHOOD
+
+     When these locks were yellow as gold,
+     When past days were easily told,
+     Well I knew the voice of the sea,
+     Once he spake as a friend to me.
+
+     Thunder-roarings carelessly heard,
+     Once that poor little heart they stirred.
+     Why, oh, why?
+     Memory, Memory!
+     She that I wished to be with was by.
+
+     Sick was I in those misanthrope days
+     Of soft caresses, womanly ways;
+     Once that maid on the stairs I met,
+     Lip on brow she suddenly set.
+
+     Then flushed up my chivalrous blood
+     Like Swiss streams in a midsummer flood.
+     Then, oh, then,
+     Imogen, Imogen!
+     Hadst thou a lover, whose years were ten.
+
+
+
+
+WAR MUSIC
+
+     One hour of my boyhood, one glimpse of the past,
+     One beam of the dawn ere the heavens were o'ercast.
+
+     I came to a castle by royalty's grace,
+     Forgot I was bashful, and feeble, and base.
+     For stepping to music I dreamt of a siege,
+     A vow to my mistress, a fight for my liege.
+     The first sound of trumpets that fell on mine ear
+     Set warriors around me and made me their peer.
+     Meseemed we were arming, the bold for the fair,
+     In joyous devotion and haughty despair:
+     The warders were waiting to draw bolt and bar,
+     The maidens attiring to gaze from afar:
+
+     I thought of the sally, but not the retreat,
+     The cause was so glorious, the dying so sweet.
+
+     I live, I am old, I return to the ground:
+     Blow trumpets, and still I can dream to the sound.
+
+
+
+
+NUBENTI
+
+     Though the lark that upward flies
+     Recks not of the opening skies,
+     Nor discerneth grey from blue,
+     Nor the rain-drop from the dew:
+     Yet the tune which no man taught
+     So can quicken human thought,
+     That the startled fancies spring
+     Faster far than voice or wing.
+
+     And the songstress as she floats
+     Rising on her buoyant notes,
+     Though she may the while refuse
+     Homage to the nobler Muse,
+     Though she cannot truly tell
+     How her voice hath wrought the spell,
+     Fills the listener's eyes with tears,
+     Lifts him to the inner spheres.
+
+     Lark, thy morning song is done;
+     Overhead the silent sun
+     Bids thee pause. But he that heard
+     Such a strain must bless the bird.
+     Lady, thou hast hushed too soon
+     Sounds that cheered my weary noon;
+     Let met, warned by marriage bell,
+     Whisper, Queen of Song, farewell.
+
+
+
+
+WORDS FOR A PORTUGUESE AIR
+
+     They're sleeping beneath the roses;
+     Oh, kiss them before they rise,
+     And tickle their tiny noses,
+     And sprinkle the dew on their eyes.
+     Make haste, make haste;
+     The fairies are caught;
+     Make haste.
+
+     We'll put them in silver cages,
+     And send them full-drest to court,
+     And maids of honour and pages
+     Shall turn the poor things to sport.
+     Be quick, be quick;
+     Be quicker than thought;
+     Be quick.
+
+     Their scarfs shall be pennons for lancers,
+     We'll tie up our flowers with their curls,
+     Their plumes will make fans for dancers,
+     Their tears shall be set with pearls.
+     Be wise, be wise,
+     Make the most of the prize;
+     Be wise.
+
+     They'll scatter sweet scents by winking,
+     With sparks from under their feet;
+     They'll save us the trouble of thinking,
+     Their voices will sound so sweet.
+     Oh stay, oh stay!
+     They're up and away;
+     Oh stay!
+
+
+
+
+ADRIENNE AND MAURICE
+
+(Words For The Air Commonly Called "Pestal")
+
+     I.
+
+     Fly, poor soul, fly on,
+     No early clouds shall stop thy roaming;
+     Fly, till day be gone,
+     Nor fold thy wings before the gloaming.
+     He thou lov'st will soon be far beyond thy flight,
+     Other lands to light,
+     Leaving thee in night.
+     Let no fear of loss thy heavenly pathway cross;
+     Better then to lose than now.
+
+
+     II.
+
+     Now, faint heart, arise,
+     And proudly feel that he regards thee;
+     Draw from godlike eyes
+     Some grace to last when love discards thee.
+     Once thou hast been blest by one too high for thee;
+     Fate will have him be
+     Great and fancy-free,
+     When some noble maid her hand in his hath laid,
+     Give him up, poor heart, and break.
+
+
+
+
+THE HALLOWING OF THE FLEET
+
+     Her captains for the Baltic bound
+     In silent homage stood around;
+     Silent, whilst holy dew
+     Dimmed her kind eyes. She stood in tears,
+     For she had felt a mother's fears,
+     And wifely cares she knew.
+
+     She wept; she could not bear to say,
+     "Sail forth, my mariners, and slay
+     The liegemen of my foe."
+     Meanwhile on Russian steppe and lake
+     Are women weeping for the sake
+     Of them that seaward go.
+
+     Oh warriors, when you stain with gore,
+     If this indeed must be, the floor
+     Whereon that lady stept,
+     When the fierce joy of battle won
+     Hardens the heart of sire and son,
+     Remember that she wept
+
+
+
+
+THE CAIRN AND THE CHURCH
+
+     A Prince went down the banks of Dee
+     That widen out from bleak Braemar,
+     To drive the deer that wander free
+     Amidst the pines of Lochnagar.
+
+     And stepping on beneath the birks
+     On the road-side he found a spot,
+     Which told of pibrochs, kilts, and dirks,
+     And wars the courtiers had forgot;
+
+     Where with the streams, as each alone
+     Down to the gathering river runs,
+     Each on one heap to cast a stone,
+     Came twice three hundred Farquharsons.
+
+     They raised that pile to keep for ever
+     The memory of the loyal clan;
+     Then, grudging not their vain endeavour,
+     Fell at Culloden to a man.
+
+     And she, whose grandsire's uncle slew
+     Those dwellers on the banks of Dee,
+     Sighed for those tender hearts and true,
+     And whispered: "Who would die for me?"
+
+     Oh, lady, turn thee southward. Show
+     Thy standard on thine own Thames-side;
+     Let us be called to meet thy foe,
+     Our Kith be pledged, our honour tried.
+
+     Now, on the stone by Albert laid,
+     We'll build a pile as high as theirs,
+     So sworn to bring our Sovereign aid,
+     If not with war-cries, yet with prayers.
+
+
+
+
+A QUEEN'S VISIT
+
+June 4, 1851
+
+     From vale to vale, from shore to shore,
+     The lady Gloriana passed,
+     To view her realms: the south wind bore
+     Her shallop to Belleisle at last.
+
+     A quiet mead, where willows bend
+     Above the curving wave, which rolls
+     On slowly crumbling banks, to send
+     Its hard-won spoils to lazy shoals.
+
+     Beneath an oak weird eddies play,
+     Where fate was writ for Saxon seer;
+     And yonder park is white with may,
+     Where shadowy hunters chased the deer.
+
+     In rows half up the chestnut, perch
+     Stiff-silvered fairies; busy rooks
+     Caw front the elm; and, rung to church,
+     Mute anglers drop their caddised hooks.
+
+     They troop between the dark-red walls,
+     When the twin towers give four-fold chimes;
+     And lo! the breaking groups, where falls
+     'Tim chequered shade of quivering limes.
+
+     'They come from field and wharf and street
+     With dewy hair and veined throat,
+     One fluor to tread with reverent feet,--
+     One hour of rest for ball and boat:
+
+     Like swallows gathering for their flight,
+     When autumn whispers, play no more,
+     They check the laugh, with fancies bright
+     Still hovering round the sacred door.
+
+     Lo! childhood swelling into seed,
+     Lo! manhood bursting from the bud:
+     Two growths, unlike; yet all agreed
+     To trust the movement of the blood.
+
+     They toil at games, and play with books:
+     They love the winner of the race,
+     If only he that prospers looks
+     On prizes with a simple grace.
+
+     The many leave the few to choose;
+     They scorn not him who turns aside
+     To woo alone a milder Muse,
+     If shielded by a tranquil pride.
+
+     When thought is claimed, when pain is borne,
+     Whate'er is done in this sweet isle,
+     There's none that may not lift his horn,
+     If only lifted with a smile.
+
+     So here dwells freedom; nor could she,
+     Who ruled in every clime on earth,
+     Find any spring more fit to be
+     The fountain of her festal mirth.
+
+     Elsewhere she sought for lore and art,
+     But hither came for vernal joy:
+     Nor was this all: she smote the heart
+     And woke the hero in the boy.
+
+
+
+
+MOON-SET
+
+     Sweet moon, twice rounded in a blithe July,
+     Once down a wandering English stream thou leddest
+     My lonely boat; swans gleamed around; the sky
+     Throbbed overhead with meteors. Now thou sheddest
+     Faint radiance on a cold Arvernian plain,
+     Where I, far severed from that youthful crew,
+     Far from the gay disguise thy witcheries threw
+     On wave and dripping oar, still own thy reign,
+     Travelling with thee through many a sleepless hour.
+     Now shrink, like my weak will: a sterner power
+     Empurpleth yonder hills beneath thee piled,
+     Hills, where Caesarian sovereignty was won
+     On high basaltic levels blood-defiled,
+     The Druid moonlight quenched beneath the Roman
+     sun.
+
+
+
+
+AFTER READING "MAUD"
+
+September, 1855
+
+     Twelve years ago, if he had died,
+     His critic friends had surely cried:
+     "Death does us wrong, the fates are cross;
+     Nor will this age repair the loss.
+     Fine was the promise of his youth;
+     Time would have brought him deeper truth.
+     Some earnest of his wealth he gave,
+     Then hid his treasures in the grave."
+     And proud that they alone on earth
+     Perceived what might have been his worth,
+     They would have kept their leader's name
+     Linked with a fragmentary fame.
+     Forsooth the beech's knotless stem,
+     If early felled, were dear to them.
+
+     But the fair tree lives on, and spreads
+     Its scatheless boughs above their heads,
+     And they are pollarded by cares,
+     And give themselves religious airs,
+     And grow not, whilst the forest-king
+     Strikes high and deep from spring to spring.
+     So they would have his branches rise
+     In theoretic symmetries;
+     They see a twist in yonder limb,
+     The foliage not precisely trim;
+     Some gnarled roughness they lament,
+     Take credit for their discontent,
+     And count his flaws, serenely wise
+     With motes of pity in their eyes;
+     As if they could, the prudent fools,
+     Adjust such live-long growth to rules,
+     As if so strong a soul could thrive
+     Fixed in one shape at thirty-five.
+     Leave him to us, ye good and sage,
+     Who stiffen in your middle age.
+
+     Ye loved him once, but now forbear;
+     Yield him to those who hope and dare,
+     And have not yet to forms consigned
+     A rigid, ossifying mind.
+
+     One's feelings lose poetic flow
+     Soon after twenty-seven or so;
+     Professionizing moral men
+     Thenceforth admire what pleased them then;
+     The poems bought in youth they read,
+     And say them over like their creed.
+     All autumn crops of rhyme seem strange;
+     Their intellect resents the change.
+
+     They cannot follow to the end
+     Their more susceptive college-friend:
+     He runs from field to field, and they
+     Stroll in their paddocks making hay:
+     He's ever young, and they get old;
+     Poor things, they deem him over-bold:
+     What wonder, if they stare and scold?
+
+
+
+
+A SONG
+
+     i.
+
+     Oh, earlier shall the rosebuds blow,
+     In after years, those happier years,
+     And children weep, when we lie low,
+     Far fewer tears, far softer tears.
+
+     ii.
+
+     Oh, true shall boyish laughter ring,
+     Like tinkling chimes in kinder times!
+     And merrier shall the maiden sing:
+     And I not there, and I not there.
+
+     iii.
+
+     Like lightning in the summer night
+     Their mirth shall be, so quick and free;
+     And oh! the flash of their delight
+     I shall not see, I may not see.
+
+     iv.
+
+     In deeper dream, with wider range,
+     Those eyes shall shine, but not on mine:
+     Unmoved, unblest, by worldly change,
+     The dead must rest, the dead shall rest.
+
+
+
+
+A STUDY OF BOYHOOD
+
+     So young, and yet so worn with pain!
+     No sign of youth upon that stooping head,
+     Save weak half-curls, like beechen boughs that spread
+     With up-turned edge to catch the hurrying rain;
+
+     Such little lint-white locks, as wound
+     About a mother's finger long ago,
+     When he was blither, not more dear, for woe
+     Was then far off, and other sons stood round.
+
+     And she has wept since then with him
+     Watching together, where the ocean gave
+     To her child's counted breathings wave for wave,
+     Whilst the heart fluttered, and the eye grew dim.
+
+     And when the sun and day-breeze fell,
+     She kept with him the vigil of despair;
+     Knit hands for comfort, blended sounds of prayer,
+     Saw him at dawn face death, and take farewell;
+
+     Saw him grow holier through his grief,
+     The early grief that lined his withering brow,
+     As one by one her stars were quenched. And now
+     He that so mourned can play, though life is brief;
+
+     Not gay, but gracious; plain of speech,
+     And freely kindling under beauty's ray,
+     He dares to speak of what he loves; to-day
+     He talked of art, and led me on to teach,
+
+     And glanced, as poets glance, at pages
+     Full of bright Florence and warm Umbrian skies;
+     Not slighting modern greatness, for the wise
+     Can sort the treasures of the circling ages;
+
+     Not echoing the sickly praise,
+     Which boys repeat, who hear a father's guest
+     Prate of the London show-rooms; what is best
+     He firmly lights upon, as birds on sprays;
+
+     All honest, and all delicate:
+     No room for flattery, no smiles that ask
+     For tender pleasantries, no looks that mask
+     The genial impulses of love and hate.
+
+     Oh bards that call to bank and glen,
+     Ye bid me go to nature to be healed!
+     And lo! a purer fount is here revealed:
+     My lady-nature dwells in heart of men.
+
+
+
+
+MERCURIALIA
+
+     Sweet eyes, that aim a level shaft
+     At pleasure flying from afar,
+     Sweet lips, just parted for a draught
+     Of Hebe's nectar, shall I mar
+     By stress of disciplinary craft
+     The joys that in your freedom are?
+
+     Shall the bright Queen who rules the tide
+     Now forward thrown, now bridled back,
+     Smile o'er each answering smile, then hide
+     Her grandeur in the transient rack,
+     And yield her power, and veil her pride,
+     And move along a ruffled track:
+
+     And shall not I give jest for jest,
+     Though king of fancy all the while,
+     Catch up your wishes half expressed,
+     Endure your whimsies void of guile,
+     Albeit with risk of such unrest
+     As may disturb, but not defile?
+
+     Oh, twine me myrtle round the sword,
+     Soft wit round wisdom over-keen:
+     Let me but lead my peers, no lord
+     With brows high arched; and lofty mien,
+     Set comrades round my council board
+     For bold debates, with jousts between.
+
+     There quiver lips, there glisten eyes,
+     There throb young hearts with generous hope;
+     Thence, playmates, rise for high emprize;
+     For, though he fail, yet shall ye cope
+     With worldling wrapped in silken lies,
+     With pedant, hypocrite, and pope.
+
+
+
+
+REPARABO
+
+     The world will rob me of my friends,
+     For time with her conspires;
+     But they shall both to make amends
+     Relight my slumbering fires.
+
+     For while my comrades pass away
+     To bow and smirk and gloze,
+     Come others, for as short a stay;
+     And dear are these as those.
+
+     And who was this? they ask; and then
+     The loved and lost I praise:
+     "Like you they frolicked; they are men:
+     "Bless ye my later days."
+
+     Why fret? the hawks I trained are flown:
+     'Twas nature bade them range;
+     I could not keep their wings half-grown,
+     I could not bar the change.
+
+     With lattice opened wide I stand
+     To watch their eager flight;
+     With broken jesses in my hand
+     I muse on their delight.
+
+     And, oh! if one with sullied plume
+     Should droop in mid career,
+     My love makes signals:--"There is room,
+     Oh bleeding wanderer, here."
+
+
+
+
+A BIRTHDAY
+
+     The graces marked the hour, when thou
+     Didst leave thine ante-natal rest,
+     Without a cry to heave a breast
+     Which never ached from then till now.
+
+     That vivid soul then first unsealed
+     Would be, they knew, a torch to wave
+     Within a chill and dusky cave
+     Whose crystals else were unrevealed.
+
+     That fine small mouth they wreathed so well
+     In rosy curves, would rouse to arms
+     A troop then bound in slumber-charms;
+     Such notes they gave the magic shell.
+
+     Those straying fingerlets, that clutched
+     At good and bad, they so did glove,
+     That they might pick the flowers of love,
+     Unscathed, from every briar they touched.
+
+     The bounteous sisters did ordain,
+     That thou one day with jest and whim
+     Should'st rain thy merriment on him
+     Whose life, when thou wert born, was pain.
+
+     For haply on that night they spied
+     A sickly student at his books,
+     Who having basked in loving looks
+     Was freezing into barren pride.
+
+     His squalid discontent they saw,
+     And, for that he had worshipped them
+     With incense and with anadem,
+     They willed his wintry world should thaw;
+
+     And at thy cradle did decree
+     That fifteen years should pass, and thou
+     Should'st breathe upon that pallid brow
+     Favonian airs of mirth and glee.
+
+
+
+
+A NEW YEAR'S DAY
+
+     Our planet runs through liquid space,
+     And sweeps us with her in the race;
+     And wrinkles gather on my face,
+     And Hebe bloom on thine:
+     Our sun with his encircling spheres
+     Around the central sun careers;
+     And unto thee with mustering years
+     Come hopes which I resign.
+
+     'Twere sweet for me to keep thee still
+     Reclining halfway up the hill;
+     But time will not obey the will,
+     And onward thou must climb:
+     'Twere sweet to pause on this descent,
+     To wait for thee and pitch my tent,
+     But march I must with shoulders bent,
+     Yet farther from my prime.
+
+     I shall not tread thy battle-field,
+     Nor see the blazon on thy shield;
+     Take thou the sword I could not wield,
+     And leave me, and forget
+     Be fairer, braver, more admired;
+     So win what feeble hearts desired;
+     Then leave thine arms, when thou art tired,
+     To some one nobler yet.
+
+
+
+
+A CRUISE
+
+     Your princely progress is begun;
+     And pillowed on the bounding deck
+     You break with dark brown hair a sun
+     That falls transfigured on your neck.
+     Sail on, and charm sun, wind, and sea.
+     Oh! might that love-light rest on me!
+
+     Vacantly lingering with the hours,
+     The sacred hours that still remain
+     From that rich month of fruits and flowers
+     Which brought you near me once again,
+     By thoughts of you, though roses die,
+     I strive to make it still July.
+
+     Soft waves are strown beneath your prow,
+     Like carpets for a victor's feet;
+     You call slow zephyrs to your brow,
+     In listless luxury complete:
+     Love, the true Halcyon, guides your ship;
+     Oh, might his pinion touch my lip!
+
+     I by the shrunken river stroll;
+     And changed, since I was left alone,
+     With tangled weed and rising shoal,
+     The loss I mourn he seems to own:
+     This is, how base soe'er his sloth,
+     This is the stream that bore us both.
+
+     For you shall granite peaks uprise
+     As old and scornful as your race,
+     And fringed with firths of lucent dyes
+     The jewelled beach your limbs embrace.
+     Oh bather, may those Western gems
+     Remind you of my lilied Thames.
+
+     I too have seen the castled West,
+     Her Cornish creeks, her Breton ports,
+     Her caves by knees of hermits pressed,
+     Her fairy islets bright with quartz:
+     And dearer now each well-known scene,
+     For what shall be than what hath been.
+
+     Obeisance of kind strangers' eyes,
+     Triumphant cannons' measured roar,
+     Doffed plumes, and martial courtesies,
+     Shall greet you on the Norman shore.
+     Oh, that I were a stranger too,
+     To win that first sweet glance from you.
+
+     I was a stranger once: and soon
+     Beyond desire, above belief,
+     Thy soul was as a crescent moon,
+     A bud expanding leaf by leaf.
+     I'd pray thee now to close, to wane,
+     So that 'twere all to do again.
+
+
+
+
+A SEPARATION
+
+     I may not touch the hand I saw
+     So nimbly weave the violet chain;
+     I may not see my artist draw
+     That southward-sloping lawn again.
+     But joy brimmed over when we met,
+     Nor can I mourn our parting yet.
+
+     Though he lies sick and far away,
+     I play with those that still are here,
+     Not honouring him the less, for they
+     To me by loving him are dear:
+     They share, they soothe my fond regret,
+     Since neither they nor I forget.
+
+     His sweet strong heart so nobly beat
+     With scorn and pity, mirth and zeal,
+     That vibrant hearts of ours repeat
+     What they with him were wont to feel;
+     Still quiring in that higher key,
+     Till he take up the melody.
+
+     If there be any music here,
+     I trust it will not fail, like notes
+     Of May-birds, when the warning year
+     Abates their summer-wearied throats.
+     Shame on us, if we drudge once more
+     As dull and tuneless as before.
+
+     Without him I was weak and coarse,
+     My soul went droning through the hours,
+     His goodness stirred a latent force
+     That drew from others kindred powers.
+     Nor they nor I could think me base,
+     When with their prince I had found grace.
+
+     His influence crowns me, like a cloud
+     Steeped in the light of a lost sun:
+     I reign, for willing knees are bowed
+     And light behests are gladly done:
+     So Rome obeyed the lover-king,
+     Who drank at pure Egeria's spring.
+
+     Such honour doth my mind perplex:
+     For, who is this, I ask, that dares
+     With manhood's wounds, and virtue's wrecks,
+     And tangled creeds, and subtle cares,
+     Affront the look, or speak the name
+     Of one who from Elysium came.
+
+     And yet, though withered and forlorn,
+     I had renounced what man desires,
+     I'd thought some poet might be born
+     To string my lute with silver wires;
+     At least in brighter days to come
+     Such men as I would not lie dumb.
+
+     I saw the Sibyl's finger rest
+     On fate's unturned imagined page,
+     Believed her promise, and was blest
+     With dreams of that heroic age.
+     She sent me, ere my hope was cold,
+     One of the race that she foretold.
+
+     His fellows time will bring, and they,
+     In manifold affections free,
+     Shall scatter pleasures day by day
+     Like blossoms rained from windy tree.
+     So let that garden bloom; and I,
+     Content with one such flower, will die.
+
+
+
+
+A NEW MICHONNET
+
+     The foster-child forgets his nurse:
+     She doth but know what he hath been,
+     Took him for better or for worse,
+     Would pet him, though he be sixteen.
+
+     He helps to weave the soft quadrille;
+     Ah! leave the parlour door ajar;
+     Those thirsting eyes shall take their fill,
+     And watch her darling from afar.
+
+     It is her pride to see the hand,
+     Which wont so wantonly to tear
+     Her unblanched curls, control the band,
+     And change the tune, with such an air.
+
+     And who so good? she thinks, or who
+     So fit for partners rich and tall?
+     Indeed she's looked the ball-room through,
+     And he's the loveliest lad of all.
+
+     So to her lonesome bed: and there,
+     If any wandering notes she hear,
+     She'll say in pauses of her prayer,
+     "He dancing still, my child! my dear!"
+
+     His gladness doth on her redound,
+     Though hair be grey, and eyes be dim:
+     At every waif of broken sound
+     She'll wake, and smile, and think of him.
+
+     So, noblest of the noble, go
+     Through regions echoing thy name;
+     And even on me, thy friend, shall flow
+     Some streamlet from thy river of fame.
+
+     Thou to the gilded youth be kind;
+     Shed all thy genius-rays on them;
+     An ancient comrade stands behind
+     To touch, unseen, thy mantle's hem.
+
+     A stranger to thy peers am I,
+     And slighted, like that poor old crone,
+     And yet some clinging memories try
+     To rate thy conquests as mine own.
+
+     Nay, when at random drops thy praise
+     From lips of happy lookers-on,
+     My tearful eyes I proudly raise,
+     And bid my conscious self be gone.
+
+
+
+
+SAPPHICS
+
+     Love, like an island, held a single heart,
+     Waiting for shoreward flutterings of the breeze,
+     So might it waft to him that sat apart
+     Some angel guest from out the clouded seas.
+
+     Was it mere chance that threw within his reach
+     Fragments and symbols of the bliss unknown?
+     Was it vague hope that murmured down the beach,
+     Tuning the billows and the cavern's moan?
+
+     Oft through the aching void the promise thrilled:
+     "Thou shalt be loved, and Time shall pay his debt."
+     Silence returns upon the wish fulfilled,
+     Joy for a year, and then a sweet regret.
+
+     Idol, mine Idol, whom this touch profanes,
+     Pass as thou cam'st across the glimmering seas:
+     All, all is lost but memory's sacred pains;
+     Leave me, oh leave me, ere I forfeit these.
+
+
+
+
+A FABLE
+
+     An eager girl, whose father buys
+     Some ruined thane's forsaken hall,
+     Explores the new domain, and tries
+     Before the rest to view it all.
+
+     Alone she lifts the latch, and glides
+     Through many a sadly curtained room,
+     As daylight through the doorway slides
+     And struggles with the muffled gloom.
+
+     With mimicries of dance she wakes
+     The lordly gallery's silent floor,
+     And climbing up on tiptoe, makes
+     The old-world mirror smile once more.
+
+     With tankards dry she chills her lip,
+     With yellowing laces veils the head,
+     And leaps in pride of ownership
+     Upon the faded marriage bed.
+
+     A harp in some dark nook she sees,
+     Long left a prey to heat and frost.
+     She smites it: can such tinklings please?
+     Is not all worth, all beauty, lost?
+
+     Ah! who'd have thought such sweetness clung
+     To loose neglected strings like those?
+     They answered to whate'er was sung,
+     And sounded as the lady chose.
+
+     Her pitying finger hurried by
+     Each vacant space, each slackened chord;
+     Nor would her wayward zeal let die
+     The music-spirit she restored.
+
+     The fashion quaint, the time-worn flaws,
+     The narrow range, the doubtful tone,
+     All was excused awhile, because
+     It seemed a creature of her own.
+
+     Perfection tires; the new in old,
+     The mended wrecks that need her skill,
+     Amuse her. If the truth be told,
+     She loves the triumph of her will.
+
+     With this, she dares herself persuade,
+     She'll be for many a month content,
+     Quite sure no duchess ever played
+     Upon a sweeter instrument.
+
+     And thus in sooth she can beguile
+     Girlhood's romantic hours: but soon
+     She yields to taste and mode and style,
+     A siren of the gay saloon;
+
+     And wonders how she once could like
+     Those drooping wires, those failing notes,
+     And leaves her toy for bats to strike
+     Amongst the cobwebs and the motes.
+
+     But enter in, thou freezing wind,
+     And snap the harp-strings one by one;
+     It was a maiden blithe and kind:
+     They felt her touch; their task is done.
+
+
+
+
+AMAVI
+
+     Ask, mournful Muse, by one alone inspired:
+     What change? am I less fond, or thou less fair?
+     Or is it, that thy mounting soul is tired
+     Of duteous homage and religious care?
+
+     So many court thee that my reverent gaze
+     Vexes that wilful and capricious eye;
+     Such fine rare flatteries flow to thee, that praise,
+     From one whose thoughts thou know'st, seems poor
+     and dry.
+
+     So must it be. Thus monarchs blandly greet
+     Strange heralds offering tribute, and forget
+     The vassals ranked behind the golden seat,
+     Whose annual gift is counted as a debt.
+
+     Since sure of me thy liegeman once in thrall
+     Thou need'st not waste on me those gracious looks.
+     Stirred by the newborn wish to conquer all,
+     Leave thy first subject to his rhymes and books.
+
+     Ah! those impetuous claims that drew me forth
+     From my cold shadows to thy dazzling day,
+     Those spells that lured me to the stately North,
+     Those pleas against my scruples, where are they?
+
+     Oh, glorious bondage in a dreamful bower!
+     Oh, freedom thrice abhorred, unblest release!
+     Why, why hath cruel circumstance the power
+     To make such worship, such obedience cease?
+
+     Surely I served thee, as the wrinkled elm
+     Yieldeth his nature to the jocund vine,
+     Strength unto beauty: may the flood o'erwhelm
+     Root, trunk, and branch, if they have not been thine.
+
+     If thine no more, if lightly left behind,
+     To guard the dancing clusters thought unmeet,
+     It is because with gilded trellis twined
+     Thy liberal growth demands untempered heat.
+
+     Yet, while they spread more freely to the sun,
+     Those tendrils; while they wanton in the breeze
+     Gathering all heaven's bounties, henceforth one
+     Abides more honoured than the neighbouring trees.
+
+     Ah dear, there's something left of that great gift;
+     And humbly marvelling at thy former choice
+     A head once crowned with love I dare uplift,
+     And, for that once I pleased thee, still rejoice.
+
+
+
+
+NOTES OF AN INTERVIEW
+
+     It is but little that remaineth
+     Of the kindness that you gave me,
+     And that little precious remnant you withhold.
+     Go free; I know that time constraineth,
+     Wilful blindness could not save me:
+     Yet you say I caused the change that I foretold.
+
+     At every sweet unasked relenting,
+     Though you'd tried me with caprice,
+     Did my welcome, did my gladness ever fail?
+     To-day not loud is my lamenting:
+     Do not chide me; it shall cease:
+     Could I think of vanished love without a wail?
+
+     Elsewhere, you lightly say, are blooming
+     All the graces I desire:
+     Thus you goad me to the treason of content:
+     If ever, when your brow is glooming,
+     Softer faces I admire,
+     Then your lightnings make me tremble and repent.
+
+     Grant this: whatever else beguileth
+     Restless dreaming, drowsy toil,
+     As a plaything, as a windfall, let me hail it.
+     Believe: the brightest one that smileth
+     To your beaming is a foil,
+     To the splendour breaking from you, though you veil it.
+
+
+
+
+PREPARATION
+
+     Too weak am I to pray, as some have prayed,
+     That love might hurry straightway out of mind,
+     And leave an ever-vacant waste behind.
+
+     I thank thee rather, that through every grade
+     Of less and less affection we decline,
+     As month by month thy strong importunate fate
+     Thrusts back my claims, and draws thee toward the
+     great,
+     And shares amongst a hundred what was mine.
+
+     Proud heroes ask to perish in high noon:
+     I'd have refractions of the fallen day,
+     And heavings when the gale hath flown away,
+     And this slow disenchantment: since too soon,
+     Too surely, comes the death of my poor heart,
+     Be it inured to pain, in mercy, ere we part.
+
+
+
+
+DETERIORA
+
+     One year I lived in high romance,
+     A soul ennobled by the grace
+     Of one whose very frowns enhance
+     The regal lustre of the face,
+     And in the magic of a smile
+     I dwelt as in Calypso's isle.
+
+     One year, a narrow line of blue,
+     With clouds both ways awhile held back:
+     And dull the vault that line goes through,
+     And frequent now the crossing rack;
+     And who shall pierce the upper sky,
+     And count the spheres? Not I, not I!
+
+     Sweet year, it was not hope you brought,
+     Nor after toil and storm repose,
+     But a fresh growth of tender thought,
+     And all of love my spirit knows.
+     You let my lifetime pause, and bade
+     The noontide dial cast no shade.
+
+     If fate and nature screen from me
+     The sovran front I bowed before,
+     And set the glorious creature free,
+     Whom I would clasp, detain, adore;
+     If I forego that strange delight,
+     Must all be lost? Not quite, not quite.
+
+     Die, little Love, without complaint,
+     Whom Honour standeth by to shrive:
+     Assoiled from all selfish taint,
+     Die, Love, whom Friendship will survive.
+     Nor heat nor folly gave thee birth;
+     And briefness does but raise thy worth.
+
+     Let the grey hermit Friendship hoard
+     Whatever sainted Love bequeathed,
+     And in some hidden scroll record
+     The vows in pious moments breathed.
+     Vex not the lost with idle suit,
+     Oh lonely heart, be mute, be mute.
+
+
+
+
+PARTING
+
+     As when a traveller, forced to journey back,
+     Takes coin by coin, and gravely counts them o'er,
+     Grudging each payment, fearing lest he lack,
+     Before he can regain the friendly shore;
+     So reckoned I your sojourn, day by day,
+     So grudged I every week that dropt away.
+
+     And as a prisoner, doomed and bound, upstarts
+     From shattered dreams of wedlock and repose,
+     At sudden rumblings of the market-carts,
+     Which bring to town the strawberry and the rose,
+     And wakes to meet sure death; so shuddered I,
+     To hear you meditate your gay Good-bye.
+
+     But why not gay? For, if there's aught you lose,
+     It is but drawing off a wrinkled glove
+     To turn the keys of treasuries, free to choose
+     Throughout the hundred-chambered house of love,
+     This pathos draws from you, though true and kind,
+     Only bland pity for the left-behind.
+
+     We part; you comfort one bereaved, unmanned;
+     You calmly chide the silence and the grief;
+     You touch me once with light and courteous hand,
+     And with a sense of something like relief
+     You turn away from what may seem to be
+     Too hard a trial of your charity.
+
+     So closes in the life of life; so ends
+     The soaring of the spirit. What remains?
+     To take whate'er the Muse's mother lends,
+     One sweet sad thought in many soft refrains
+     And half reveal in Coan gauze of rhyme
+     A cherished image of your joyous prime.
+
+
+
+
+ALL THAT WAS POSSIBLE
+
+     Slope under slope the pastures dip
+     With ribboned waterfalls, and make
+     Scant room for just a village strip,
+     The setting of a sapphire lake.
+
+     And here, when summer draws the kine
+     To upland grasses patched with snow,
+     Our travellers rest not, only dine,
+     Then driven by Furies, onward go.
+
+     For pilgrims of the pointed stick,
+     With passport case for scallop shell,
+     Scramble for worshipped Alps too quick
+     To care for vales where mortals dwell.
+
+     Twice daily swarms the hostel's pier,
+     Twice daily is the table laid;
+     And, "Oh, that some would tarry here!"
+     Sighs Madeline, the serving-maid.
+
+     She shows them silly carven stuff;
+     Some sneer, but others smile and buy;
+     And these light smiles are quite enough
+     To make the wistful maiden sigh.
+
+     She scans the face, but not the mind;
+     She learns their taste in wines and toys,
+     But, seem they thoughtful and refined,
+     She fain would know their cares, their joys.
+
+     For man is not as horse and hound,
+     Who turn to meet their lord's caress,
+     Yet never miss the touch or sound,
+     When absence brings unconsciousness.
+
+     Not such the souls that can reflect;
+     Too mild they may be to repine;
+     But sometimes, winged with intellect,
+     They strain to pass the bounding line.
+
+     And to have learnt our pleasant tongue
+     In English mansions, gave a sense
+     Of something bitter-sweet, that stung
+     The pensive maiden of Brientz.
+
+     I will not say she wished for aught;
+     For, failing guests, she duly spun,
+     And saved for marriage; but one thought
+     Would still in alien channels run.
+
+     And when at last a lady came,
+     Not lovely, but with twofold grace,
+     For courtly France had tuned her name,
+     Whilst England reigned in hair and face;
+
+     And illness bound her many a day,
+     A willing captive, to the mere,
+     In peace, though home was far away,
+     For Madeline's talking brought it near.
+
+     Then delicate words unused before
+     Rose to her lips, as amber shines
+     Thrown by the wave upon the shore
+     From unimagined ocean-mines;
+
+     And then perceptions multiplied,
+     Foreshadowings of the heart came true,
+     And interlaced on every side
+     Old girlish fancies bloomed and grew;
+
+     And looks of higher meaning gleamed
+     Like azure sheen of mountain ice,
+     And common household service seemed
+     The wageless work of Paradise.
+
+     But autumn downward drove the kine,
+     And clothed the wheel with flaxen thread,
+     And sprinkled snow upon the pine,
+     And bowed the silent spinster's head.
+
+     Then Europe's tumult scared the spring,
+     And checked the Northern travel-drift:
+     Yet to Brientz did summer bring
+     An English letter and a gift;
+
+     And Madeline took them with a tear:
+     "How gracious to remember me!
+     Her words I'll keep from year to year,
+     Her face in heaven I hope to see."
+
+
+
+
+SCHEVENINGEN AVENUE
+
+     Oh, that the road were longer,
+     A mile, or two, or three!
+     So might the thought grow stronger
+     That flows from touch of thee.
+
+     Oh little slumbering maid,
+     If thou wert five years older,
+     Thine head would not be laid
+     So simply on my shoulder!
+
+     Oh, would that I were younger,
+     Oh, were I more like thee,
+     I should not faintly hunger
+     For love that cannot be.
+
+     A girl might be caressed,
+     Beside me freely sitting;
+     A child on me might rest,
+     And not like thee, unwitting.
+
+     Such honour is thy mother's
+     Who smileth on thy sleep,
+     Or for the nurse who smothers
+     Thy cheek in kisses deep.
+
+     And but for parting day,
+     And but for forest shady,
+     From me they'd take away
+     The burden of their lady.
+
+     Ah thus to feel thee leaning
+     Above the nursemaid's hand,
+     Is like a stranger's gleaning,
+     Where rich men own the land;
+
+     Chance gains, and humble thrift,
+     With shyness much like thieving,
+     No notice with the gift,
+     No thanks with the receiving.
+
+     Oh peasant, when thou starvest
+     Outside the fair domain,
+     Imagine there's a harvest
+     In every treasured grain.
+
+     Make with thy thoughts high cheer,
+     Say grace for others dining,
+     And keep thy pittance clear
+     From poison of repining.
+
+     1859.
+
+
+
+
+MELLIREN
+
+     Can you so fair and young forecast
+     The sure, the cruel day of doom;
+     Must I believe that you at last
+     Will fall, fall, fall down to the tomb?
+     Unclouded, fearless, gentle soul,
+     You greet the foe whose threats you hear;
+     Your lifted eyes discern the goal,
+     Your blood declares it is not near.
+
+     Feel deeply; toil through weal and woe,
+     Love England, love a friend, a bride.
+     Bid wisdom grow, let sorrow flow,
+     Make many weep when you have died.
+     When you shall die--what seasons lie
+     'Twixt that great Then and this sweet Now!
+     What blooms of courage for that eye,
+     What thorns of honour for that brow!
+
+     Oh mortal, too dear to me, tell me thy choice,
+     Say how wouldst thou die, and in dying rejoice?
+
+     Will you perish, calmly sinking
+     To a sunless deep sea cave,
+     Folding hands, and kindly thinking
+     Of the friend you tried to save?
+     Will you let your sweet breath pass
+     On the arms of children bending,
+     Gazing on the sea of glass,
+     Where the lovelight has no ending?
+
+     Or in victory stern and fateful,
+     Colours wrapt round shattered breast,
+     English maidens rescued, grateful,
+     Whispering near you, "Conqueror, rest;"
+     Or an old tune played once more,
+     Tender cadence oft repeated,
+     Moonlight shed through open door,
+     Angel wife beside you seated.
+
+     Whatever thy death may be, child of my heart,
+     Long, long shall they mourn thee that see thee depart.
+
+     1860
+
+
+
+
+A MERRY PARTING
+
+     With half a moon, and cloudlets pink,
+     And water-lilies just in bud,
+     With iris on the river brink,
+     And white weed garlands on the mud,
+     And roses thin and pale as dreams,
+     And happy cygnets born in May,
+     No wonder if our country seems
+     Drest out for Freedom's natal day.
+
+     We keep the day; but who can brood
+     On memories of unkingly John,
+     Or of the leek His Highness chewed,
+     Or of the stone he wrote upon?
+     To Freedom born so long ago,
+     We do devoir in very deed,
+     If heedless as the clouds we row
+     With fruit and wine to Runnymede.
+
+     Ah! life is short, and learning long;
+     We're midway through our mirthful June,
+     And feel about for words of song
+     To help us through some dear old tune.
+     We firmly, fondly seize the joy,
+     As tight as fingers press the oar,
+     With love and laughter girl and boy
+     Hold the sweet days, and make them more.
+
+     And when our northern stars have set
+     For ever on the maid we lose,
+     Beneath our feet she'll not forget
+     How speed the hours with Eton crews.
+     Then round the world, good river, run,
+     And though with you no boat may glide,
+     Kind river, bear some drift of fun
+     And friendship to the exile bride.
+
+     June 15th, 1861.
+
+
+
+
+SCHOOL FENCIBLES
+
+     We come in arms, we stand ten score,
+     Embattled on the castle green;
+     We grasp our firelocks tight, for war
+     Is threatening, and we see our Queen.
+
+     And "will the churls last out till we
+     Have duly hardened bones and thews
+     For scouring leagues of swamp and sea
+     Of braggart mobs and corsair crews?
+
+     We ask; we fear not scoff or smile
+     At meek attire of blue and grey,
+     For the proud wrath that thrills our isle
+     Gives faith and force to this array.
+
+     So great a charm is England's right,
+     That hearts enlarged together flow,
+     And each man rises up a knight
+     To work the evil-thinkers woe.
+
+     And, girt with ancient truth and grace,
+     We do our service and our suit,
+     And each can be, what'er his race,
+     A Chandos or a Montacute.
+
+     Thou, Mistress, whom we serve to-day,
+     Bless the real swords that we shall wield,
+     Repeat the call we now obey
+     In sunset lands, on some fair field.
+
+     Thy flag shall make some Huron Rock
+     As dear to us as Windsor's keep,
+     And arms thy Thames hath nerved shall mock
+     The surgings of th' Ontarian deep.
+
+     The stately music of thy Guards,
+     Which times our march beneath thy ken,
+     Shall sound, with spells of sacred bards,
+     From heart to heart, when we are men.
+
+     And when we bleed on alien earth,
+     We'll call to mind how cheers of ours
+     Proclaimed a loud uncourtly mirth
+     Amongst thy glowing orange bowers.
+
+     And if for England's sake we fall,
+     So be it, so thy cross be won,
+     Fixed by kind hands on silvered pall,
+     And worn in death, for duty done.
+
+     Ah! thus we fondle Death, the soldier's mate,
+     Blending his image with the hopes of youth
+     To hallow all; meanwhile the hidden fate
+     Chills not our fancies with the iron truth.
+
+     Death from afar we call, and Death is here,
+     To choose out him who wears the loftiest mien;
+     And Grief, the cruel lord who knows no peer,
+     Breaks through the shield of love to pierce our
+     Queen.
+
+     1861.
+
+
+
+
+BOCONNOC
+
+     Who so distraught could ramble here,
+     From gentle beech to simple gorse,
+     From glen to moor, nor cease to fear
+     The world's impetuous bigot force,
+     Which drives the young before they will,
+     And when they will not drives them still.
+
+     Come hither, thou that would'st forget
+     The gamester's smile, the trader's vaunt,
+     The statesman actor's face hard set,
+     The kennel cry that cheers his taunt,
+     Come where pure winds and rills combine
+     To murmur peace round virtue's shrine.
+
+     Virtue--men thrust her back, when these
+     Rode down for Charles and right divine,
+     And those with dogma Genevese
+     Restored in faith their wavering line.
+     No virtue in religious camps,
+     No heathen oil in Gideon's lamps.
+
+     And now, when forcing seasons bud
+     With prophet, hero, saint, and quack,
+     When creeds and fashions heat the blood,
+     And transcendental tonguelets clack,
+     Sweet Virtue's lyre we hardly know,
+     And think her odes quite rococo.
+
+     Well, be it Roman, be it worse,
+     When Pelhams reigned in George's name
+     Poets were safe from sneer or curse
+     Who gave a patriot classic fame,
+     And goodness, void of passion, knit
+     The hearts of Lyttelton and Pitt.
+
+     That age was as a neutral vale
+     'Twixt uplands of tumultuous strife,
+     And turning from the sects to hail
+     Composure and a graceful life,
+     Here, where the fern-clad streamlet flows,
+     Boconnoc's guests ensured repose.
+
+     That charm remains; and he who knows
+     The root and stock of freedom's laws,
+     Unscared by frenzied nations' throes,
+     And hugging yet the good old cause,
+     Finds in the shade these beeches cast
+     The wit, the fragrance of the past.
+
+     Octave of St. Bartholomew, 1862.
+
+
+
+
+A SKETCH AFTER BRANTOME
+
+     The door hath closed behind the sighing priest,
+     The last absolving Latin duly said,
+     And night, barred slowly backward from the East,
+     Lets in the dawn to mock a sleepless bed;
+
+     The bed of one who yester even took
+     From scented aumbries store of silk and lace,
+     From caskets beads and rings, for one last look,
+     One look, which left the teardrops on her face;
+
+     A lady, who hath loved the world, the court,
+     Loved youth and splendour, loved her own sweet
+     soul,
+     And meekly stoops to learn that life is short,
+     Dame Nature's pitiful gift, a beggar's dole.
+
+     Sweet life, ah! let her live what yet remains.
+     Call, quickly call, the page who bears the lute;
+     Bid him attune to descant of sad strains
+     The lily voice we thought for ever mute.
+
+     The sorrowing minstrel at the casement stands
+     And bends before the sun that gilds his wires,
+     And prays a blessing on his faltering hands,
+     That they may serve his lady's last desires.
+
+     "Play something old and soft, a song I knew;
+     Play _La defaite des Suisses,_" Then pearly notes
+     Come dropping one by one, and with the dew
+     Down on the breath of morning music floats.
+
+     He played as far as _tout est perdu_ and wept.
+     "_Tout est perdu_ again, once more," she sighed;
+     And on, still softer on, the music crept,
+     And softly, at the pause, the listener died.
+
+     1862.
+
+
+
+
+ON LIVERMEAD SANDS
+
+     For waste of scheme and toil we grieve,
+     For snowflakes on the wave we sigh,
+     For writings on the sand that leave
+     Naught for to-morrow's passer-by.
+
+     Waste, waste; each knoweth his own worth,
+     And would be something ere he sink
+     To silence, ere he mix with earth,
+     And part with love, and cease to think.
+
+     Shall I then comfort thee and me,
+     My neighbour, preaching thus of waste?
+     Count yonder planet fragments; see,
+     The meteors into darkness haste.
+
+     Lo! myriad germs at random float,
+     Fall on no fostering home, and die
+     Back to mere elements; every mote
+     Was framed for life as thou, as I.
+
+     For ages over soulless eyes,
+     Ere man was born, the heavens in vain
+     Dipt clouds in dawn and sunset dyes
+     Unheeded, and shall we complain?
+
+     Aye, Nature plays that wanton game
+     And Nature's hierophants may smile,
+     Contented with their lore; no blame
+     To rhymers if they groan meanwhile.
+
+     Since that which yearns towards minds of men,
+     Which flashes down from brain to lip,
+     Finds but cold truth in mammoth den,
+     With spores, with stars, no fellowship.
+
+     Say we that our ungamered thought
+     Drifts on the stream of all men's fate,
+     Our travail is a thing of naught,
+     Only because mankind is great.
+
+     Born to be wasted, even so,
+     And doomed to feel, and lift no voice;
+     Yet not unblessed, because I know
+     So many other souls rejoice.
+
+     1863.
+
+
+
+
+LACORDAIRE AT OXFORD
+
+     Lost to the Church and deaf to me, this town
+     Yet wears a reverend garniture of peace.
+     Set in a land of trade, like Gideon's fleece
+     Bedewed where all is dry; the Pope may frown;
+     But, if this city is the shrine of youth,
+     How shall the Preacher lord of virgin souls,
+     When by glad streams and laughing lawns he strolls,
+     How can he bless them not? Yet in sad sooth,
+     When I would love these English gownsmen, sighs
+     Heave my frail breast, and weakness dims mine eyes.
+
+     These strangers heed me not. Far off in France
+     Are young men not so fair, and not so cold,
+     My listeners. Were they here, their greeting glance
+     Might charm me to forget that I were old.
+
+     1863.
+
+
+
+
+A RETROSPECT OF SCHOOL LIFE
+
+     I go, and men who know me not,
+     When I am reckoned man, will ask,
+     "What is it then that thou hast got
+     By drudging through that five-year task?
+
+     "What knowledge or what art is thine?
+     Set out thy stock, thy craft declare."
+     Then this child-answer shall be mine,
+     "I only know they loved me there."
+
+     There courteous strivings with my peers,
+     And duties not bound up in books,
+     And courage fanned by stormy cheers,
+     And wisdom writ in pleasant looks,
+
+     And hardship buoyed with hope, and pain
+     Encountered for the common weal,
+     And glories void of vulgar gain,
+     Were mine to take, were mine to feel.
+
+     Nor from Apollo did I shrink
+     Like Titans chained; but sweet and low
+     Whispered the Nymphs, who seldom think:
+     "Up, up for action, run and row!"
+
+     He let me, though his smile was grave,
+     Seek an Egeria out of town
+     Beneath the chestnuts; he forgave;
+     And should the jealous Muses frown?
+
+     Fieldward some remnants of their lore
+     Went with me, as the rhymes of Gray
+     Annealed the heart of Wolfe for war
+     When drifting on his starlit way.
+
+     Much lost I; something stayed behind,
+     A snatch, maybe, of ancient song;
+     Some breathings of a deathless mind,
+     Some love of truth, some hate of wrong.
+
+     And to myself in games I said,
+     "What mean the books? Can I win fame?
+     I would be like the faithful dead
+     A fearless man, and pure of blame.
+
+     I may have failed, my School may fail;
+     I tremble, but thus much I dare;
+     I love her. Let the critics rail,
+     My brethren and my home are there.
+
+     July 28th, 1863.
+
+
+
+
+CLOVELLY BEACH
+
+     Oh, music! breathe me something old to-day,
+     Some fine air gliding in from far away,
+     Through to the soul that lies behind the clay.
+
+     This hour, if thou did'st ever speak before,
+     Speak in the wave that sobs upon the shore,
+     Speak in the rill that trickles from the moor.
+
+     Known was this sea's slow chant when I was young;
+     To me these rivulets sing as once they sung,
+     No need this hour of human throat and tongue.
+
+     The Dead who loved me heard this selfsame tide.
+     Oh that the Dead were listening by my side,
+     And I could give the fondness then denied.
+
+     Once in the parlour of my mother's sire
+     One sang, "And ye shall walk in silk attire."
+     Then my cold childhood woke to strange desire.
+
+     That was an unconfessed and idle spell,
+     A drop of dew that on a blossom fell;
+     And what it wrought I cannot surely tell.
+
+     Far off that thought and changed, like lines that stay
+     On withered canvas, pink and pearly grey,
+     When rose and violet hues have passed away.
+
+     Oh, had I dwelt with music since that night!
+     What life but that is life, what other flight
+     Escapes the plaguing doubts of wrong and right!
+
+     Oh music! once I felt the touch of thee,
+     Once when this soul was as the chainless sea.
+     Oh, could'st thou bid me even now be free!
+
+     April, 1865.
+
+
+
+
+AN EPOCH IN A SWEET LIFE
+
+     This sun, whose javelins strike and gild the wheat,
+     Who gives the nectarine half an orb of bloom,
+     Burns on my life no less, and beat by beat
+     Shapes that grave hour when boyhood hears her
+     doom.
+
+     Between this glow of pious eve and me,
+     Lost moments, thick as clouds of summer flies,
+     Specks of old time, which else one could not see,
+     Made manifest in the windless calm, arise.
+
+     Streaks fairy green are traced on backward ways,
+     Through vacant regions lightly overleapt,
+     With pauses, where in soft pathetic haze
+     Are phantoms of the joys that died unwept.
+
+     Seven years since one, who bore with me the yoke
+     Of household schooling, missed me from her side.
+     When called away from sorrowing woman folk
+     A prouder task with brothers twain I plied.
+
+     I came a child, and home was round me still,
+     No terror snapt the silken cord of trust;
+     My accents changed not, and the low "I will"
+     Silenced like halcyon plumes the loud "you must."
+
+     I lisped my Latin underneath the gloom
+     Of timbers dark as frowning usher's looks,
+     Where thought would stray beyond that sordid room
+     To saucy chessmen and to feathered hooks.
+
+     And soon I sat below my grandsire's bust,
+     Which in the school he loved not deigns to stand,
+     That Earl, who forced his compeers to be just,
+     And wrought in brave old age what youth had
+     planned.
+
+     But no ancestral majesties could fix
+     The wistful eye, which fell, and fondly read,
+     Fresh carven on the panel, letters six,
+     A brother's name, more sacred than the dead.
+
+     How far too sweet for school he seemed to me,
+     How ripe for combat with the wits of men,
+     How childlike in his manhood! Can it be?
+     Can I indeed be now what he was then?
+
+     He past from sight; my laughing life remained
+     Like merry waves that ripple to the bank,
+     Curved round the spot where longing eyes are strained,
+     Because beneath the lake a treasure sank.
+
+     Dear as the token of a loss to some,
+     And praised for likeness, this was well; and yet
+     'Twas better still that younger friends should come,
+     Whose love might grow entwined with no regret.
+
+     They came; and one was of a northern race,
+     Who bore the island galley on his shield,
+     Grand histories on his name, and in his face
+     A bright soul's ardour fearlessly revealed.
+
+     We trifled, toiled, and feasted, far apart
+     From churls, who wondered what our friendship
+     meant;
+     And in that coy retirement heart to heart
+     Drew closer, and our natures were content.
+
+     My noblest playmate lost, I still withdrew
+     From dull excitement which the Graces dread,
+     And talked in saunterings with the gentle few
+     Of tunes we practised, and of rhymes we read.
+
+     We swam through twilight waters, or we played
+     Like spellbound captives in the Naiad's grot;
+     Coquetted with the oar, and wooed the shade
+     On dainty banks of shy forget-me-not.
+
+     Oh Thames! my memories bloom with all thy flowers,
+     Thy kindness sighs to me from every tree:
+     Farewell I I thank thee for the frolic hours,
+     I bid thee, whilst thou flowest, speak of me.
+
+     July 28th, 1864.
+
+
+
+
+PHAEDRA'S NURSE
+
+     A plague on the whimsies of sickly folk!
+     What am I to do? What not?
+     Why, here's the fair sky, and here you lie
+     With your couch in a sunny spot.
+     For this you were puling whenever you spoke,
+     Craving to lie outside,
+     And now you'll be sure not to bide.
+
+     You won't lie still for an hour;
+     You'll want to be back to your bower--
+     Longing, and never enjoying,
+     Shifting from yea to nay.
+     For all that you taste is cloying,
+     And sweet is the far away.
+
+     'Tis hard to be sick, but worse
+     To have to sit by and nurse,
+     For that is single, but this is double,
+     The mind in pain, and the hands in trouble.
+     The life men live is a weary coil,
+     There is no rest from woe and toil;
+     And if there's aught elsewhere more dear
+     Than drawing breath as we do here,
+     That darkness holds
+     In black inextricable folds.
+
+     Lovesick it seems are we
+     Of this, whate'er it be,
+     That gleams upon the earth;
+     Because that second birth,
+     That other life no man hath tried.
+
+     What lies below
+     No god will show,
+     And we to whom the truth's denied
+     Drift upon idle fables to and fro.
+
+
+
+
+BELOW BOULTER'S LOCK
+
+     The aspen grows on the maiden's bank,
+     Down swoops the breeze on the bough,
+     Quick rose the gust, and suddenly sank,
+     Like wrath on my sweetheart's brow.
+
+     The tree is caught, the boat dreads nought,
+     Sheltered and safe below;
+     The bank is high, and the wind runs by,
+     Giving us leave to row.
+
+     The bank was dipping low and lower,
+     Showing the glowing west,
+     The oar went slower, for either rower
+     The river was heaving her breast.
+
+     That sunset seemed to my dauntless steerer
+     The lifting and breaking of day,
+     That flush on the wave to me was dearer
+     Than shade on a windless way.
+
+     June 2nd, 1868.
+
+
+
+
+FROM HALS DON TO CHELTENHAM TO TWO LITTLE LADIES.
+
+     Across three shires I stretch and lean,
+     To gaze beyond the hills that screen
+     The trustful eyes and gracious mien
+     Of unforgotten Geraldine.
+
+     Up Severn sea my fancy leadeth,
+     And past the springs of Thames it speedeth,
+     On to the brilliant town, which needeth,
+     Far less than I, the laugh of Edith.
+
+     Sad gales have changed my woodland scene
+     To russet-brown from gold and green;
+     Cold and forlorn like me hath been
+     The boat that carried Geraldine.
+
+     On silent paths the whistler weedeth,
+     And what his tune is no one heedeth;
+     On hay beneath the linhay feedeth
+     The ass that felt the hand of Edith.
+
+     Oh cherished thought of Geraldine,
+     I'd rhyme till summer, if the Queen
+     Would blow her trumpets and proclaim
+     Fresh rhymes for that heroic name.
+
+     Oh babbler gay as river stickle,
+     Next year you'll be too old to tickle;
+     But while my Torridge flows I'll say
+     "Blithe Edith liked me half day."
+
+
+
+
+A POOR FRENCH SAILOR'S SCOTTISH SWEETHEART
+
+     I cannot forget my jo,
+     I bid him be mine in sleep;
+     But battle and woe have changed him so,
+     There's nothing to do but weep.
+
+     My mother rebukes me yet,
+     And I never was meek before;
+     His jacket is wet, his lip cold set,
+     He'll trouble our home no more.
+
+     Oh breaker of reeds that bend!
+     Oh quencher of tow that smokes!
+     I'd rather descend to my sailor friend
+     Than prosper with lofty folks.
+
+     I'm lying beside the gowan,
+     My jo in the English bay;
+     I'm Annie Rowan, his Annie Rowan,
+     He called me his _bien-aimee_.
+
+     I'll hearken to all you quote,
+     Though I'd rather be deaf and free;
+     The little he wrote in the sinking boat
+     Is Bible and charm for me.
+
+
+
+
+A GARDEN GIRL
+
+     Oh, scanty white garment! they ask why I wear you,
+     Such thin chilly vesture for one that is frail,
+     And dull words of prose cannot truly declare you
+     To be what I bid you be, love's coat of mail.
+
+     You were but a symbol of cleanness and rest,
+     To don in the summer time, three years ago;
+     And now you encompass a care-stricken breast
+     With fabric of fancy to keep it aglow.
+
+     For when it was Lammastide two before this,
+     When freshening my face after freshening my lilies,
+     A door opened quickly, and down fell a kiss,
+     The lips unforeseen were my passionate Willie's.
+
+     My Willie was travel-worn, Willie was cold,
+     And I might not keep but a dear lock of hair.
+     I clad him in silk and I decked him with gold,
+     But welcome and fondness were choked in despair.
+
+     I follow the wheels, and he turns with a sob,
+     We fold our mute hands on the death of the hour;
+     For heart-breaking virtues and destinies rob
+     The soul of her nursling, the thorn of her flower.
+
+     The lad's mind is rooted, his passion red-fruited,
+     The head I caressed is another's delight;
+     And I, though I stray through the year sorrow-suited,
+     At Lammas, for Willie's sake, robe me in white.
+
+
+
+
+TO TWO YOUNG LADIES
+
+     There are, I've read, two troops of years,
+     One troop is called the teens;
+     They bring sweet gifts to little dears,
+     Ediths and Geraldines.
+
+     The others have no certain name,
+     Though children of the sun,
+     They come to wrinkled men, and claim
+     Their treasures one by one.
+
+     There is a hermit faint and dry,
+     In things called rhymes he dabbles,
+     And seventeen months have heard him sigh
+     For Cissy and for Babbles.
+
+     Once, when he seemed to be bedridden,
+     These girls said, "Make us lines,"
+     He tried to court, as he was bidden,
+     His vanished Valentines.
+
+     Now, three days late, yet ere they ask,
+     He's meekly undertaken
+     To do his sentimental task,
+     Philandering, though forsaken.
+
+     I pace my paradise, and long
+     To show it off to Peris;
+     They come not, but it can't be wrong
+     To raise their ghosts by queries.
+
+     Is Geraldine in flowing robes?
+     Has Edith rippling curls?
+     And do their ears prolong the lobes
+     Weighed down with gold and pearls?
+
+     And do they know the verbs of France?
+     And do they play duetts?
+     And do they blush when led to dance?
+     And are they called coquettes?
+
+     Oh, Cissy, if the heartless year
+     Sets our brief loves asunder!
+     Oh, Babbles, whom I daren't call dear!
+     What can I do but wonder?
+
+     I wonder what you're both become,
+     Whether you're children still;
+     I pause with fingers twain and thumb
+     Closed on my faltering quill;
+
+     I pause to think how I decay,
+     And you win grace from Time.
+     Perhaps ill-natured folks would say
+     He's pausing for a rhyme.
+
+     The sun, who drew us far apart,
+     Might lessen my regrets,
+     Would he but deign to use his art
+     In painting your vignettes.
+
+     Then though I groaned for losing half
+     Of joys that memory traces,
+     I could forego the talk, the laugh,
+     In welcoming the faces.
+
+
+
+
+A HOUSE AND A GIRL
+
+     The strawberry tree and the crimson thorn,
+     And Fanny's myrtle and William's vine,
+     And honey of bountiful jessamine,
+     Are gone from the homestead where I was born.
+
+     I gaze from my Grandfather's terrace wall,
+     And then I bethink me how once I stept
+     Through rooms where my Mother had blest me,
+     and wept
+     To yield them to strangers, and part with them all.
+
+     My Father, like Matthew the publican, ceased
+     Full early from hoarding with stainless mind,
+     To Torrington only and home inclined,
+     Where brotherhood, cousinhood, graced his feast.
+
+     I meet his remembrance in market lane,
+     'Neath town-hall pillars and churchyard limes,
+     In streets where he tried a thousand times
+     To chasten anger and soften pain.
+
+     Ah I would there were some one that I could aid,
+     Though lacking the simpleness, lacking the worth,
+     Yet wanted and trusted by right of birth,
+     Some townfellow stripling, some Torrington maid.
+
+     Oh pitiful waste! oh stubborn neglect!
+     Oh pieties smothered for thirty years!
+     Oh gleanings of kindness in dreams and tears!
+     Oh drift cast up from a manhood wrecked!
+
+     There's one merry maiden hath carelessly crossed
+     The threshold I dread, and she never discerns
+     In keepsakes she thanks me for, lessons she learns,
+     A sign of the grace that I squandered and lost.
+
+     My birthplace to Meg is but window and stone,
+     My knowledge a wilderness where she can stray,
+     To keep what she gathers or throw it away;
+     So Meg lets me laugh with her, mourning alone.
+
+
+
+
+A FELLOW PASSENGER UNKNOWN
+
+     Maiden, hastening to be wise,
+     Maiden, reading with a rage,
+     Envy fluttereth round the page
+     Whereupon thy downward eyes
+     Rove and rest, and melt maybe--
+     Virgin eyes one may not see,
+     Gathering as the bee
+     Takes from cherry tree;
+     As the robin's bill
+     Frets the window sill,
+     Maiden, bird, and bee,
+     Three from me half hid,
+     Doing what we did
+     When our minds were free.
+
+     Those romantic pages wist
+     What romance is in the look.
+     Oh, that I could be so bold,
+     So romantic as to bold
+     Half an hour the pensive wrist,
+     And the burden of the book.
+
+
+
+
+NUREMBERG CEMETERY
+
+     Outside quaint Albert Durer's town,
+     Where Freedom set her stony crown,
+     Whereof the gables red and brown
+     Curve over peaceful forts that screen
+     Spring bloom and garden lanes between
+     The scarp and counter-scarp. Her feet
+     One highday of Saint Paraclete
+     Were led along the dolorous street
+     By stepping stones towards love and heaven
+     And pauses of the soul twice seven.
+
+     Beneath the flowerless trees, where May,
+     Proud of her orchards' fine array,
+     Abates her claim and holds no sway,
+     Past iron tombs, the useless shields
+     Of cousins slain in Elsass fields,
+     The girl, with fair neck meekly bowed.
+
+     Mores bravely through a sauntering crowd,
+     Hastening, as she was bid, to breathe
+     Above the breathless, and enwreathe,
+     With pansies earned by spinster thrift,
+     And lillybells, a wooer's gift,
+     A stone which glimmers in the shade
+     Of yonder silent colonnade,
+     Over against the slates that hold
+     Marie in lines of slender gold,
+     A token wrought by fictive fingers,
+     A garland, last year's offering, lingers,
+     Hung out of reach, and facing north.
+     And lo! thereout a wren flies forth,
+     And Gertrude, straining on toetips,
+     Just touches with her prayerful lips
+     The warm home which a bird unskilled
+     In grief and hope knows how to build.
+
+     The maid can mourn, but not the wren.
+     Birds die, death's shade belongs to men.
+
+     1877.
+
+
+
+
+MORTAL THING NOT WHOLLY CLAY
+
+     J'aurai passe sur la terre,
+     N'ayant rien aime que l'amour.
+
+     Mortal thing not wholly clay,
+     Mellowing only to decay,
+     Speak, for airs of spring unfold
+     Wistful sorrows long untold.
+
+     Under a poplar turning green,
+     Say for age that seems so bold,
+     Oh, the saddest words to say,
+     "This might have been."
+
+     Twenty, thirty years ago--
+     Woe, woe, the seasons flow--
+     Beatings of a zephyr's plume
+     Might have broken down the doom.
+
+     Gossamer scruples fell between
+     Thee and this that might have been;
+     Now the clinging cobwebs grow;
+     Ah! the saddest loss is this,
+     A good maid's kiss.
+
+     Soon, full soon, they will be here,
+     Twisting withies for the bier;
+     Under a heathen yew-tree's shade
+     Will a wasted heart be laid--
+     Heart that never dared be dear.
+
+     Leave it so, to lie unblest,
+     Priest of love, just half confessed.
+
+
+
+
+A SICK FRENCH POET'S ENGLISH FRIENDS
+
+     When apple buds began to swell,
+     And Procne called for Philomel,
+     Down there, where Seine caresseth sea
+     Two lassies deigned, or chanced, to be
+     Playmates or votaries for me,
+     Miss Euphrasie, Miss Eulalie.
+
+     Then dates of birth dropt out of mind,
+     For one was brave as two were kind;
+     In cheerful vigil one designed
+     A maze of wit for two to wind;
+     And that grey Muse who served the three
+     Broke daylight into reverie.
+
+     Peace lit upon a fluttering vein,
+     And, self forgetting, on the brain,
+     On rifts, by passion wrought, again
+     Splashed from the sky of childhood rain;
+     And rid of afterthought were we,
+     And from foreboding sweetly free.
+
+     Now falls the apple, bleeds the vine,
+     And moved by some autumnal sign,
+     I, who in spring was glad, repine,
+     And ache without my anodyne.
+     Oh things that were, oh things that are,
+     Oh setting of my double star!
+
+     This day this way an Iris came,
+     And brought a scroll, and showed a name.
+     Now surely they who thus reclaim
+     Acquaintance should relight a flame.
+     So speed, gay steed, that I may see
+     Dear Euphrasie, dear Eulalie.
+
+     Behind this ivy screen are they
+     Whose girlhood flowered on me last May.
+     The world is lord of all; I pray
+     They be not courtly--who can say?
+     Well, well, remembrance held in fee
+     Is good, nay, best. I turn and flee.
+
+
+
+
+L'OISEAU BLEU
+
+     Down with the oar, I toil no more.
+     Trust to the boat; we rest, we float.
+     Under the loosestrife and alder we roam
+     To seek and search for the halcyon's home.
+
+     Blue bird, pause; thou hast no cause
+     To grudge me the sight of fishbones white.
+     Thine is the only nest now to find.
+     Show it me, birdie; be calm, be kind.
+
+     Wander all day in quest of prey,
+     Dart and gleam, and ruffle the stream;
+     Then for the truth that the old folks sing,
+     Comfort the twilight, and droop thy wing.
+
+
+
+
+HOME, PUP!
+
+     Euphemia Seton of Urchinhope,
+     The wife of the farmer of Tynnerandoon,
+     Stands lifting her eyes to the whitening slope,
+     And longs for her laddies at suppertime soon.
+
+     The laddies, the dog, and the witless sheep,
+     Are bound to come home, for the snow will be deep.
+     The mother is pickling a scornful word
+     To throw at the head of the elder lad, Hugh;
+     But talkative Jamie, as gay as a bird,
+     Will have nothing beaten save snow from his shoe.
+     He has fire in his eyes, he has curls on his head,
+     And a silver brooch and a kerchief red.
+
+     Poor Hugh, trudging on with his collie pup Jess,
+     Has kept his plain mind to himself all the way,
+     Just quietly giving his dog the caress
+     Which no one gave him for a year and a day.
+     And luckily quadrupeds seldom despise
+     Our lumbering wits and our lack-lustre eyes.
+
+     Deep down in the corrie, high up on the brae,
+     Where Shinnel and Scar tumble down from the rock
+     The wicked white ladies have been at their play,
+     The wind has been pushing the leewardly flock.
+     The white land should tell where the creatures are gone,
+     But snow hides the snow that their hooves have been on.
+
+     Ah! down there in Urchinhope nobody knows
+     How blinding the flakes, and the north wind how cruel.
+     Euphemia's gudeman will come for his brose,
+     But far up the hill is her darling, her jewel.
+     She sees something crimson. "Oh, gudeman, look up!
+     There's Jamie's cravat on the neck of the pup."
+
+     "Where, where have ye been, Jess, and where did ye
+     leave him?
+     Now just get a bite, pup, then show me my pet.
+     Poor Jamie 'll be tired, and the sleep will deceive him;
+     Oh, stir him, oh, guide him, before the sun set!"
+     "Quick, Jock, bring a lantern! quick, Sandie, some
+     wraps!
+     Before ye win till him 'twill darken, perhaps."
+
+     Jess whimpered; the young moon was down in the
+     west;
+     A shelter-stone jutted from under the hill;
+     Stiff hands beneath Jamie's blue bonnet were pressed,
+     And over his beating heart one that was still.
+     Bareheaded and coatless, to windward lay Hugh,
+     And high on his back the snow gathered and grew.
+
+     "Now fold them in plaids, they'll be up with the sun;
+     Their bed will be warm, and the blood is so strong.
+     How wise to send Jessie; now cannily run.
+     Poor pup, are ye tired? we'll be home before long."
+     Jess licked a cold cheek, and the bonny boy spoke:
+     "Where's Hugh?" The pup whimpered, but Hugh
+     never woke.
+
+
+
+
+A SOLDIER'S MIRACLE
+
+     'Twas when we learnt we could be beat;
+     Our star misled us, and' we strayed.
+     Elsewhere the host was in retreat;
+     We were a guideless lost brigade.
+
+     We stumbled on a town in doubt,
+     To halt and sup we were full fain,
+     The man that held the chart cried out,
+     "'Tis Vaucouleurs in old Lorraine."
+
+     In Vaucouleurs we will not doubt,
+     For here, when need was sore, Saint Jane
+     Arose, and girt herself to rout
+     The foes that troubled her Lorraine.
+
+     So here we feast in faith to-night,
+     To-morrow we'll rejoin the host
+     Drink, drink! the wine is pure and bright,
+     And Jane our maiden is the toast.
+
+     But I, that faced the window, caught
+     A passing cloud, a foreign plume,
+     A Prussian helmet; and the thought
+     Of peril chilled the tavern room.
+
+     We rose, we glared through twilight panes,
+     We muttered curses bosom-deep;
+     A tell-tale gallop scared the lanes,
+     We grudged to spoil our comrades' sleep.
+
+     Then louder than the Uhlan's hoof
+     Fell storm from sky and flood on banks,
+     September's passion smote the roof;
+     We blest it, and to Jane gave thanks.
+
+     Betwixt us and that Uhlan's mates
+     A bridgless river strongly flowed.
+     A sign was shown that checked the fates,
+     And on that storm our maiden rode.
+
+
+
+
+A BALLAD FOR A BOY
+
+     When George the Third was reigning a hundred
+     years ago,
+     He ordered Captain Farmer to chase the foreign foe.
+     "You're not afraid of shot," said he, "you're not
+     afraid of wreck,
+     So cruise about the west of France in the frigate
+     called _Quebec_.
+
+     Quebec was once a Frenchman's town, but twenty
+     years ago
+     King George the Second sent a man called General
+     Wolfe, you know,
+     To clamber up a precipice and look into Quebec,
+     As you'd look down a hatchway when standing on
+     the deck.
+
+     If Wolfe could beat the Frenchmen then so you can
+     beat them now.
+     Before he got inside the town he died, I must allow.
+     But since the town was won for us it is a lucky name,
+     And you'll remember Wolfe's good work, and you
+     shall do the same."
+
+     Then Farmer said, "I'll try, sir," and Farmer bowed
+     so low
+     That George could see his pigtail tied in a velvet bow.
+     George gave him his commission, and that it might be
+     safer,
+     Signed "King of Britain, King of France," and sealed
+     it with a wafer.
+
+     Then proud was Captain Farmer in a frigate of his
+     own,
+     And grander on his quarter-deck than George upon
+     his throne.
+     He'd two guns in his cabin, and on the spar-deck ten,
+     And twenty on the gun-deck, and more than ten score
+     men.
+
+     And as a huntsman scours the brakes with sixteen
+     brace of dogs,
+     With two-and-thirty cannon the ship explored the fogs.
+     From Cape la Hogue to Ushant, from Rochefort to
+     Belleisle,
+     She hunted game till reef and mud were rubbing on
+     her keel.
+
+     The fogs are dried, the frigate's side is bright with
+     melting tar,
+     The lad up in the foretop sees square white sails afar;
+     The east wind drives three square-sailed masts from
+     out the Breton bay,
+     And "Clear for action!" Farmer shouts, and reefers
+     yell "Hooray!"
+
+     The Frenchmen's captain had a name I wish I could
+     pronounce;
+     A Breton gentleman was he, and wholly free from
+     bounce,
+     One like those famous fellows who died by guillotine
+     For honour and the fleurs-de-lys, and Antoinette the
+     Queen.
+
+     The Catholic for Louis, the Protestant for George,
+     Each captain drew as bright a sword as saintly smiths
+     could forge;
+     And both were simple seamen, but both could under-
+     stand
+     How each was bound to win or die for flag and native
+     land.
+
+     The French ship was _La Surveillante_, which means
+     the watchful maid;
+     She folded up her head-dress and began to cannonade.
+     Her hull was clean, and ours was foul; we had to
+     spread more sail.
+     On canvas, stays, and topsail yards her bullets came
+     like hail.
+
+     Sore smitten were both captains, and many lads beside,
+     And still to cut our rigging the foreign gunners tried.
+     A sail-clad spar came flapping down athwart a blazing
+     gun;
+     We could not quench the rushing flames, and so the
+     Frenchman won.
+
+     Our quarter-deck was crowded, the waist was all
+     aglow;
+     Men clung upon the taffrail half scorched, but loth
+     to go;
+     Our captain sat where once he stood, and would not
+     quit his chair.
+     He bade his comrades leap for life, and leave him
+     bleeding there.
+
+     The guns were hushed on either side, the Frenchmen
+     lowered boats,
+     They flung us planks and hencoops, and everything
+     that floats.
+     They risked their lives, good fellows! to bring their
+     rivals aid.
+     'Twas by the conflagration the peace was strangely
+     made.
+
+     _La Surveillante_ was like a sieve; the victors had no rest.
+     They had to dodge the east wind to reach the port of
+     Brest.
+     And where the waves leapt lower and the riddled ship
+     went slower,
+     In triumph, yet in funeral guise, came fisher-boats to
+     tow her.
+
+     They dealt with us as brethren, they mourned for
+     Farmer dead;
+     And as the wounded captives passed each Breton
+     bowed the head.
+     Then spoke the French Lieutenant, "'Twas fire that
+     won, not we.
+     You never struck your flag to us; you'll go to
+     England free."
+
+     'Twas the sixth day of October, seventeen hundred
+     seventy-nine,
+     A year when nations ventured against us to combine,
+     _Quebec_ was burnt and Farmer slain, by us remem-
+     bered not;
+     But thanks be to the French book wherein they're
+     not forgot.
+
+     Now you, if you've to fight the French, my youngster,
+     bear in mind
+     Those seamen of King Louis so chivalrous and kind;
+     Think of the Breton gentlemen who took our lads to
+     Brest,
+     And treat some rescued Breton as a comrade and a
+     guest.
+
+     1885.
+
+
+
+
+EPILOGUE.
+
+     Exactos, puer, esse decern tibi gratulor annos;
+     Hactenus es matris cura patrisque decus.
+     Incumbis studiis, et amas et amaris, et audes
+     Pro patria raucis obvius ire fretis.
+     Non erimus comites, fili, tibi; sed memor esto
+     Matris in oceano cum vigil astra leges.
+     Imbelli patre natus habe tamen arma Britannus,
+     Militiam perfer, spemque fidemque fove.
+
+     1889.
+
+
+
+
+JE MAINTIENDRAI
+
+     (FOR THE TUNE CALLED SANTA LUCIA)
+
+     Rise, rise, ye Devon folk!
+     Toss off the traitor's yoke,
+     Peer through the rain and smoke,
+     Look, look again!
+     Run down to Brixham pier--
+     Quick, quick, the Prince is near!
+     All the rights ye reckon dear
+     He will maintain.
+
+     Chorus--
+     Welcome, sweet English rose!
+     Welcome, Dutch Roman nose!
+     Scatter, scatter all the Gospel's foes,
+     William and Mary!
+
+     High over gulls and boats
+     Bright, free the banner floats;
+     Hearken, hear the clarion notes!
+     Lift hats and stare.
+     Courtiers who break the laws,
+     Tame cats with velvet paws,
+     Hypocrites with poisoned claws,
+     Croppies, beware!
+
+     Trust, Sir, the western shires,
+     Trust those who baffled Spain;
+     We'll be hardy like our sires.
+     Down, Pope, again!
+     Off, off with sneak and thief!
+     We'll have an honest chief.
+     England is no Popish fief;
+     Free kings shall reign.
+
+
+
+
+SAPPHICS FOR A TUNE
+
+MADE BY REQUEST OF A SONGSTRESS, AND REJECTED
+
+     Relics of battle dropt in sandy valley,
+     Bugle that screamed a warning of surprise,
+     Shreds of the colour torn before the rally,
+     Jewel of troth-plight seen by dying eyes--
+     Welcome, dear tokens of the lad we mourn.
+     Tell how that day his faithful heart was leaping;
+     Help me, who linger in the home forlorn,
+     Throw me a rainbow on my endless weeping.
+
+     1885.
+
+
+
+
+JOHNNIE OF BRAIDISLEE
+
+A SECOND ATTEMPT, ACCEPTED
+
+     Down the burnside hurry thee, gentle mavis,
+     Find the bothie, and flutter about the doorway.
+     Touch the lattice tenderly, bid my mother
+     Fetch away Johnnie.
+
+     Mother, uprouse thee! many bitter arrows
+     Out of one bosom gather, and for ever
+     Pray for one resting in a chilly forest
+     Under an oak tree.
+
+     Gentle mavis! hover about the window
+     Where the sun shines on happy things of home life,
+     Bid the clansmen troop to the gory dingle.
+     Clansmen, avenge me!
+
+     Mother! oh, my mother! upon a cradle
+     Woven of willows, with a bow beside me,
+     Near the kirk of Durrisdeer, under yew boughs,
+     Rock thy beloved.
+
+     1885.
+
+
+
+
+EUROPA
+
+     May the foemen's wives, the foemen's children,
+     Feel the kid leaping when he lifts the surge,
+     Tumult of swart sea, and the reefs that shudder
+     Under the scourge.
+
+     On such a day to the false bull Europa
+     Trusted her snowy limbs; and courage failed her,
+     Where the whales swarmed, the terror of sea-change
+     and
+     Treason assailed her.
+
+     For the meadow-fays had she duly laboured,
+     Eager for flowers to bind at eventide;
+     Shimmering night revealed the stars, the billows,
+     Nothing beside.
+
+     Brought to Crete, the realm of a hundred cities,
+     "Oh, my sire! my duty!" she clamoured sadly.
+     "Oh, the forfeit! and oh, the girl unfathered,
+     Wilfully, madly!
+
+     What shore is this, and what have I left behind me?
+     When a maid sins 'tis not enough to die.
+     Am I awake? or through the ivory gateway
+     Cometh a lie?
+
+     Cometh a hollow fantasy to the guiltless?
+     Am I in dreamland? Was it best to wander
+     Through the long waves, or better far to gather
+     Rosebuds out yonder?
+
+     Now, were he driven within the reach of anger,
+     Steel would I point against the villain steer,
+     Grappling, rending the horns of the bull, the monster
+     Lately so dear.
+
+     Shameless I left the homestead and the worship,
+     Shameless, 'fore hell's mouth, wide agape, I pause.
+     Hear me, some god, and set me among the lions
+     Stript for their jaws.
+
+     Ere on the cheek that is so fair to look on
+     Swoop the grim fiends of hunger and decay,
+     Tigers shall spring and raven, ere the sweetness
+     Wither away.
+
+     Worthless Europa! cries the severed father,
+     Why dost thou loiter, cling to life, and doat?
+     Hang on this rowan; hast thou not thy girdle
+     Meet for thy throat?
+
+     Lo, the cliff, the precipice, edged for cleaving,
+     Trust the quick wind, or take a leman's doom.
+     Live on and spin; thou wast a prince's daughter;
+     Toil at the loom.
+
+     Pass beneath the hand of a foreign lady;
+     Serve a proud rival." Lo, behind her back
+     Slyly laughed Venus, and her archer minion
+     Held the bow slack.
+
+     Then, the game played out, "Put away," she whispered,
+     "Wrath and upbraiding, and the quarrel's heat,
+     When the loathed bull surrenders horns, for riving,
+     Low at your feet.
+
+     Bride of high Jove's majesty, bride unwitting,
+     Cease from your sobbing; rise, your luck is rare.
+     Your name's the name which half the world divided
+     Henceforth shall bear."
+
+
+
+
+
+HYPERMNESTRA
+
+     Let me tell Lyde of wedding-law slighted,
+     Penance of maidens and bootless task,
+     Wasting of water down leaky cask,
+     Crime in the prison-pit slowly requited.
+
+     Miscreant brides! for their grooms they slew.
+     One out of many is not attainted,
+     One alone blest and for ever sainted,
+     False to her father, to wedlock true.
+
+     Praise her! she gave her young husband the warning.
+     Praise her for ever! She cried, "Arise!
+     Flee from the slumber that deadens the eyes;
+     Flee from the night that hath never a morning.
+
+     Baffle your host who contrived our espousing,
+     Baffle my sisters, the forty and nine,
+     Raging like lions that mangle the kink,
+     Each on the blood of a quarry carousing.
+
+     I am more gentle, I strike not thee,
+     I will not hold thee in dungeon tower.
+     Though the king chain me, I will not cower,
+     Though my sire banish me over the sea.
+
+     Freely run, freely sail, good luck attend thee;
+     Go with the favour of Venus and Night.
+     On thy tomb somewhere and some day bid write
+     Record of her who hath dared to befriend thee."
+
+
+
+
+BARINE
+
+     Lady, if you ever paid
+     Forfeit for a heart betrayed,
+     If for broken pledge you were
+     By one tooth, one nail less fair,
+
+     I would trust. But when a vow
+     Slips from off your faithless brow,
+     Forth you flash with purer lustre,
+     And a fonder troop you muster.
+
+     You with vantage mock the shade
+     Of a mother lowly laid,
+     Silent stars and depths of sky,
+     And high saints that cannot die.
+
+     Laughs the Queen of love, I say,
+     Laughs at this each silly fay,
+     Laughs the rogue who's ever whetting
+     Darts of fire on flint of fretting.
+
+     Ay, the crop of youth is yours,
+     Fresh enlistments throng your doors,
+     Veterans swear you serve them ill,
+     Threaten flight, and linger still.
+
+     Dames and thrifty greybeards dread
+     Lest you turn a stripling's head;
+     Poor young brides are in dismay
+     Lest you sigh their lords away.
+
+
+
+
+TO BRITOMART MUSING
+
+     Classic throat and wrist and ear
+     Tempt a gallant to draw near;
+     Must romantic lip and eye
+     Make him falter, bid him fly?
+
+     If Camilla's upright lance
+     By the contrast did enhance
+     Charms of curving neck and waist,
+     Yet she never was embraced.
+
+     She was girt to take the field,
+     And her aventayle concealed
+     Half the grace that might have won
+     Homage from Evander's son.
+
+     Countess Montfort, clad in steel,
+     Showed she could both dare and feel;
+     Smiled to greet the champion ships,
+     Touched Sir Walter with the lips.
+
+     She could charm, although in dress
+     Like the sainted shepherdess,
+     Jeanne, a leader void of guile,
+     Jeanne, a woman all the while.
+
+     Damsel with the mind of man,
+     Lay not softness under ban;
+     For the glory of thy sex
+     Twine with myrtle manly necks.
+
+
+
+
+HERSILIA
+
+     I see her stand with arms a-kimbo,
+     A blue and blonde s_ub aureo nimbo_;
+     She scans her literary limbo,
+     The reliques of her teens;
+
+     Things like the chips of broken stilts,
+     Or tatters of embroidered quilts,
+     Or nosegays tossed away by jilts,
+     Notes, ballads, tales, and scenes.
+
+     Soon will she gambol like a lamb,
+     Fenced, but not tethered, near the Cam.
+     Maybe she'll swim where Byron swam,
+     And chat beneath the limes,
+
+     Where Arthur, Alfred, Fitz, and Brooks
+     Lit thought by one another's looks,
+     Embraced their jests and kicked their books,
+     In England's happier times;
+
+     Ere magic poets felt the gout,
+     Ere Darwin whelmed the Church in doubt
+     Ere Apologia had found out
+     The round world must be right;
+
+     When Gladstone, bluest of the blue,
+     Read all Augustine's folios through;
+     When France was tame, and no one knew
+     We and the Czar would fight.
+
+     "Sixty years since" (said dear old Scott;
+     We're bound, you know, to quote Sir Wat)
+     This isle had not a sweeter spot
+     Than Neville's Court by Granta;
+
+     No Newnham then, no kirtled scribes,
+     No Clelia to harangue the tribes,
+     No race for girls, no apple bribes
+     To tempt an Atalanta.
+
+     We males talked fast, we meant to be
+     World-betterers all at twenty-three,
+     But somehow failed to level thee,
+     Oh battered fort of Edom!
+
+     Into the breach our daughters press,
+     Brave patriots in unwarlike dress,
+     Adepts at thought-in-idleness,
+     Sweet devotees of freedom.
+
+     And now it is your turn, fair soul,
+     To see the fervent car-wheels roll,
+     Your rivals clashing past the goal,
+     Some sly Milanion leading.
+
+     Ah! with them may your Genius bring
+     Some Celia, some Miss Mannering;
+     For youthful friendship is a thing
+     More precious than succeeding.
+
+
+
+
+SAPPHO'S CURSING
+
+     Woman dead, lie there;
+     No record of thee
+     Shall there ever be,
+     Since thou dost not share
+     Roses in Pieria grown.
+     In the deathful cave,
+     With the feeble troop
+     Of the folk that droop,
+     Lurk and flit and crave,
+     Woman severed and far-flown.
+
+
+
+
+A SERVING MAN'S EPITAPH
+
+     A slave--oh yes, a slave!
+     But in a freeman's grave.
+     By thee, when work was done,
+     Timanthes, foster-son,
+     By thee whom I obeyed,
+     My master, I was laid.
+     Live long, from trouble free;
+     But if thou com'st to me,
+     Paying to age thy debt,
+     Thine am I, master, yet.
+
+
+
+
+A SONG TO A SINGER
+
+     Dura fida rubecula,
+     Cur moraris in arbore
+     Dum cadunt folia et brevi
+     Flavet luce November.
+
+     Quid boni tibi destinat
+     Hora crastina? quid petes
+     Antris ex hiemalibus?
+     Quid speras oriturum?
+
+     Est ut hospita te vocet
+     Myrtis, et reseret fores,
+     Ut te vere nitentibus
+     Emiretur ocellis.
+
+     Quod si contigerit tibi,
+     Ter beata vocaberis,
+     Invidenda volucribus,
+     Invidenda poetae.
+
+
+
+
+AGE AND GIRLHOOD
+
+[Illustration: Greek Passage-199]
+
+     A dry cicale chirps to a lass making hay,
+     "Why creak'st thou, Tithonus?" quoth she. "I don't
+     play;
+     It doubles my toil, your importunate lay;
+     I've earned a sweet pillow, lo! Hesper is nigh;
+     I clasp a good wisp, and in fragrance I lie;
+     But thou art unwearied, and empty, and dry."
+
+
+
+
+A LEGEND OF PORTO SANTO
+
+     A time-worn sage without a home,
+     A man of dim and tearful sight,
+     Up from the hallowed haven clomb
+     In lowly longing for the height.
+
+     He loiters on a half-way rock
+     To hear the waves that pant and seethe,
+     Which give the beats of Nature's clock
+     To mortals conscious that they breathe.
+
+     The buxom waves may nurse a boat,
+     May well nigh seem to soothe and lull
+     The crying of a tethered goat,
+     The trouble of a searching gull.
+
+     There might be comfort in the tide,
+     There might be Lethe in the surge,
+     Could they but hint that oceans hide,
+     That pangs absolve, bereavements purge.
+
+     The thinker, not despairing yet,
+     Upraises limbs not wholly stiff,
+     Half envying him that draws the net,
+     Half proud to combat with the cliff.
+
+     He groans, but soon around his lips
+     Tear-channels bend into a smile,
+     He thinks "They're saying in the ships
+     I'm looking for the hidden isle.
+
+     I climb but as my humours lead,
+     My thoughts are mazed, my will is faint,
+     Yon men who see me roam, they need
+     No Lethe-fount, no shriving saint."
+
+     Good faith! can we believe, or feign
+     Believing, that such lands exist
+     Through ages drenched with blotting rain,
+     For ever folded in the mist?
+
+     Maybe some babe by sirens clothed
+     Swam thence, and brought report thereof.
+     Some hopeful virgin just betrothed
+     Braved the incredulous pilot's scoff;
+
+     And murmuring to a friendly lute,
+     While greybeards snored and beldames laughed,
+     Some minstrel-corsair made pursuit
+     Along the moon's white hunting-shaft;
+
+     Along the straight illumined track
+     The bride, the singer, and the child
+     Fled, far from sceptics, came not back,
+     Engulped? Who knows? perhaps enisled.
+
+     Now were there such another crew,
+     Now would their bark make room for me,
+     Now were that island false or true,
+     I'd go, forgetting, with the three.
+
+
+
+
+TO A LINNET
+
+     My cheerful mate, you fret not for the wires,
+     The changeless limits of your small desires;
+     You heed not winter rime or summer dew,
+     You feel no difference 'twixt old and new;
+     You kindly take the lettuce or the cress
+     Without the cognizance of more and less,
+     Content with light and movement in a cage.
+     Not reckoning hours, nor mortified by age,
+     You bear no penance, you resent no wrong,
+     Your timeless soul exists in each unconscious song.
+
+
+
+
+A SONG FOR A PARTING
+
+     I.
+     Flora will pass from firth to firth;
+     Duty must draw, and vows must bind.
+     Flora will sail half round the earth,
+     Yet will she leave some grace behind.
+
+     II.
+     Waft her, on Faith, from friend to friend,
+     Make her a saint in some far isle;
+     Yet will we keep, till memories end,
+     Something that once was Flora's smile.
+
+
+
+
+MIR IST LEIDE
+
+     Woe worth old Time the lord,
+     Pointing his senseless sword
+     Down on our festal board,
+     Where we would dine,
+     Chilling the kindly hall,
+     Bidding the dainties pall,
+     Making the garlands fall,
+     Souring the wine.
+
+
+
+
+LEBEWOHL--WORDS FOR A TUNE
+
+     I.
+     With these words, Good-bye, Adieu
+     Take I leave to part from you,
+     Leave to go beyond your view,
+     Through the haze of that which is to be;
+     Fare thou forth, and wing thy way,
+     So our language makes me say.
+     Though it yield, the forward spirit needs must pray
+     In the word that is hope's old token.
+
+     II.
+     Though the fountain cease to play,
+     Dew must glitter near the brink,
+     Though the weary mind decay,
+     As of old it thought so must it think.
+     Leave alone the darkling eyes
+     Fixed upon the moving skies,
+     Cross the hands upon the bosom, there to rise
+     To the throb of the faith not spoken.
+
+
+
+
+REMEMBER
+
+[Illustration: Greek Passage-210]
+
+     You come not, as aforetime, to the headstone every
+     day,
+     And I, who died, I do not chide because, my friend,
+     you play;
+     Only, in playing, think of him who once was kind and
+     dear,
+     And, if you see a beauteous thing, just say, he is not
+     here.
+
+
+
+
+APPENDIX
+
+
+
+
+TO THE INFALLIBLE
+
+     ("Ionica," 1858, p. 60)
+
+     Old angler, what device is thine
+     To draw my pleasant friends from me?
+     Thou fishest with a silken line
+     Not the coarse nets of Galilee.
+
+     In stagnant vivaries they lie,
+     Forgetful of their ancient haunts;
+     And how shall he that standeth by
+     Refrain his open mouth from taunts?
+
+     How? by remembering this, that he,
+     Like them, in eddies whirled about,
+     Felt less: for thus they disagree:
+     He can, they could not, bear to doubt.
+
+
+
+
+THE SWIMMER'S WISH
+
+     ("Ionica," 1858, p. 81)
+
+     Fresh from the summer wave, under the beech,
+     Looking through leaves with a far-darting eye,
+     Tossing those river-pearled locks about,
+     Throwing those delicate limbs straight out,
+     Chiding the clouds as they sailed out of reach,
+     Murmured the swimmer, I wish I could fly.
+
+     Laugh, if you like, at the bold reply,
+     Answer disdainfully, flouting my words:
+     How should the listener at simple sixteen
+     Guess what a foolish old rhymer could mean
+     Calmly predicting, "You will surely fly"--
+     Fish one might vie with, but how be like birds?
+
+     Sweet maiden-fancies, at present they range
+     Close to a sister's engarlanded brows,
+     Over the diamonds a mother will wear,
+     In the false flowers to be shaped for her hair.--
+     Slow glide the hours to thee, late be the change,
+     Long be thy rest 'neath the cool beechen boughs!
+
+     Genius and love will uplift thee: not yet,
+     Walk through some passionless years by my side,
+     Chasing the silly sheep, snapping the lily stalk,
+     Drawing my secrets forth, witching my soul with talk.
+     When the sap stays, and the blossom is set,
+     Others will take the fruit, I shall have died.
+
+
+
+
+AN APOLOGY
+
+     ("Ionica," 1858, p. 115)
+
+     Uprose the temple of my love
+     Sculptured with many a mystic theme,
+     All frail and fanciful above,
+     But pillared on a deep esteem.
+
+     It might have been a simpler plan,
+     And traced on more majestic lines;
+     But he that built it was a man
+     Of will unstrung, and vague designs;
+
+     Not worthy, though indeed he wrought
+     With reverence and a meek content,
+     To keep that presence: yet the thought
+     Is there, in frieze and pediment.
+
+     The trophied arms and treasured gold
+     Have passed beneath the spoiler's hand;
+     The shrine is bare, the altar cold,
+     But let the outer fabric stand.
+
+
+
+
+NOTRE DAME--FROM THE SOUTH-EAST
+
+     ("Ionica," 1877)
+
+     Oh lord of high compassion, strong to scorn
+     Ephemeral monsters, who with tragic pain
+     Purgest our trivial humours, once again
+     Through thine own Paris have I roamed, to mourn
+
+     For freemen plagued with cant, ere we were born,
+     For feasts of death, and hatred's harvest wain
+     Piled high, for princes from proud mothers torn,
+     And soft despairs hushed in the waves of Seine.
+
+     Oh Victor, oh my prophet, wilt thou chide
+     If Gudule's pangs, and Marion's frustrate plea,
+     And Gauvrain's promise of a heavenly France,
+     Thy sadly worshipt creatures, almost died
+     This evening, for that spring was on the tree,
+     And April dared in children's eyes to dance?
+
+     April 1877.
+
+
+
+
+IN HONOUR OF MATTHEW PRIOR
+
+[Illustration: Greek Passage-218]
+
+     ("Ionica," 1877)
+
+     I am Her mirror, framed by him
+     Who likes and knows her. On my rim
+     No fret, no bead, no lace.
+     He tells me not to mind the scorning
+     Of every semblance of adorning,
+     Since I receive Her face.
+
+     Sept. 1877.
+
+
+The following little Greek lyric occurs in a letter of December 18,
+1862, to the Rev. E. D. Stone. "My lines," wrote William Johnson, "are
+suggested by the death of Thorwaldsen: he died at the age of seventy,
+imperceptibly, having fallen asleep at a concert. But when I had done
+them, I remembered Provost Hawtrey's last appearance in public at a
+music party, where he fell asleep: and so I value my lines as a bit of
+honour done to him, and it seems odd that I should unintentionally have
+caught in the second and third lines his characteristic sympathy with
+the young...."
+
+
+
+
+NEC CITHARA CARENTEM
+
+[Illustration: Greek Passage-220]
+
+     Guide me with song, kind Muse, to death's dark shade;
+     Keep me in sweet accord with boy and maid,
+     Still in fresh blooms of art and truth arrayed.
+
+     Bear with old age, blithe child of memory!
+     Time loves the good; and youth and thou art nigh
+     To Sophocles and Plato, till they die.
+
+     Playmate of freedom, queen of nightingales,
+     Draw near; thy voice grows faint: my spirit fails
+     Still with thee, whether sleep or death assails.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of Project Gutenberg's Ionica, by William Cory (AKA William Johnson)
+
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