Piero Luca, known of all the town
As the gray porter by the Pitti wall
Where the noon shadows of the gardens fall,
Sick and in dolor, waited to lay down
His last sad burden, and beside his mat
The barefoot monk of La Certosa sat.

Unseen, in square and blossoming garden drifted,
Soft sunset lights through green Val d'Arno sifted;
Unheard, below the living shuttles shifted
Backward and forth, and wove, in love or strife,
In mirth or pain, the mottled web of life
But when at last came upward from the street
Tinkle of bell and tread of measured feet,
The sick man started, strove to rise in vain,
Sinking back heavily with a moan of pain.
And the monk said, "'T is but the Brotherhood
Of Mercy going on some errand good
Their black masks by the palace-wall ...

Thou with the dark blue eye upturned to heaven,
And cheek now pale, now warm with radiant glow,
                    Daughter of God,--most dear,--
                    Come with thy quivering tear,
And tresses wild, and robes of loosened flow,--
To thy lone votaress let one look be given!

Come Poesy! nor like some just-formed maid,
With heart as yet unswoln by bliss or woe;--
                    But of such age be seen
                    As Egypt's glowing queen,
When her brave Roman learned to love her so
That death and loss of fame, were, by a smile, repaid.

Or as thy Sappho, when too fierce assailed
By stern ingratitude her tender breast:--
                    Her love by scorn repaid
                    Her friendship true betrayed,
Sick of the...

INTRODUCTION AND CHORUS

For thirst of power that Heaven disowns,
For temples, towers, and thrones,
Too long insulted by the Spoiler's shock,
Indignant Europe cast
Her stormy foe at last
To reap the whirlwind on a Libyan rock.

SOLO (TENOR)

War is passion's basest game
Madly played to win a name;
Up starts some tyrant, Earth and Heaven to dare,
The servile million bow;
But will the lightning glance aside to spare
The Despot's laureled brow?

CHORUS

War is mercy, glory, fame,
Waged in Freedom's holy cause;
Freedom, such as Man may claim
Under God's restraining laws.
Such is Albion's fame and glory:
Let rescued Europe tell the story.

RECIT. (accompanied) (CONTRALTO)

But lo, what sudden cloud ha...

The Shadow

Who art thou, O Glory,
    In flame from the deep,
Where stars chant their story,
    Why trouble my sleep?

I hardly had rested,
    My dreams wither now:
Why comest thou crested
    And gemmed on they brow?


The Glory

Up, Shadow, and follow
    The way I will show;
The blue gleaming hollow
    To-night we will know,

And rise mid the vast to
    The fountain of days;
From whence we had pass to
    The parting of ways.


The Shadow

I know thee, O Glory:
    Thine eyes and thy brow
With white fire all hoary
    Come back to me now.

Together we wandered
    In ages agone;
Our thoughts as we pondered
    Were stars at the dawn.

The glory...

And what is Life?--An hour-glass on the run,
A mist retreating from the morning sun,
A busy, bustling, still repeated dream;
Its length?--A minute's pause, a moment's thought;
And happiness?-A bubble on the stream,
That in the act of seizing shrinks to nought.

What are vain Hopes?--The puffing gale of morn,
That of its charms divests the dewy lawn,
And robs each floweret of its gem,--and dies;
A cobweb hiding disappointment's thorn,
Which stings more keenly through the thin disguise.

And thou, O Trouble?--Nothing can suppose,
(And sure the power of wisdom only knows,)
What need requireth thee:
So free and liberal as thy bounty flows,
Some necessary cause must surely be;
But disappointments, pains, and every woe
Devoted wretches feel,
The ...

Oh that I could write a story
    Of love's dealing with affection!
How he makes the spirit sorry
    That is touch'd with his infection.

But he doth so closely wind him,
    In the plaits of will ill-pleased,
That the heart can never find him
    Till it be too much diseased.

'Tis a subtle kind or spirit
    Of a venom-kind of nature,
That can, like a coney-ferret,
    Creep unawares upon a creature.

Never eye that can behold it,
    Though it worketh first by seeing;
Nor conceit that can unfold it,
    Though in thoughts be all its being.

Oh! it maketh old men witty,
    Young men wanton, women idle,
While that patience weeps, for pity
    Reason bite not nature's bridle.

What it is, in conjecture;
    S...

While, bending at thy honour'd shrine, the Muse
    Pours, MONTAGU, to thee her votive strain,
Thy heart will not her simple notes refuse,
    Or chill her timid soul with cold disdain.

O might a transient spark of genius fire
    The fond effusions of her fearful youth;
Then should thy virtues live upon her lyre,
    And give to harmony the charm of truth.

Vain wish! they ask not the imperfect lay,
    The weak applause her trembling accents breathe;
With whose pure radiance glory blends her ray,
    Whom fame has circled with her fairest wreathe.

Thou, who while seen with graceful step to tread
    Grandeur's enchanted round, can'st meekly pause
To rend the veil obscurity had spread
    Where his lone sigh deserted Genius draws;

To le...

After A. C. S.


In Spring there are lashings of new books,
In Autumn fresh novels are sold,
They are many, but my shelf has few books,
My comrades, the favourites of old;
Tho' the roll of the cata-logues vary,
Thou alone art unchangeably dear,
O bibulous, beautiful Sairey,
Our Lady of Cheer.

By the whites of thine eyes that were yellow,
By the folds of thy duplicate chin,
By thy voice that was husky but mellow
With gin, with the richness of gin,
By thy scorn of the boy that was Bragian,
By thy wealth of perambulate swoons,
O matchless and mystical Magian,
Beguile us with boons.

For thou scatterest the evil before us
With grave humours and exquisite speech,
Till we heed not the 'new men that bore us,'
Nor...

A night drive to Ein Yahav in the Arava Desert,
a drive in the rain. Yes, in the rain.
There I met people who grow date palms,
there I saw tamarisk trees and risk trees,
there I saw hope barbed as barbed wire.
And I said to myself: That's true, hope needs to be
like barbed wire to keep out despair,
hope must be a mine field.

"The clock indicates the hour but what does enternity indicate?"
    Whitman

Imagine, being told cubism isn't painting. That
Beardsley didn't die at 26, unheralded as a boy genius
or Corot didn't come to Paris after all.

Imagine, The Louvre without a rooftop, the
intelligentsia sitting down to a ragged table
surrounded by sawdust intellects, Proust not being
able to write his name.

Now that's splendour    -    that's in-depth "feeling".
That's emotion to pull your socks or catch the bus on
a brittle day.

It's easy. Try to "feel" the event. It's 1896. People are
perturbed (or so we are told) because the century's
getting old. Time's rushing by. There's an alarm clock
set to buzz at eternity's gate, Midnight 1900.

In probing the mal...

It is enough for me by day
To walk the same bright earth with him;
Enough that over us by night
The same great roof of stars is dim.

I do not hope to bind the wind
Or set a fetter on the sea,
It is enough to feel his love,
Blow by like music over me.

Sweet gem of infant fairy-flowers!
Thy smiles on life' unclosing hours,
Like sunbeams lost in summer showers,
They wake my fears;
When reason knows its sweets and sours,
They'll change to tears.

God help thee, little senseless thing!
Thou, daisy-like of early spring,
Of ambush'd winter's hornet sting
Hast yet to tell;
Thou know'st not what to-morrows bring:
I wish thee well.

But thou art come, and soon or late
'Tis thine to meet the frowns of fate,
The harpy grin of envy's hate,
And mermaid-smiles
Of worldly folly's luring bait,
That youth beguiles.

And much I wish, whate'er may be
The lot, my child, that falls to thee,
Nature may never let thee see
Her glass betimes,
But keep thee from my failings free,--
N...

I'M now disposed to give a pretty tale;
Love laughs at what I've sworn and will prevail;
Men, gods, and all, his mighty influence know,
And full obedience to the urchin show.
In future when I celebrate his flame,
Expressions not so warm will be my aim;
I would not willingly abuses plant,
But rather let my writings spirit want.
If in these verses I around should twirl,
Some wily knave and easy simple girl,
'Tis with intention in the breast to place;
On such occasions, dread of dire disgrace;
The mind to open, and the sex to set
Upon their guard 'gainst snares so often met.
Gross ignorance a thousand has misled,
For one that has been hurt by what I've said.

I'VE read that once, an orator renowned
In Greece, where arts superior then were found,
By...

Not in the world of light alone,
Where God has built his blazing throne,
Nor yet alone in earth below,
With belted seas that come and go,
And endless isles of sunlit green,
Is all thy Maker's glory seen:
Look in upon thy wondrous frame, -
Eternal wisdom still the same!

The smooth, soft air with pulse-like waves
Flows murmuring through its hidden caves,
Whose streams of brightening purple rush,
Fired with a new and livelier blush,
While all their burden of decay
The ebbing current steals away,
And red with Nature's flame they start
From the warm fountains of the heart.

No rest that throbbing slave may ask,
Forever quivering o'er his task,
While far and wide a crimson jet
Leaps forth to fill the woven net
Which in unnumbered cross...

What means this gathering multitude,
    Upon thy shores, O, Galilee,
As various as the billows rude
    That sweep thy ever restless sea?
        Can but the mandate of a King
        So varied an assemblage bring?

Behold the noble, rich, and great,
    From Levite, Pharisee and Priest,
Down to the lowest dregs of fate,
    From mightiest even to the least;
        Yes, in this motley throng we find
        The palsied, sick, mute, halt, and blind.

Is this some grand affair of state,
    A coronation, or display,
By some vainglorious potentate,--
    Or can this concourse mark the day
        Of some victorious hero's march
        Homeward, through triumphal arch?

Or, have they come to celebrate
    Some sacred sacerdotal rit...

Tha'rt a rough en; - aye tha art, - an aw'll bet
Just as ready. Tha ne'er lived as a pet,
Aw can tell.
Ther's noa mistress weshed thi skin, cooam'd thi heead;
Net mich pettin; kicks an cuffins oft asteead,
Like mysel.

Tha'rt noa beauty; - nivver wor; - nivver will;
Ther's lots like thee amang men, - but then still,
Sich is fate;
An its fooilish for to be discontent
At a thing we've noa paar to prevent.
That's true mate.

Why tha's foller'd one like me aw cant tell;
If tha'rt seekin better luck, - its a sell,
As tha'll find;
Nay, tha needn't twitch thi tail aght o' seet,
Aw'll nooan hurt thi, tho' aw own tha'rt a freet.
Nivver mind.

Here's mi supper, an aw'll spare thee a part, -
Gently, pincher! Tak thi time. Here tha art;
...

Is not to-day enough? Why do I peer
Into the darkness of the day to come?
Is not to-morrow even as yesterday?
And will the day that follows change thy doom?
Few flowers grow upon thy wintry way;
And who waits for thee in that cheerless home
Whence thou hast fled, whither thou must return
Charged with the load that makes thee faint and mourn?

        By Mr. Doddington, Afterwards Lord Melcombe.


        --Quæ censet amiculus, ut si
        Cæcus iter monstrare velit

                    HOR.


Though strength of genius, by experience taught,
Gives thee to sound the depths of human thought,
To trace the various workings of the mind,
And rule the secret springs, that rule mankind;
(Rare gift!) yet, Walpole, wilt thou condescend
To listen, if thy unexperienc'd friend
Can aught of use impart, though void of skill,
And win attention by sincere good-will;
For friendship, sometimes, want of parts supplies,
The heart may furnish what the head denies.
    As when the rapid Rhone, o'er swelling tides,
To grace old ocean's court, in triumph rides,
Tho' rich his source, he drains a th...