Heartbreak

The Autumn hills are golden at the top,
    And rounded as a poet's silver rhyme;
The mellow days are ruby ripe, that drop
    One after one into the lap of time.

Dead leaves are reddening in the woodland copse,
    And forest boughs a fading glory wear;
No breath of wind stirs in their hazy tops,
    Silence and peace are brooding everywhere.

The long day of the year is almost done,
    And nature in the sunset musing stands,
Gray-robed, and violet-hooded like a nun,
    Looking abroad o'er yellow harvest lands:

O'er tents of orchard boughs, and purple vines
    With scarlet flecked, flung like broad banners out
Along the field paths where slow-pacing lines
    Of meek-eyed kine obey the herdboy's shout;

Where the tired ploughman his d...

Once and there was a young sailor, yeo ho!
And he sailed out over the say
For the isles where pink coral and palm branches blow,
And the fire-flies turn night into day,
Yeo ho!
And the fire-flies turn night into day.

But the Dolphin went down in a tempest, yeo ho!
And with three forsook sailors ashore,
The portingales took him wh'ere sugar-canes grow,
Their slave for to be evermore,
Yeo ho!
Their slave for to be evermore.

With his musket for mother and brother, yeo ho!
He warred with the Cannibals drear,
in forests where panthers pad soft to and fro,
And the Pongo shakes noonday with fear,
Yeo ho!
And the Pongo shakes noonday with fear.

Now lean with long travail, all wasted with woe,
With a monkey for messmate and friend,

The splendour falls on castle walls
And snowy summits old in story:
The long light shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going!
O sweet and far from cliff and scar
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O love, they die in yon rich sky,
They faint on hill or field or river:
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow for ever and for ever.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

How can you bear to look at the Neva?
How can you bear to cross the bridges?.
Not in vain am I known as the grieving one
Since the time you appeared to me.
The black angels' wings are sharp,
Judgment Day is coming soon,
And raspberry-colored bonfires bloom,
Like roses, in the snow.

Out from Jerusalem
The king rode with his great
War chiefs and lords of state,
And Sheba's queen with them;

Comely, but black withal,
To whom, perchance, belongs
That wondrous Song of songs,
Sensuous and mystical,

Whereto devout souls turn
In fond, ecstatic dream,
And through its earth-born theme
The Love of loves discern.

Proud in the Syrian sun,
In gold and purple sheen,
The dusky Ethiop queen
Smiled on King Solomon.

Wisest of men, he knew
The languages of all
The creatures great or small
That trod the earth or flew.

Across an ant-hill led
The king's path, and he heard
Its small folk, and their word
He thus interpreted:

"Here comes the king men greet
As wise and good and just,

The merry merry lark was up and singing,
    And the hare was out and feeding on the lea;
And the merry merry bells below were ringing,
    When my child's laugh rang through me.

Now the hare is snared and dead beside the snow-yard,
    And the lark beside the dreary winter sea;
And the baby in his cradle in the churchyard
    Sleeps sound till the bell brings me.

Eversley, 1848.

The wild pear whispers, and the ivy crawls,
Along the circuit of thine ancient walls,
Lone city of the dead! and near this mound,[200]
The buried coins of mighty men are found,
Silent remains of Cæsars and of kings,
Soldiers of whose renown the world yet rings,
In its sad story! These have had their day
Of glory, and have passed, like sounds, away!

And such their fame! While we the spot behold,
And muse upon the tale that Time has told,
We ask where are they? - they whose clarion brayed,
Whose chariot glided, and whose war-horse neighed;
Whose cohorts hastened o'er the echoing way,
Whose eagles glittered to the orient ray!

Ask of this fragment, reared by Roman hands,
That, now, a lone and broken column stands!
Ask of that road - whose track alone r...

There is a little unpretending Rill
Of limpid water, humbler far than aught
That ever among Men or Naiads sought
Notice or name! It quivers down the hill,
Furrowing its shallow way with dubious will;
Yet to my mind this scanty Stream is brought
Oftener than Ganges or the Nile; a thought
Of private recollection sweet and still!
Months perish with their moons; year treads on year!
But, faithful Emma! thou with me canst say
That, while ten thousand pleasures disappear,
And flies their memory fast almost as they;
The immortal Spirit of one happy day
Lingers beside that Rill, in vision clear.

        A rake who had, by pleasure stuffing,
        Raked mind and body down to nothing,
        In wretched vacancy reclined,
        Enfeebled both in frame and mind.

        As pain and languor chose to bore him,
        A ghastly phantom rose before him:

        "My name is Care. Nor wealth nor power
        Can give the heart a cheerful hour
        Devoid of health - impressed by care.
        From pleasures fraught with pains, forbear."

        The phantom fled. The rake abstained,
        And part of fleeing health retained.
        Then, to reform, he took a wife,
        Resolved to live a sober life.

        Again the phantom stood before him,
        With jealousies and fears to bore him.
        Her smiles to others he re...

Out of this oubliette between the mountains
five valleys go, five passes like gates;
three of them black in shadow, two of them bright
with distant sunshine;
and sunshine fills one high valley bed,
green grass shining, and little white houses
like quartz crystals,
little, but distinct a way off.

Why don't I go?
Why do I crawl about this pot, this oubliette,
stupidly?
Why don't I go?

But where?
If I come to a pine-wood, I can't say
Now I am arrived!
What are so many straight trees to me!

STERZING

    O Goudie! terror of the Whigs,
    Dread of black coats and rev'rend wigs,
    Sour Bigotry, on her last legs,
        Girnin', looks back,
    Wishin' the ten Egyptian plagues
        Wad seize you quick.

    Poor gapin', glowrin' Superstition,
    Waes me! she's in a sad condition:
    Fie! bring Black Jock, her state physician,
        To see her water:
    Alas! there's ground o' great suspicion
        She'll ne'er get better.

    Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple,
    But now she's got an unco ripple;
    Haste, gie her name up i' the chapel,
        Nigh unto death;
    See, how she fetches at the thrapple,
        An' gasps for breath.

    Enthusiasm's past redemption,
    Gaen in a gallopin' consumption,
    Not...

This merit hath the worst, --
It cannot be again.
When Fate hath taunted last
And thrown her furthest stone,

The maimed may pause and breathe,
And glance securely round.
The deer invites no longer
Than it eludes the hound.

Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art,
As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel;
For well thou know’st to my dear doting heart
Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel.
Yet, in good faith, some say that thee behold,
Thy face hath not the power to make love groan;
To say they err I dare not be so bold,
Although I swear it to myself alone.
And to be sure that is not false I swear,
A thousand groans, but thinking on thy face,
One on another’s neck, do witness bear
Thy black is fairest in my judgment’s place.
In nothing art thou black save in thy deeds,
And thence this slander, as I think, proceeds.

Love dark as death and fierce as fire on wing
Sustains in sin the soul that feels it cling
Like flame whose tongues are serpents: hope and fear
Die when a love more dire than hate draws near,
And stings to death the heart it cleaves in twain,
And leaves in ashes all but fear and pain.
Our lustrous England rose to life and light
From Rome's and hell's immitigable night,
And music laughed and quickened from her breath,
When first her sons acclaimed Elizabeth.
Her soul became a lyre that all men heard
Who felt their souls give back her lyric word.
Yet now not all at once her perfect power
Spake: man's deep heart abode awhile its hour,
Abode its hour of utterance; not to wake
Till Marlowe's thought in thunderous music spake.
But yet not yet was passion's tragic br...

LO! in storms, the triple-headed
Hill, whose dreaded
Bases battle with the seas,
Looms across fierce widths of fleeting
Waters beating
Evermore on roaring leas!

Arakoon, the black, the lonely!
Housed with only
Cloud and rain-wind, mist and damp;
Round whose foam-drenched feet and nether
Depths, together
Sullen sprites of thunder tramp!

There the East hums loud and surly,
Late and early,
Through the chasms and the caves,
And across the naked verges
Leap the surges!
White and wailing waifs of waves.

Day by day the sea-fogs gathered
Tempest-fathered
Pitch their tents on yonder peak,
Yellow drifts and fragments lying
Where the flying
Torrents chafe the cloven creek!

And at nightfall, when the driven

I.
Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!
Rescue my castle before the hot day
Brightens to blue from its silvery grey,

(Chorus). Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!

II.
Ride past the suburbs, asleep as you’d say;
Many’s the friend there, will listen and pray
“God’s luck to gallants that strike up the lay,

(Chorus). “Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!”

III.
Forty miles off, like a roebuck at bay,
Flouts Castle Brancepeth the Roundheads’ array:
Who laughs, “Good fellows ere this, by my fay,

(Chorus). “Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!”

IV.
Who? My wife Gertrude; that, honest and gay,
Laughs when you talk of surrendering, “Nay!
“I’ve better counsellors; what counsel they?

(Chorus). “Boot, saddle, to horse, and away...

    The Raven croak'd as she sate at her meal,
    And the Old Woman knew what he said,
    And she grew pale at the Raven's tale,
    And sicken'd and went to her bed.

    Now fetch me my children, and fetch them with speed,
    The Old Woman of Berkeley said,
    The monk my son, and my daughter the nun
    Bid them hasten or I shall be dead.

    The monk her son, and her daughter the nun,
    Their way to Berkeley went,
    And they have brought with pious thought
    The holy sacrament.

    The old Woman shriek'd as they entered her door,
    'Twas fearful her shrieks to hear,
    Now take the sacrament away
    For mercy, my children dear!

    Her lip it trembled with agony,
    The sweat ran down her brow,
    I have tor...

Love, whose light thrills heaven and earth,
Smiles and weeps upon thy birth,
Child, whose mother's love-lit eyes
Watch thee but from Paradise.
Sweetest sight that earth can give,
Sweetest light of eyes that live,
Ours must needs, for hope withdrawn,
Hail with tears thy soft spring dawn.
Light of hope whose star hath set,
Light of love whose sun lives yet,
Holier, happier, heavenlier love
Breathes about thee, burns above,
Surely, sweet, than ours can be,
Shed from eyes we may not see,
Though thine own may see them shine
Night and day, perchance, on thine.
Sun and moon that lighten earth
Seem not fit to bless thy birth:
Scarce the very stars we know
Here seem bright enough to show
Whence in unimagined skies
Glows the vigil of such eyes.<...