HOME THOUGHTS, FROM ABROAD. Oh, to be in England Now that April's there, I. And whoever wakes in England Sees, some morning, unaware, That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf II. And after April, when May follows, And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows! The first fine careless rapture! And, though the fields look rough with hoary dew, LOVE AMONG THE RUINS. I. Where the quiet-coloured end of evening smiles, On the solitary pastures where our sheep Half-asleep Tinkle homeward thro' the twilight, stray or stop As they crop Was the site once of a city great and gay, (So they say) Of our country's very capital, its prince, Ages since, Held his court in, gathered councils, wielding far Peace or war. (1845.) II. Now, the country does not even boast a tree, As you see, To distinguish slopes of verdure, certain rills Intersect and give a name to, (else they run Into one) Where the domed and daring palace shot its spires Up like fires O'er the hundred-gated circuit of a wall Bounding all, Made of marble, men might march on nor be pressed Twelve abreast. III. And such plenty and perfection, see, of grass Never was! Such a carpet as, this summer-time, o'erspreads Every vestige of the city, guessed alone, Where a multitude of men breathed joy and woe Long ago; Lust of glory pricked their hearts up, dread of shame Struck them tame; And that glory and that shame alike, the gold Bought and sold. IV. Now, the single little turret that remains By the caper overrooted, by the gourd. Overscored, While the patching houseleek's head of blossom winks Through the chinks-- Marks the basement whence a tower in ancient time Sprang sublime, And a burning ring, all round, the chariots traced As they raced, And the monarch and his minions and his dames Viewed the games. V. And I know, while thus the quiet-coloured eve To their folding, all our many tinkling fleece And the slopes and rills in undistinguished grey That a girl with eager eyes and yellow hair Waits me there In the turret whence the charioteers caught soul For the goal, When the king looked, where she looks now, breathless, dumb Till I come. VI. But he looked upon the city, every side, Far and wide, All the mountains topped with temples, all the glades, All the causeys, bridges, aqueducts,—and then, All the men! When I do come, she will speak not, she will stand, On my shoulder, give her eyes the first embrace Of my face, Ere we rush, ere we extinguish sight and speech VII. In one year they sent a million fighters forth South and North, And they built their gods a brazen pillar high As the sky, Yet reserved a thousand chariots in full force Gold, of course. Oh heart! oh blood that freezes, blood that burns! Earth's returns For whole centuries of folly, noise, and sin! Shut them in, With their triumphs and their glories and the rest! Love is best. (1855) INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP. I. You know, we French stormed Ratisbon: A mile or so away, On a little mound, Napoleon Stood on our storming-day; With neck out-thrust, you fancy how, II. Just as perhaps he mused My plans. Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew Until he reached the mound. III. Then off there flung in smiling joy, And held himself erect By just his horse's mane, a boy: Scarce any blood came through) You looked twice ere you saw his breast Was all but shot in two. IV. 'Well,' cried he, 'Emperor, by God's grace We've got you Ratisbon! The Marshal's in the market-place, And you'll be there anon To see your flag-bird flap his vans Where I, to heart's desire, Perched him!' The chief's eye flashed; his plans Soared up again like fire. V. The chief's eye flashed; but presently A film the mother-eagle's eye When her bruised eaglet breathes. 'You're wounded!' 'Nay,' the soldier's pride Touched to the quick, he said: 'I'm killed, Sire!' And his chief beside, Smiling the boy fell dead. TWO IN THE CAMPAGNA. I. I wonder do you feel to-day As I have felt since, hand in hand, We sat down on the grass, to stray In spirit better through the land, This morn of Rome and May? II. For me, I touched a thought, I know, III. Help me to hold it! First it left The yellowing fennel, run to seed There, branching from the brickwork's cleft, IV. Where one small orange cup amassed Five beetles,-blind and green they grope, Among the honey-meal: and last, Everywhere on the grassy slope, I traced it. Hold it fast! |