Old elms came breaking from the vine,
The vine stream'd out to follow,
And, sweating rosin, plump'd the pine
From many a cloudy hollow.

And wasn't it a sight to see,

When, ere his song was ended,
Like some great landslip, tree by tree,
The country-side descended;
And shepherds from the mountain-eaves
Look'd down, half-pleased, half-fright-
en'd,

As dash'd about the drunken leaves
The random sunshine lighten'd!

Oh, nature first was fresh to men,
And wanton without measure;
So youthful and so flexile then,

You moved her at your pleasure. Twang out, my fiddle! shake the twigs!

And make her dance attendance; Blow, flute, and stir the stiff-set sprigs,

And scirrhous roots and tendons.

'Tis vain! in such a brassy age

I could not move a thistle; The very sparrows in the hedge Scarce answer to my whistle; Or at the most, when three-parts-sick With strumming and with scraping, A jackass heehaws from the rick,

The passive oxen gaping.

But what is that I hear? a sound

Like sleepy counsel pleading;

O Lord!-'tis in my neighbour's ground,
The modern Muses reading.
They read Botanic Treatises,

And Works on Gardening thro' there,
And Methods of transplanting trees
To look as if they grew there.

The wither'd Misses! how they prose
O'er books of travell'd seamen,
And show you slips of all that grows

From England to Van Diemen.
They read in arbours clipt and cut,
And alleys, faded places,
By squares of tropic summer shut
And warm'd in crystal cases,

But these, tho' fed with careful dirt, Are neither green nor sappy; Half-conscious of the garden-squirt,

The spindlings look unhappy. Better to me the meanest weed

That blows upon its mountain, The vilest herb that runs to seed Beside its native fountain.

And I must work thro' months of toil,
And years of cultivation,
Upon my proper patch of soil

To grow my own plantation.
I'll take the showers as they fall,
I will not vex my bosom :
Enough if at the end of all
A little garden blossom.

ST. AGNES' EVE.

DEEP on the convent-roof the snows
Are sparkling to the moon :
My breath to heaven like vapour goes:
May my soul follow soon!

The shadows of the convent-towers
Slant down the snowy sward,

Still creeping with the creeping hours
That lead me to my Lord :

Make Thou my spirit pure and clear
As are the frosty skies,

Or this first snowdrop of the year
That in my bosom lies.

As these white robes are soil'd and dark,
To yonder shining ground;

As this pale taper's earthly spark,

To yonder argent round;

So shows my soul before the Lamb,
My spirit before Thee;

So in mine earthly house I am,

To that I hope to be.

Break up the heavens, O Lord! and far,
Thro' all yon starlight keen,
Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star,

In raiment white and clean.

He lifts me to the golden doors;

The flashes come and go; All heaven bursts her starry floors, And strows her lights below,

And deepens on and up! the gates

Roll back, and far within

For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits,
To make me pure of sin.
The sabbaths of Eternity,

One sabbath deep and wide-
A light upon the shining sea-
The Bridegroom with his bride!

SIR GALAHAD.

My good blade carves the casques of men,
My tough lance thrusteth sure,
My strength is as the strength of ten,

Because my heart is pure.

The shattering trumpet shrilleth high,

The hard brands shiver on the steel, The splinter'd spear-shafts crack and fly, The horse and rider reel : They reel, they roll in clanging lists,

And when the tide of combat stands, Perfume and flowers fall in showers,

That lightly rain from ladies' hands. How sweet are looks that ladies bend On whom their favours fall! For them I battle till the end,

To save from shame and thrall: But all my heart is drawn above,

My knees are bow'd in crypt and shrine:

I never felt the kiss of love,

Nor maiden's hand in mine. More bounteous aspects on me beam, Me mightier transports move and thrill; So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer

A virgin heart in work and will.

When down the stormy crescent goes,
A light before me swims,
Between dark stems the forest glows,
I hear a noise of hymns:
Then by some secret shrine I ride;

I hear a voice but none are there;
The stalls are void, the doors are wide,
The tapers burning fair.
Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth,

The silver vessels sparkle clean, The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, And solemn chaunts resound between.

Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres
I find a magic bark;

I leap on board: no helmsman steers :
I float till all is dark.

A gentle sound, an awful light!

Three angels bear the holy Grail :
With folded feet, in stoles of white,

On sleeping wings they sail.
Ah, blessed vision! blood of God!

My spirit beats her mortal bars,
As down dark tides the glory slides,

And star-like mingles with the stars.

When on my goodly charger borne
Thro' dreaming towns I go,

The cock crows ere the Christmas morn,

The streets are dumb with snow. The tempest crackles on the leads, And, ringing, springs from brand and mail;

But o'er the dark a glory spreads,

And gilds the driving hail.

I leave the plain, I climb the height;
No branchy thicket shelter yields;
But blessed forms in whistling storms

Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields.

A maiden knight-to me is given
Such hope, I know not fear;
I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven
That often meet me here.

I muse on joy that will not cease,

Pure spaces clothed in living beams, Pure lilies of eternal peace,

Whose odours haunt my dreams; And, stricken by an angel's hand,

This mortal armour that I wear, This weight and size, this heart and eyes,

Are touch'd, are turn'd to finest air.

The clouds are broken in the sky,
And thro' the mountain-walls
A rolling organ-harmony

Swells up, and shakes and falls. Then move the trees, the copses nod, Wings flutter, voices hover clear: "O just and faithful knight of God! Ride on the prize is near.'

So pass I hostel, hall, and grange;
By bridge and ford, by park and pale,
All-arm'd I ride, whate'er betide,
Until I find the holy Grail.

EDWARD GRAY.

SWEET Emma Moreland of yonder town
Met me walking on yonder way,
'And have you lost your heart ?' she said;
And are you married yet, Edward
Gray?'

Sweet Emma Moreland spoke to me :
Bitterly weeping I turn'd away :
'Sweet Emma Moreland, love no more
Can touch the heart of Edward Gray.

'Ellen Adair she loved me well,

Against her father's and mother's will: To-day I sat for an hour and wept,

By Ellen's grave, on the windy hill.

'Shy she was, and I thought her cold; Thought her proud, and fled over the sea; Fill'd I was with folly and spite,

When Ellen Adair was dying for me.

'Cruel, cruel the words I said!

Cruelly came they back to-day: "You're too slight and fickle," I said, "To trouble the heart of Edward Gray."

'There I put my face in the grassWhisper'd, ،، Listen to my despair : I repent me of all I did:

Speak a little, Ellen Adair !"

'Then I took a pencil, and wrote

On the mossy stone, as I lay, "Here lies the body of Ellen Adair ; And here the heart of Edward Gray!"

'Love may come, and love may go, And fly, like a bird, from tree to tree; But I will love no more, no more,

Till Ellen Adair come back to me.

* Bitterly wept I over the stone:

Bitterly weeping I turn'd away: There lies the body of Ellen Adair ! And there the heart of Edward Gray !'

WILL WATERPROOF'S LYRICAL MONOLOGUE.

MADE AT THE COCK.

O PLUMP head-waiter at The Cock,
To which I most resort,

How goes the time? 'Tis five o'clock.
Go fetch a pint of port:

But let it not be such as that

You set before chance-comers, But such whose father-grape grew fat On Lusitanian summers.

No vain libation to the Muse,

But may she still be kind, And whisper lovely words, and use Her influence on the mind, To make me write my random rhymes, Ere they be half-forgotten; Nor add and alter, many times,

Till all be ripe and rotten.

I pledge her, and she comes and dips Her laurel in the wine,

And lays it thrice upon my lips,

These favour'd lips of mine; Until the charm have power to make New lifeblood warm the bosom, And barren commonplaces break In full and kindly blossom.

I pledge her silent at the board;
Her gradual fingers steal
And touch upon the master-chord
Of all I felt and feel.

Old wishes, ghosts of broken plans,

And phantom hopes assemble; And that child's heart within the man's Begins to move and tremble.

Thro' many an hour of summer suns,
By many pleasant ways,
Against its fountain upward runs

The current of my days:
I kiss the lips I once have kiss'd;
The gas-light wavers dimmer ;
And softly, thro' a vinous mist,

My college friendships glimmer.

A private life was all his joy,

Till in a court he saw

A something-pottle-bodied boy

That knuckled at the taw:

He stoop'd and clutch'd him, fair and good,

Flew over roof and casement: His brothers of the weather stood Stock-still for sheer amazement.

But he, by farmstead, thorpe and spire, And follow'd with acclaims,

A sign to many a staring shire

Came crowing over Thames. Right down by smoky Paul's they bore, Till, where the street grows straiter, One fix'd for ever at the door,

And one became head-waiter.

But whither would my fancy go?
How out of place she makes
The violet of a legend blow
Among the chops and steaks!
Tis but a steward of the can,

One shade more plump than common;
As just and mere a serving-man
As any born of woman.

I ranged too high what draws me down
Into the common day?

Is it the weight of that half-crown,
Which I shall have to pay?
For, something duller than at first,
Nor wholly comfortable,
I sit, my empty glass reversed,
And thrumming on the table:

Half fearful that, with self at strife,
I take myself to task;
Lest of the fulness of my life

I leave an empty flask :
For I had hope, by something rare
To prove myself a poet :
But, while I plan and plan, my hair
Is gray before I know it.

So fares it since the years began,
Till they be gather'd up;

The truth, that flies the flowing can,
Will haunt the vacant cup :

T

And others' follies teach us not,

Nor much their wisdom teaches; And most, of sterling worth, is what Our own experience preaches.

Ah, let the rusty theme alone! We know not what we know. But for my pleasant hour, 'tis gone; 'Tis gone, and let it go. 'Tis gone a thousand such have slipt Away from my embraces, And fall'n into the dusty crypt

Of darken'd forms and faces.

Go, therefore, thou! thy betters went
Long since, and came no more;
With peals of genial clamour sent
From many a tavern-door,
With twisted quirks and happy hits,
From misty men of letters;

The tavern-hours of mighty wits—
Thine elders and thy betters.

113

Hours, when the Poet's words and loos
Had yet their native glow :
Nor yet the fear of little books

Had made him talk for show;
But, all his vast heart sherris-warm'd,
He flash'd his random speeches,
Ere days, that deal in ana, swarm'd
His literary leeches.

So mix for ever with the past,

Like all good things on earth!

For should I prize thee, couldst thou last,

At half thy real worth?

I hold it good, good things should pass:
With time I will not quarrel:
It is but yonder empty glass

That makes me maudlin-moral.

Head-waiter of the chop-house here,
To which I most resort,

I too must part: I hold thee dear
For this good pint of port.

For this, thou shalt from all things suck
Marrow of mirth and laughter;
And wheresoe'er thou move, good luck
Shall fling her old shoe after.

I