You are belted with gold, little brother of mine,
        Yellow gold, like the sun
That spills in the west, as a chalice of wine
        When feasting is done.

You are gossamer-winged, little brother of mine,
        Tissue winged, like the mist
That broods where the marshes melt into a line
        Of vapour sun-kissed.

You are laden with sweets, little brother of mine,
        Flower sweets, like the touch
Of hands we have longed for, of arms that entwine,
        Of lips that love much.

You are better than I, little brother of mine,
        Than I, human-souled,
For you bring from the blossoms and red summer shine,
        For others, your gold.

So it is come! The doctor's glossy smile
Deceives me not. I saw him shake his head,
Whispering, and heard poor Giulia sob without,
As, slowly creaking, he went down the stair.
Were they afraid that I should be afraid?
I, who had died once and been laid in tomb?
They need not.

Little one, look not so pale.
I am not raving. Ah! you never heard
The story. Climb up there upon the bed:
Sit close, and listen. After this one day
I shall not tell you stories any more.

How old are you, my rose? What! almost twelve?
Almost a woman? Scarcely more than that
Was your fair mother when she bore her bud;
And scarcely more was I when, long years since,
I left my father's house, a bride in May.
You know the house, beside St. Andrea's church,
Gloomy and ric...

O Friend! I know not which way I must look
For comfort, being, as I am, opprest,
To think that now our life is only drest
For show; mean handy-work of craftsman, cook,
Or groom! We must run glittering like a brook
In the open sunshine, or we are unblest:
The wealthiest man among us is the best:
No grandeur now in nature or in book
Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense,
This is idolatry; and these we adore:
Plain living and high thinking are no more:
The homely beauty of the good old cause
Is gone; our peace, our fearful innocence,
And pure religion breathing household laws.

O winds 'at blow, an flaars 'at grow,
O sun, an stars an mooin!
Aw've loved yo long, as weel yo know,
An watched yo neet an nooin.
But nah, yor paars to charm all flee,
Altho' yor bonny still,
But th' only beauty i' mi e'e,
Is th' lass o'th Haley Hill.

Her een's my stars, - her smile's my sun,
Her cheeks are rooases bonny;
Her teeth like pearls all even run,
Her brow's as fair as onny.
Her swan-like neck, - her snowy breast, -
Her hands, soa seldom still;
Awm fain to own aw love her best, -
Sweet lass o'th' Haley Hill.

Aw axt her i' mi kindest tone,
To grant mi heart's desire;
A tear upon her eyelid shone, -
It set mi heart o' foir.
Wi' whispers low aw told mi love,
Shoo'd raised her droopin heead;
Says shoo, "Awm sooa...

Thou art sleeping, brother, sleeping
    In thy lonely battle grave;
Shadows o'er the past are creeping,
Death, the reaper, still is reaping,
Years have swept, and years are sweeping
Many a memory from my keeping,
But I'm waiting still, and weeping
    For my beautiful and brave.

When the battle songs were chanted,
    And war's stirring tocsin pealed,
By those songs thy heart was haunted,
And thy spirit, proud, undaunted,
Clamored wildly -- wildly panted:
"Mother! let my wish be granted;
I will ne'er be mocked and taunted
That I fear to meet our vaunted
    Foemen on the bloody field.

"They are thronging, mother! thronging,
    To a thousand fields of fame;
Let me go -- 'tis wrong, and wronging
God and thee to crush this longin...

("N'ai-je pas pour toi, belle juive.")

[XII., Oct. 27, 1828.]


To please you, Jewess, jewel!
I have thinned my harem out!
Must every flirting of your fan
Presage a dying shout?

Grace for the damsels tender
Who have fear to hear your laugh,
For seldom gladness gilds your lips
But blood you mean to quaff.

In jealousy so zealous,
Never was there woman worse;
You'd have no roses but those grown
Above some buried corse.

Am I not pinioned firmly?
Why be angered if the door
Repulses fifty suing maids
Who vainly there implore?

Let them live on - to envy
My own empress of the world,
To whom all Stamboul like a dog
Lies at the slippers curled.

To you my heroes lower
Those scarred en...

Where roses flaunt beneath some pleasant cave,
    Too charming Pyrrha, what enamour'd Boy,
Whose shining locks the breathing odors lave,
    Woos thee, exulting in a transient joy?
For whom the simple band dost thou prepare,
That lightly fastens back thy golden hair?

Alas! how soon shall this devoted Youth
    Love's tyrant sway, and thy chang'd eyes deplore,
Indignant curse thy violated truth,
    And count each broken promise o'er and o'er,
Who hopes to meet, unconscious of thy wiles,
Looks ever vacant, ever facile smiles!

He, inexperienc'd Mariner! shall gaze
    In wild amazement on the stormy deep,
Recall the flattery of those sunny days,
    That lull'd each ruder wind to calmest sleep.
'T was then, with jocund hope, he spread the sail,

The merchant, to secure his treasure,
Conveys it in a borrowed name:
Euphelia serves to grace my measure;
But Chloe is my real Flame.

My softest verse, my darling lyre
Upon Euphelia’s toilet lay;
When Chloe noted her desire,
That I should sing, that I should play.

My lyre I tune, my voice I raise;
But with my numbers mix my sighs:
And whilst I sing Euphelia’s praise,
I fix my soul on Chloe’s eyes.

Fair Chloe blush’d: Euphelia frowned:
I sung and gazed:I played and trembled:
And Venus to the Loves around
Remarked, how ill we all dissembled.

Pastoral Sung To The King

MON.Bad are the times.    SIL.    And worse than they are we.
MON.Troth, bad are both; worse fruit, and ill the tree:
The feast of shepherds fail.SIL.    None crowns the cup
Of wassail now, or sets the quintel up:
And he, who used to lead the country-round,
Youthful Mirtillo, here he comes, grief-drown'd.
AMBO.Let's cheer him up.    SIL. Behold him weeping-ripe.
MIRT. Ah, Amarillis!farewell mirth and pipe;
Since thou art gone, no more I mean to play
To these smooth lawns, my mirthful roundelay.
Dear Amarillis!MON.    Hark!    SIL.    Mark!    MIRT.    This
earth grew sweet
Where, Amarillis, thou didst set thy feet.
AMBOPoor pitied youth!    MIRT.    And here the breath
of kine
And sheep grew more sweet by that breath of thine.

JOSEPH

Mary, art thou the little maid
Who plucked me flowers in Spring?
I know thee not: I feel afraid:
Thou'rt strange this evening.

A sweet and rustic girl I won
What time the woods were green;
No woman with deep eyes that shone,
And the pale brows of a Queen.

MARY (inattentive to his words.)

A stranger came with feet of flame
And told me this strange thing, -
For all I was a village maid
My son should be a King.

JOSEPH

A King, dear wife. Who ever knew
Of Kings in stables born!

MARY

Do you hear, in the dark and starlit blue
The clarion and the horn?

JOSEPH

Mary, alas, lest grief and joy
Have sent thy wits astray;
But let me look on this my boy,
And take the wr...

Ben può talor col mio.


Sometimes my love I dare to entertain
        With soaring hope not over-credulous;
        Since if all human loves were impious,
        Unto what end did God the world ordain?
For loving thee what license is more plain
        Than that I praise thereby the glorious
        Source of all joys divine, that comfort us
        In thee, and with chaste fires our soul sustain?
False hope belongs unto that love alone
        Which with declining beauty wanes and dies,
        And, like the face it worships, fades away.
That hope is true which the pure heart hath known,
        Which alters not with time or death's decay,
        Yielding on earth earnest of Paradise.

Alter? When the hills do.
Falter? When the sun
Question if his glory
Be the perfect one.

Surfeit? When the daffodil
Doth of the dew:
Even as herself, O friend!
I will of you!

Once more, dear friends, you meet beneath
A clouded sky
Not yet the sword has found its sheath,
And on the sweet spring airs the breath
Of war floats by.

Yet trouble springs not from the ground,
Nor pain from chance;
The Eternal order circles round,
And wave and storm find mete and bound
In Providence.

Full long our feet the flowery ways
Of peace have trod,
Content with creed and garb and phrase:
A harder path in earlier days
Led up to God.

Too cheaply truths, once purchased dear,
Are made our own;
Too long the world has smiled to hear
Our boast of full corn in the ear
By others sown;

To see us stir the martyr fires
Of long ago,
And wrap our satisfied desires
In the singed mantles that our sires
H...

Frail are the best of us, brothers
God's charity cover us all
Yet we ask for perfection in others,
And scoff when they stumble and fall.
Shall we give him a fish or a serpent
Who stretches his hand in his need?
Let the proud give a stone, but the manly
Will give him a hand full of bread.

Let us search our own hearts and behavior
Ere we cast at a brother a stone,
And remember the words of the Savior
To the frail and unfortunate one;
Remember when others displease us
The Nazarene's holy command,
For the only word written by Jesus
Was charity writ in the sand.

Life, like a romping schoolboy, full of glee,
Doth bear us on his shoulder for a time.
There is no path too steep for him to climb.
With strong, lithe limbs, as agile and as free,
As some young roe, he speeds by vale and sea,
    By flowery mead, by mountain peak sublime,
    And all the world seems motion set to rhyme,
Till, tired out, he cries, "Now carry me!"
    In vain we murmur; "Come," Life says, "Fair play!"
And seizes on us.    God! he goads us so!
    He does not let us sit down all the day.
At each new step we feel the burden grow,
Till our bent backs seem breaking as we go,
    Watching for Death to meet us on the way.

Lovers of whores don’t care,
happy, calm and replete:
But my arms are incomplete,
grasping the empty air.

Thanks to stars, incomparable ones,
that blaze in the depths of the skies,
all my destroyed eyes
see, are the memories of suns.

I look, in vain, for beginning and end
of the heavens’ slow revolve:
Under an unknown eye of fire, I ascend
feeling my wings dissolve.

And, scorched by desire for the beautiful,
I will not know the bliss,
of giving my name to that abyss,
that knows my tomb and funeral.

Whatever a man of the sons of men
Shall say to his heart of the lords above,
They have shown man verily, once and again,
Marvellous mercies and infinite love.

In the wild fifth year of the change of things,
When France was glorious and blood-red, fair
With dust of battle and deaths of kings,
A queen of men, with helmeted hair,

Carrier came down to the Loire and slew,
Till all the ways and the waves waxed red:
Bound and drowned, slaying two by two,
Maidens and young men, naked and wed.

They brought on a day to his judgment-place
One rough with labour and red with fight,
And a lady noble by name and face,
Faultless, a maiden, wonderful, white.

She knew not, being for shame’s sake blind,
If his eyes were hot on her face hard by.
...

A hasty jest I once let fall -
    As jests are wont to be, untrue -
    As if the sum of joy to you
Were hunt and picnic, rout and ball.

Your eyes met mine:    I did not blame;
    You saw it:    but I touched too near
    Some noble nerve; a silent tear
Spoke soft reproach, and lofty shame.

I do not wish those words unsaid.
    Unspoilt by praise and pleasure, you
    In that one look to woman grew,
While with a child, I thought, I played.

Next to mine own beloved so long!
    I have not spent my heart in vain.
    I watched the blade; I see the grain;
A woman's soul, most soft, yet strong.

Eversley, 1856.