To--


  I

  All good things have not kept aloof
  Nor wandered into other ways:
  I have not lacked thy mild reproof,
  Nor golden largess of thy praise.
  But life is full of weary days.


  II

  Shake hands, my friend, across the brink
  Of that deep grave to which I go:
  Shake hands once more: I cannot sink
  So far--far down, but I shall know
  Thy voice, and answer from below.


  III

  When in the darkness over me
  The fourhanded mole shall scrape,
  Plant thou no dusky cypresstree,
  Nor wreathe thy cap with doleful crape,
  But pledge me in the flowing grape.


  IV

  And when the sappy field and wood
  Grow green beneath the showery gray,
  And rugged barks begin to bud,
  And through damp holts newflushed with May,
  Ring sudden laughters of the Jay,


  V

  Then let wise Nature work her will,
  And on my clay her darnels grow;
  Come only, when the days are still,
  And at my headstone whisper low,
  And tell me if the woodbines blow.

  VI

  If thou art blest, my mother's smile
  Undimmed, if bees are on the wing:
  Then cease, my friend, a little while,
  That I may hear the throstle sing
  His bridal song, the boast of spring.


  VII

  Sweet as the noise in parchèd plains
  Of bubbling wells that fret the stones,
  (If any sense in me remains)
  Thy words will be: thy cheerful tones
  As welcome to my crumbling bones.

Buonaparte


  He thought to quell the stubborn hearts of oak,
  Madman!--to chain with chains, and bind with bands
  That island queen who sways the floods and lands
  From Ind to Ind, but in fair daylight woke,
  When from her wooden walls, lit by sure hands,
  With thunders and with lightnings and with smoke,
  Peal after peal, the British battle broke,
  Lulling the brine against the Coptic sands.
  We taught him lowlier moods, when Elsinore
  Heard the war moan along the distant sea,
  Rocking with shatter'd spars, with sudden fires
  Flamed over: at Trafalgar yet once more
  We taught him: late he learned humility
  Perforce, like those whom Gideon school'd with briers.

Sonnet

I

  Oh, Beauty, passing beauty! sweetest Sweet!
  How canst thou let me waste my youth in sighs?
  I only ask to sit beside thy feet.
  Thou knowest I dare not look into thine eyes,
  Might I but kiss thy hand! I dare not fold
  My arms about thee--scarcely dare to speak.
  And nothing seems to me so wild and bold,
  As with one kiss to touch thy blessed cheek.
  Methinks if I should kiss thee, no control
  Within the thrilling brain could keep afloat
  The subtle spirit. Even while I spoke,
  The bare word KISS hath made my inner soul
  To tremble like a lutestring, ere the note
  Hath melted in the silence that it broke.


II


  But were I loved, as I desire to be,
  What is there in the great sphere of the earth,
  And range of evil between death and birth,
  That I should fear--if I were loved by thee?
  All the inner, all the outer world of pain
  Clear Love would pierce and cleave, if thou wert mine,
  As I have heard that, somewhere in the main,
  Fresh water-springs come up through bitter brine.
  'Twere joy, not fear, clasped hand in hand with thee,
  To wait for death--mute--careless of all ills,
  Apart upon a mountain, though the surge
  Of some new deluge from a thousand hills
  Flung leagues of roaring foam into the gorge
  Below us, as far on as eye could see.

The Hesperides

    Hesperus and his daughters three
    That sing about the golden tree.

    (Comus).


  The Northwind fall'n, in the newstarred night
  Zidonian Hanno, voyaging beyond
  The hoary promontory of Soloë
  Past Thymiaterion, in calmèd bays,
  Between the Southern and the Western Horn,
  Heard neither warbling of the nightingale,
  Nor melody o' the Lybian lotusflute
  Blown seaward from the shore; but from a slope
  That ran bloombright into the Atlantic blue,
  Beneath a highland leaning down a weight
  Of cliffs, and zoned below with cedarshade,
  Came voices, like the voices in a dream,
  Continuous, till he reached the other sea.

Song


  I

  The golden apple, the golden apple, the hallowed fruit,
  Guard it well, guard it warily,
  Singing airily,
  Standing about the charmèd root.
  Round about all is mute,
  As the snowfield on the mountain-peaks,
  As the sandfield at the mountain-foot.
  Crocodiles in briny creeks
  Sleep and stir not: all is mute.
  If ye sing not, if ye make false measure,
  We shall lose eternal pleasure,
  Worth eternal want of rest.
  Laugh not loudly: watch the treasure
  Of the wisdom of the West.
  In a corner wisdom whispers.
  Five and three
  (Let it not be preached abroad) make an awful mystery.
  For the blossom unto three-fold music bloweth;
  Evermore it is born anew;
  And the sap to three-fold music floweth,
  From the root
  Drawn in the dark,
  Up to the fruit,
  Creeping under the fragrant bark,
  Liquid gold, honeysweet thro' and thro'.
  Keen-eyed Sisters, singing airily,
  Looking warily
  Every way,
  Guard the apple night and day,
  Lest one from the East come and take it away.


  II

  Father Hesper, Father Hesper, watch, watch, ever and aye,
  Looking under silver hair with a silver eye.
  Father, twinkle not thy stedfast sight;
  Kingdoms lapse, and climates change, and races die;
  Honour comes with mystery;
  Hoarded wisdom brings delight.
  Number, tell them over and number
  How many the mystic fruittree holds,
  Lest the redcombed dragon slumber
  Rolled together in purple folds.
  Look to him, father, lest he wink, and the golden apple be stol'n away,
  For his ancient heart is drunk with over-watchings night and day,
  Round about the hallowed fruit tree curled--
  Sing away, sing aloud evermore in the wind, without stop,
  Lest his scalèd eyelid drop, For he is older than the world.
  If he waken, we waken,
  Rapidly levelling eager eyes.
  If he sleep, we sleep,
  Dropping the eyelid over the eyes.
  If the golden apple be taken
  The world will be overwise.
  Five links, a golden chain, are we,
  Hesper, the dragon, and sisters three,
  Bound about the golden tree.


  III

  Father Hesper, Father Hesper, watch, watch, night and day,
  Lest the old wound of the world be healed,
  The glory unsealed,
  The golden apple stol'n away,
  And the ancient secret revealed.
  Look from west to east along:
  Father, old Himala weakens,
  Caucasus is bold and strong.
  Wandering waters unto wandering waters call;
  Let them clash together, foam and fall.
  Out of watchings, out of wiles,
  Comes the bliss of secret smiles.
  All things are not told to all,
  Half-round the mantling night is drawn,
  Purplefringed with even and dawn.
  Hesper hateth Phosphor, evening hateth morn.


  IV

  Every flower and every fruit the redolent breath
  Of this warm seawind ripeneth,
  Arching the billow in his sleep;
  But the landwind wandereth,
  Broken by the highland-steep,
  Two streams upon the violet deep:
  For the western sun and the western star,
  And the low west wind, breathing afar,
  The end of day and beginning of night
  Make the apple holy and bright,
  Holy and bright, round and full, bright and blest,
  Mellowed in a land of rest;
  Watch it warily day and night;
  All good things are in the west,
  Till midnoon the cool east light
  Is shut out by the round of the tall hillbrow;
  But when the fullfaced sunset yellowly
  Stays on the flowering arch of the bough,
  The luscious fruitage clustereth mellowly,
  Goldenkernelled, goldencored,
  Sunset-ripened, above on the tree,
  The world is wasted with fire and sword,
  But the apple of gold hangs over the sea,
  Five links, a golden chain, are we,
  Hesper, the dragon, and sisters three,
  Daughters three,
  Bound about
  All round about
  The gnarled bole of the charmèd tree,
  The golden apple, the golden apple, the hallowed fruit,
  Guard it well, guard it warily,
  Watch it warily,
  Singing airily,
  Standing about the charmed root.

Rosalind


  My Rosalind, my Rosalind,
  My frolic falcon, with bright eyes,
  Whose free delight, from any height of rapid flight,
  Stoops at all game that wing the skies,
  My Rosalind, my Rosalind,
  My bright-eyed, wild-eyed falcon, whither,
  Careless both of wind and weather,
  Whither fly ye, what game spy ye,
  Up or down the streaming wind?


  II

  The quick lark's closest-carolled strains,
  The shadow rushing up the sea,
  The lightningflash atween the rain,
  The sunlight driving down the lea,
  The leaping stream, the very wind,
  That will not stay, upon his way,
  To stoop the cowslip to the plains,
  Is not so clear and bold and free
  As you, my falcon Rosalind.
  You care not for another's pains,
  Because you are the soul of joy,
  Bright metal all without alloy.
  Life shoots and glances thro' your veins,
  And flashes off a thousand ways,
  Through lips and eyes in subtle rays.
  Your hawkeyes are keen and bright,
  Keen with triumph, watching still
  To pierce me through with pointed light;
  And oftentimes they flash and glitter
  Like sunshine on a dancing rill,
  And your words are seeming-bitter,
  Sharp and few, but seeming-bitter
  From excess of swift delight.


  III

  Come down, come home, my Rosalind,
  My gay young hawk, my Rosalind:
  Too long you keep the upper skies;
  Too long you roam, and wheel at will;
  But we must hood your random eyes,
  That care not whom they kill,
  And your cheek, whose brilliant hue
  Is so sparkling fresh to view,
  Some red heath-flower in the dew,
  Touched with sunrise. We must bind
  And keep you fast, my Rosalind,
  Fast, fast, my wild-eyed Rosalind,
  And clip your wings, and make you love:
  When we have lured you from above,
  And that delight of frolic flight, by day or night,
  From North to South;
  We'll bind you fast in silken cords,
  And kiss away the bitter words
  From off your rosy mouth.

Song


  Who can say
  Why To-day
  To-morrow will be yesterday?
  Who can tell
  Why to smell
  The violet, recalls the dewy prime
  Of youth and buried time?
  The cause is nowhere found in rhyme.

Kate


  I know her by her angry air,
  Her brightblack eyes, her brightblack hair,
  Her rapid laughters wild and shrill,
  As laughter of the woodpecker
  From the bosom of a hill.
  'Tis Kate--she sayeth what she will;
  For Kate hath an unbridled tongue,
  Clear as the twanging of a harp.
  Her heart is like a throbbing star.
  Kate hath a spirit ever strung
  Like a new bow, and bright and sharp
  As edges of the scymetar.
  Whence shall she take a fitting mate?
  For Kate no common love will feel;
  My woman-soldier, gallant Kate,
  As pure and true as blades of steel.

  Kate saith "the world is void of might".
  Kate saith "the men are gilded flies".
  Kate snaps her fingers at my vows;
  Kate will not hear of lover's sighs.
  I would I were an armèd knight,
  Far famed for wellwon enterprise,
  And wearing on my swarthy brows
  The garland of new-wreathed emprise:
  For in a moment I would pierce
  The blackest files of clanging fight,
  And strongly strike to left and right,
  In dreaming of my lady's eyes.
  Oh! Kate loves well the bold and fierce;
  But none are bold enough for Kate,
  She cannot find a fitting mate.

Sonnet


  Blow ye the trumpet, gather from afar
  The hosts to battle: be not bought and sold.
  Arise, brave Poles, the boldest of the bold;
  Break through your iron shackles--fling them far.
  O for those days of Piast, ere the Czar
  Grew to this strength among his deserts cold;
  When even to Moscow's cupolas were rolled
  The growing murmurs of the Polish war!
  Now must your noble anger blaze out more
  Than when from Sobieski, clan by clan,
  The Moslem myriads fell, and fled before--
  Than when Zamoysky smote the Tartar Khan,
  Than earlier, when on the Baltic shore
  Boleslas drove the Pomeranian.

Poland


  How long, O God, shall men be ridden down,
  And trampled under by the last and least
  Of men? The heart of Poland hath not ceased
  To quiver, tho' her sacred blood doth drown
  The fields; and out of every smouldering town
  Cries to Thee, lest brute Power be increased,
  Till that o'ergrown Barbarian in the East
  Transgress his ample bound to some new crown:--
  Cries to thee, "Lord, how long shall these things be?
  How long this icyhearted Muscovite
  Oppress the region?" Us, O Just and Good,
  Forgive, who smiled when she was torn in three;
  Us, who stand now, when we should aid the right--
  A matter to be wept with tears of blood!