Which task'd thy pipe too sore, and tired thy throat It fail'd, and thou wast mute! Yet hadst thou always visions of our light, And long with men of care thou couldst not stay. And soon thy foot resumed its wandering way, Left human haunt, and on alone till night. Too rare, too rare, grow now my visits here! 'Mid city-noise, not, as with thee of yore, Thyrsis! in reach of sheep-bells is my home. -Then through the great town's harsh, heart-wearying roar, Let in thy voice a whisper often come, To chase fatigue and fear: Why faintest thou! I wander'd till I died. Roam on! The light we sought is shining still. Dost thou ask proof? Our tree yet crowns the hill, Our Scholar travels yet the loved hill-side. 1866. YOUTH AND CALM 'Tis death! and peace, indeed, is here, T is all perhaps which man acquires, AUSTERITY OF POETRY THAT Son of Italy who tried to blow, Ere Dante came, the trump of sacred song, In his light youth amid a festal throng Sate with his bride to see a public show. Fair was the bride, and on her front did glow Youth like a star; and what to youth belong Gay raiment, sparkling gauds, elation strong. A prop gave way! crash fell a platform! lo, 'Mid struggling sufferers, hurt to death, she lay! Shuddering, they drew her garments off-and found A robe of sackcloth next the smooth, white skin. Such, poets, is your bride, the Muse! young, gay, Radiant, adorn'd outside; a hidden ground Of thought and of austerity within. WORLDLY PLACE 1867. EVEN in a palace, life may be led well! So spake the imperial sage, purest of men, Marcus Aurelius. But the stifling den Of common life, where, crowded up pell-mell. Our freedom for a little bread we sell, And drudge under some foolish master's ken Who rates us if we peer outside our pen Match'd with a palace, is not this a hell? Even in a palace! On his truth sincere, Who spoke these words, no shadow ever came; And when my ill-school'd spirit is aflame Some nobler, ampler stage of life to win, I'll stop, and say: "There were no succor here! The aids to noble life are all within." 1867. EAST LONDON "TWAS August, and the fierce sun over head Smote on the squalid streets of Bethnal Green. And the pale weaver, through his windows seen In Spitalfields, look'd thrice dispirited. We live no more, when we have done our span." "Well, then, for Christ,” thou answerest, "who can care? From sin, which Heaven records not, why forbear? Live we like brutes our life without a plan!" So answerest thou; but why not rather say: "Hath man no second life?-Pitch this one high! Sits there no judge in Heaven, our sin to see ? More strictly, then, the inward judge obey! Was Christ a man like us? Ah! let us try If we then, too, can be such men as he!" 1867. And ale dog-roses in the hedge, Loitering and leaping, With saunter, with bounds- Loose o'er their shoulders white See! the wild Mænads Break from the wood, See! through the quiet land Fling the fresh heaps about, Tear from the rifled hedge Fill with their sports the field, Shepherd, what ails thee, then? Tempts not the revel blithe? Glow not their shoulders smooth? Is not, on cheeks like those, -Ah, so the quiet was!. II The epoch ends, the world is still. Now strifes are hush'd, our ears doth meet, Ascending pure, the bell-like fame Of this or that down-trodden name, Delicate spirits, push'd away In the hot press of the noon-day. O'er that wide plain, now wrapt in gloom, Where many a splendor finds its tomb, Thundering and bursting Scattering the past about, All things begin again; Earth with their deeds they fill, Poet, what ails thee, then? Forth with thy praising voice! Tempts not the bright new age? Sculptors like Phidias, Raphaels in shoals, Poets like Shakespeare- See, on their glowing cheeks -Ah, so the silence was! I ASK not that my bed of death I ask not each kind soul to keep Tearless, when of my death he hears Let those who will, if any, weep! |