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warmer

on

But the same language with more full apROBERT BROWNING

peal

Shall hail thee. Many are the sons of song THERE is delight in singing, though none Whom thou hast heard upon thy native hear

plains Beside the singer; and there is delight Worthy to sing of thee : the hour is come ; In praising, though the praiser sit alone Take we our seats and let the dirge begin. And see the prais'd far off him, far above. Shakspeare is not our poet, but the world's, Therefore on him no speech! and brief for

thee, Browning! Since Chaucer was alive and bale,

TO IANTHE No man hath walk'd along our roads with step

You smild, you spoke, and I believ'd,
So active, so inquiring eye, or tongue By every word and smile deceiv'd.
So varied in discourse. But climes Another man would hope no more ;
Give brighter plumage, stronger wing : the Nor hope I what I hop'd before :
breeze

But let not this last wish be vain ;
Of Alpine heights thou playest with, borne Deceive, deceive me once again !
Beyond Sorrento and Amalfi, where
The Siren waits thee, singing song for song.

IANTHE'S TROUBLES

Your pleasures spring like daisies in the ON THE DEATH OF M. D'OSSOLI

grass, AND HIS WIFE MARGARET Cut down and up again as blithe as FULLER

ever ;

From you, Ianthe, little tronbles pass
OVER his millions Death has lawful power, Like little ripples in a sunny river.
But over thee, brave D'Ossoli ! none, none.
After a longer struggle, in a fight
Worthy of Italy, to youth restor’d,

THE APPEAL
Thou, far from home, art sunk beneath the
surge

REMAIN, ah not in youth alone, Of the Atlantic ; on its shore ; in reach Though youth, where you are, long will Of help ; in trust of refuge ; sunk with stay, all

But when my summer days are gone, Precious on earth to thee . . . a child, a And my autumnal haste away. wife!

Can I be always by your side ? " Proud as thou wert of her, America

No; but the hours you can, you must, Is prouder, showing to her sons how high Nor rise at Death's approaching stride, Swells woman's courage in a virtuous Nor go when dust is gone to dust.

breast. She would not leave behind her those she lov'd :

THE TEST Such solitary safety might become Others ; not her ; not her who stood beside I HELD her hand, the pledge of bliss, The pallet of the wounded, when the worst Her hand that trembled and withdrew; Of France and Perfidy assaild the walls She bent her head before my kiss ... Of unsuspicious Rome. Rest, glorious soul, My heart was sure that hers was true. Renown'd for strength of genius, Margaret ! Now I have told her I must part, Rest with the twain too dear! My words She shakes my hand, she bids adieu, are few,

Nor shuns the kiss. Alas, my heart ! And shortly done will hear my failing voice, Hers never was the heart for you.

Listlessly she let fall the faithless brass IN AFTER TIME

That made the men as faithless.

But when you No, my own love of other years ! Found them, or fancied them, and would No, it must never be.

not hear Much rests with you that yet endears, That they were only vestiges of smiles, Alas! but what with me ?

Or the impression of some amorous hair Could those bright years o'er me revolve Astray from cloister'd curls and roseate So gay, o'er you so fair,

band, The pearl of life we would dissolve Which had been lying there all night per And each the cup might share.

naps You show that truth can ne'er decay, Upon a skin so soft, “ No, no,” you said, Whatever fate befalls ;

“Sure, they are coming, yes, are come, are I, that the myrtle and the bay

here : Shoot fresh on ruin'd walls.

Well, and what matters it, while thou art

too !

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Through gallopade I cannot swing
The entangling blooms of Beauty's spring :
I cannot say the tender thing,

Be't true or false,
And am beginning to opine
Those girls

are only half divine
Wbose waists yon wicked boys entwine

In giddy waltz.
I fear that arm above that shoulder ;
I wish them wiser, graver, older,
Sedater, and no harm if colder,

And panting less.
Ah! people were not half so wild
In former days, when, starchly mild,
l'pon her high-heeld 'Essex smild

The brave Queen Bess.

ON LUCRETIA BORGIA'S HAIR

Borgia, thou once wert almost too august And high for adoration; now thou 'rt

dust; All that remains of thee these plaits un

fold, Calm hair meandering in pellucid gold.

THE ONE WHITE HAIR

PERSISTENCE

The wisest of the wise
Listen to pretty lies

And love to hear them told ;
Doubt not that Solomon

Listen'd to many a one, —
Some in his youth, and more when he grew

old

My hopes retire ; my wishes as before Struggle to find their resting place in

vain : The ebbing sea thus beats against the

shore ; The shore repels it ; it returns again.

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COME, Sleep ! but mind ye ! if you come

without The little girl that struck me at the rout, By Jove ! I would not give yon half-a-crown For all your poppy-heads and all your down.

ON LIVING TOO LONG

Is it not better at an early hour

In its calm cell to rest the weary head, While birds are singing and while blooms

the bower, Than sit the fire out and go starv'd to bed?

The Mother of the Muses, we are taught,
Is Memory : she has left me ; they remain,
And shake my shoulder, urging me to sing
About the summer days, my loves of old.
Alas! alas! is all I can reply.
Memory has left with me that name alone,
Harmonious name, which other bards may

sing, But her bright image in my darkest hour Comes back, in vain comes back, callid or

uncail'd.
Forgotten are the names of visitors
Ready to press my hand but yesterday ;
Forgotten are the names of earlier friends
Whose genial converse and glad counte-
Are fresh as ever to mine ear and eye ;
To these, when I have written and besought
Remembrance of me, the word Dear alone
Hangs on the upper verge, and waits in

vain.
A blessing wert thou, O oblivion,
If thy stream carried only weeds away,
But vernal and autumnal flowers alike
It hurries down to wither on the strand.

A THOUGHT

nance

BLYTHE bell, that calls to bridal halls,

Tolls deep a darker day ; The very shower that feeds the flower

Weeps also its decay.

HEARTSEASE

THERE is a flower I wish to wear,

But not until first worn by you Heartsease - of all earth's flowers most

rare ; Bring it; and bring enough for two.

FOR AN EPITAPH AT FIESOLE

VERSES WHY BURNT

How many verses have I thrown Into the fire because the one Peculiar word, the wanted most, Was irrecoverably lost !

Lo! where the four mimosas blend their

shade In calm repose at last is Landor laid ; For ere he slept he saw them planted

here By her his soul had ever held most dear, And he had liv'd enough when he had

dried her tear.

George Darlep

While aside her cheek we're rushing,

Like some truant bees at play.

THE FLOWER OF BEAUTY SWEET in her green dell the flower of

beauty slumbers, Lull’d by the faint breezes sighing

through her hair ; Sleeps she, and hears not the melancholy

numbers Breath'd to my sad lute amid the lonely

air.

Through the blooming groves we rustle,

Kissing every bud we pass, As we did it in the bustle,

Scarcely knowing how it was.

Down the glen, across the mountain,

O’er the yellow heath we roam, Whirling round about the fountain

Till its little breakers foam.

Bending down the weeping willows,

While our vesper hymn we sigh ; Then unto our rosy pillows

On our weary wings we hie. There of idlenesses dreaming,

Scarce from waking we refrain, Moments long as ages deeming

Till we 're at our play again.

Down from the high cliffs the rivulet is

teeming, To wind round the willow-banks that lure

him from above ; O that, in tears from my rocky prison

streaming, I, too, could glide to the bower of my love ! Ah, where the woodbines with sleepy arms

have wound her, Opes she her eyelids at the dream of my

lay, Listening, like the dove, while the fountains

echo round her, To her lost mate's call in the forests far

away. Come, then, my bird !' for the peace thou

ever bearest, Still Heaven's messenger of comfort to

me ; Come ! this fond bosom, my faithfullest,

my fairest, Bleeds with its death-wound but deeper

yet for thee.

SONGS FROM “SYLVIA; OR, THE

MAY QUEEN

I
CHORUS OF SPIRITS
GENTLY !- gently ! - down ! — down!

From the starry courts on high,
Gently step adown, down

The ladder of the sky.
Sunbeam steps are strong enough

For such airy feet :
Spirits, blow your trumpets rough,

So as they be sweet !
Breathe them loud, the Queen descending:

Yet a lowly welcome breathe, Like so many flowerets bending

Zephyr's breezy foot beneath.

SUMMER WINDS ['p the dale and down the bourne,

O'er the meadow swift we fly ; Now we sing, and now we mourn,

Now we whistle, now we sigh. By the grassy-fringed river

Through the murmuring reeds we sweep, Mid the lily-leaves we quiver,

To their very hearts we creep. Now the maiden rose is blushing

At the frolic things we say,

II

MORNING-SONG AWAKE thee, my Lady-love !

Wake thee, and rise ! The sun through the bower peeps

Into thine eyes !

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