FESULAN IDYL.

HERE,where precipitate Spring with one light bound
Into hot Summer's lusty arms expires;
And where go forth at morn, at eve, at night,
Soft airs, that want the lute to play with them,
And softer sighs, that know not what they want:
Under a wall, beneath an orange-tree,
Whose tallest flowers could tell the lowlier ones
Of sights in Fiesole right up above,
While I was gazing a few paces off

At what they seemed to show me with their nods,
Their frequent whispers and their pointing shoots,
A gentle maid came down the garden steps,
And gathered the pure treasure in her lap.
I heard the branches rustle, and stept forth
To drive the ox away, or mule, or goat,
(Such I believed it must be;) for sweet scents
Are the swift vehicles of still sweeter thoughts,
And nurse and pillow the dull memory
That would let drop without them her best stores.
They bring me tales of youth and tones of love,
And 'tis and ever was my wish and way
To let all flowers live freely, and all die,
Whene'er their genius bid their souls depart,
Among their kindred in their native place.
I never pluck the rose; the violet's head
Hath shaken with my breath upon its bank
And not reproach'd me; the ever sacred cup
Of the pure lily hath between my hands
Felt safe, unsoil'd, nor lost one grain of gold.
I saw the light that made the glossy leaves
More glossy; the fair arm, the fairer cheek
Warmed by the eye intent on its pursuit;
I saw the foot, that, although half-erect
From its gray slipper, could not lift her up
To what she wanted: I held down a branch
And gather'd her some blossoms, since their hour
Was come, and bees had wounded them, and flies
Of harder wing were working their way through
And scattering them in fragments under foot.
So crisp were some, they rattled unevolved,
Others, ere broken off, fell into shells,
For such appear the petals when detach'd,

! Unbending, brittle, lucid, white like snow,
And like snow not seen through, by eye or sun:
Yet every one her gown received from me
Was fairer than the first-I thought not so,
But so she praised them to reward my care.
I said: "You find the largest."

TO IANTHE.

WHILE the winds whistle round my cheerless room,
And the pale morning droops with winter's gloom;
While indistinct lie rude and cultured lands,
The ripening harvest and the hoary sands:
Alone, and destitute of every page

That fires the poet, or informs the sage,
Where shall my wishes, where my fancy rove,
Rest upon past or cherish promised love?
Alas! the past I never can regain,

Wishes may rise, and tears may flow in vain.
Fancy, that shows her in her early bloom,
Throws barren sunshine o'er the unyielding tomb.
What then would passion, what would reason do?
Sure, to retrace is worse than to pursue.

Here will I sit, 'till heaven shall cease to lour,
And happier Hesper bring the appointed hour;
Gaze on the mingled waste of sky and sea,
Think of my love, and bid her think of me.

TO CORINTH.

QUEEN of the double sea, beloved of him
Who shakes the world's foundations, thou hast seen
Glory in all her beauty, all her forms;
Seen her walk back with Theseus when he left
The bones of Sciron bleaching to the wind,
Above the ocean's roar and cormorant's flight,
So high that vastest billows from above
Show but like herbage waving in the mead;
Seen generations throng thy Isthmian games,
And pass away-the beautiful, the brave,
And them who sang their praises.

But, O queen,
Audible still, and far beyond thy cliffs,
As when they first were uttered, are those words
Divine which praised the valiant and the just;
And tears have often stopt, upon that ridge
So perilous, him who brought before his eye
The Colchian babes.

"Stay! spare him! save the last! Medea!-is that blood? again! it drops From my imploring hand upon my feet!

I will invoke the Eumenides no more.

I will forgive thee-bless thee-bend to thee
In all thy wishes-do but thou, Medea,
Tell me, one lives."

"And shall I too deceive ?"
Cries from the fiery car an angry voice;
And swifter than two falling stars descend
Two breathless bodies-warm, soft, motionless,
As flowers in stillest noon before the sun,
They lie three paces from him-such they lie
As when he left them sleeping side by side,
A mother's arm round each, a mother's cheeks
Between them, flushed with happiness and love.
He was more changed than they were-doomed to
show

Thee and the stranger, how defaced and scarred
Grief hunts us down the precipice of years,
And whom the faithless prey upon the last.

To give the inertest masses of our earth Her loveliest forms was thine, to fix the gods Within thy walls, and hang their tripods round With fruits and foliage knowing not decay. A nobler work remains: thy citadel Invites all Greece; o'er lands and floods remote Many are the hearts that still beat high for thee: Confide then in thy strength, and unappalled Look down upon the plain, while yokemate kings Run bellowing, where their herdsmen goad them on; Instinct is sharp in them, and terror true— They smell the floor whereon their necks must lie.

STANZAS.

SAY ye, that years roll on and ne'er return? Say ye, the sun who leaves them all behind, Their great creator, cannot bring one back With all his force, though he draw worlds around? Witness me, little streams! that meet before My happy dwelling; witness, Africo And Mensola! that ye have seen at once Twenty roll back, twenty as swift and bright As are your swiftest and your brightest waves, When the tall cypress o'er the Doccia Hurls from his inmost boughs the latent snow.

Go, and go happy, pride of my past days And solace of my present, thou whom fate Alone hath sever'd from me! One step higher Must yet be mounted, high as was the last : Friendship, with faltering accent, says depart! And take the highest seat below the crown'd.

WORSHIP GOD ONLY.

Ines. Revere our holy church; though some within

Have erred, and some are slow to lead us right, Stopping to pry when staff and lamp should be In hand, and the way whiten underneath.

Pedro. Ines, the church is now a charnel-house, Where all that is not rottenness is drowth. Thou hast but seen its gate hung round with flowers, And heard the music whose serenest waves Cover its gulfs and dally with its shoals, And hold the myriad insects in light play Above it, loth to leave its sunny sides. Look at this central edifice! come close! Men's bones and marrow its materials are, Men's groans inaugurated it, men's tears Sprinkle its floor, fires lighted up with men Are censers for it; agony and anger Surround it night and day with sleepless eyes; Dissimulation, terror, treachery, Denunciations of the child, the parent, The sister, brother, lover, (mark me, Ines!) Are the peace-offerings God receives from it.

Ines. I tremble-but betrayers tremble more. Now cease, cease, Pedro! cling I must to somewhat: Leave me one guide, one rest! Let me love God! Alone-if it must be so!

Pedro. Him alone

Mind; in him only place thy trust henceforth.

THE TAMED DORMOUSE.

THERE is a creature, dear to Heaven, Tiny and weak, to whom is given To enjoy the world while suns are bright, And shut grim winter from its sightTamest of hearts that beat on wilds, Tamer and tenderer than a child'sThe Dormouse-this he loved and taught (Docile it is the day it's caught, And fond of music, voice or string) To stand before and hear her sing, Or lie within her palm half-closed, Until another's interposed, And claim'd the alcove wherein it lay, Or held it with divided sway.

TO A DEAD CHILD.

CHILD of a day, thou knowest not

The tears that overflow thy urn, The gushing eyes that read thy lot,

Nor, if thou knewest, couldst return! And why the wish? the pure and blest Watch like thy mother o'er thy sleep; O peaceful night! O envied rest! Thou wilt not ever see her weep.

ON THE DEATH OF SOUTHEY.

Nor the last struggle of the sun,
Precipitated from his golden throne,
Hold darkling mortals in sublime suspense,
But the calm exod of a man

Nearer, though high above, who ran
The race we run, when Heaven recalls him hence.

Thus, O thou pure of earthly taint! Thus, O my SoUTHEY! poet, sage, and saint, Thou, after saddest silence, art removed.

What voice in anguish can we raise ? Thee would we, need we, dare we praise? God now does that-the God thy whole heart loved.

SIXTEEN.

IN Clementina's artless mien Lucilla asks me what I see, And are the roses of sixteen

Enough for me?

Lucilla asks, if that be all;
Have I not cull'd as sweet before-
Ah, yes, Lucilla! and their fall
I still deplore.

I now behold another scene,

Where pleasure beams with heaven's own light, More pure, more constant, more serene, And not less bright.

Faith, on whose breast the loves repose,

Whose chain of flowers no force can sever; And modesty, who, when she goes, Is gone for ever.

REPENTANCE OF KING RODERIGO.

THERE is, I hear, a poor half-ruined cell
In Xeres, whither few indeed resort;
Green are the walls within, green is the floor
And slippery from disuse; for Christian feet
Avoid it, as half-holy, half-accurst.
Still in its dark recess fanatic sin
Abases to the ground his tangled hair,
And servile scourges and reluctant groans
Roll o'er the vault uninterruptedly,

Till, such the natural stillness of the place,
The very tear upon the damps below
Drops audible, and the heart's throb replies.
There is the idol maid of Christian creed,
And taller images, whose history

I know not, nor inquired-a scene of blood,
Of resignation amid mortal pangs,
And other things, exceeding all belief.
Hither the aged Opas of Seville

Walked slowly, and behind him was a man
Barefooted, bruised, dejected, comfortless,
In sackcloth; the white ashes on his head
Dropt as he smote his breast; he gathered up,
Replaced them all, groan'd deeply, looked to heaven,
And held them, like a treasure, with claspt hands.

PASSAGE FROM IPPOLITO DI ESTE.

Ippolito. He saw his error.

Ferrante. All men do when age

Bends down their heads, or gold shines in their way. Ippolito. Although I would have helpt you in

distress,

And just removed you from the court awhile,
You called me tyrant.

Ferrante. Called thee tyrant? I?

By heaven! in tyrant there is something great
That never was in thee. I would be killed
Rather by any monster of the wild
Than choked by weeds and quicksands rather
crush'd

By maddest rage than clay-cold apathy.
Those who act well the tyrant, neither seek
Nor shun the name: and yet I wonder not
That thou repeatest it, and wishest me;
It sounds like power, like policy, like courage.
And none that calls thee tyrant can despise thee.
Go, issue orders for imprisonment,
Warrants for death: the gibbet and the wheel,
Lo! the grand boundaries of thy dominion!
Oh what a mighty office for a minister !
(And such Alfonso's brother calls himself),
To be the scribe of hawkers! Man of genius!
The lanes and allies echo with thy works.

MORNING.

Now to Aurora borne by dappled steeds, The sacred gate of orient pearl and gold, Smitten with Lucifer's light silver wand, Expanded slow to strains of harmony; The waves beneath in purpling rows, like doves Glancing with wanton coyness tow'rd their queen, Heaved softly; thus the damsel's bosom heaves When from her sleeping lover's downy cheek, To which so warily her own she brings Each moment nearer, she perceives the warmth Of coming kisses fann'd by playful dreams. Ocean and earth and heaven was jubilee. For 'twas the morning pointed out by fate When an immortal maid and mortal man Should share each other's nature knit in bliss.

CLIFTON.

CLIFTON, in vain thy varied scenes invite-
The mossy bank, dim glade, and dizzy height;
The sheep, that, starting from the tufted thyme,
Untune the distant churches' mellow chime;
As o'er each limb a gentle horror creeps,
And shake above our heads the craggy steeps.
Pleasant I've thought it to pursue the rower
While light and darkness seize the changeful oar;
The frolic Naiads drawing from below
A net of silver round the black canoe.
Now the last lonely solace must it be
To watch pale evening brood o'er land and sea.
Then join my friends, and let those friends believe
My cheeks are moistened by the dews of eve.

A CATHEDRAL SCENE.

Now all the people follow the procession:
Here may I walk alone, and let my spirits
Enjoy the coolness of these quiet ailes.
Surely no air is stirring; every step
Tires me; the columns shake, the ceiling fleets,
The floor beneath me slopes, the altar rises.
Stay!-here she stept-what grace! what harmony!
It seemed that every accent, every note,
Of all the choral music, breathed from her:
From her celestial airiness of form

I could have fancied purer light descended,
Between the pillars, close and wearying,
I watcht her as she went: I had rusht on-
It was too late; yet, when I stopt, I thought
I stopt full soon I cried, Is she not there?
She had been: I had seen her shadow burst
The sunbeam as she parted: a strange sound,
A sound that stupefied and not aroused me,
Filled all my senses; such was never felt
Save when the sword-girt angel struck the gate,
And Paradise wail'd loud, and closed for ever.

EPITAPH ON A POET IN A WELSH CHURCHYARD.

KIND Souls! who strive what pious hand shall bring
The first-found crocus from reluctant spring,
Or blow your wintry fingers while they strew
This sunless turf with rosemary and rue,
Bend o'er your lovers first, but mind to save
One sprig of each to trim a poet's grave.

THE DRAGON-FLY.

LIFE (priest and poet say) is but a dream;
I wish no happier one than to be laid
Beneath some cool syringa's scented shade;
Or wavy willow, by the running stream,
Brimful of moral, where the dragon-fly
Wanders as careless and content as I.
Thanks for this fancy, insect king,
Of purple crest and meshy wing,
Who, with indifference, givest up
The water-lily's golden cup,
To come again and overlook
What I am writing in my book.
Believe me, most who read the line
Will read with hornier eyes than thine;
And yet their souls shall live for ever,
And thine drop dead into the river!
God pardon them, O insect king,
Who fancy so unjust a thing!

AN ARAB TO HIS MISTRESS.

Look thou yonder, look and tremble,
Thou whose passion swells so high;
See those ruins! that resemble
Flocks of camels as they lie.
"Twas a fair but froward city,
Bidding tribes and chiefs obey,
Till he came, who, deaf to pity,

Tost the imploring arm away.
Spoil'd and prostrate, she lamented
What her pride and folly wrought:
But was ever Pride contented,
Or would Folly e'er be taught?
Strong are cities; Rage o'erthrows 'em;
Rage o'erswells the gallant ship;
Stains it not the cloud-white bosom,
Flaws it not the ruby lip?

All that shields us, all that charms us,
Brow of ivory, tower of stone,
Yield to Wrath; another's harms us,
But we perish by our own.

Night may send to rave and ravage
Panther and hyena fell;

But their manners, harsh and savage,
Little suit the mild gazelle.

When the waves of life surround thee,

Quenching oft the light of love,

When the clouds of doubt confound thee, Drive not from thy breast the dove.