There standing, shouted, and Pallas far away
Call'd; and a boundless panic shook the foe.
For like the clear voice when a trumpet shrills,
Blown by the fierce beleaguerers of a town,
So rang the clear voice of Æakidês;

And when the brazen cry of Æakidês

Was heard among the Trojans, all their hearts
Were troubled, and the full-maned horses whirl'd
The chariots backward, knowing griefs at hand;
And sheer-astounded were the charioteers
To see the dread, unweariable fire

That always o'er the great Peleion's head

Burn'd, for the bright-eyed goddess made it burn.
Thrice from the dike he sent his mighty shout,
Thrice backward reel'd the Trojans and allies;
And there and then twelve of their noblest died
Among their spears and chariots.

TO THE PRINCESS FREDERICA ON HER

MARRIAGE.

YOU that were eyes and light to the King till he past

Ile saw not his daughter- he blest her: the blind King sees you to-day,

He blesses the wife.

SIR JOHN FRANKLIN.

ON THE CENOTAPH IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

OT here! the white North has thy bones; and thou,

NOT

Heroic sailor-soul,

Art passing on thine happier voyage now

Toward no earthly pole.

TO DANTE.

(WRITTEN AT REQUEST OF THE FLORENTINES.)

KING, that hast reign'd six hundred years, and grown

In power, and ever growest, since thine own

Fair Florence honoring thy nativity,

Thy Florence now the crown of Italy,

Hath sought the tribute of a verse from me,
I, wearing but the garland of a day,
Cast at thy feet one flower that fades away.

O

NO MORE.*

SAD No More! O sweet No More!
O strange No More!

By a mossed brookbank on a stone
I smelt a wildweed flower alone;
There was a ringing in my ears,

And both my eyes gushed out with tears.

Surely all pleasant things had gone before,
Low-buried fathom deep beneath with thee, No MORE!

A garland for Lenora.

With a silken cord I bound it.
Lenora, laughing clearly

A light and thrilling laughter,
About her forehead wound it,
And loved me ever after.

A FRAGMENT*

WHERE is the Giant of the Sun, which stood

In the midnoon the glory of old Rhodes,

A perfect Idol with profulgent brows
Far-sheening down the purple seas to those
Who sailed from Mizraim underneath the star
Named of the Dragon and between whose limbs
Of brassy vastness broad-blown Argosies
Drave into haven? Yet endure unscathed

Of changeful cycles the great Pyramids
Broad-based amid the fleeting sands, and sloped
Into the slumberous summer noon; but where,
Mysterious Egypt, are thine obelisks

Graven with gorgeous emblems undiscerned?
Thy placid Sphinxes brooding o'er the Nile?
Thy shadowing Idols in the solitudes,
Awful Memnonian countenances calm
Looking athwart the burning flats, far off
Seen by the high-necked camel on the verge
Journeying southward? Where are thy monuments
Piled by the strong and sunborn Anakim
Over their crowned brethren ON and ОPH?
Thy Memnon when his peaceful lips are kist
With earliest rays, that from his mother's eyes
Flow over the Arabian bay, no more
Breathes low into the charmed ears of morn
Clear melody flattering the crisped Nile

From the Gem, a literary annual, for 1861.

By columned Thebes. Old Memphis hath gone down:
The Pharaohs are no more: somewhere in death
They sleep with staring eyes and gilded lips,
Wrapped round with spiced cerements in old grots
Rock-hewn and sealed for ever.

SONNET.*

ME my own fate to lasting sorrow doometh:

Thy woes are birds of passage, transitory
Thy spirit, circled with a living glory,
In summer still a summer joy resumeth.
Alone my hopeless melancholy gloometh,

Like a lone cypress, through the twilight hoary,
From an old garden where no flower bloometh,
One cypress on an island promontory.

But yet my lonely spirit follows thine,

As round the rolling earth night follows day:
But yet thy lights on my horizon shine
Into my night, when thou art far away.
I am so dark, alas! and thou so bright,
When we two meet there's never perfect light.

SONNET*

HECK every outflash, every ruder sally

CHE

Of thought and speech; speak low and give up wholly

Thy spirit to mild-minded melancholy;

This is the place. Through yonder poplar valley
Below the blue-green river windeth slowly;

But in the middle of the sombre valley

The crispèd waters whisper musically,

And all the haunted place is dark and holy.
Friendship's Offering, 1833

The nightingale, with long and low preamble,
Warbled from yonder knoll of solemn larches,
And in and out the woodbine's flowery arches
The summer midges wove their wanton gambol,
And all the white-stemmed pinewood slept above-
When in this valley first I told my love.

EARLY SPRING.

I.

ONCE more the Heavenly Power

Makes all things new,

And domes the red-plough'd hills
With loving blue;

The blackbirds have their wills,

The throstles too.

II.

Opens a door in Heaven;
From skies of glass

A Jacob's-ladder falls

On greening grass,

And o'er the mountain-walls
Young angels pass.

III.

Before them fleets the shower,

And burst the buds,
And shine the level lands,

And flash the floods;

The stars are from their hards
Flung thro' the woods;

IV.

The woods by living airs

How freshly fann'd,

Light airs from where the deep,
All down the sand,