The Lord of Burleigh



  In her ear he whispers gaily,
  "If my heart by signs can tell,
  Maiden, I have watch'd thee daily,
  And I think thou lov'st me well".
  She replies, in accents fainter,
  "There is none I love like thee".
  He is but a landscape-painter,
  And a village maiden she.
  He to lips, that fondly falter,
  Presses his without reproof:
  Leads her to the village altar,
  And they leave her father's roof.
  "I can make no marriage present;
  Little can I give my wife.
  Love will make our cottage pleasant,
  And I love thee more than life."
  They by parks and lodges going
  See the lordly castles stand:
  Summer woods, about them blowing,
  Made a murmur in the land.
  From deep thought himself he rouses,
  Says to her that loves him well,
  "Let us see these handsome houses
  Where the wealthy nobles dwell".
  So she goes by him attended,
  Hears him lovingly converse,
  Sees whatever fair and splendid
  Lay betwixt his home and hers;
  Parks with oak and chestnut shady,
  Parks and order'd gardens great,
  Ancient homes of lord and lady,
  Built for pleasure and for state.
  All he shows her makes him dearer:
  Evermore she seems to gaze
  On that cottage growing nearer,
  Where they twain will spend their days.
  O but she will love him truly!
  He shall have a cheerful home;
  She will order all things duly,
  When beneath his roof they come.
  Thus her heart rejoices greatly,
  Till a gateway she discerns
  With armorial bearings stately,
  And beneath the gate she turns;
  Sees a mansion more majestic
  Than all those she saw before:
  Many a gallant gay domestic
  Bows before him at the door.
  And they speak in gentle murmur,
  When they answer to his call,
  While he treads with footstep firmer,
  Leading on from hall to hall.
  And, while now she wonders blindly,
  Nor the meaning can divine,
  Proudly turns he round and kindly,
  "All of this is mine and thine".
  Here he lives in state and bounty,
  Lord of Burleigh, fair and free,
  Not a lord in all the county
  Is so great a lord as he.
  All at once the colour flushes
  Her sweet face from brow to chin:
  As it were with shame she blushes,
  And her spirit changed within.
  Then her countenance all over
  Pale again as death did prove:
  But he clasp'd her like a lover,
  And he cheer'd her soul with love.
  So she strove against her weakness,
  Tho' at times her spirits sank:
  Shaped her heart with woman's meekness
  To all duties of her rank:
  And a gentle consort made he,
  And her gentle mind was such
  That she grew a noble lady,
  And the people loved her much.
  But a trouble weigh'd upon her,
  And perplex'd her, night and morn,
  With the burthen of an honour
  Unto which she was not born.
  Faint she grew, and ever fainter,
  As she murmur'd "Oh, that he
  Were once more that landscape-painter
  Which did win my heart from me!"
  So she droop'd and droop'd before him,
  Fading slowly from his side:
  Three fair children first she bore him,
  Then before her time she died.
  Weeping, weeping late and early,
  Walking up and pacing down,
  Deeply mourn'd the Lord of Burleigh,
  Burleigh-house by Stamford-town.
  And he came to look upon her,
  And he look'd at her and said,
  "Bring the dress and put it on her,
  That she wore when she was wed".
  Then her people, softly treading,
  Bore to earth her body, drest
  In the dress that she was wed in,
  That her spirit might have rest.

Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere

A Fragment



  Like souls that balance joy and pain,
  With tears and smiles from heaven again
  The maiden Spring upon the plain
  Came in a sun-lit fall of rain.
  In crystal vapour everywhere
  Blue isles of heaven laugh'd between,
  And, far in forest-deeps unseen,
  The topmost elm-tree gather'd green
  From draughts of balmy air.

  Sometimes the linnet piped his song:
  Sometimes the throstle whistled strong:
  Sometimes the sparhawk, wheel'd along,
  Hush'd all the groves from fear of wrong:
  By grassy capes with fuller sound
  In curves the yellowing river ran,
  And drooping chestnut-buds began
  To spread into the perfect fan,
  Above the teeming ground.

  Then, in the boyhood of the year,
  Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere
  Rode thro' the coverts of the deer,
  With blissful treble ringing clear.
  She seem'd a part of joyous Spring:
  A gown of grass-green silk she wore,
  Buckled with golden clasps before;
  A light-green tuft of plumes she bore
  Closed in a golden ring.

  Now on some twisted ivy-net,
  Now by some tinkling rivulet,
  In mosses mixt with violet
  Her cream-white mule his pastern set:
  And fleeter now she skimm'd the plains
  Than she whose elfin prancer springs
  By night to eery warblings,
  When all the glimmering moorland rings
  With jingling bridle-reins.

  As she fled fast thro' sun and shade,
  The happy winds upon her play'd,
  Blowing the ringlet from the braid:
  She look'd so lovely, as she sway'd
  The rein with dainty finger-tips,
  A man had given all other bliss,
  And all his worldly worth for this,
  To waste his whole heart in one kiss
  Upon her perfect lips.

A Farewell


  Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea,
  Thy tribute wave deliver:
  No more by thee my steps shall be,
  For ever and for ever.

  Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea,
  A rivulet then a river:
  No where by thee my steps shall be,
  For ever and for ever.

  But here will sigh thine alder tree,
  And here thine aspen shiver;
  And here by thee will hum the bee,
  For ever and for ever.

  A thousand suns will stream on thee,
  A thousand moons will quiver;
  But not by thee my steps shall be,
  For ever and for ever.

The Beggar Maid


  Her arms across her breast she laid;
  She was more fair than words can say:
  Bare-footed came the beggar maid
  Before the king Cophetua.
  In robe and crown the king stept down,
  To meet and greet her on her way;
  "It is no wonder," said the lords,
  "She is more beautiful than day".

  As shines the moon in clouded skies,
  She in her poor attire was seen:
  One praised her ancles, one her eyes,
  One her dark hair and lovesome mien:
  So sweet a face, such angel grace,
  In all that land had never been:
  Cophetua sware a royal oath:
  "This beggar maid shall be my queen!"

The Vision of Sin


  1

  I had a vision when the night was late:
  A youth came riding toward a palace-gate.
  He rode a horse with wings, that would have flown,
  But that his heavy rider kept him down.
  And from the palace came a child of sin,
  And took him by the curls, and led him in,
  Where sat a company with heated eyes,
  Expecting when a fountain should arise:
  A sleepy light upon their brows and lips--
  As when the sun, a crescent of eclipse,
  Dreams over lake and lawn, and isles and capes--
  Suffused them, sitting, lying, languid shapes,
  By heaps of gourds, and skins of wine, and piles of grapes.


  2

  Then methought I heard a mellow sound,
  Gathering up from all the lower ground;
  Narrowing in to where they sat assembled
  Low voluptuous music winding trembled,
  Wov'n in circles: they that heard it sigh'd,
  Panted hand in hand with faces pale,
  Swung themselves, and in low tones replied;
  Till the fountain spouted, showering wide
  Sleet of diamond-drift and pearly hail;
  Then the music touch'd the gates and died;
  Rose again from where it seem'd to fail,
  Storm'd in orbs of song, a growing gale;
  Till thronging in and in, to where they waited,
  As 'twere a hundred-throated nightingale,
  The strong tempestuous treble throbb'd and palpitated;
  Ran into its giddiest whirl of sound,
  Caught the sparkles, and in circles,
  Purple gauzes, golden hazes, liquid mazes,
  Flung the torrent rainbow round:
  Then they started from their places,
  Moved with violence, changed in hue,
  Caught each other with wild grimaces,
  Half-invisible to the view,
  Wheeling with precipitate paces
  To the melody, till they flew,
  Hair, and eyes, and limbs, and faces,
  Twisted hard in fierce embraces,
  Like to Furies, like to Graces,
  Dash'd together in blinding dew:
  Till, kill'd with some luxurious agony,
  The nerve-dissolving melody
  Flutter'd headlong from the sky.


  3

  And then I look'd up toward a mountain-tract,
  That girt the region with high cliff and lawn:
  I saw that every morning, far withdrawn
  Beyond the darkness and the cataract,
  God made himself an awful rose of dawn,
  Unheeded: and detaching, fold by fold,
  From those still heights, and, slowly drawing near,
  A vapour heavy, hueless, formless, cold,
  Came floating on for many a month and year,
  Unheeded: and I thought I would have spoken,
  And warn'd that madman ere it grew too late:
  But, as in dreams, I could not. Mine was broken,
  When that cold vapour touch'd the palace-gate,
  And link'd again. I saw within my head
  A gray and gap-tooth'd man as lean as death,
  Who slowly rode across a wither'd heath,
  And lighted at a ruin'd inn, and said:


  4

  "Wrinkled ostler, grim and thin!
  Here is custom come your way;
  Take my brute, and lead him in,
  Stuff his ribs with mouldy hay.

  "Bitter barmaid, waning fast!
  See that sheets are on my bed;
  What! the flower of life is past:
  It is long before you wed.

  "Slip-shod waiter, lank and sour,
  At the Dragon on the heath!
  Let us have a quiet hour,
  Let us hob-and-nob with Death.

  "I am old, but let me drink;
  Bring me spices, bring me wine;
  I remember, when I think,
  That my youth was half divine.

  "Wine is good for shrivell'd lips,
  When a blanket wraps the day,
  When the rotten woodland drips,
  And the leaf is stamp'd in clay.

  "Sit thee down, and have no shame,
  Cheek by jowl, and knee by knee:
  What care I for any name?
  What for order or degree?

  "Let me screw thee up a peg:
  Let me loose thy tongue with wine:
  Callest thou that thing a leg?
  Which is thinnest? thine or mine?

  "Thou shalt not be saved by works:
  Thou hast been a sinner too:
  Ruin'd trunks on wither'd forks,
  Empty scarecrows, I and you!

  "Fill the cup, and fill the can:
  Have a rouse before the morn:
  Every moment dies a man
  Every moment one is born.

  "We are men of ruin'd blood;
  Therefore comes it we are wise.
  Fish are we that love the mud.
  Rising to no fancy-flies.

  "Name and fame! to fly sublime
  Thro' the courts, the camps, the schools,
  Is to be the ball of Time,
  Bandied by the hands of fools.

  "Friendship!--to be two in one--
  Let the canting liar pack!
  Well I know, when I am gone,
  How she mouths behind my back.

  "Virtue!--to be good and just--
  Every heart, when sifted well,
  Is a clot of warmer dust,
  Mix'd with cunning sparks of hell.

  "O! we two as well can look
  Whited thought and cleanly life
  As the priest, above his book
  Leering at his neighbour's wife.

  "Fill the cup, and fill the can:
  Have a rouse before the morn:
  Every moment dies a man,
  Every moment one is born. [4]

  "Drink, and let the parties rave:
  They are fill'd with idle spleen;
  Rising, falling, like a wave,
  For they know not what they mean.

  "He that roars for liberty
  Faster binds a tyrant's power;
  And the tyrant's cruel glee
  Forces on the freer hour.

  "Fill the can, and fill the cup:
  All the windy ways of men
  Are but dust that rises up,
  And is lightly laid again.

  "Greet her with applausive breath,
  Freedom, gaily doth she tread;
  In her right a civic wreath,
  In her left a human head.

  "No, I love not what is new;
  She is of an ancient house:
  And I think we know the hue
  Of that cap upon her brows.

  "Let her go! her thirst she slakes
  Where the bloody conduit runs:
  Then her sweetest meal she makes
  On the first-born of her sons.

  "Drink to lofty hopes that cool--
  Visions of a perfect State:
  Drink we, last, the public fool,
  Frantic love and frantic hate.

  "Chant me now some wicked stave,
  Till thy drooping courage rise,
  And the glow-worm of the grave
  Glimmer in thy rheumy eyes.

  "Fear not thou to loose thy tongue;
  Set thy hoary fancies free;
  What is loathsome to the young
  Savours well to thee and me.

  "Change, reverting to the years,
  When thy nerves could understand
  What there is in loving tears,
  And the warmth of hand in hand.

  "Tell me tales of thy first love--
  April hopes, the fools of chance;
  Till the graves begin to move,
  And the dead begin to dance.

  "Fill the can, and fill the cup:
  All the windy ways of men
  Are but dust that rises up,
  And is lightly laid again.

  "Trooping from their mouldy dens
  The chap-fallen circle spreads:
  Welcome, fellow-citizens,
  Hollow hearts and empty heads!

  "You are bones, and what of that?
  Every face, however full,
  Padded round with flesh and fat,
  Is but modell'd on a skull.

  "Death is king, and Vivat Rex!
  Tread a measure on the stones,
  Madam--if I know your sex,
  From the fashion of your bones.

  "No, I cannot praise the fire
  In your eye--nor yet your lip:
  All the more do I admire
  Joints of cunning workmanship.

  "Lo! God's likeness--the ground-plan--
  Neither modell'd, glazed, or framed:
  Buss me thou rough sketch of man,
  Far too naked to be shamed!

  "Drink to Fortune, drink to Chance,
  While we keep a little breath!
  Drink to heavy Ignorance!
  Hob-and-nob with brother Death!

  "Thou art mazed, the night is long,
  And the longer night is near:
  What! I am not all as wrong
  As a bitter jest is dear.

  "Youthful hopes, by scores, to all,
  When the locks are crisp and curl'd;
  Unto me my maudlin gall
  And my mockeries of the world.

  "Fill the cup, and fill the can!
  Mingle madness, mingle scorn!
  Dregs of life, and lees of man:
  Yet we will not die forlorn."


  5

  The voice grew faint: there came a further change:
  Once more uprose the mystic mountain-range:
  Below were men and horses pierced with worms,
  And slowly quickening into lower forms;
  By shards and scurf of salt, and scum of dross,
  Old plash of rains, and refuse patch'd with moss,
  Then some one spake: "Behold! it was a crime
  Of sense avenged by sense that wore with time".
  Another said: "The crime of sense became
  The crime of malice, and is equal blame".
  And one: "He had not wholly quench'd his power;
  A little grain of conscience made him sour".
  At last I heard a voice upon the slope
  Cry to the summit, "Is there any hope?"
  To which an answer peal'd from that high land.
  But in a tongue no man could understand;
  And on the glimmering limit far withdrawn
  God made Himself an awful rose of dawn.

Come Not, When I Am Dead...


  Come not, when I am dead,
  To drop thy foolish tears upon my grave,
  To trample round my fallen head,
  And vex the unhappy dust thou wouldst not save.
  There let the wind sweep and the plover cry;
  But thou, go by.

  Child, if it were thine error or thy crime
  I care no longer, being all unblest:
  Wed whom thou wilt, but I am sick of Time,
  And I desire to rest.
  Pass on, weak heart, and leave me where I lie:
  Go by, go by.

The Eagle

(Fragment)


  He clasps the crag with hooked hands;
  Close to the sun in lonely lands,
  Ring'd with the azure world, he stands.

  The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
  He watches from his mountain walls,
  And like a thunderbolt he falls.

Move Eastward, Happy Earth...


  Move eastward, happy earth, and leave
  Yon orange sunset waning slow:
  From fringes of the faded eve,
  O, happy planet, eastward go;
  Till over thy dark shoulder glow
  Thy silver sister-world, and rise
  To glass herself in dewy eyes
  That watch me from the glen below.

  Ah, bear me with thee, smoothly borne,
  Dip forward under starry light,
  And move me to my marriage-morn,
  And round again to happy night

Break, Break, Break...


  Break, break, break,
  On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
  And I would that my tongue could utter
  The thoughts that arise in me.

  O well for the fisherman's boy,
  That he shouts with his sister at play!
  O well for the sailor lad,
  That he sings in his boat on the bay!

  And the stately ships go on
  To their haven under the hill;
  But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand,
  And the sound of a voice that is still!

  Break, break, break,
  At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
  But the tender grace of a day that is dead
  Will never come back to me.

The Poet's Song



  The rain had fallen, the Poet arose,
  He pass'd by the town and out of the street,
  A light wind blew from the gates of the sun,
  And waves of shadow went over the wheat,
  And he sat him down in a lonely place,
  And chanted a melody loud and sweet,
  That made the wild-swan pause in her cloud,
  And the lark drop down at his feet.

  The swallow stopt as he hunted the bee,
  The snake slipt under a spray,
  The wild hawk stood with the down on his beak,
  And stared, with his foot on the prey,
  And the nightingale thought, "I have sung many songs,
  But never a one so gay,
  For he sings of what the world will be
  When the years have died away".