"ON LONDON STONES." (TO C. J. R.) ON 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! F "FAREWELL, RENOWN!” (TO W. C. M.) 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,— "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! "TO YOU I SING." (TO E. K.) To you I sing, whom towns immure, And bonds of toil hold fast and sure ; To you across whose aching sight And dreams of pastime premature. And you, O Sad, who still endure Some wound that only Time can cure, To you, in watches of the night, To you I sing! But most to you with eyelids pure, Scarce witting yet of love or lure ; To you, with bird-like glances bright, Half-paused to speak, half-poised in flight; O English Girl, divine, demure, TO YOU I sing! "MORE POETS YET!" (TO J. L. W.) "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! "WITH PIPE AND FLUTE." (TO E. W. G.) WITH 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, An Orpheus' self might pass unheard, Or find the night-jar's note preferred. Not so it fared, when time began, With pipe and flute ! |