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Hail, ample presence of a Queen,

Bountiful, beautiful, apparell'd gay, Whose mantle, every shade of glancing

green, Flies back in fragrant breezes to display A tunic white as May!


Once more a downy drift against the brakes, Self - darken'd in the sky, descending

slow! But gladly see I thro' the wavering flakes

Yon blanching apricot like snow in snow. These will thine eyes not brook in forest

paths, On their perpetual pine, nor round the

beech; They fuse themselves to little spicy baths, Solved in the tender blushes of the

peach; They lose themselves and die On that new life that gems the hawthorn

line; Thy gay lent-lilies wave and put them by, And out once more in varnish'd glory

Thy stars of celandine.

She whispers, •From the South I bring

you balm, For on a tropic mountain was I born, While some dark dweller by the coco-palm Watcb'd my far meadow zoned with airy

morn; From under rose a muffled moan of floods;

I sat beneath a solitude of snow; There no one came, the turf was fresh, the

woods Plunged gulf on gulf thro' all their vales

below. I saw beyond their silent tops The steaming marshes of the scarlet

cranes, The slant seas leaning on the mangrove

copse, And summer basking in the sultry plains About a land of canes.


She floats across the bamlet. Heaven

lours, But in the tearful splendor of her smiles I see the slowly-thickening chestnut towers

Fill out the spaces by the barren tiles. Now past her feet the swallow circling

flies, A clamorous cnckoo stoops to meet her

hand; Her light makes rainbows in my closing

eyes, I hear a charm of song thro’all the land. Come, Spring! She comes, and Earth is

glad To roll her North below thy deepening

dome, But ere thy maiden birk be wholly clad, And these low bushes dip their twigs in

foam, Make all true hearths thy home.

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I too would teach the man
Beyond the darker hour to see the

bright, That his fresh life may close as it began,

The still-fulfilling promise of a light
Narrowing the bounds of night.'

Across my garden ! and the thicket stirs,

The fountain pulses high in sunnier jets, The blackcap warbles, and the turtle purrs,

The starling claps his tiny castanets. Still round her forehead wheels the wood

land dove, And scatters on her throat the sparks of

dew, The kingcup fills her footprint, and above

Broaden the glowing isles of vernal blue.


So wed thee with my soul, that I may

mark The coming year's great good and varied






And new developments, whatever spark low the Gleam.” I know of no poem of Ten Be struck from out the clash of warring nyson's which more takes my heart with magic wills;

and beauty.'

Or whether, since our nature cannot rest,
The smoke of war's volcano burst again

O YOUNG Mariner,
From hoary deeps that belt the changeful

You from the haven

Under the sea-cliff, Old Empires, dwellings of the kings of You that are watching men;

The gray Magician Or should those fail that hold the helm,

With eyes of wonder, While the long day of knowledge grows I am Merlin, and warms,

And I am dying, And in the heart of this most ancient realm

I am Merlin A hateful voice be utter'd, and alarms

Who follow the Gleam. Sounding. To arms ! to arms !!

Mighty the Wizard A simpler, saner lesson might he learn

Who found me at sunrise
Who reads thy gradual process, Holy Sleeping, and woke me

And learu'd me Magic !
Thy leaves possess the season in their turn, Great the Master,
And in their time thy warblers rise on And sweet the Magic,

When over the valley,
How surely glidest thou from March to In early summers,

Over the mountain, And changest, breathing it, the sullen

On human faces, wind,

And all around me, Thy scope of operation, day by day,

Moving to melody, Larger and fuller, like the human mind!

Floated the Gleam. Thy warmths from bud to bud

III Accomplish that blind model in the seed, And men have hopes, which race the rest- Once at the croak of a Raven who crost it less blood,

A barbarous people, That after many changes may succeed

Blind to the magic
Life which is Life indeed.

And deaf to the melody,
Snarl'd at and cursed me.

A demon vext me,

The light retreated,

The landskip darken'd, Compare 'The Voyage ;' and see also ‘Free

The melody deaden'd, dom' (1884):

The Master whisperd,
O follower of the Vision, still

• Follow the Gleam.'
In motion to the distant gleam,' etc.
Stopford Brooke says of this poem: ‘It is as
lovely in form and rhythm and imagination, as

Then to the melody, it is noble in thought and emotion. It speaks

Over a wilderness to all poetic hearts in England; it tells them of Gliding, and glancing at his coming death. It theu recalls his past, his

Elf of the woodland, youth, his manhood; his early poems, his crit

Gnome of the cavern, ics, his central labor on Arthur's tale ; and we

Griffin and Giant, see through its verse clear into the inmost

And dancing of Fairies chamber of his heart. What sits there upon

In desolate hollows, the throne, what has always sat thereon ? It is

And wraiths of the mountain, the undying longing and search after the ideal light, the mother - passi of all the supreme

And rolling of dragons artists of the world. “I am Merlin, who fol

By warble of water.


Or cataract music Of falling torrents, Flitted the Gleam.

No longer a shadow,
But clothed with the Gleam.



Down from the mountain
And over the level,
And streaming and shining on
Silent river,
Silvery willow,
Pasture and plowland,
Innocent maidens,
Garrulous children,
Homestead and harvest,
Reaper and gleaner,
And rough-ruddy faces
Of lowly labor,
Slided the Gleam -

I saw,

And broader and brighter
The Gleam flying onward,
Wed to the melody,
Sang thro' the world;
And slower and fainter,
Old and weary,
But eager to follow,

In passing it glanced upon
Hamlet or city,
That under the Crosses
The dead man's garden,
The mortal hillock,
Would break into blossom;
And so to the land's
Last limit I came
And can no longer,
But die rejoicing,
For thro' the Magic
Of Him the Mighty,
Who taught me in childhood,
There on the border
Of boundless Ocean,
And all but in Heaven
Hovers the Gleam.


Then, with a melody
Stronger and statelier,
Led me at length
To the city and palace
Of Arthur the King;
Touch'd at the golden
Cross of the churches,
Flash'd on the tournament,
Flicker'd and bicker'd
From helmet to helmet,
And last on the forehead
Of Arthur the blameless
Rested the Gleam.



Not of the sunlight,
Not of the moonlight,
Not of the starlight !
O young Mariner,
Down to the haven,
Call your companions,
Launch your vessel
And crowd your canvas,
And, ere it vanishes
Over the margin,
After it, follow it,
Follow the Gleam.

Clouds and darkness
Closed upon Camelot;
Arthur had vanish'd
I knew not whither,
The king who loved me,
And cannot die;
For out of the darkness

Silent and slowly
The Gleam, that had waned to a wintry

On icy fallow
And faded forest,
Drew to the valley
Named of the shadow,
And slowly brightening

Out of the glimmer,
And slowly moving again to a melody

Yearningly tender,
Fell on the shadow,


[I read Hayley's Life of Romney the other day Romney wanted but education and reading to make him a very fine painter : but his ideal was not high nor fixed. How touching is the close of his life! He married at nine. teen, and because Sir Joshua and others had said that “marriage spoilt an artist' almost immediately left his wife in the North and

scarce saw her till the end of his life ; when My curse upon the Master's apothegm, old, nearly mad, and quite desolate, he went That wife and children drag an artist back to her and she received him and nursed

down ! him till he died. This quiet act of hers is

This seem'd my lodestar in the heaven of worth all Romney's pictures ! even as a matter

Art, of Art, I am sure. — EDWARD FITZGERALD,

And lured me from the household fire on * Letters and Literary Remains,' vol. i.)

earth. · BEAT, little heart - I give you this and To you my days have been a lifelong lie, this.

Grafted on half a truth; and tho' you say, Who are you? What i the Lady Ham

Take comfort


have won the painter's ilton ?

fame,' Good, I am never weary painting you.

The best in me that sees the worst in me, Co sit once more ? Cassandra, Hebe, Joan,

And groans to see it, finds no comfort

there, Dr spinning at your wheel beside the vine

What fame? I am not Raphael, Titian, Bacchante, what you will; and if I fail

no, To conjure and concentrate into form

Nor even a Sir Joshua, some will cry. And color all you are, the fault is less Wrong there! The painter's fame ? but In me than Art. What artist ever yet

mine, that grew Could make pure light live on the canvas ?

Blown into glittering by the popular breath, Art!

May float awhile beneath the sun, may roll Why should I so disrelish that short word ?

The rainbow hues of heaven about it Where am I ? snow on all the hills ! so

There ! hot,

The color'd bubble bursts above the abyss So fever'd ! never colt would more delight Of Darkness, utter Letbe. To roll himself in meadow grass than I To wallow in that winter of the hills.

Is it so ? Nurse, were you hired ? or came of your

Her sad eyes plead for my own fame with To wait on one so broken, so forlorn ? To make it dearer. Have I not met you somewhere long ago ? I am all but sure I have in Kendal

Look, the sun has risen church

To flame along another dreary day. O, yes ! I hired you for a season there,

Your hand. How bright you keep your And then we parted; but you look so kind marriage-ring! That you will not deny my sultry throat

Raise me. I thank you. One draught of icy water. There — you spill

Has your opiate then The drops upon my forehead. Your hand Bred this black mood ? or am I conscious,

shakes. I am ashamed. I am a trouble to you,

Than other Masters, of the chasm between Could kneel for your forgiveness. Are

Work and Ideal ? Or does the gloom of they tears ?

age For me they do me too much grace

And suffering cloud the height I stand for me ?

upon O Mary, Mary!

Even from myself ? stand ? stood
Vexing you with words !
Words only, born of fever, or the fumes
Of that dark opiatc dose you gave me,

The world would lose, if such a wife as you words,

Should vanish unrecorded. Might I crave Wild babble. I have stumbled back again One favor ? I am bankrupt of all claim Into the common day, the sounder self. On your obedience, and my strongest wish God stay me there, if only for your sake, Fails flat before your least unwillingness. The truest, kindliest, noblest-hearted wife Still, would you - if it please you — sit to That ever wore a Christian marriage-ring.

me ?

own will





And yet


you down


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I dream'd last night of that clear sum- Stampt into dust – tremulous, all awry, mer noon,

Blurr'd like a landskip in a ruffled pool, When seated on a rock, and foot to foot Not one stroke firm. This Art, that harlotWith your own shadow in the placid lake,

like You claspt our infant daughter, heart to Seduced me from you, leaves me harlotheart.

like, I had been among the hills, and brought Who love her still, and whimper, impotent

To win her back before I die and then A length of staghorn-moss, and this you | Then, in the loud world's bastard judgtwined

ment-day, About her cap. I see the picture yet, One truth will damn me with the mindless Mother and child. A sound from far away,

mob, No louder than a bee among the flowers, Who feel no touch of my temptation, more A fall of water lull’d the noon asleep. Than all the myriad lies that blacken round You still'd it for the moment with a song The corpse of every man that gains a name; Which often echo'd in me, while I stood • This model husband, this fine artist !! Before the great Madonna-masterpieces

Fool, Of ancient Art in Paris, or in Rome. What matters ? Six foot deep of burial

mould Mary, my crayons ! if I can, I will. Will dull their comments ! Ay, but wher You should have been - I might have

the shout made you once,

Of His descending peals from heaven, and Had I but known you as I know you now

throbs The true Alcestis of the time. Your song Thro' earth and all her graves, if He should Sit, listen ! I remember it, a proof That I-even I - at times remember'd • Why left you wife and children ? for my you.


According to my word ?' and I replied, 'Beat upon mine, little heart! beat, beat! mine!

• Nay, Lord, for Art,' why, that would you are mine, my sweet!

sound so mean All mine from your pretty blue eyes to your feet,

My sweet.'

That all the dead, who wait the doom of

hell Less profile ! turn to me three-quarter For bolder sins than mine, adulteries, face.

Wife-murders, — nay, the ruthless Mussul.. 'Sleep, little blossom, my honey, my bliss ! For I give you this, and I give you this !

Who flings his bowstrung harem in the And I blind your pretty blue eyes with a kiss !


Sleep!' Would turn, and glare at me, and point Too early blinded by the kiss of death

And gibber at the worm who, living, made • Father and Mother will watch you grow'.

The wife of wives a widow-bride, and lost

Salvation for a sketch. You watch'd, not I; she did not grow, she

I am wild again ! died.

The coals of fire you heap upon my head

Have crazed me. Some one knocking there · Father and Mother will watch you grow,

without ? And gather the roses whenever they blow,

No! Will my Indian brother come ? to And find the white heather wherever you go,

find My sweet.'

Me or my coffin ? Should I know the Ah, my white heather only blooms in hea

man ?

This worn-out Reason dying in her house With Milton's amaranth. There, there, May leave the windows blinded, and if so, there ! a child

Bid him farewell for me, and tell him — Had shamed me at it - Down, you idle

Hope! touls,

I hear a death-bed angel whisper, · Hope.'

Beat upon


and jeer,




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