The fathers water'd with their tears Who passed within their puissant hail. For what avail'd it all the noise, And outcry of the former men ?— What helps it now that Byron bore, With haughty scorn which mock'd the smart, Through Europe to the Ætolian shore, The pageant of his bleeding heart? That thousands counted every groan, And Europe made his woe her own? What boots it, Shelley! that the breeze Musical through Italian trees Which fringe thy soft blue Spezzian bay? Inheritors of thy distress Have restless hearts one throb the less? Or are we easier to have read, O Obermann! the sad stern page, Which tells us how thou hidd'st thy head From the fierce tempest of thine age In the lone brakes of Fontainebleau, Or châlets near the Alpine snow? Ye slumber in your silent grave!— Years hence, perhaps, may dawn an age Sons of the world, oh, speed those years; Allow them! We admire with awe You triumph over time and space! We are like children rear'd in shade And secret from the eyes of all. Deep, deep the greenwood round them waves, Their abbey, and its close of graves! But, where the road runs near the stream, Pennon and plume, and flashing lance! T And through the wood, another way, Faint bugle-notes from far are borne, Where hunters gather, staghounds bay, Round some fair forest-lodge at morn. Gay dames are there, in sylvan green; Laughter and cries—those notes between! The banners flashing through the trees Make their blood dance and chain their eyes; That bugle-music on the breeze Arrests them with a charm'd surprise. Banner by turns and bugle woo: Ye shy recluses, follow too! O children what do ye reply!— "Action and pleasure, will ye roam Through these secluded dells to cry And call us?-but too late ye come! Too late for us your call ye blow, Whose bent was taken long ago. "Long since we pace this shadow'd nave We watch those yellow tapers shine, Emblems of hope over the grave, In the high altar's depth divine: The organ carries to our ear Its accents of another sphere. "Fenced early in this cloistral round TRISTRAM AND ISEULT I TRISTRAM. Is she not come? The messenger was sure. Raise me, my page! this cannot long endure. THE PAGE. The lanterns of the fishing-boats at sea. TRISTRAM. Soft-who is that stands by the dying fire? THE PAGE. Iseult. TRISTRAM Ah! not the Iseult I desire. What knight is this so weak and pale, Though the locks are yet brown on his noble head. Propt on pillows in his bed, Gazing seaward for the light Of some ship that fights the gale On this wild December night? I know him by his harp of gold, What Lady is this, whose silk attire With the clasp of burnish'd gold, Her looks are sweet, her fingers slight, But her cheeks are sunk and pale. Beating from the Atlantic sea Nips too keenly the sweet flower? Hath come on her, a chilly fear Of those that in secret the heart-strings rive, |