Walk'd off? "T were most ungrateful: for sweet scents Are the swift vehicles of still sweeter thoughts, And nurse and pillow the dull memory That would let drop without them her best stores. They bring me tales of youth and tones of love, And 'tis and ever was my wish and way To let all flowers live freely, and all die (Whene'er their Genius bids their souls depart) Among their kindred in their native place. I never pluck the rose; the violet's head Hath shaken with my breath upon its bank And not reproach'd me; the ever-sacred cup Of the pure lily hath between my hands Was come, and bees had wounded them, and flies Of harder wing were working their way through And scattering them in fragments under foot. So crisp were some, they rattled unevolv'd, Others, ere broken off, fell into shells, Unbending, brittle, lucid, white like snow, And like snow not seen through, by eye or The boon she tender'd, and then, finding not The ribbon at her waist to fix it in, Dropp'd it, as loth to drop it, on the rest. FAREWELL TO ITALY I LEAVE thee, beauteous Italy! no more Few are the heads thou hast so rarely rais'd; But thou didst promise this, and all was well. For we are fond of thinking where to lie When every pulse hath ceas'd, when the lone heart Can lift no aspiration - reasoning THE MAID'S LAMENT ELIZABETHAN I LOV'D him not; and yet now he is gone I feel I am alone. I check'd him while he spoke; yet could he speak, Alas! I would not check. To vex myself and him: I now would give He hid his face amid the shades of death. Who wasted his for me; but mine returns, And this lone bosom burns With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep And waking me to weep Tears that had melted his soft heart: for years Wept he as bitter tears. Merciful God! such was his latest prayer, These may she never share! Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold, Than daisies in the mould, Where children spell, athwart the churchyard gate, His name and life's brief date. Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er you be, And oh pray too for me! THE dreamy rhymer's measur'd snore Another comes with stouter tread, ROBERT BROWNING THERE is delight in singing, though none hear Beside the singer; and there is delight Browning! Since Chaucer was alive and hale, No man hath walk'd along our roads with step So active, so inquiring eye, or tongue Of Alpine heights thou playest with, borne on Beyond Sorrento and Amalfi, where The Siren waits thee, singing song for song. ON THE DEATH OF M. D'OSSOLI AND HIS WIFE MARGARET FULLER OVER his millions Death has lawful power, Thou, far from home, art sunk beneath the surge Of the Atlantic; on its shore; in reach Of help; in trust of refuge; sunk with all Precious on earth to thee . . . a child, a wife! Proud as thou wert of her, America Is prouder, showing to her sons how high Swells woman's courage in a virtuous breast. She would not leave behind her those she lov'd: Such solitary safety might become And shortly none will hear my failing voice, |