Puslapio vaizdai



YOU shun me, Chloe, wild and shy

As some stray fawn that seeks its mother Through trackless woods. If spring-winds sigh, It vainly strives its fears to smother ;

Its trembling knees assail each other
When lizards stir the bramble dry;-
You shun me, Chloe, wild and shy
As some stray fawn that seeks its mother.

And yet no Libyan lion I,—

No ravening thing to rend another; Lay by your tears, your tremors byA Husband's better than a brother;

Nor shun me, Chloe, wild and shy

As some stray fawn that seeks its mother.




N London stones I sometimes sigh


For wider green and bluer sky;— Too oft the trembling note is drowned

In this huge city's varied sound ;— "Pure song is country-born"—I cry.

Then comes the spring,—the months go by,
The last stray swallows seaward fly;
And I-I too !-no more am found
On London stones!

In vain !-the woods, the fields deny
That clearer strain I fain would try;

Mine is an urban Muse, and bound
By some strange law to paven ground;
Abroad she pouts ;-she is not shy
On London stones!



FAREWELL, Renown! Too fleeting flower,

That grows a year to last an hour;Prize of the race's dust and heat,

Too often trodden under feet,—

Why should I court your "barren dower"?

Nay;-had I Dryden's angry power,-
The thews of Ben,-the wind of Gower,—
Not less my voice should still repeat
66 Farewell, Renown!"

Farewell!-Because the Muses' bower

Is filled with rival brows that lower ;

Because, howe'er his pipe be sweet,

The Bard, that "pays," must please the street ;But most... because the grapes are sour,

Farewell, Renown!



"MORE Poets yet!"—I hear him say,

Arming his heavy hand to slay ;—"Despite my skill and 'swashing blow,' They seem to sprout where'er I go ;I killed a host but yesterday!"

Slash on, O Hercules! You may.
Your task's, at best, a Hydra-fray;

And though you cut, not less will grow
More Poets yet!

Too arrogant! For who shall stay

The first blind motions of the May?

Who shall out-blot the morning glow ?—
Or stem the full heart's overflow?

Who? There will rise, till Time decay,
More Poets yet!




pipe and flute the rustic Pan Of old made music sweet for man;

And wonder hushed the warbling bird, And closer drew the calm-eyed herd,— The rolling river slowlier ran.

Ah! would,-ah! would, a little span,
Some air of Arcady could fan

This age of ours, too seldom stirred
With pipe and flute !

But now for gold we plot and plan;
And from Beersheba unto Dan,
Apollo's self might pass unheard,

Or find the night-jar's note preferred ;— Not so it fared, when time began,

With pipe and flute !

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