"The wished-for wind was given: I then revolved
The oracle upon the silent sea;
And, if no worthier led the way, resolved
That of a thousand vessels mine should be
The foremost prow in pressing to the strand,-
Mine the first blood that tinged the Trojan sand.
"Yet bitter, ofttimes bitter, was the pang
When of thy loss I thought, beloved wife :
On thee too fondly did my memory hang,
And on the joys we shared in mortal life,
The paths which we had trod, these fountain flowers; 130
My new-planned cities, and unfinished towers.
"But should suspense permit the foe to cry,
'Behold, they tremble! Haughty their array,
Yet of their number no one dares to die'?
In soul I swept the indignity away:
Old frailties then recurred: but lofty thought
In act embodied my deliverance wrought.
"And thou, though strong in love, art all too weak In reason, in self-government too slow:
I counsel thee by fortitude to seek
Our blest reunion in the shades below.
The invisible world with thee hath sympathised;
Be thy affections raised and solemnised.
"Learn, by a mortal yearning, to ascend-
Seeking a higher object. Love was given,
Encouraged, sanctioned, chiefly for that end;
For this the passion to excess was driven-
That self might be annulled; her bondage prove
The fetters of a dream opposed to love."
Aloud she shrieked! For Hermes reappears.
Round the dear shade she would have clung-'tis vain : The hours are past-too brief had they been years; And him no mortal effort can detain:
Swift toward the realms that know not earthly day
He through the portal takes his silent way.
And on the palace floor a lifeless corse she lay.
By no weak pity might the gods be moved.
She who thus perished, not without the crime
Of lovers that in reason's spite have loved,
Was doomed to wander in a grosser clime,
Apart from happy ghosts, that gather flowers
Of blissful quiet mid unfading bowers.
Yet tears to human suffering are due;
And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown
Are mourned by man, and not by man alone,
As fondly he believes.-Upon the side
Of Hellespont (such faith was entertained)
A knot of spiry trees for ages grew
From out the tomb of him for whom she died;
And ever when such stature they had gained,
That Ilium's walls were subject to their view,
The trees' tall summits withered at the sight;
A constant interchange of growth and blight.
NUNS fret not at their convent's narrow room,
And hermits are contented with their cells;
And students with their pensive citadels;
Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom,
Sit blithe and happy: bees that soar for bloom
High as the highest peak of Furness-fells,
Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells:
In truth, the prison unto which we doom
Ourselves no prison is: and hence for me,
In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be bound
Within the sonnet's scanty plot of ground;
Pleased if some souls (for such there needs must be)
Who have felt the weight of too much liberty,
Should find brief solace there as I have found.
A FLOCK of sheep that leisurely pass by
One after one; the sound of rain, and bees
Murmuring; the falls of rivers, winds and seas,
Smooth fields, white sheets of water and pure sky,
By turns have all been thought of, and yet I lie
Sleepless and soon the small birds' melodies
Must hear, first uttered from my orchard trees;
And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry.
Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay,
And could not win thee, sleep, by any stealth!
So do not let me wear to-night away:
Without thee what is all the morning's wealth?
Come, blessed barrier between night and day,
Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!
SCORN not the sonnet, critic; you have frowned
Mindless of its just honours; with this key
Shakespeare unlocked his heart; the melody
Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound;
A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound;
With it Camöens soothed an exile's grief;
The sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf
Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned
His visionary brow; a glow-worm lamp
It cheered mild Spenser, called from fairy land
To struggle through dark ways; and when a damp
Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand
The thing became a trumpet; whence he blew
Soul animating strains, alas! too few.
THE WORLD AND NATURE.
THE world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers:
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.-Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea,
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
WRITTEN ON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE.
EARTH has not anything to show more fair.
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This city now doth like a garment wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still.
"WHAT, you are stepping westward?" "Yea."
'Twould be a wildish destiny
If we, who thus together roam
In a strange land, and far from home,
Were in this place the guests of chance.
Yet who would stop or fear to advance,
Though home or shelter he had none,
With such a sky to lead him on?
The dewy ground was dark and cold,
Behind all gloomy to behold;
And stepping westward seemed to be
A kind of heavenly destiny.
I liked the greeting; 'twas a sound
Of something without space or bound,
And seemed to give me spiritual right
To travel through that region bright.
The voice was soft, and she who spake
Was walking by her native lake.
The salutation had to me
'The very sound of courtesy.
Its power was felt; and while my eye
Was fixed upon the glowing sky,
The echo of the voice enwrought
A human sweetness with the thought
Of travelling through the world that lay
Before me in my endless way.
BEHOLD her single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland lass,
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain.
O listen; for the vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.
No nightingale did ever chant
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt
Among Arabian sands.
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring time from the cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.
Will no one tell me what she sings?
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago;
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day;
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?
Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending.
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending.
I listened, motionless and still;
And as I mounted up the hill
The music in my heart I bore
Long after it was heard no more.
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