Courage

VAINLY wouldst thou, to gain a heart,

Heap up a maiden's lap with gold;
The joys of love thou must impart,

Wouldst thou e'er see those joys unfold.
The voices of the throng gold buys,

No single heart 'twill win for thee;
Wouldst thou a maiden make thy prize,

Thyself alone the bribe must be.

If by no sacred tie thou'rt bound,

Oh youth, thou must thyself restrain!
Well may true liberty be found,

Tho' man may seem to wear a chain.
Let one alone inflame thee e'er,

And if her heart with love o'erflows,
Let tenderness unite you there,

If duty's self no fetter knows.

First feel, oh youth! A girl then find

Worthy thy choice, let her choose thee,
In body fair, and fair in mind,

And t...

A wall of crumbling stones doth keep
Watch o'er long barrows where they sleep,
Old chronicled grave-stones of its dead,
On which oblivious mosses creep
And lichens gray as lead.

Warm days the lost cows as they pass
Rest here and browse the juicy grass
That springs about its sun-scorched stones;
Afar one hears their bells' deep brass
Waft melancholy tones.

Here the wild morning-glory goes
A-rambling as the myrtle grows,
Wild morning-glories pale as pain,
With holy urns, that hint at woes,
The night hath filled with rain.

Here are blackberries largest seen,
Rich, winey dark, whereon the lean
Black hornet sucks, noons sick with heat,
That bend not to the shadowed green
The heavy bearded wheat.

At dark, for its forgotten...

Thus Kitty, beautiful and young,
And wild as colt untamed,
Bespoke the fair from whence she sprung,
With little rage inflamed.

Inflamed with rage at sad restraint
Which wise mamma ordain'd,
And sorely vex'd to play the saint
Whilst wit and beauty reign'd.

Shall I thumb holy books, confined
With Abigails, forsaken?
Kitty's for other things design'd,
Or I am much mistaken.

Must Lady Jenny frisk about,
And visit with her cousins?
At balls must she make all the rout,
And bring home hearts by dozens?

What has she better, pray, than I?
What hidden charms to boast,
That all mankind for her should die,
Whilst I am scarce a toast?

Dearest mamma, for once let me
Unchain'd my fortune try:
I'll have my earl as we...

Look down, fair moon, and bathe this scene;
Pour softly down night's nimbus floods, on faces ghastly, swollen, purple;
On the dead, on their backs, with their arms toss'd wide,
Pour down your unstinted nimbus, sacred moon.

A stream to mingle with your favorite Dee
Along the Vale of Meditation flows;
So styled by those fierce Britons, pleased to see
In Nature's face the expression of repose,
Or, haply there some pious Hermit chose
To live and die, the peace of Heaven his aim,
To whome the wild sequestered region owes
At this late day, its sanctifying name.
Glyn Cafaillgaroch, in the Cambrian tongue,
In ourse the Vale of Friendship, let this spot
Be nam'd, where faithful to a low roof'd Cot
On Deva's banks, ye have abode so long,
Sisters in love, a love allowed to climb
Ev'n on this earth, above the reach of time.

Fortune, that favours fools, these two short hours,
We wish away, both for your sakes and ours,
Judging spectators; and desire, in place,
To the author justice, to ourselves but grace.
Our scene is London, 'cause we would make known,
No country's mirth is better than our own:
No clime breeds better matter for your whore,
Bawd, squire, impostor, many persons more,
Whose manners, now call'd humours, feed the stage;
And which have still been subject for the rage
Or spleen of comic writers. Though this pen
Did never aim to grieve, but better men;
Howe'er the age he lives in doth endure
The vices that she breeds, above their cure.
But when the wholesome remedies are sweet,
And in their working gain and profit meet,
He hopes to find no spirit so much diseased,
...

    Has the last farewell been spoken?
    Have I ta'en the parting token
        From thy lips so sweet?
    Has their last soft word been spoken
        Till again we meet?

    Why is not thy hand extended?
    Is my maiden queen offended?
        Or does she forget?
    No! my queen is not offended,
        She is kindly yet.

    For her eye is softly beaming,
    And with tenderness is teeming,
        Gentle as the dove's:
    With a holy light is beaming -
        Dare I call it love's?

    But the time is fast advancing;
    From the heaven of its glancing
        I must rend my heart:
    Treacherous Time is fast advancing,
        And I must depart.

    Ah! the pain the parting brings me!
    As a serpe...

I.

When black frosts pluck the acorns down,
And in the lane the waters freeze;
And 'thwart red skies the wild-fowl flies,
And death sits grimly 'mid the trees;
When home-lights glitter in the brown
Of dusk like shaggy eyes, -
Before the door his feet, sweetheart,
And two white arms that greet, sweetheart,
And two white arms that greet.


II.

When ways are drifted with the leaves,
And winds make music in the thorns;
And lone and lost above the frost
The new moon shows its silver horns;
When underneath the lamp-lit eaves
The opened door is crossed, -
A happy heart and light, sweetheart,
And lips to kiss good-night, sweetheart,
And lips to kiss good-night.

I'll tell thee everything I can;
There's little to relate.
I saw an aged aged man,
A-sitting on a gate.
"Who are you, aged man?" I said,
"And how is it you live?"
And his answer trickled through my head
Like water through a sieve.

He said, "I look for butterflies
That sleep among the wheat:
I make them into mutton-pies,
And sell them in the street.
I sell them unto men," he said,
"Who sail on stormy seas;
And that's the way I get my bread,
A trifle; if you please."

But I was thinking of a plan
To dye one's whiskers green,
And always use so large a fan
That they could not be seen.
So, having no reply to give
To what the old man said,
I cried, "Come, tell me how you live!"
And thumped him on the head.

His...

Italia, mother of the souls of men,
Mother divine,
Of all that served thee best with sword or pen,
All sons of thine,
Thou knowest that here the likeness of the best
Before thee stands,
The head most high, the heart found faithfullest,
The purest hands.
67 Above the fume and foam of time that flits,
The soul, we know,
Now sits on high where Alighieri sits
With Angelo.
Not his own heavenly tongue hath heavenly speech
Enough to say
What this man was, whose praise no thought may reach,
No words can weigh.
Since man’s first mother brought to mortal birth
Her first-born son,
Such grace befell not ever man on earth
As crowns this one.
Of God nor man was ever this thing said,
That he could give
Life back to her who gave him, whence his d...

    "Up the high Alps, perspiring madman, steam,
    To please the school-boys, and become a theme."
            Cf. Juv. Sat. x, v. 106.


    We who know not the charms of a glass below Zero,
    Come list to the lay of an Alpine Club hero;
    For no mortal below, contradict it who can,
    Lives a life half so blest as the Alpine Club man.

    When men of low tastes snore serenely in bed,
    He is up and abroad with a nose blue and red;
    While the lark, who would peacefully sleep in her nest,
    Wakes and blesses the stranger who murders her rest.

    Now blowing their fingers, with frost-bitten toes,
    The joyous procession exultingly goes;
    Above them the glaciers spectral are shining,
    But onward they march undismay'd, un...

Faith! the Dandelion is
To my mind too lowly;
Then the winsome Violet
Is, forsooth, too holy.

There's the Touch-me-not - go to!
What! a face that's speckled
Like a buxom milking-maid's
Which the sun hath freckled!

And the Tiger-lily's wild,
Flirts, is fierce and haughty;
And the Sweet-Brier Rose, I swear,
Pricks you and is naughty.

Columbine a fool's cap hath,
Then she is too merry;
Gossip, I would sooner woo
Some plebeian Berry.

There's the shy Anemone, -
Well - her face shows sorrow;
Pale, goodsooth! alive to-day,
Dead and gone to-morrow.

And that big-eyed, fair-cheeked wench,
The untoward Daisy,
She's been wooed, aye! overmuch -
Then she is too lazy.

Pleasant persons are they all,

Do not let any woman read this verse;
It is for men, and after them their sons
And their sons' sons.

The time comes when our hearts sink utterly;
When we remember Deirdre and her tale,
And that her lips are dust.

Once she did tread the earth: men took her hand;.
They looked into her eyes and said their say,
And she replied to them.

More than a thousand years it is since she
Was beautiful: she trod the waving grass;
She saw the clouds.

A thousand years! The grass is still the same,
The clouds as lovely as they were that time
When Deirdre was alive.

But there has never been a woman born
Who was so beautiful, not one so beautiful
Of all the women born.

Let all men go apart and mourn together;
No man can ever love...

I love the warm bare earth and all
That works and dreams thereon:
I love the seasons yet to fall:
I love the ages gone,

The valleys with the sheeted grain,
The river's smiling might,
The merry wind, the rustling rain,
The vastness of the night.

I love the morning's flame, the steep
Where down the vapour clings:
I love the clouds that float and sleep,
And every bird that sings.

I love the purple shower that pours
On far-off fields at even:
I love the pine-wood dusk whose floors
Are like the courts of heaven.

I love the heaven's azure span,
The grass beneath my feet:
I love the face of every man
Whose thought is swift and sweet.

I let the wrangling world go by,
And like an idle breath
Its echoes and its...

I knew it the first of the summer,
    I knew it the same at the end,
That you and your love were plighted,
    But couldn't you be my friend?
Couldn't we sit in the twilight,
    Couldn't we walk on the shore
With only a pleasant friendship
    To bind us, and nothing more?

There was not a word of folly
    Spoken between us two,
Though we lingered oft in the garden
    Till the roses were wet with dew.
We touched on a thousand subjects -
    The moon and the worlds above, -
And our talk was tinctured with science,
    And everything else, save love.

A wholly Platonic friendship
    You said I had proven to you
Could bind a man and a woman
    The whole long season through,
With never a thought of flirting,
    Though both...

"Now is the accepted time."


                    Now, sinner, now!
Not in the future, when thy longed-for measure
Thou hast attained, of fame, or power, or pleasure,
When thy full coffers swell with hoarded treasure,
                    Not then, but now.
God's time may not be thine. When thou art willing,
His Spirit may have taken flight forever,
No more thy soul with keen conviction filling,
Softening thy spirit to repentance never, -
                    Now, sinner, now!

                    Now, Christian, now!
Look round, and see what souls are daily dying;
List! - everywhere the voice of human crying
Smiteth the ear; - the moan, the plaint, the sighing,
                    Come even now.
Rise! gird thyself; - go forth where sorrow ...

Who can say
Why To-day
To-morrow will be yesterday?
Who can tell
Why to smell
The violet recalls the dewy prime
Of youth and buried time?
The cause is nowhere found in rhyme.

How still it is here in the woods. The trees
Stand motionless, as if they did not dare
To stir, lest it should break the spell. The air
Hangs quiet as spaces in a marble frieze.
Even this little brook, that runs at ease,
Whispering and gurgling in its knotted bed,
Seems but to deepen with its curling thread
Of sound the shadowy sun-pierced silences.

Sometimes a hawk screams or a woodpecker
Startles the stillness from its fixèd mood
With his loud careless tap. Sometimes I hear
The dreamy white-throat from some far off tree
Pipe slowly on the listening solitude
His five pure notes succeeding pensively.