Betrayal

A Famous man is Robin Hood,
The English ballad-singer's joy!
And Scotland has a thief as good,
An outlaw of as daring mood;
She has her brave ROB ROY!
Then clear the weeds from off his Grave,
And let us chant a passing stave,
In honour of that Hero brave!

Heaven gave Rob Roy a dauntless heart
And wondrous length and strength of arm:
Nor craved he more to quell his foes,
Or keep his friends from harm.

Yet was Rob Roy as wise as brave;
Forgive me if the phrase be strong;
A Poet worthy of Rob Roy
Must scorn a timid song.

Say, then, that he was 'wise' as brave;
As wise in thought as bold in deed:
For in the principles of things
'He' sought his moral creed.

Said generous Rob, "What need of books?
Burn all the statute...

I

Beneath the vine-clad eaves,
Whose shadows fall before
Thy lowly cottage door
Under the lilac’s tremulous leaves,
Within thy snowy claspeèd hand
The purple flowers it bore.
Last eve in dreams, I saw thee stand,
Like queenly nymphs from Fairy-land,
Enchantress of the flowery wand,
Most beauteous Isadore!

II

And when I bade the dream
Upon thy spirit flee,
Thy violet eyes to me
Upturned, did overflowing seem
With the deep, untold delight
Of Love’s serenity;
Thy classic brow, like lilies white
And pale as the Imperial Night
Upon her throne, with stars bedight,
Enthralled my soul to thee!

III

Ah! ever I behold
Thy dreamy, passionate eyes,
Blue as the languid skies
Hung with the sunset...

In soft sad nights, when all the still lagoon
Lolls in a wealth of golden radiance,
I sit like one enchanted in a trance,
And see them 'twixt the haunted mist and moon.

Lascivious eyes 'neath snow-pale sensual brows,
Flashing hot, killing lust, and tresses light,
Lose, satin streaming, purple as the night,
Night when the storm sings and the forest bows.

And then, meseems, along the wild, fierce hills
A whisper and a rustle of fleet feet,
As if tempestuous troops of Mænads meet
To drain deep bowls and shout and have their wills.

And once I see large, lustrous limbs revealed,
Moth-white and lawny, 'twixt sonorous trees;
And then a song, faint as of fairy seas,
Lulls all my senses till my eyes are sealed.

The expense of spirit in a waste of shame
Is lust in action: and till action, lust
Is perjur’d, murderous, bloody, full of blame,
Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust;
Enjoy’d no sooner but despised straight;
Past reason hunted; and no sooner had,
Past reason hated, as a swallow’d bait,
On purpose laid to make the taker mad:
Mad in pursuit and in possession so;
Had, having, and in quest, to have extreme;
A bliss in proof, and prov’d, a very woe;
Before, a joy propos’d; behind a dream.
All this the world well knows; yet none knows well
To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.

To-day I had a burial of my dead.
    There was no shroud, no coffin, and no pall,
No prayers were uttered and no tears were shed -
    I only turned a picture to the wall.

A picture that had hung within my room
    For years and years; a relic of my youth.
It kept the rose of love in constant bloom
    To see those eyes of earnestness and truth.

At hours wherein no other dared intrude,
    I had drawn comfort from its smiling grace.
Silent companion of my solitude,
    My soul held sweet communion with that face.

I lived again the dream so bright, so brief,
    Though wakened as we all are by some Fate;
This picture gave me infinite relief,
    And did not leave me wholly desolate.

To-day I saw an item, quite by chance,
    That r...

Out in the upland places,
    I see both dale and down,
And the ploughed earth with open scores
    Turning the green to brown.

The bare bones of the country
    Lie gaunt in winter days,
Grim fastnesses of rock and scaur,
    Sure, while the year decays.

And, as the autumn withers,
    And the winds strip the tree,
The companies of buried folk
    Rise up and speak with me; -

From homesteads long forgotten,
    From graves by church and yew,
They come to walk with noiseless tread
    Upon the land they knew; -

Men who have tilled the pasture
    The writhen thorn beside,
Women within grey vanished walls
    Who bore and loved and died.

And when the great town closes
    Upon me like a sea,
Daylong, a...

Perchè quel che mi trasse ad amar prima.

HE WILL ALWAYS LOVE HER, THOUGH DENIED THE SIGHT OF HER.


    Though cruelty denies my view
Those charms which led me first to love;
To passion yet will I be true,
Nor shall my will rebellious prove.
Amid the curls of golden hair
That wave those beauteous temples round,
Cupid spread craftily the snare
With which my captive heart he bound:
And from those eyes he caught the ray
Which thaw'd the ice that fenced my breast,
Chasing all other thoughts away,
With brightness suddenly imprest.
But now that hair of sunny gleam,
Ah me! is ravish'd from my sight;
Those beauteous eyes withdraw their beam,
And change to sadness past delight.
A glorious death by all is prized;
Tis death alone sha...

In a fair and sunny forest glade
    O'erarched with chesnuts old,
Through which the radiant sunbeams made
    A network of bright gold,
A girl smiled softly to herself,
    And dreamed the hours away;
Lulled by the sound of the murmuring brook
    With the summer winds at play.

Jewels gleamed not in the tresses fair
    That fell in shining showers,
Naught decked that brow of beauty rare
    But a wreath of forest flowers;
And the violet wore no deeper blue
    Than her own soft downcast eye,
Whilst her bright cheek with the rose's hue
    In loveliness well might vie.

But she was too fair to bloom unknown
    By forest or valley side,
And long ere two sunny years had flown,
    The girl was a wealthy bride -
Removed to so high...

    Her thought that, like a brook beside the way,
        Sang to my steps through all the wandering year,
    Has ceased from melody--O Love, allay
                My sudden fear!

    She cannot fail--the beauty of that brow
        Could never flower above a desert heart--
    Somewhere beneath, the well-spring even now
                Lives, though apart.

    Some day, when winter has renewed her fount
        With cold, white-folded snows and quiet rain,
    O Love, O Love, her stream again will mount
                And sing again!

Muses which sadly sit about my chair,
Drowned in the tears extorted by my lines;
With heavy sighs whilst thus I break the air,
Painting my passions in these sad designs,
    Since she disdains to bless my happy verse,
The strong built trophies to her living fame,
Ever henceforth my bosom be your hearse,
Wherein the world shall now entomb her name.
    Enclose my music, you poor senseless walls,
Sith she is deaf and will not hear my moans;
Soften yourselves with every tear that falls,
Whilst I like Orpheus sing to trees and stones,
    Which with my plaint seem yet with pity moved,
    Kinder than she whom I so long have loved.

        Oh! doubt me not--the season
            Is o'er, when Folly made me rove,
        And now the vestal, Reason,
            Shall watch the fire awaked by love.
Altho' this heart was early blown,
    And fairest hands disturbed the tree,
They only shook some blossoms down,
    Its fruit has all been kept for thee.
        Then doubt me not--the season
            Is o'er, when Folly made me rove,
        And now the vestal, Reason,
            Shall watch the fire awaked by Love.

        And tho' my lute no longer
            May sing of Passion's ardent spell,
        Yet, trust me, all the stronger
            I feel the bliss I do not tell.
The bee thro' many a garden roves,
    And hums his lay of courtship o'er,
But when he finds th...

Calm is all nature as a resting wheel.
The kine are couched upon the dewy grass;
The horse alone, seen dimly as I pass,
Is cropping audibly his later meal:
Dark is the ground; a slumber seems to steal
O'er vale, and mountain, and the starless sky.
Now, in this blank of things, a harmony,
Home-felt, and home-created, comes to heal
That grief for which the senses still supply
Fresh food; for only then, when memory
Is hushed, am I at rest. My Friends! restrain
Those busy cares that would allay my pain;
Oh! leave me to myself, nor let me feel
The officious touch that makes me droop again.

It was a little budding rose,
Round like a fairy globe,
And shyly did its leaves unclose
Hid in their mossy robe,
But sweet was the slight and spicy smell
It breathed from its heart invisible.

The rose is blasted, withered, blighted,
Its root has felt a worm,
And like a heart beloved and slighted,
Failed, faded, shrunk its form.
Bud of beauty, bonnie flower,
I stole thee from thy natal bower.

I was the worm that withered thee,
Thy tears of dew all fell for me;
Leaf and stalk and rose are gone,
Exile earth they died upon.
Yes, that last breath of balmy scent
With alien breezes sadly blent!

Cyriack, this three years' day these eyes, though clear
To outward view of blemish or of spot,
Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot;
Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear
Of sun or moon or star throughout the year,
Or man or woman. Yet I argue not
Against Heav'n's hand or will, not bate a jot
Of heart or hope, but still bear up and steer
Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask?
The conscience, friend, to have lost them overplied
In liberty's defence, my noble task,
Of which all Europe talks from side to side.
This thought might lead me through the world's vain mask
Content, though blind, had I no better guide.

You smil’d, you spoke, and I believ’d,
By every word and smile deceiv’d.
Another man would hope no more;
Nor hope I what I hop’d before:
But let not this last wish be vain;            
Deceive, deceive me once again!

The moon from solemn azure sky
    Looked down on earth below,
And coldly her wan light fell alike
    On scenes of joy and woe:
A stately palace reared its dome,
    Within reigned warmth and light
And festive mirth - the moon's faint rays
    Soft kissed its marble white.

A little farther was the home
    Of toil, alas! and want,
That spectre grim that countless hearths
    Seems ceaselessly to haunt;
And yet, as if in mocking mirth,
    She smiled on that drear spot,
Silvering brightly the ruined eaves
    And roof of that poor cot.

And then, with curious gaze, she looked
    Within a curtained loom,
Where sat a girl of gentle mien
    In young life's early bloom;
Her glitt'ring light made still more bright
    The veil ...

What a terrible night!    Does the Night, I wonder -
    The Night, with her black veil down to her feet
Like an ordained nun, know what lies under
    That awful, motionless, snow-white sheet?
The winds seem crazed, and, wildly howling,
    Over the sad earth blindly go.
Do they and the dark clouds over them scowling,
    Do they dream or know?

Why, here in the room, not a week or over -
    Tho' it must be a week, not more than one -
(I cannot recken of late or discover
    When one day is ended or one begun),
But here in this room we were laughing lightly,
    And glad was the measure our two hearts beat;
And the royal face that was smiling so brightly
    Lies under that sheet.

I know not why - it is strange and fearful,
    But I am afrai...

        The country shelters the disgrace
        Of every courtier out of place:
        When, doomed to exercise and health,
        O'er his estate he scatters wealth;
        There he builds schemes for others' ruin,
        As Philip's son of old was doing.

        A wandless one, upon the strand,
        Wandered with heavy hours on hand:
        The murmuring waters ran and broke;
        Proteus arose, and him bespoke:

        "Come ye from court, I ask? Your mien
        Is so importantly serene."

        The courtier answered, friends had tricked him,
        And that he was a party's victim.

        Proteus replied: "I hold the skill
        To change to any shape at will.
        But I am told at court there be
        ...