"ON LONDON STONES" N London stones I sometimes sigh ON 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, In vain!—the woods, the fields deny Mine is an urban Muse, and bound "FAREWELL, RENOWN!" FAR "FAREWELL, RENOWN!" AREWELL, 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,- Farewell!-Because the Muses' bower The Bard, that "pays," must please the street;But most... because the grapes are sour,— Farewell, Renown! "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 Too arrogant! For who shall stay Who shall out-blot the morning glow?- Who? There will rise, till Time decay, More Poets yet! "WITH PIPE AND FLUTE" "WITH PIPE AND FLUTE" (TO E. 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, This age of ours, too seldom stirred But now for gold we plot and plan; With pipe and flute! TO A JUNE ROSE (TO A. P.) ROYAL Rose! the Roman dress'd His feast with thee; thy petals press'd Augustan brows; thine odour fine, Mix'd with the three-times-mingled wine, Lent the long Thracian draught its zest. What marvel then, if host and guest, And yet and yet-I love thee best Whether about my thatch thou twine, Or Hers, that brown-eyed maid of mine, Who lulls thee on her lawny breast, O royal Rose ! |