Freedom

Go, foolish thoughts, and join the throng
Of myriads gone before;
To flutter and flap and flit along
The airy limbo shore.

Go, words of sport and words of wit,
Sarcastic point and fine,
And words of wisdom, wholly fit
With folly’s to combine.

Go, words of wisdom, words of sense,
Which, while the heart belied,
The tongue still uttered for pretence,
The inner blank to hide.

Go, words of wit, so gay, so light,
That still were meant express
To soothe the smart of fancied slight
By fancies of success.

Go, broodings vain o’er fancied wrong;
Go, love-dreams vainer still;
And scorn that’s not, but would be, strong;
And Pride without a Will.

Go, foolish thoughts, and find your way
Where myriads went before,
To...

By their floating mill,
That lies dead and still,
Behold yon Prisoners three,
The Miller with two Dames, on the breast of the Thames!
The platform is small, but gives room for them all;
And they're dancing merrily.

From the shore come the notes
To their mill where it floats,
To their house and their mill tethered fast:
To the small wooden isle where, their work to beguile,
They from morning to even take whatever is given;
And many a blithe day they have past.

In sight of the spires,
All alive with the fires
Of the sun going down to his rest,
In the broad open eye of the solitary sky,
They dance, there are three, as jocund as free,
While they dance on the calm river's breast.

Man and Maidens wheel,
They themselves make the reel,...

What shall I be?--I will be a knight
    Walled up in armour black,
With a sword of sharpness, a hammer of might.
    And a spear that will not crack--
So black, so blank, no glimmer of light
    Will betray my darkling track.

Saddle my coal-black steed, my men,
    Fittest for sunless work;
Old Night is steaming from her den,
    And her children gather and lurk;
Bad things are creeping from the fen,
    And sliding down the murk.

Let him go!--let him go! Let him plunge!--Keep away!
    He's a foal of the third seal's brood!
Gaunt with armour, in grim array
    Of poitrel and frontlet-hood,
Let him go, a living castle, away--
    Right for the evil wood.

I and Ravenwing on the course,
    Heavy in fighting gear--
Woe to t...

    I.

    A gentle wind, of western birth
    On some far summer sea,
    Wakes daisies in the wintry earth,
    Wakes hopes in wintry me.

    The sun is low; the paths are wet,
    And dance with frolic hail;
    The trees--their spring-time is not yet--
    Swing sighing in the gale.

    Young gleams of sunshine peep and play;
    Clouds shoulder in between;
    I scarce believe one coming day
    The earth will all be green.

    The north wind blows, and blasts, and raves,
    And flaps his snowy wing:
    Back! toss thy bergs on arctic waves;
    Thou canst not bar our spring.


    II.

    Up comes the primrose, wondering;
    The snowdrop droopeth by;
    The holy spirit of the spring
    ...

How oft I've longed to gaze on thee,
    Thou proud and mighty deep!
Thy vast horizon, boundless, free,
    Thy coast so rude and steep;
And now entranced I breathless stand,
    Where earth and ocean meet,
Whilst billows wash the golden sand,
    And break around my feet.

Lovely thou art when dawn's red light
    Sheds o'er thee its soft hue,
Showing fair ships, a gallant sight,
    Upon thy waters blue;
And when the moonbeams softly pour
    Their light on wave or glen,
And diamond spray leaps on the shore,
    How lovely art thou then!

Still, as I look, faint shadows steal
    O'er thy calm heaving breast,
And there are times, I sadly feel,
    Thou art not thus at rest;
And I bethink me of past tales,
    Of ships that ...

A curious vision on mine eyes unfurled
    In the deep night.    I saw, or seemed to see,
    Two Centuries meet, and sit down vis-a-vis
Across the great round table of the world:
One with suggested sorrows in his mien,
    And on his brow the furrowed lines of thought;
    And one whose glad expectant presence brought
A glow and radiance from the realms unseen.

Hand clasped with hand, in silence for a space
    The Centuries sat; the sad old eyes of one
    (As grave paternal eyes regard a son)
Gazing upon that other eager face.
And then a voice, as cadenceless and gray
    As the sea's monody in winter time,
    Mingled with tones melodious, as the chime
Of bird choirs, singing in the dawns of May.

THE OLD CENTURY SPEAKS

By you, Hope s...

Sometimes even now I may
Steal a prisoner's holiday,
Slip, when all is worst, the bands,
Hurry back, and duck beneath
Time's old tyrannous groping hands,
Speed away with laughing breath
Back to all I'll never know,
Back to you, a year ago.

Truant there from Time and Pain,
What I had, I find again:
Sunlight in the boughs above,
Sunlight in your hair and dress,
The hands too proud for all but Love,
The Lips of utter kindliness,
The Heart of bravery swift and clean
Where the best was safe, I knew,
And laughter in the gold and green,
And song, and friends, and ever you
With smiling and familiar eyes,
You, but friendly: you, but true.

And Innocence accounted wise,
And Faith the fool, the pitiable.
Love so rare, one would sw...

Let us quit the leafy arbor,
And the torrent murmuring by;
For the sun is in his harbor,
Weary of the open sky.

Evening now unbinds the fetters
Fashioned by the glowing light;
All that breathe are thankful debtors
To the harbinger of night.

Yet by some grave thoughts attended
Eve renews her calm career;
For the day that now is ended,
Is the longest of the year.

Dora! sport, as now thou sportest,
On this platform, light and free;
Take thy bliss, while longest, shortest,
Are indifferent to thee!

Who would check the happy feeling
That inspires the linnet's song?
Who would stop the swallow, wheeling
On her pinions swift and strong?

Yet at this impressive season,
Words which tenderness can speak
From the t...

An aged satyr sought
Around my Muse to pass,
Attempting to pay court,
And eyed her fondly through his glass.

By Phoebus' golden torch,
By Luna's pallid light,
Around her temple's porch
Crept the unhappy sharp-eared wight;

And warbled many a lay,
Her beauty's praise to sing,
And fiercely scraped away
On his discordant fiddle-string.

With tears, too, swelled his eyes,
As large as nuts, or larger;
He gasped forth heavy sighs,
Like music from Silenus' charger.

The Muse sat still, and played
Within her grotto fair,
And peevishly surveyed
Signor Adonis Goatsfoot there.

"Who ever would kiss thee,
Thou ugly, dirty dunce?
Wouldst thou a gallant be,
As Midas was Apollo once?

"Speak out, old horn...

“Tandem venias precamur
Nube candentes humeros amictus
Augur Apollo.”


Lord of the golden lyre
Fraught with the Dorian fire,
Oh! fair-haired child of Leto, come again;
And if no longer smile
Delphi or Delos’ isle,
Come from the depth of thine Aetnean glen,
Where in the black ravine
Thunders the foaming green
Of waters writhing far from mortals’ ken;
Come o’er the sparkling brine,
And bring thy train divine,
The sweet-voiced and immortal violet-crownèd Nine.

For here are richer meads,
And here are goodlier steeds
Than ever graced the glorious land of Greece;
Here waves the yellow corn,
Here is the olive born,
The gray-green gracious harbinger of peace;
Here too hath taken root
A tree with golden fruit,
...

Lady! a Pen (perhaps with thy regard,
Among the Favoured, favoured not the least)
Left, 'mid the Records of this Book inscribed,
Deliberate traces, registers of thought
And feeling, suited to the place and time
That gave them birth: months passed, and still this hand,
That had not been too timid to imprint
Words which the virtues of thy Lord inspired,
Was yet not bold enough to write of Thee.
And why that scrupulous reserve? In sooth
The blameless cause lay in the Theme itself.
Flowers are there many that delight to strive
With the sharp wind, and seem to court the shower,
Yet are by nature careless of the sun
Whether he shine on them or not; and some,
Where'er he moves along the unclouded sky,
Turn a broad front full on his flattering beams:
Others do ra...

The song of war shall echo thro' our mountains,
    Till not one hateful link remains
    Of slavery's lingering chains;
    Till not one tyrant tread our plains,
Nor traitor lip pollute our fountains.
    No! never till that glorious day
    Shall Lusitania's sons be gay,
    Or hear, oh Peace, thy welcome lay
Resounding thro' her sunny mountains.

The song of war shall echo thro' our mountains,
    Till Victory's self shall, smiling, say,
    "Your cloud of foes hath past away,
    "And Freedom comes with new-born ray
"To gild your vines and light your fountains."
    Oh, never till that glorious day
    Shall Lusitania's sons be gay,
    Or hear, sweet Peace, thy welcome lay
Resounding thro' her sunny mountains.

Come down from heaven to meet me when my breath
Chokes, and through drumming shafts of stifling death
I stumble toward escape, to find the door
Opening on morn where I may breathe once more
Clear cock-crow airs across some valley dim
With whispering trees. While dawn along the rim
Of night's horizon flows in lakes of fire,
Come down from heaven's bright hill, my song's desire.

Belov'd and faithful, teach my soul to wake
In glades deep-ranked with flowers that gleam and shake
And flock your paths with wonder. In your gaze
Show me the vanquished vigil of my days.
Mute in that golden silence hung with green,
Come down from heaven and bring me in your eyes
Remembrance of all beauty that has been,
And stillness from the pools of Paradise.

As he said vanity, so vain say I,
Oh! vanity, O vain all under Sky;
Where is the man can say, lo, I have found
On brittle Earth a Consolation sound?
What is't in honour to be set on high?
No, they like Beasts and Sons of men shall dye,
And whil'st they live, how oft doth turn their fate;
He's now a captive that was King of late.
What is't in wealth, great Treasures to obtain?
No that's but labour, anxious care and pain.
He heaps up riches, and he heaps up sorrow,
It's his to day, but who's his heir to morrow?
What then? Content in pleasures canst thou find,
More vain then all, that's but to grasp the wind.
The sensual senses for a time they please.
Mean while the conscience rage, who shall appease?
What is't in beauty? No that's but a snare,
They're foul ...

To Theodore Watts


Hills and valleys where April rallies his radiant squadron of flowers and birds,
Steep strange beaches and lustrous reaches of fluctuant sea that the land engirds,
Fields and downs that the sunrise crowns with life diviner than lives in words,
Day by day of resurgent May salute the sun with sublime acclaim,
Change and brighten with hours that lighten and darken, girdled with cloud or flame;
Earth's fair face in alternate grace beams, blooms, and lowers, and is yet the same.
Twice each day the divine sea's play makes glad with glory that comes and goes
Field and street that her waves keep sweet, when past the bounds of their old repose,
Fast and fierce in renewed reverse, the foam-flecked estuary ebbs and flows.
Broad and bold through the stays of old st...

Hurrah! the seaward breezes
Sweep down the bay amain;
Heave up, my lads, the anchor!
Run up the sail again!
Leave to the lubber landsmen
The rail-car and the steed;
The stars of heaven shall guide us,
The breath of heaven shall speed.
From the hill-top looks the steeple,
And the lighthouse from the sand;
And the scattered pines are waving
Their farewell from the land.
One glance, my lads, behind us,
For the homes we leave one sigh,
Ere we take the change and chances
Of the ocean and the sky.
Now, brothers, for the icebergs
Of frozen Labrador,
Floating spectral in the moonshine,
Along the low, black shore!
Where like snow the gannet's feathers
On Brador's rocks are shed,
And the noisy murr are flying,
Like black scuds, overhea...

I

To think that men of former days
In naked truth deserved the praise
Which, fain to have in flesh and blood
An image of imagined good,
Poets have sung and men received,
And all too glad to be deceived,
Most plastic and most inexact,
Posterity has told for fact;
To say what was, was not as we,
This also is a vanity.

II

Ere Agamemnon, warriors were,
Ere Helen, beauties equalling her,
Brave ones and fair, whom no one knows,
And brave or fair as these or those.
The commonplace whom daily we
In our dull streets and houses see,
To think of other mould than these
Were Cato, Solon, Socrates,
Or Mahomet or Confutze,
This also is a vanity.

III

Hannibal, Cæsar, Charlemain,
And he before, who back on S...

Over the pool of sleep
The night mists creep,
Then faint thin light and then clear day,
Noontide, and lingering afternoon;
Then that Wanderer, the Moon
Wandering her old wild way.

How many spirits follow
Her in that dark hollow!
Like a lost lamb she roams on high
Through the cold and soundless sky,
And stares down into her deep
Reflection in the pool of sleep.

How many follow
Her in that lone hollow!
She sees them not nor would she hear
Though both shape and sound were clear,
But stares, stares into the pool
Of her fear and beauty full.

Far in strange gay skies
She pales and dies,
Forgetting that bright transitory
Reflection of astonished glory,
Nor heeds the spirits that follow
Her into day's bright hollow.