And all killing insects and gnawing worms, In a basket of grasses and wild flowers full, But the bee, and the beamlike ephemeris that kiss The sweet lips of the flowers and harm not, did she Make her attendant angels be. And many an antenatal tomb Where butterflies dream of the life to come She left clinging round the smooth and dark Edge of the odorous cedar bark. This fairest Creature from earliest Spring Thus moved through the garden ministering All the sweet season of summer-tide ; And ere the first leaf looked brown she died. And Indian plants, of scent and hue PART III. THREE days the flowers of the garden fair And on the fourth the Sensitive Plant And the steps of the bearers, heavy and slow, The weary sound and the heavy breath The sweetest that ever were fed on dew, And the leaves, brown, yellow and gray and red, And white with the whiteness of what is dead, And the gusty winds waked the winged seeds stem, Which rotted into the earth with them. The water-blooms under the rivulet Then the rain came down, and the broken Were bent and tangled across the walks; Spawn, weeds and filth, a leprous scum, And hour by hour, when the air was still, At night they were darkness no star could Between the time of the wind and the snow Like the water-snake's belly and the toad's Unseen; every branch on which they alit back; And thistles and nettles, and darnels rank, By a venomous blight was burned and bit. The Sensitive Plant, like one forbid, And plants at whose names the verse feels For the leaves soon fell, and the branches soon loth By the heavy axe of the blast were hewn ; Filled the place with a monstrous under- The sap shrank to the root through every growth, Prickly and pulpous and blistering and blue, As blood to a heart that will beat no more. Livid, and starred with a lurid dew; pore For Winter came: the wind was his whip; And agarics and fungi, with mildew and One choppy finger was on his lip; mould, Started like mist from the wet ground cold, Their moss rotted off them flake by flake, He had torn the cataracts from the hills, His breath was a chain which without a sound Where rags of loose flesh yet tremble on Then the weeds, which were forms of living high, Infecting the winds that wander by. death, Fled from the frost to the earth beneath; Their decay and sudden flight from frost And under the roots of the Sensitive Plant First there came down a thawing rain, And a northern Whirlwind, wandering about And snapped them off with his rigid griff. When Winter had gone, and Spring came back, The Sensitive Plant was a leafless wreck; But the mandrakes and toadstools and docks and darnels Rose like the dead from their ruined charnels. VENICE. The pleasant place of all festivity, STOOD in Venice, on the Bridge of The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy. Sighs, A palace and a prison on each hand; I saw from out the wave her structures rise As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand: A thousand years their cloudy wings expand Around me, and a dying glory smiles O'er the far times, when many a subject land Looked to the winged Lion's marble piles, Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles. She looks a sea Cybele fresh from ocean, From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless Poured in her lap all gems in sparkling showers. In purple was she robed, and of her feast Monarchs partook, and deemed their dignity increased. In Venice, Tasso's echoes are no more, And silent rows the songless gondolier; Her palaces are crumbling to the shore, And music meets not always now the ear: Those days are gone, but Beauty still is here. States fall, arts fade, but Nature doth not die, But unto us she hath a spell beyond The keystones of the arch: though all were o'er, For us repeopled were the solitary shore. The beings of the mind are not of clay; Prohibits to dull life in this our state First exiles, then replaces, what we hate, Watering the heart whose early flowers have died, And with a fresher growth replenishing the void. Such is the refuge of our youth and age- Yet there are things whose strong reality Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear, O'er her wild universe is skilful to diffuse. |