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
My sixty summers ever knew,
Pleasant as there have been no few,
Memory not one surveys

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
Whom Dryden's force and Spenser's fays
Have heart and soul possess'd: 2
Growl in Grim London he who will,
Revisit thou Maiano's hill,

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
Aside my house, that make me think
Bacchus is coming down to drink
To Ariadne's love.

But whither am I borne away
From thee, to whom began my lay?
Courage! I am not yet quite lost;
I stepped aside to greet my friends;
Believe me, soon the greeting ends,

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,
Nor sweeten Pleasure's purer cup.

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
As if the sight were unimpaired by death,
Were unobstructed by the coffin-lid,
And the sun cheered corruption! Over
all

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.
Regent of rising and of ebbing hearts,
Thyself borne on in cool serenity,
All heaven around and bending over
thee,

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!
No, it must never be.

Much rests with you that yet endears,
Alas! but what with me?

Could those bright years o'er me revolve
So gay, o'er you so fair,
The pearl of life we would dissolve

And each the cup might share.
You show that truth can ne'er decay,
Whatever fate befalls;

I, that the myrtle and the bay
Shoot fresh on ruin'd walls.

ONE year ago my path was green,
My footstep light, my brow serene ;
Alas! and could it have been so
One year ago?

There is a love that is to last
When the hot days of youth are past:
Such love did a sweet maid bestow
One year ago.

I took a leaflet from her braid
And gave it to another maid.
Love! broken should have been thy bow
One year ago.

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,
You see it by their form and size;
Is it not time then to be wise?
Or now or never.

Fairest that ever sprang from Eve!
While Time allows the short reprieve,
Just look at me! would you believe
'Twas once a lover?

I cannot clear the five-bar gate,
But, trying first its timbers' state,
Climb stiffly up, take breath, and wait
To trundle over.

Thro' gallopade I cannot swing
The entangling blooms of Beauty's
spring:

I cannot say the tender thing,
Be't true or false,

And am beginning to opine
Those girls are only half-divine
Whose waists yon wicked boys entwine
In giddy waltz.

I fear that arm above that shoulder,
I wish them wiser, graver, older,
Sedater, and no harm if colder
And panting less.

Ah! people were not half so wild
In former days, when, starchly mild,
Upon her high-heel'd Essex smiled
The brave Queen Bess.

Give me the eyes that look on mine,,
And, when they see them dimly shine.
Are moister than they were.
Give me the eyes that fain would find
Some relics of a youthful mind

Amid the wrecks of care.
Give me the eyes that catch at last
A few faint glimpses of the past,
And, like the arkite dove,
Bring back a long-lost olive-bough,
And can discover even now

A heart that once could love.

Twenty years hence my eyes may grow
If not quite dim, yet rather so,
Still yours from others they shall know
Twenty years hence.

Twenty years hence tho' it may hap
That I be call'd to take a nap
In a cool cell where thunder-clap
Was never heard,