War

I.

The white broom flatt'ring her flowers in calm June weather,
    'O most sweet wear;
Forty-eight weeks of my life do none desire me,
    Four am I fair,'

    Quoth the brown bee
    'In thy white wear
    Four thou art fair.
    A mystery
    Of honeyed snow
    In scented air
    The bee lines flow
    Straight unto thee.
    Great boon and bliss
    All pure I wis,
    And sweet to grow
    Ay, so to give
    That many live.
    Now as for me,
    I,' quoth the bee,
    'Have not to give,
    Through long hours sunny
    Gathering I live:
    Aye debonair
    Sailing sweet air
    After my fare,
    Bee-bread and honey.
    In thy deep coombe,
    O thou white broom,
    Where no...

The morning shone on Tagus' rocky side,
And airs of summer swelled the yellow tide,
When, rising from his melancholy bed,
And faint, and feebly by Antonio[2] led,
Poor Camoens, subdued by want and woe,
Along the winding margin wandered slow,
His harp, that once could each warm feeling move
Of patriot glory or of tenderest love,
His sole and sable friend[3] (while a faint tone
Rose from the wires) placed by a mossy stone.
How beautiful the sun ascending shines
From ridge to ridge, along the purple vines!
How pure the azure of the opening skies!
How resonant the nearer rock replies
To call of early mariners! and, hark!
The distant whistle from yon parting bark,
That down the channel as serene she strays,
Her gray sail mingles with the ...

Duan First.[1]


    The sun had clos'd the winter day,
    The curlers quat their roaring play,
    An' hunger'd maukin ta'en her way
        To kail-yards green,
    While faithless snaws ilk step betray
        Whare she has been.

    The thresher's weary flingin'-tree
    The lee-lang day had tired me;
    And when the day had closed his e'e
        Far i' the west,
    Ben i' the spence, right pensivelie,
        I gaed to rest.

    There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek,
    I sat and ey'd the spewing reek,
    That fill'd, wi' hoast-provoking smeek,
        The auld clay biggin';
    An' heard the restless rattons squeak
        About the riggin'.

    All in this mottie, misty clime,
    I backward m...

The gallant Youth, who may have gained,
Or seeks, a “winsome Marrow,”
Was but an Infant in the lap
When first I looked on Yarrow;
Once more, by Newark’s Castle-gate
Long left without a warder,
I stood, looked, listened, and with Thee,
Great Minstrel of the Border!

Grave thoughts ruled wide on that sweet day,
Their dignity installing
In gentle bosoms, while sere leaves
Were on the bough, or falling;
But breezes played, and sunshine gleamed
The forest to embolden;
Reddened the fiery hues, and shot
Transparence through the golden.

For busy thoughts the Stream flowed on
In foamy agitation;
And slept in many a crystal pool
For quiet contemplation:
No public and no private care
The freeborn mind enthralling,
We made a day of...

Look at the swan! how still he goes!
His neck and breast like silver gleam;
He seems majestic as he rows;
The glory of the lonely stream.

There is a glory in the war,
A glory when the warrior wears
(His visage marked with many a scar)
The laurel wet with human tears.

Such scenes no glory can impart,
With trumps, and drums, and noises rude,
Like that which fills his silent heart
Who walks with God in quietude.

When dark November bade the leaves adieu,
And the gale sung amid the sea-boy's shrouds,
Methought I saw four winged forms, that flew,
With garments streaming light, amid the clouds;
From adverse regions of the sky,
In dim succession, they went by.
The first, as o'er the billowy deep he passed,
Blew from its brazen trump a far-resounding blast.
Upon a beaked promontory high,
With streaming heart, and cloudy brow severe,
Marked ye the father of the frowning year![1]
Dark vapours rolled o'er the tempestuous sky,
When creeping WINTER from his cave came forth;
Stern courier of the storm, he cried, what from the north?

    North Wind.

From the vast and desert deeps,
Where the lonely Kraken sleeps,
Where fixed the icy mountains high
G...

"Come hither, little brothers,
    And listen now to me,
And I will read a story
    To both, while at my knee."

Then Johnnie's flag hung idly,
    And Charlie hushed his drum;
To hear sweet Mary's story
    The mimic soldiers come.

"'Tis of a boy no larger,
    My little Charles, than you;
But he had been in battle,
    And all its terrors knew.

"His father was a captain;
    He had no child beside;
And while he was an infant
    His mother dear had died.

"And so from camp to battle,
    From fight to camp again,
Had lived, this little hero,
    On many a bloody plain.

"One day, when shouts were loudest
    Upon the reddened field,--
When came the victor's war-cry,
    'See! see! they fly! they ...

On Wenlock Edge the wood's in trouble;
His forest fleece the Wrekin heaves;
The gale, it plies the saplings double,
And thick on Severn snow the leaves.

'Twould blow like this through holt and hanger
When Uricon the city stood:
'Tis the old wind in the old anger,
But then it threshed another wood.

Then, 'twas before my time, the Roman
At yonder heaving hill would stare:
The blood that warms an English yeoman,
The thoughts that hurt him, they were there.

There, like the wind through woods in riot,
Through him the gale of life blew high;
The tree of man was never quiet:
Then 'twas the Roman, now 'tis I.

The gale, it plies the saplings double,
It blows so hard, 'twill soon be gone:
To-day the Roman and his trouble
Are ashes ...

Wild flight on flight against the fading dawn
The flames' red wings soar upward duskily.
This is the funeral pyre and Troy is dead
That sparkled so the day I saw it first,
And darkened slowly after. I am she
Who loves all beauty, yet I wither it.
Why have the high gods made me wreak their wrath,
Forever since my maidenhood to sow
Sorrow and blood about me? Lo, they keep
Their bitter care above me even now.
It was the gods who led me to this lair,
That tho' the burning winds should make me weak,
They should not snatch the life from out my lips.
Olympus let the other women die;
They shall be quiet when the day is done
And have no care to-morrow. Yet for me
There is no rest. The gods are not so kind
To her made half immortal like themselves.
It is to yo...

An Ode. 1685.


I.

    Thou youngest virgin-daughter of the skies,
    Made in the last promotion of the blest;
    Whose palms, new pluck'd from Paradise,
    In spreading branches more sublimely rise,
    Rich with immortal green above the rest:
    Whether, adopted to some neighbouring star,
    Thou roll'st above us, in thy wandering race,
        Or, in procession fix'd and regular,
        Mov'st with the heavens' majestic pace;
        Or, call'd to more superior bliss,
    Thou tread'st, with seraphims, the vast abyss:

    Whatever happy region is thy place,
    Cease thy celestial song a little space;
    Thou wilt have time enough for hymns divine,
        Since Heaven's eternal year is thine.
    Hear then a mortal Muse th...

Friend of the Wise! and Teacher of the Good!
Into my heart have I received that Lay
More than historic, that prophetic Lay
Wherein (high theme by thee first sung aright)
Of the foundations and the building up
Of a Human Spirit thou hast dared to tell
What may be told, to the understanding mind
Revealable; and what within the mind
By vital breathings secret as the soul
Of vernal growth, oft quickens in the heart
Thoughts all too deep for words!
                        Theme hard as high!
Of smiles spontaneous, and mysterious fears
(The first-born they of Reason and twin-birth),
Of tides obedient to external force,
And currents self-determined, as might seem,
Or by some inner Power; of moments awful,
Now in thy inner life, and now abroad,
When power st...

Kneel down, fair Love, and fill thyself with tears,
Girdle thyself with sighing for a girth
Upon the sides of mirth,
Cover thy lips and eyelids, let thine ears
Be filled with rumour of people sorrowing;
Make thee soft raiment out of woven sighs
Upon the flesh to cleave,
Set pains therein and many a grievous thing,
And many sorrows after each his wise
For armlet and for gorget and for sleeve.

O Love’s lute heard about the lands of death,
Left hanged upon the trees that were therein;
O Love and Time and Sin,
Three singing mouths that mourn now underbreath,
Three lovers, each one evil spoken of;
O smitten lips wherethrough this voice of mine
Came softer with her praise;
Abide a little for our lady’s love.
The kisses of her mouth were more than win...

Past ruin'd Ilion Helen lives,
Alcestis rises from the shades;
Verse calls them forth; 'tis verse that gives
Immortal youth to mortal maids.

Soon shall Oblivion's deepening veil
Hide all the peopled hills you see,
The gay, the proud, while lovers hail
These many summers you and me.

I.

I Heard the hylas in the bottomlands
Piping a reed-note in the praise of Spring:
The South-wind brought the music on its wing,
As 't were a hundred strands
Of guttural gold smitten of elfin hands;
Or of sonorous silver, struck by bands,
Anviled within the earth,
Of laboring gnomes shaping some gem of worth.

Sounds that seemed to bid
The wildflowers wake;
Unclose each dewy lid,
And starrily shake
Sleep from their airy eyes
Beneath the loam,
And, robed in dædal dyes,
Frail as the fluttering foam,
In countless myriads rise.
And in my city home
I, too, who heard
Their reedy word,
Awoke, and, with my soul, went forth to roam.

II.

And under glimpses of the cloud-white sky
My soul and I
Beheld he...

    "And when I come to die," he said,
    "Ye shall not lay me out in state,
    Nor leave your laurels at my head,
    Nor cause your men of speech orate;
    No monument your gift shall be,
    No column in the Hall of Fame;
    But just this line ye grave for me:
    'He played the game.'"

    So when his glorious task was done,
    It was not of his fame we thought;
    It was not of his battles won,
    But of the pride with which he fought;
    But of his zest, his ringing laugh,
    His trenchant scorn of praise or blame:
    And so we graved his epitaph,
    "He played the game."

    And so we, too, in humbler ways
    Went forth to fight the fight anew,
    And heeding neither blame nor praise,
    We held the course he set...

Dulce est desipere in loco.

I

Some Folks are drunk, yet do not know it:
So might not Bacchus give You Law?
Was it a Muse, O lofty Poet,
Or Virgin of St. Cyr, You saw?
Why all this Fury? What's the Matter,
That Oaks must come from Thrace to dance?
Must stupid Stocks be taught to flatter?
And is there no such Wood in France?
Why must the Winds all hold their Tongue?
If they a little Breath should raise;
Would that have spoil'd the Poet's Song;
Or puff'd away the Monarch's Praise?

II

Pindar, that Eagle, mounts the Skies;
While Virtue leads the noble Way:
Too like a Vultur Boileau flies,
Where sordid Interest shows the Prey.
When once the Poet's Honour ceases,
From Reason far his Transports rove:
And Boileau, for ei...

Ye in the age gone by,
Who ruled the world a world how lovely then!
And guided still the steps of happy men
In the light leading-strings of careless joy!
Ah, flourished then your service of delight!
How different, oh, how different, in the day
When thy sweet fanes with many a wreath were bright,
O Venus Amathusia!

Then, through a veil of dreams
Woven by song, truth's youthful beauty glowed,
And life's redundant and rejoicing streams
Gave to the soulless, soul where'r they flowed
Man gifted nature with divinity
To lift and link her to the breast of love;
All things betrayed to the initiate eye
The track of gods above!

Where lifeless fixed afar,
A flaming ball to our dull sense is given,
Phoebus Apollo, in his golden car,
In silent glo...

Shepherd That cry’s from the first cuckoo of the year
I wished before it ceased.

Goatherd Nor bird nor beast
Could make me wish for anything this day,
Being old, but that the old alone might die,
And that would be against God’s Providence.
Let the young wish. But what has brought you here?
Never until this moment have we met
Where my goats browse on the scarce grass or leap
From stone to stone.

Shepherd. I am looking for strayed sheep;
Something has troubled me and in my trouble
I let them stray. I thought of rhyme alone,
For rhyme can beat a measure out of trouble
And make the daylight sweet once more; but when
I had driven every rhyme into its place
The sheep had gone from theirs.

Goatherd. I know right well
What turned so good a ...