Death

Death in his palace holds his court,
His messengers move to and fro,
Each of his mission makes report,
And takes the royal orders,--Lo,
Some slow before his throne appear
And humbly in the Presence kneel:
"Why hath the Prince not been brought here?
The hour is past; nor is appeal
Allowed against foregone decree;
There is the mandate with the seal!
How comes it ye return to me
Without him? Shame upon your zeal!"

"O King, whom all men fear,--he lies
Deep in the dark Medhya wood,
We fled from thence in wild surprise,
And left him in that solitude.
We dared not touch him, for there sits,
Beside him, lighting all the place,
A woman fair, whose brow permits
In its austerity of grace
And purity,--no creatures foul
As we seemed, by her l...

O, a beautiful thing is the flower that fadeth,
    And perishing, smiles on the chill autumn wind;
A sweet desolation its ruin pervadeth,
    A fragrant remembrance still lingers behind.

O, a beautiful thing is the glad consummation
    Of a life that is upright, untarnished and pure;
That spirit, when freed from this earth's animation,
    Shall live, as the heavens eternal endure!

In a garb that was guiltless of colors
    She stood, with a dull, listless air -
A creature of dumps and of dolors,
    But most undeniably fair.

The folds of her garment fell round her,
    Revealing the curve of each limb;
Well proportioned and graceful I found her,
    Although quite alarmingly slim.

From the hem of her robe peeped one sandal -
    "High art" was she down to her feet;
And though I could not understand all
    She said, I could see she was sweet.

Impressed by her limpness and languor,
    I proffered a chair near at hand;
She looked back a mild sort of anger -
    Posed anew, and continued to stand.

Some praises I next tried to mutter
    Of the fan that she held to her face;
She said it was "utterly utter,...

Do not say that life is waning,
    Or that hope's sweet day is set;
While I've thee and love remaining,
    Life is in the horizon yet.

Do not think those charms are flying,
    Tho' thy roses fade and fall;
Beauty hath a grace undying,
    Which in thee survives them all.

Not for charms, the newest, brightest,
    That on other cheeks may shine,
Would I change the least, the slightest.
    That is lingering now o'er thine.

Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands,
Were trampled by a hurrying crowd,
And fiery hearts and armed hands
Encountered in the battle cloud.

Ah! I never shall the land forget
How gushed the life-blood of her brave,
Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet,
Upon the soil they fought to save.

Now all is calm, and fresh, and still,
Alone the chirp of flitting bird,
And talk of children on the hill,
And bell of wandering kine are heard.

No solemn host goes trailing by
The black-mouthed gun and staggering wain;
Men start not at the battle-cry,
Oh, be it never heard again!

Soon rested those who fought; but thou
Who minglest in the harder strife
For truths which men receive not now
Thy warfare only ends with life.

A ...

On the storm-cloven Cape
The bitter waves roll,
With the bergs of the Pole,
And the darks and the damps of the Northern Sea:
For the storm-cloven Cape
Is an alien Shape
With a fearful face; and it moans, and it stands
Outside all lands
Everlastingly!

When the fruits of the year
Have been gathered in Spain,
And the Indian rain
Is rich on the evergreen lands of the Sun,
There comes to this Cape
To this alien Shape,
As the waters beat in and the echoes troop forth,
The Wind of the North,
Euroclydon!

And the wilted thyme,
And the patches past
Of the nettles cast
In the drift of the rift, and the broken rime,
Are tumbled and blown
To every zone
With the famished glede, and the plovers thinned
By this fourfold...

    There is in the dance
        The joy of children on a May day lawn.
    The fragments of old dreams and dead romance
        Come to us from the dancers who are gone.

    What strains of ancient blood
        Move quicker to the music's passionate beat?
    I see the gulls fly over a shadowy flood
        And Munster fields of barley and of wheat.

    And I see sunny France,
        And the vine's tendrils quivering to the light,
    And faces, faces, yearning for the dance
        With wistful eyes that look on our delight.

    They live through us again
        And we through them, who wish for lips and eyes
    Wherewith to feel, not fancy, the old pain
        Passed with reluctance through the centuries

    To us, who in the m...

Wind rising in the alleys
My spirit lifts in you like a banner streaming free of hot walls.
You are full of unspent dreams....
You are laden with beginnings....
There is hope in you... not sweet... acrid as blood in the mouth.
Come into my tossing dust
Scattering the peace of old deaths,
Wind rising in the alleys,
Carrying stuff of flame.

And now the youthful, gay, capricious Spring,
    Piercing her showery clouds with crystal light,
    And with their hues reflected streaking bright
    Her radiant bow, bids all her Warblers sing;
The Lark, shrill caroling on soaring wing;
    The lonely Thrush, in brake, with blossoms white,
    That tunes his pipe so loud; while, from the sight
    Coy bending their dropt heads, young Cowslips fling
Rich perfume o'er the fields. - It is the prime
    Of Hours that Beauty robes: - yet all they gild,
    Cheer, and delight in this their fragrant time,
For thy dear sake, to me less pleasure yield
    Than, veil'd in sleet, and rain, and hoary rime,
    Dim Winter's naked hedge and plashy field.

May 1770.

1: Afterwards Mrs. Edgeworth.

I seek her in the shady grove,
And by the silent stream;
I seek her where my fancies rove,
In many a happy dream;
I seek her where I find her not,
In Spring and Summer weather:
My thoughts paint many a happy spot,
But we ne'er meet together.

The trees and bushes speak my choice,
And in the Summer shower
I often hear her pleasant voice,
In many a silent hour:
I see her in the Summer brook,
In blossoms sweet and fair;
In every pleasant place I look
My fancy paints her there.

The wind blows through the forest trees,
And cheers the pleasant day;
There her sweet voice is sure to be
To lull my cares away.
The very hedges find a voice,
So does the gurgling rill;
But still the object of my choice
Is lost and absent still.

Over the hill and over the dale,
And over the bourn to Dawlish,
Where gingerbread wives have a scanty sale
And gingerbread nuts are smallish.

Rantipole Betty she ran down a hill
And kicked up her petticoats fairly;
Says I I'll be Jack if you will be Gill,
So she sat on the grass debonairly.

Here's somebody coming, here's somebody coming!
Says I 'tis the wind at a parley;
So without any fuss any hawing and humming
She lay on the grass debonairly.

Here's somebody here and here's somebody there!
Says I hold your tongue you young Gipsey;
So she held her tongue and lay plump and fair
And dead as a Venus tipsy.

O who wouldn't hie to Dawlish fair,
O who wouldn't stop in a Meadow,
O who would not rumple the daisies there
And make...

Swallow, my sister, O sister swallow,
How can thine heart be full of the spring?
A thousand summers are over and dead.
What hast thou found in the spring to follow?
What hast thou found in thine heart to sing?
What wilt thou do when the summer is shed?

O swallow, sister, O fair swift swallow,
Why wilt thou fly after spring to the south,
The soft south whither thine heart is set?
Shall not the grief of the old time follow?
Shall not the song thereof cleave to thy mouth?
Hast thou forgotten ere I forget?

Sister, my sister, O fleet sweet swallow,
Thy way is long to the sun and the south;
But I, fulfilled of my heart’s desire,
Shedding my song upon height, upon hollow,
From tawny body and sweet small mouth
Feed the heart of the night with fire.

An Ant who in a brook would drink
Fell off the bank. He tried
To swim, and felt his courage sink -
This ocean seemed so wide.
But for a dove who flew above
He would have drowned and died.

The friendly Dove within her beak
A bridge of grass-stem bore:
On this the Ant, though worn and weak.
Contrived to reach the shore
Said he: "The tact of this kind act
I'll cherish evermore."

Behold! A barefoot wretch went by
With slingshot in his hand.
Said he: "You'll make a pigeon pie
That will be kind of grand."
He meant to murder the gentle bird -
Who did not understand.

The Ant then stung him on the heel
(So quick to see the sling).
He turned his head, and missed a meal:
The pigeon pie took wing.
And so the Dove lived on to...

    We two make home of any place we go;
We two find joy in any kind of weather;
    Or if the earth is clothed in bloom or snow,
    If summer days invite, or bleak winds blow,
What matters it if we two are together?
We two, we two, we make our world, our weather.

    We two make banquets of the plainest fare;
In every cup we find the thrill of pleasure;
    We hide with wreaths the furrowed brow of care,
    And win to smiles the set lips of despair.
For us life always moves with lilting measure;
We two, we two, we make our world, our pleasure.

    We two find youth renewed with every dawn;
Each day holds something of an unknown glory.
    We waste no thought on grief or pleasure gone;
    Tricked out like hope, time leads us on and on,
And thrum...

[1]


They both were husht, the voice, the chords,--
    I heard but once that witching lay;
And few the notes, and few the words.
    My spell-bound memory brought away;

Traces, remembered here and there,
    Like echoes of some broken strain;--
Links of a sweetness lost in air,
    That nothing now could join again.

Even these, too, ere the morning, fled;
    And, tho' the charm still lingered on,
That o'er each sense her song had shed,
    The song itself was faded, gone;--

Gone, like the thoughts that once were ours,
    On summer days, ere youth had set;
Thoughts bright, we know, as summer flowers,
    Tho' what they were we now forget.

In vain with hints from other strains
    I wooed this tru...

I'm twenty-two - I'm twenty-two -
    They gaily give me joy,
As if I should be glad to hear
    That I was less a boy.
They do not know how carelessly
    Their words have given pain,
To one whose heart would leap to be
    A happy boy again.

I had a light and careless heart
    When this brief year began,
And then I pray'd that I might be
    A grave and perfect man.
The world was like a blessed dream
    Of joyous coming years -
I did not know its manliness
    Was but to wake in tears.

A change has on my spirit come,
    I am forever sad;
The light has all departed now
    My early feelings had;
I used to love the morning grey,
    The twilight's quiet deep,
But now like shadows on the sea,
    Upon my thought...

Non é brutto il Demon.


The Devil's not so ugly as they paint;
        He's well with all, compact of courtesy:
        Real heroism is real piety:
        Before small truth great falsehoods shrink and faint
If pots stain worse than pipkins, it were quaint
        To charge the pipkins with impurity:
        Freedom I crave: who craves not to be free?
        Yet life that must be feigned for, leaves a taint.
Ill conduct brings repentance?--If you prate
        This wise to me, why prate not thus to all
        Philosophers and prophets, and to Christ?
Not too much learning, as some arrogate,
        But the small brains of dullards have sufficed
        To make us wretched and the world enthrall.

I am stirred by the dream of an afternoon
Of a perfect day - though it was not June;
The lilt of winds, and the droning tune
    That a busy city was humming.

And a bronze-brown head, and lips like wine
Leaning out through the window-vine
A-list for steps that were maybe mine -
    Eager steps that were coming.

I can see it all, as a dreamer may -
The tender smile on your lips that day,
And the glow on your cheek as we rode away
    Into the golden weather.

And a love-light shone in your eyes of brown -
I swear there did! - as we drove down
The crowded avenue out of the town,
    Through shadowy lanes, together:

Drove out into the sunset-skies
That glowed with wonderful crimson dyes;
And with soul and spirit, and heart and eye...