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Break through your iron shackles — Aling them ROSALIND


O for those days of Piast, ere the Czar This poem (see p. 21 above) has been re- Grew to his strength among his deserts cold; stored, but without the following note, which is When even to Moscow's cupolas were rolled appended to it in the 1833 volume :

The growing murmurs of the Polish war!

Now must your noble anger blaze out more AUTHOR'S NOTE. — Perhaps the following Than when from Sobieski, clan by clan, lines may be allowed to stand as a separate The Moslem myriads fell, and fled before – poem; originally they made part of the text, Than when Zamoysky smote the Tartar Khan;

Than earlier, when on the Baltic shore where they were manifestly superfluous.

Boleslas drove the Pomeranian.
My Rosalind, my Rosalind,
Bold, subtle, careless Rosalind,
Is one of those who know no strife

Of inward woe or outward fear;
To whom the slope and stream of Life,
The life before, the life behind,

O DARLING room, my heart's delight,
In the ear, from far and near,

Dear room, the apple of my sight, Chimeth musically clear.

With thy two couches soft and white, My falcon-hearted Rosalind,

There is no room so exquisite, Full-sailed before a vigorous wind,

No little room so warm and bright,
Is one of those who cannot weep

Wherein to read, wherein to write.
For others' woes, but overleap
All the petty shocks and fears

That trouble life in early years,
With a flash of frolic scorn

For I the Nonnenwerth have seen,
And keen delight, that never falls

And Oberwinter's vineyards green, Away from freshness, self-upborne

Musical Lurlei; and between With such gladness as, whenever

The hills to Bingen have I been, The fresh-flushing springtime calls

Bingen in Darmstadt, where the Rhene To the flooding waters cool,

Curves toward Montz, a woody scene.
Young fishes, on an April morn,

Up and down a rapid river,
Leap the little waterfalls

Yet never did there meet my sight,
That sing into the pebbled pool.

In any town to left or right, My happy falcon, Rosalind,

A little room so exquisite, Hath daring fancies of her own,

With two such couches soft and white, Fresh as the dawn before the day,


room so warm and bright, Fresh as the early sea-smell blown

Wherein to read, wherein to write.
Through vineyards from an inland bay.
My Rosalind, my Rosalind,
Because no shadow on you falls,

Think you hearts are tennisballs
To play with, wanton Rosalind ?

You did late review my lays,

Crusty Christopher;

You did mingle blame and praise,

Rusty Christopher.
Who can say

When I learnt from whom it came,
Why To-day

I forgave you all the blame,
To-morrow will be yesterday?

Musty Christopher;
Who can tell

I could not forgive the praise,
Why to smell

Fusty Christopher.
The violet recalls the dewy prime
Of youth and buried time?
The cause is nowhere found in rhyme.





Written in 1830. See Notes.



Blow ye the trumpet, gather from afar
The hosts to battle: be not bought and sold.
Arise, brave Poles, the boldest of the bold;

THEREFORE your Halls, your ancient Colleges
Your portals statued with old kings and queens,
Your gardens, myriad-volumed libraries,
Wax-lighted chapels, and rich carven screens.


Your doctors and your proctors, and your

deans Shall not avail you, when the Daybeam sports New-risen o'er awaken'd Albion - No! Nor yet your solemn organ-pipes that blow Melodious thunders thro' your vacant courts At morn and eve- - because your manner sorts Not with this age wherefrom ye stand apart Because the lips of little children preach Against you, you that do profess to teach And teach us nothing, feeding not the heart.

Seen by the high-necked camel on the verge
Journeying southward? Where are thy mono-
Piled by the strong and sunborn Anakim
Over their crowned brethren On and OPH?
Thy Memnon when his peaceful lips are kist
With earliest rays, that from his mother's eyes
Flow over the Arabiau bay, no more
Breathes low into the charmed ears of morn
Clear melody flattering the crisped Nile
By columned Thebes. Old Memphis hath gone

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.


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This and the two following poems were contributed to · The Gem, a Literary Annual' (London, 1831).

O SAD No More! O sweet No More !

O strange No More!
By a mossed brook bank 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,



Contributed to ‘Friendship's Offering,' an annual, 1832. 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 bloom

eth, One cypress on an island promontory, But yet my Jonely 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,

With roses musky-breathed,
And drooping daffodilly,
And silver-leaved lily,
And ivy darkly-wreathed,
I wove a crown before her,
For her I love so dearly,
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.



up wholly

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

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

Contributed to 'The Englishman's Maga zine' for August, 1831; and reprinted in · Friendship's Offering,' 1833 CHECK every outflash, every ruder sally

Of thought and speech ; speak low, and give Thy spirit to mild-minded Melancholy; This is the place. Through yonder poplar

alley Below the blue-green river windeth slowly; But in the middle of the sombre valley The crispéd waters whisper musically,

And all the haunted place is dark and holy. 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 gam

bol, And all the white-stemmed pinewood slept

above When in this valley first I told my

SONNET Contributed to the Yorkshire Literary Annual,' 1832. THERE are three things which fill my heart

with sighs, And steep my soul in laughter (when I view Fair maiden-forms moving like melodies) Dimples, roselips, and eyes of any hue. There are three things beneath the blessed skies For which I live black eyes and brown and

I hold them all most dear; but oh! black eyes,
I live and die, and only die in you.
Of late such eyes looked at me — while I

At sunset, underneath a shadowy plane,
In old Bayona nigh the southern sea -
From an half-open lattice looked at me.
I saw no more — only those eyes — confused
And dazzled to the heart with glorious pain.

A Lion, you, that made a noise,

And shook a mane en papillotes. And once you tried the Muses too;

You failed, Sir: therefore now you turn, To fall on those who are to you

As Captain is to Subaltern. But men of long-enduring hopes, And careless what this

hour may bring, Can pardon little would-be POPES

And BRUMMELS, when they try to sting. An Artist, Sir, should rest in Art,

And waive a little of his claim;
To have the deep Poetic heart

Is more than all poetic fame.
But you, Sir, you are hard to please;

You never look but half content;
Nor like a gentleman at ease,

With moral breadth of temperament. And what with spites and what with fears,

You cannot let a body be:
It 's always ringing in your ears,

• They call this man as good as me.' What profits now to understand

The merits of a spotless shirtdapper boot - a little hand If half the little soul is dirt ?


Printed in 1842, but omitted in all editions after 1850.

SURE never yet was antelope

Could skip so lightly by.
Stand off, or else my skipping-rope

Will hit you in the eye.
How lightly whirls the skipping-rope !

How fairy-like you fly!
Go, get you gone, you muse and mope -

I hate that silly sigh.
Nay, dearest, teach me how to hope,

Or tell me how to die.
There, take it, take my skipping-rope,

And hang yourself thereby.

You talk of tinsel ! why, we see

The old mark of rouge upon your cheeks. You prate of Nature ! you are he

That spilt his life about the cliques,
TIMON you ! Nay, nay, for shame:

It looks too arrogant a jest
The fierce old man — to take his name,

You band box. Off, and let him rest.





Contributed to 'The Manchester Athenæum Album,' 1850.

Published in Punch,' February 28, 1846, signed ' Alcibiades '; and followed in the next number (March 7, 1846) by the lines entitled ' Afterthought,' afterwards included as “Literary Squabbles' in the collected edition of 1872. See p. xv. above. We know him, out of Shakespeare's art,

And those fine curses which he spoke; The old Timon, with his noble heart,

That, strongly loathing, greatly broke.
So died the Old: here comes the New.

Regard him: a familiar face:
I thought we knew him: What, it's you,

The padded man — that wears the stays
Who killed the girls and thrilled the boys

With dandy pathos when you wrote !

HERE often, when a child I lay reclined,

I took delight in this locality.
Here stood the infant Ilion of the mind,

And here the Grecian ships did seem to be. And here again I come, and only find

The drain-cut levels of the marshy lea, Gray sea - banks and pale sunsets, dreary

wind, Dim shores, dense rains, and heavy-clouded



Contributed to “The Keepsake,' an illustrated annual, 1851.

WHAT time I wasted youthful hours,
One of the shining wingéd powers,
Show'd me vast cliffs with crown of towers.

As towards the gracious light I bow'd, They seem'd high palaces and proud, Hid now and then with sliding cloud.

He said, “The labor not small;
Yet winds the pathway free to all:
Take care thou dost not fear to fall !'

Why stay they there to guard a foreign throne ?

Seamen, guard your own. We were the best of marksmen long ago, We won old battles with our strength, the bow.

Now practise, yeomen,

Like those bowmen,
Till your balls fly as their true shafts have flown.

Yeomen, guard your own.
His soldier-ridden Highness might incline
To take Sardinia, Belgium, or the Rhine:

Shall we stand idle,

Nor seek to bridle
His rude aggressions, till we stand alone ?

Make their cause your own.
Should he land here, and for one hour prevail,
There must no man go back to bear the tale:

No man to bear it

Swear it! we swear it!
Although we fight the banded world alone,

We swear to guard our own.

ADDITIONAL VERSES To 'God Save the Queen !' written for the marriage of the Princess Royal of England with the Crown Prince of Prussia, January 25, 1858

God bless our Prince and Bride!
God keep their lands allied,

God save the Queen !
Clothe them with righteousness,
Crown them with happiness,
Them with all blessings bless,
God save the Queen!

BRITONS, GUARD YOUR OWN Contributed to 'The Examiner,' January 31, 1852. RISE, Britons, rise, if manhood be not dead; The world's last tempest darkens overhead;

The Pope has bless'd him;

The Church caress'd him;
He triumphs; maybe we shall stand alone.

Britons, guard your own.
His ruthless host is bought with plunder'd gold,
By lying priests the peasants' votes controllid.

All freedom vanish’d,

The true men banishid,
He triumphs; maybe we shall stand alone.

Britons, guard your own.
Peace-lovers we - sweet Peace we all desire
Peace-lovers we— but who can trust a liar ?

Peace-lovers, haters

Of shameless traitors, We hate not France, but this man's heart of


Britons, guard your own. We hate not France, but France has lost her

voice. This man is France, the man they call her


By tricks and spying,

By craft and lying,
And murder was her freedom overthrown.

Britons, guard your own.
Vive l'Empereur' may follow by and by;
'God save the Queen' is here a truer cry.

God save the Nation,

The toleration, And the free speech that makes a Briton


Britons, guard your own. Rome's dearest daughter now is captive France, The Jesuit laughs, and reckoning on his chance,

Would, unrelenting,

Kill all dissenting,
Till we were left to fight for truth alone.

Britons, guard your own.
Call home your ships across Biscayan tides,
To blow the battle from their oaken sides.

Why waste they yonder
Their idle thunder?

Fair fall this hallow'd hour, Farewell, our England's flower,

God save the Queen ! Farewell, first rose of May ! Let both the peoples say, God bless thy marriage-day,

God bless the Queen!

THE WAR Printed in the ‘London Times,' May 9, 1859; reprinted in the 'Death of (Enone' volume, 1892, with the title, “Riflemen, Form.' THERE is a sound of thunder afar,

Storm in the South that darkens the day!
Storm of battle and thunder of war!
Well if it do not roll our way.

Form ! form! Riflemen, form!
Ready, be ready to meet the storm!
Riflemen, Riflemen, Riflemen, form:

Be not deaf to the sound that warns !

Be not gull'd by a despot's plea ! Are figs of thistles, or grapes of thorns ? How should a despot set men Free?

Form ! form ! Riflemen, form!

Ready, be ready to meet the storm!

Riflemen, Riflemen, Riflemen, form! Let your reforms for a moment go!

Look to your butts, and take good aims!
Better a rotten borough or so
Than a rotten fleet or a city in flames !

Form! form! Riflemen, form!
Ready, be ready to meet the storm!

Riflemen, Riflemen, Ritlemen, form!
Form, be ready to do or die !

Form in Freedom's name and the Queen's !
True that we have a faithful ally,
But only the devil can tell what he means.

Form! form! Riflemen, form!
Ready, be ready to meet the storm!
Riflemen, Riflemen, Riflemen, form!

When Ringlet, O Ringlet,

She clipt you from her head, And Ringlet, O Ringlet,

She gave you me, and said, . Come, kiss it, love, and put it by: If this can change, why so can I.' O fie, you golden nothing, fie,

You golden lie,

3 O Ringlet, O Ringlet,

I count you much to blame, For Ringlet, O Ringlet,

You put me much to shame, So Ringlet, O Ringlet

I doom you to the flame. For what is this which now I learn, Has given all my faith a turn ? Burn, you glossy heretic, burn,

Burn, burn.

THE RINGLET Printed in the 'Enoch Arden'volume, 1864, but afterwards suppressed. *Your ringlets, your ringlets,

That look so golden-gay,
If you will give me one, but one,

To kiss it night and day,
Then never chilling touch of Time

Will turn it silver-gray;
And then shall I know it is all true gold
To flame and sparkle and stream as of old.
Till all the comets in heaven are cold,

And all her stars decay.' "Then take it, love, and put it by;. This cannot change, nor yet can I.

LINES Written in 1864, at the request of the Queen, for inscription on the statue of the Duchess of Kent at Frogmore; printed in ‘The Court Journal,' March 19, 1864. Long as the heart beats life within her breast, Thy child will bless thee, guardian mother

mild, And far away thy memory will be blest

By children of the children of thy child,


“My ringlet, my ringlet,

That art so golden-gay,
Now never chilling touch of Time

Can turn thee silver-gray;
And a lad may wink, and a girl may hint,

And a fool may say his say; For my doubts and fears were all amiss, And I swear henceforth by this and this, That a doubt will only come for a kiss,

And a fear to be kiss'd away.' "Then kiss it, love, and put it by: If this can change, why so can I.'

1865-1866 Contributed to 'Good Words,' March, 1868. I stood on a tower in the wet, And New Year and Old Year met, And winds were roaring and blowing, And I said, 0 years that meet in tears, Have ye aught that is worth the knowing ? Science enough and exploring, Wanderers coming and going, Matter enough for deploring, But anght that is worth the knowing?' Seas at my feet were flowing, Waves on the shingle pouring, Old Year roaring and blowing, And New Year blowing and roaring.

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