164

TO E. L., ON HIS TRAVELS IN GREECE.

He

gave the people of his best;

His worst he kept, his best he gave.

My Shakspeare's curse on clown and knave Who will not let his ashes rest!

Who make it seem more sweet to be
The little life of bank and brier,
The bird that pipes his lone desire
And dies unheard within his tree,

Than he that warbles long and loud
And drops at Glory's temple-gates,
For whom the carrion vulture waits
To tear his heart before the crowd!

TO E. L., ON HIS TRAVELS IN GREECE

ILLYRIAN Woodlands, echoing falls

Of water, sheets of summer glass,
The long divine Peneïan pass,
The vast Akrokeraunian walls,

Tomohrit, Athos, all things fair,

With such a pencil, such a pen,
You shadow forth to distant men,
I read and felt that I was there :

And trust me while I turned the page,
And tracked you still on classic ground,
grew in gladness till I found

I
My spirits in the golden age.

For me the torrent ever poured

And glistened, here and there alone
The broad-limbed Gods at random thrown
By fountain-urns ;-and Naiads oared

A glimmering shoulder under gloom
Of cavern pillars; on the swell
The silver lily heaved and fell;
And many a slope was rich in bloom,

From him that on the mountain lea
By dancing rivulets fed his flocks,
To him who sat upon the rocks,
And fluted to the morning sea.

"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 would'st 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.

A FRAGMENT.

HE clasps the crag with hooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,

Ringed with the azure world, he stands.

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

THE TALKING OAK

I.

ONCE more the gate behind me falls
Once more before my face
I see the mouldered Abbey-walls,
That stand within the chace.

II.

Beyond the lodge the city lies,
Beneath its drift of smoke;
And ah! with what delighted eyes
I turn to yonder oak !

III.

For when my passion first began,
Ere that which in me burned,
The love that makes me thrice a man,
Could hope itself returned;

IV.

To yonder oak within the field
I spoke without restraint,
And with a larger faith appealed
Than Papist unto Saint.

V.

For oft I talked with him apart,
And told him of my choice,

Until he plagiarized a heart,

And answered with a voice.

VI.

Though what he whispered under Heaven
None else could understand;

I found him garrulously given,
A babbler in the land.

VII.

But since I heard him make reply
Is many a weary hour;

"Twere well to question him, and try
If yet he keeps the power.

VIII.

Hail, hidden to the knees in fern,
Broad oak of Sumner-chace,
Whose topmost branches can discern
The roofs of Sumner-place!

IX.

Say thou, whereon I carved her name, If ever maid or spouse,

As fair as my Olivia, came

To rest beneath thy boughs ?

X.

"O Walter, I have sheltered here Whatever maiden grace

The good old Summers, year by year, Made ripe in Sumner-chace:

XI.

"Old Summers, when the monk was fat,
And, issuing shorn and sleek,
Would twist his girdle tight, and pat
The girls upon the cheek,

XII.

"Ere yet, in scorn of Peter's-pence,
And numbered bead, and shrift,
Bluff Harry broke into the spence,
And turned the cowls adrift:

XIII.

"And I have seen some score of those Fresh faces, that would thrive

When his man-minded offset rose
To chase the deer at five;

XIV.

"And all that from the town would stroll,
Till that wild wind made work,
In which the gloomy brewer's soul
Went by me, like a stork:

XV.

"The slight she-slips of loyal blood,
And others, passing praise,
Strait-laced, but all-too-full in bud
For puritanic stays:

XVI.

"And I have shadowed many a group
Of beauties, that were born
In teacup-times of hood and hoop,
Or while the patch was worn;

XVII.

"And, leg and arm with love-knots gay About me leaped and laughed

The modish Cupid of the day,
And shrilled his tinsel shaft.

XVIII.

"I swear (and else may insects prick
Each leaf into a gall)

This girl, for whom your heart is sick,
Is three times worth them all;

XIX.

"For those and theirs, by Nature's law,

Have faded long ago;

But in these latter springs I saw

Your own Olivia blow,