But if I dream that all these are,

They are to me for that I dream;
For all things are as they seem to all,

And all things flow like a stream.

Argal this very opinion is only true relatively tc the flowing philosophers.

IV. POEMS PUBLISHED IN THE EDITION OF 1833, AND OMITTED IN LATER EDITIONS

Of the thirty poems in the 1833 volume, fourteen were omitted in 1842; but eight of these (including Kate,' restored since the poet's death) were afterwards given a place in the collected editions, as explained in the prefatory notes.

SONNET

O BEAUTY, passing beauty! sweetest Sweet! How canst thou let me waste my youth in sighs?

I only ask to sit beside thy feet.

Thou knowest I dare not look into thine eyes. Might I but kiss thy hand! I dare not fold

My arms about thee-scarcely dare to speak. And nothing seems to me so wild and bold,

As with one kiss to touch thy blesséd cheek. Methinks if I should kiss thee, no control

Within the thrilling brain could keep afloat The subtle spirit. Even while I spoke, The bare word KISS hath made my inner soul To tremble like a lutestring, ere the note Hath melted in the silence that it broke.

THE HESPERIDES

This poem is reprinted in the 'Memoir' (vol. i. p. 61) with the following note:

'Published and suppressed by my father, and republished by me here (with accents written by him) in consequence of a talk that I had with him, in which he regretted that he had done away with it from among his "Juvenilia."

The author of the Memoir 'has since added 'Kate' (which he does not mention) to the 'Juvenilia' in the collected editions (see p. 25 above), but he has not restored this poem.

"Hesperus and his daughters three,
That sing about the golden tree."

Comus.

THE North-wind fall'n, in the new-starréd night

Zidonian Hanno, voyaging beyond

The hoary promontory of Soloë

Past Thymiaterion, in calméd bays,

Between the southern and the western Horn,

Guard it well, guard it warily,
Singing airily,

Standing about the charméd root.

Round about all is mute,

As the snow-field on the mountain-peaks,
As the sand-field at the mountain-foot.
Crocodiles in briny creeks

Sleep and stir not: all is mute.

If ye sing not, if ye make false measure,
We shall lose eternal pleasure,
Worth eternal want of rest.

Laugh not loudly: watch the treasure
Of the wisdom of the West.

In a corner wisdom whispers. Five and three
(Let it not be preached abroad) make an awful

Father Hesper, Father Hesper, watch, watch, night and day,

Lest the old wound of the world be healéd,
The glory unsealed,

The golden apple stolen away,

And the ancient secret revealed.
Look from west to east along:

Father, old Himala weakens, Caucasus is bold and strong.

Wandering waters unto wandering waters call;
Let them clash together, foam and fall.
Out of watchings, out of wiles,
Comes the bliss of secret smiles.

All things are not told to all.

Half-round the mantling night is drawn,
Purple fringed with even and dawn.

Hesper hateth Phosphor, evening hateth morn.

IV

Every flower and every fruit the redolent breath
Of this warm sea-wind ripeneth,
Arching the billow in his sleep;
But the land-wind wandereth,
Broken by the highland-steep,
Two streams upon the violet deep;

For the western sun and the western star,
And the low west-wind, breathing afar,

The end of day and beginning of night
Make the apple holy and bright;

Holy and bright, round and full, bright and blest,

Mellowed in a land of rest;
Watch it warily day and night;
All good things are in the west.
Till mid noon the cool east light
Is shut out by the tall hillbrow;

But when the full-faced sunset yellowly
Stays on the flowering arch of the bough,
The luscious fruitage clustereth mellowly,
Golden-kernelled, golden-cored,
Sunset-ripened above on the tree.

The world is wasted with fire and sword,
But the apple of gold hangs over the sea
Five links, a golden chain are we,
Hesper, the dragon, and sisters three,
Daughters three,

Bound about

ROSALIND

This poem (see p. 21 above) has been restored, but without the following note, which is appended to it in the 1833 volume:

AUTHOR'S NOTE. Perhaps the following lines may be allowed to stand as a separate poem; originally they made part of the text, where they were manifestly superfluous.

MY Rosalind, my Rosalind,
Bold, subtle, careless Rosalind,
Is one of those who know no strife
Of inward woe or outward fear;

To whom the slope and stream of Life,
The life before, the life behind,
In the ear, from far and near,
Chimeth musically clear.
My falcon-hearted Rosalind,
Full-sailed before a vigorous wind,
Is one of those who cannot weep
For others' woes, but overleap
All the petty shocks and fears
That trouble life in early years,
With a flash of frolic scorn
And keen delight, that never falls
Away from freshness, self-upborne
With such gladness as, whenever
The fresh-flushing springtime calls
To the flooding waters cool,
Young fishes, on an April morn,
Up and down a rapid river,
Leap the little waterfalls
That sing into the pebbled pool.
My happy falcon, Rosalind,
Hath daring fancies of her own,
Fresh as the dawn before the day,
Fresh as the early sea-smell blown
Through vineyards from an inland bay.
My Rosalind, my Rosalind,
Because no shadow on you falls,
Think you hearts are tennisballs
To play with, wanton Rosalind?

Break through your iron shackles - fling them

far.

O for those days of Piast, ere the Czar
Grew to his strength among his deserts cold;
When even to Moscow's cupolas were rolled
The growing murmurs of the Polish war!
Now must your noble anger blaze out more
Than when from Sobieski, clan by clan,
The Moslem myriads fell, and fled before
Than when Zamoysky smote the Tartar Khan;
Than earlier, when on the Baltic shore
Boleslas drove the Pomeranian.

O DARLING ROOM

I

O DARLING room, my heart's delight,
Dear room, the apple of my sight,
With thy two couches soft and white,
There is no room so exquisite,

No little room so warm and bright,
Wherein to read, wherein to write.

For I the Nonnenwerth have seen,¦
And Oberwinter's vineyards green,
Musical Lurlei; and between
The hills to Bingen have I been,
Bingen in Darmstadt, where the Rhene
Curves toward Mentz, a woody scene.

III

Yet never did there meet my sight,
In any town to left or right,
A little room so exquisite,

With two such couches soft and white,
Not any room so warm and bright,
Wherein to read, wherein to write.

TO CHRISTOPHER NORTH

You did late review my lays,
Crusty Christopher;

You did mingle blame and praise,

Rusty Christopher.

When I learnt from whom it came,

I forgave you all the blame,

Musty Christopher;

I could not forgive the praise,
Fusty Christopher.

V. OTHER DISCARDED AND

UNCOLLECTED POEMS

ON CAMBRIDGE UNIVERSITY

Written in 1830. See Notes.

THEREFORE your Halls, your ancient Colleges,
Your portals statued with old kings and queens,
Your gardens, myriad-volumed libraries,
Wax-lighted chapels, and rich carven screens,

WHERE is the Giant of the Sun, which stood
In the midnoon the glory of old Rhodes,
A perfect Idol with profulgent brows
Far sheening down the purple seas to those
Who sailed from Mizraim underneath the star
Named of the Dragon- and between whose
limbs

Of brassy vastness broad-blown Argosies
Drave into haven? Yet endure unscathed
Of changeful cycles the great Pyramids
Broad-based amid the fleeting sands, and sloped
Into the slumberous summer noon; but where,
Mysterious Egypt, are thine obelisks
Graven with gorgeous emblems undiscerned?
Thy placid Sphinxes brooding o'er the Nile?
Thy shadowing Idols in the solitudes,
Awful Memnonian countenances calm
Looking athwart the burning flats, far off

Seen by the high-necked camel on the verge Journeying southward? Where are thy monu

ments

Piled by the strong and sunborn Anakim
Over their crowned brethren ON and ОPH?
Thy Memnon when his peaceful lips are kist
With earliest rays, that from his mother's eyes
Flow over the Arabian bay, no more
Breathes low into the charmed ears of morn
Clear melody flattering the crisped Nile
By columned Thebes. Old Memphis hath gone
down:

The Pharaohs are no more: somewhere in death
They sleep with staring eyes and gilded lips,
Wrapped round with spiced cerements in old
grots

Rock-hewn and sealed for ever.

SONNET

Contributed to 'Friendship's Offering,' annual, 1832.

ME my own fate to lasting sorrow doometh:
Thy woes are birds of passage, transitory:
Thy spirit, circled with a living glory,
In summer still a summer joy resumeth.
Alone my hopeless melancholy gloometh,

Like a lone cypress, through the twilight hoary,

From an old garden where no flower bloom

eth,

One cypress on an island promontory.

But yet my lonely spirit follows thine,

As round the rolling earth night follows day: But yet thy lights on my horizon shine

Into my night, when thou art far away.

I am so dark, alas! and thou so bright,
When we two meet there 's never perfect light.

SONNET

Contributed to 'The Englishman's Maga zine' for August, 1831; and reprinted in Friendship's Offering,' 1833.

CHECK every outflash, every ruder sally

Of thought and speech; speak low, and give up wholly

Thy spirit to mild-minded Melancholy; This is the place. Through yonder poplar alley

Below the blue-green river windeth slowly; But in the middle of the sombre valley The crispéd waters whisper musically,

And all the haunted place is dark and holy. The nightingale, with long and low preamble, Warbled from yonder knoll of solemn larches, And in and out the woodbine's flowery arches The summer midges wove their wanton gambol.

And all the white-stemmed pinewood slept

above

When in this valley first I told my love.

Published in Punch,' February 28, 1846, signed Alcibiades'; and followed in the next number (March 7, 1846) by the lines entitled "Afterthought,' afterwards included as 'Literary Squabbles' in the collected edition of 1872. See p. xv. above.

We know him, out of Shakespeare's art,
And those fine curses which he spoke;
The old Timon, with his noble heart,

That, strongly loathing, greatly broke.

So died the Old: here comes the New.
Regard him: a familiar face:

I thought we knew him: What, it's you,
The padded man - that wears the stays -

Who killed the girls and thrilled the boys
With dandy pathos when you wrote!

A Lion, you, that made a noise, And shook a mane en papillotes.

And once you tried the Muses too;
You failed, Sir: therefore now you turn,
To fall on those who are to you
As Captain is to Subaltern.

But men of long-enduring hopes,
And careless what this hour may bring,
Can pardon little would-be POPES
And BRUMMELS, when they try to sting.

An Artist, Sir, should rest in Art,
And waive a little of his claim;
To have the deep Poetic heart
Is more than all poetic fame.

But you, Sir, you are hard to please;
You never look but half content;
Nor like a gentleman at ease,

With moral breadth of temperament.

And what with spites and what with fears, You cannot let a body be:

It's always ringing in your ears,

'They call this man as good as me.'

What profits now to understand
The merits of a spotless shirt-
A dapper boot - a little hand
If half the little soul is dirt?

You talk of tinsel! why, we see

The old mark of rouge upon your cheeks. You prate of Nature! you are he

That spilt his life about the cliques.

A TIMON you! Nay, nay, for shame:
It looks too arrogant a jest
The fierce old man to take his name,
You bandbox. Off, and let him rest.

LINES

Contributed to 'The Manchester Athenæum Album, 1850.