With the heart-whispers in that path Winding so idly, where the idler stream Flings at the white-haired poplars gleam for gleam? Ablett! of all the days Like those we spent together. Wisely spent Are they alone that leave the soul content. Together we have visited the men Whom Pictish pirates vainly would have drowned; Ah, shall we ever clasp the hand again That gave the British harp its truest sound? Live. Derwent's guest! and thou by Grasmere's springs! Serene creators of immortal things.1 And live too thou for happier days And swell with pride his sunburnt breast. Old Redi in his easy-chair With varied chant awaits thee there, And here are voices in the grove But whither am I borne away I know but three or four at most. Deem not that Time hath borne too hard Upon the fortunes of thy bard, Tis Leaving me only three or four: my old number; dost thou start At such a tale? in what man's heart Is there fireside for more? "Take what hath been for years delay'd, And fear not that the leaves will fall One hour the earlier from thy coronal." Ablett! thou knowest with what even hand I waved away the offer'd seat Among the clambering, clattering, stilted great, The rulers of our land; Nor crowds nor kings can lift me up, Thou knowest how, and why, are dear 'to me My citron groves of Fiesole, My chirping Affrico, my beechwood nook, My Naiads, with feet only in the brook, Which runs away and giggles in their faces, Yet there they sit, nor sigh for other places. 'Tis not Pelasgian wall, By him made sacred whom alone 'Twere not profane to call The bard divine, nor (thrown Far under me) Valdarno, nor the crest Of Vallombrosa in the crimson east. Here can I sit or roam at will: Few trouble me, few wish me ill, Few come across me, few too near ; Here all my wishes make their stand; Here ask I no one's voice or hand; Scornful of favor, ignorant of fear. Yon vine upon the maple bough Flouts at the hearty wheat below; Away her venal wines the wise man sends, While those of lower stem he brings From inmost treasure vault, and sings Their worth and age among his chosen friends. Behold our Earth, most nigh the sun Her zone least opens to the genial heat, But farther off her veins more freely run: "Tis thus with those who whirl about the great; [mote The nearest shrink and shiver, we reMay open-breasted blow the pastoral oat. 1834. 1837.1 1 This poem had been printed in an earlier form, containing lines to Coleridge, in Leigh Hunt's London Journal, December 3, 1834. See Colvin's Life of Landor, note to p. 142. iark spires of fretted cypresses ring the channel of the milky-way e and Valdarno must be dreams eafter, and my own lost Affrico mur to me but in the poet's song. ad believe (what have I not believed?) W Teary with age, but unoppressed by pain, To close in thy soft clime my quiet day And rest my bones in the Mimosa's shade. Hope! Hope! few ever cherished thee so little ; Few are the heads thou hast so rarely raised; [well. But thou didst promise this, and all was For we are fond of thinking where to lie When every pulse hath ceased, when the lone heart Can lift no aspiration-reasoning The smiles of nature shed a potent charm, And light us to our chamber at the grave. 1835. 1846. TO A BRIDE FEBRUARY 17, 1846 1 A STILL, serene, soft day; enough of sun To wreathe the cottage smoke like pinetree snow, Whiter than those white flowers the bride-maids wore; Upon the silent boughs the lissom air Rested; and, only when it went. they moved, Nor more than under linnet springing off. Such was the wedding morn: the joyous Year Leapt over March and April up to May. All earth below and watchful of thy course! Well hast thou chosen, after long demur To aspirations from more realms than Adding as true ones, not untold before, That incense must have fire for its as! cent, Else 'tis inert and can not reach the idol. Youth is the sole equivalent of youth. Enjoy it while it lasts; and last it will; Love can prolong it in despite of Years. 1846. LYRICS Do you remember me? or are you proud?" Lightly advancing thro' her star-trimm'd crowd, Ianthe said, and looked into my eyes. A yes, a yes, to both: for Memory Where you but once have been must ever be, And at your voice Pride from his throne must rise." No, my own love of other years! Much rests with you that yet endears, Could those bright years o'er me revolve And each the cup might share. I, that the myrtle and the bay ONE year ago my path was green, There is a love that is to last I took a leaflet from her braid YES; I write verses now and then, But blunt and flaccid is my pen, No longer talked of by young men As rather clever : In the last quarter are my eyes, Fairest that ever sprang from Eve! I cannot clear the five-bar gate, Thro' gallopade I cannot swing I cannot say the tender thing, And am beginning to opine I fear that arm above that shoulder, Ah! people were not half so wild Give me the eyes that look on mine,, Amid the wrecks of care. A heart that once could love. Twenty years hence my eyes may grow Twenty years hence tho' it may hap |