Friendship

Written at Middleton.


Oh albums, albums, how I dread
    Your everlasting scrap and scrawl!
How often wish that from the dead
Old Omar would pop forth his head,
    And make a bonfire of you all!

So might I 'scape the spinster band,
    The blushless blues, who, day and night,
Like duns in doorways, take their stand,
To waylay bards, with book in hand,
    Crying for ever, "Write, sir, write!"

So might I shun the shame and pain,
    That o'er me at this instant come,
When Beauty, seeking Wit in vain,
Knocks at the portal of my brain,
    And gets, for answer, "Not at home!"

November, 1828.

Bud, come here to your uncle a spell,
And I'll tell you something you mustn't tell -
For it's a secret and shore-'nuf true,
And maybe I oughtn't to tell it to you!
But out in the garden, under the shade
Of the apple-trees, where we romped and played
Till the moon was up, and you thought I'd gone
Fast asleep, That was all put on!
For I was a-watchin' something queer
Goin' on there in the grass, my dear!
'Way down deep in it, there I see
A little dude-Fairy who winked at me,
And snapped his fingers, and laughed as low
And fine as the whine of a mus-kee-to!
I kept still - watchin' him closer - and
I noticed a little guitar in his hand,
Which he leant 'ginst a little dead bee - and laid
His cigarette down on a clean grass-blade,
And then climbed up on th...

Against the sunset's glowing wall
The city towers rise black and tall,
Where Zorah, on its rocky height,
Stands like an armed man in the light.

Down Eshtaol's vales of ripened grain
Falls like a cloud the night amain,
And up the hillsides climbing slow
The barley reapers homeward go.

Look, dearest! how our fair child's head
The sunset light hath hallowed,
Where at this olive's foot he lies,
Uplooking to the tranquil skies.

Oh, while beneath the fervent heat
Thy sickle swept the bearded wheat,
I've watched, with mingled joy and dread,
Our child upon his grassy bed.

Joy, which the mother feels alone
Whose morning hope like mine had flown,
When to her bosom, over-blessed,
A dearer life than hers is pressed.

Dread,...

    I sing the sofa! It had stood for years,
    An invitation to benign repose,
    A foe to all the fretful brood of fears,
    Bidding the weary eye-lid sink and close.
    Massive and deep and broad it was and bland -
    In short the noblest sofa in the land.

    You, too, my friend, my solid friend, I sing,
    Whom on an afternoon I did behold
    Eying - 'twas after lunch - the cushioned thing,
    And murmuring gently, "Here are realms of gold,
    And I shall visit them," you said, "and be
    The sofa's burden till it's time for tea."

    "Let those who will go forth," you said, "and dare,
    Beyond the cluster of the little shops,
    To strain their limbs and take the eager air,
    Seeking the heights of Hedsor and its copse.
    I s...

    The angels guide him now,
    And watch his curly head,
    And lead him in their games,
    The little boy we led.

    He cannot come to harm,
    He knows more than we know,
    His light is brighter far
    Than daytime here below.

    His path leads on and on,
    Through pleasant lawns and flowers,
    His brown eyes open wide
    At grass more green than ours.

    With playmates like himself,
    The shining boy will sing,
    Exploring wondrous woods,
    Sweet with eternal spring.

        "This clamor which pretends to be raised for the safety of religion has almost worn put the very appearance of it, and rendered us not only the most divided but the most immoral people upon the face of the earth."

        ADDISON, Freeholder, No. 37.


Start not, my friend, nor think the Muse will stain
Her classic fingers with the dust profane
Of Bulls, Decrees and all those thundering scrolls
Which took such freedom once with royal souls,[1]
When heaven was yet the pope's exclusive trade,
And kings were damned as fast as now they're made,
No, no--let Duigenan search the papal chair
For fragrant treasures long forgotten there;
And, as the witch of sunless Lapland thinks
That little swarthy gnomes delight in stinks,
Let sall...

The sun looks over a little hill
And floods the valley with gold -
A torrent of gold;
And the hither field is green and still;
Beyond it a cloud outrolled,
Is glowing molten and bright;
And soon the hill, and the valley and all,
With a quiet fall,
Shall be gathered into the night.
And yet a moment more,
Out of the silent wood,
As if from the closing door
Of another world and another lovelier mood,
Hear'st thou the hermit pour -
So sweet! so magical! -
His golden music, ghostly beautiful.

In the ancient town of Bruges,
In the quaint old Flemish city,
As the evening shades descended,
Low and loud and sweetly blended,
Low at times and loud at times,
And changing like a poet's rhymes,
Rang the beautiful wild chimes
From the Belfry in the market
Of the ancient town of Bruges.

Then, with deep sonorous clangor
Calmly answering their sweet anger,
When the wrangling bells had ended,
Slowly struck the clock eleven,
And, from out the silent heaven,
Silence on the town descended.
Silence, silence everywhere,
On the earth and in the air,
Save that footsteps here and there
Of some burgher home returning,
By the street lamps faintly burning,
For a moment woke the echoes
Of the ancient town of Bruges.

But amid my brok...

Son of Erebus and Night,
Hie away; and aim thy flight
Where consort none other fowl
Than the bat and sullen owl;
Where upon the limber grass
Poppy and mandragoras
With like simples not a few
Hang for ever drops of dew.
Where flows Lethe without coil
Softly like a stream of oil.
Hie thee thither, gentle Sleep:
With this Greek no longer keep.
Thrice I charge thee by my wand;
Thrice with moly from my hand
Do I touch Ulysses' eyes,
And with the jaspis: Then arise,
Sagest Greek....

The Inner Temple Masque.

Daphne knows, with equal ease,
How to vex, and how to please;
But the folly of her sex
Makes her sole delight to vex.
Never woman more devised
Surer ways to be despised;
Paradoxes weakly wielding,
Always conquer'd, never yielding.
To dispute, her chief delight,
Without one opinion right:
Thick her arguments she lays on,
And with cavils combats reason;
Answers in decisive way,
Never hears what you can say;
Still her odd perverseness shows
Chiefly where she nothing knows;
And, where she is most familiar,
Always peevisher and sillier;
All her spirits in a flame
When she knows she's most to blame.
    Send me hence ten thousand miles,
From a face that always smiles:
None could ever act that part,
But a fury in her heart.
Ye ...