Which task'd thy pipe too sore, and

tired thy throat

It fail'd, and thou wast mute! Yet hadst thou always visions of our light,

And long with men of care thou couldst not stay.

And soon thy foot resumed its wandering way,

Left human haunt, and on alone till night.

Too rare, too rare, grow now my visits here!

'Mid city-noise, not, as with thee of yore,

Thyrsis! in reach of sheep-bells is my home.

-Then through the great town's harsh, heart-wearying roar,

Let in thy voice a whisper often

come,

To chase fatigue and fear: Why faintest thou! I wander'd till I died. Roam on! The light we sought is shining still.

Dost thou ask proof? Our tree yet crowns the hill,

Our Scholar travels yet the loved hill-side. 1866.

YOUTH AND CALM

'Tis death! and peace, indeed, is here,
And ease from shame, and rest from fear.
There's nothing can dismarble now
The smoothness of that limpid brow.
But is a calm like this, in truth,
The crowning end of life and youth,
And when this boon rewards the dead,
Are all debts paid, has all been said?
And is the heart of youth so light,
Its step so firm, its eyes so bright,
Because on its hot brow there blows
A wind of promise and repose
From the far grave, to which it goes;
Because it hath the hope to come,
One day, to harbor in the tomb?
Ah no, the bliss youth dreams is one
For daylight, for the cheerful sun,
For feeling nerves and living breath-
Youth dreams a bliss on this side death.
It dreams a rest, if not more deep,
More grateful than this marble sleep;
It hears a voice within it tell :
Calm's not life's crown, though calm is
well.

T is all perhaps which man acquires,
But 'tis not what our youth desires.
(1852). 1867.

AUSTERITY OF POETRY

THAT Son of Italy who tried to blow, Ere Dante came, the trump of sacred song,

In his light youth amid a festal throng Sate with his bride to see a public show. Fair was the bride, and on her front did glow

Youth like a star; and what to youth belong

Gay raiment, sparkling gauds, elation strong.

A prop gave way! crash fell a platform! lo,

'Mid struggling sufferers, hurt to death, she lay!

Shuddering, they drew her garments off-and found

A robe of sackcloth next the smooth, white skin.

Such, poets, is your bride, the Muse! young, gay,

Radiant, adorn'd outside; a hidden ground

Of thought and of austerity within.

WORLDLY PLACE

1867.

EVEN in a palace, life may be led well! So spake the imperial sage, purest of men, Marcus Aurelius. But the stifling den Of common life, where, crowded up pell-mell.

Our freedom for a little bread we sell, And drudge under some foolish master's ken

Who rates us if we peer outside our

pen

Match'd with a palace, is not this a hell? Even in a palace! On his truth sincere, Who spoke these words, no shadow ever

came;

And when my ill-school'd spirit is aflame Some nobler, ampler stage of life to win, I'll stop, and say: "There were no succor here!

The aids to noble life are all within." 1867.

EAST LONDON

"TWAS August, and the fierce sun over head

Smote on the squalid streets of Bethnal Green.

And the pale weaver, through his windows seen In Spitalfields, look'd thrice dispirited.

We live no more, when we have done our span."

"Well, then, for Christ,” thou answerest, "who can care?

From sin, which Heaven records not, why forbear?

Live we like brutes our life without a plan!"

So answerest thou; but why not rather say:

"Hath man no second life?-Pitch this one high!

Sits there no judge in Heaven, our sin to see ?

More strictly, then, the inward judge obey!

Was Christ a man like us? Ah! let us try If we then, too, can be such men as he!" 1867.

And ale dog-roses in the hedge,
And from the mint-plant in the sedge,
In puffs of balm the night-air blows
The perfume which the day foregoes.
And on the pure horizon far,
See, pulsing with the first-born star,
The liquid sky above the hill!
The evening comes, the fields are still.

Loitering and leaping,

With saunter, with bounds-
Flickering and circling
In files and in rounds--
Gaily their pine-staff green
Tossing in air,

Loose o'er their shoulders white
Showering their hair-

See! the wild Mænads

Break from the wood,
Youth and Iacchus
Maddening their blood.

See! through the quiet land
Rioting they pass-

Fling the fresh heaps about,
Trample the grass.

Tear from the rifled hedge
Garlands, their prize;

Fill with their sports the field,
Fill with their cries.

Shepherd, what ails thee, then?
Shepherd, why mute?
Forth with thy joyous song!
Forth with thy flute!

Tempts not the revel blithe?
Lure not their cries?

Glow not their shoulders smooth?
Melt not their eyes?

Is not, on cheeks like those,
Lovely the flush?

-Ah, so the quiet was!.
So was the hush!

II

The epoch ends, the world is still.
The age has talk'd and work'd its fill-
The famous orators have shone,
The famous poets sung and gone,
The famous men of war have fought,
The famous speculators thought,
The famous players, sculptors, wrought,
The famous painters fill'd their wall,
The famous critics judged it all.
The combatants are parted now-
Uphung the spear, unbent the bow,
The puissant crown'd, the weak laid low.
And in the after-silence sweet,

Now strifes are hush'd, our ears doth

meet,

Ascending pure, the bell-like fame Of this or that down-trodden name, Delicate spirits, push'd away

In the hot press of the noon-day.
And o'er the plain, where the dead age
Did its now silent warfare wage-

O'er that wide plain, now wrapt in gloom,

Where many a splendor finds its tomb,
Many spent fames and fallen mights-
The one or two immortal lights
Rise slowly up into the sky
To shine there everlastingly,
Like stars over the bounding hill.
The epoch ends, the world is still.

Thundering and bursting
In torrents, in waves-
Carolling and shouting
Over tombs, amid graves-
See! on the cumber'd plain
Clearing a stage,

Scattering the past about,
Comes the new age.
Bards make new poems,
Thinkers new schools,
Statesmen new systems,
Critics new rules.

All things begin again;
Life is their prize ;

Earth with their deeds they fill,
Fill with their cries.

Poet, what ails thee, then?
Say, why so mute?

Forth with thy praising voice!
Forth with thy flute!
Loiterer! why sittest thou
Sunk in thy dream?

Tempts not the bright new age?
Shines not its stream?
Look, ah, what genius,
Art, science, wit!
Soldiers like Cæsar,
Statesmen like Pitt!

Sculptors like Phidias,

Raphaels in shoals,

Poets like Shakespeare-
Beautiful souls!

See, on their glowing cheeks
Heavenly the flush!

-Ah, so the silence was!
So was the hush!

I ASK not that my bed of death
From bands of greedy heirs be free;
For these besiege the latest breath
Of fortune's favor'd sons, not me.

I ask not each kind soul to keep Tearless, when of my death he hears Let those who will, if any, weep!