Venice, the dreamlike vestige of the past,
Like a dead swan upon the waters cast,

Which, drifting slowly down the stream of time,
Is in white stillness more than life sublime;

These noble towns, which yearning hearts will say
Are touch'd by something sadder than decay,
Are ever sacred to my thought, for he,
Gabriel, my poet, taught their tale to me.

In this dear land we dwelt a space, the hours
Lent one by one fresh fire to Gabriel's
powers:

Beneath his rapid hand the outline grew,
The past and present with their riches flew,
Laden with fact and fancy for the aid

Of that high genius,-of no theme afraid;-
While the dim future gave him half her store.
If he had written noble verse before,

He soar'd above himself, and dainty dear
Were the chance rhymes of every peaceful year:
And yet this poet knew no poet's fame,
For such a cloud o'ershadow'd Gabriel's name,
Bred from the hasty zeal of reckless youth,
In hot allegiance to the tranquil truth,—

Bred from past deeds men vaguely knew, and words
Of satire tipp'd with rhyme, more sharp than swords,—
That those in England cast their prophet out
In slanderous anger and contemptful scout,
Blasted his fair report with utter lies,

And heap'd up every shame they dared devise.
My Gabriel! he whose life was gentle, pure,
Of earnest faith, kind act, and promise sure,-
Gabriel, the boy-like poet, crucified

By a mad multitude ere yet he died,

Whom now the world so love, that they who see
His foreign grave say,-" From our land was he."
In life he had not fame, but he had love,
And those high visions of the heart above
All other joys for poets; children three
Cradled within his arms, and climb'd his knee;
But one dire grief each Venice wave repeats,
And one we buried by the grave of Keats,
Blossoms which died and dropt in summer-time,
While yet the parent tree stood in full prime.
Still life was worthy in those golden plains,
And heaven's own harmony bedew'd his strains;
And lo! as I regard those vanish'd years,

Their memory is embalm'd in grateful tears.

TO FIDELIO.

You wish me back at home, my friend, That home which is no home to me,

What hope of good can England lend,
That I should cross the sea?

Italy gives me peace and health,
Italy gives a poet wealth

In golden light of noon,

In haunts akin to every mood,

In ruins fill'd with solitude,
In orange grove and cypress wood
That towers against the moon.
When I upon a summer night
See all the vines in silver moulded,
And like to spirits clothed in white
The flowers in sleep are folded;
When on the breathing sapphire sea,
My small boat rocks perpetually,

And Nature whispers wonders dear

So softly in my listening ear,

What more hath life for me?

England gives me damp and cold,
And winds that drive the winter clouds,
Scarce a heart to have or hold,

But evil tongues of scoffing crowds,

The curse of many a haughty priest,

And law that hunts me like a beast.
If I hear our English voice,

I dare not at the sound rejoice;
Dare not give a hand or claim,
Tho' I too bear an English name.
How many hearts are true to me?
Five perchance at most there be,
And all the rest at enmity!

Oh friend! my heart is all too kind;
Leave me where I am at rest;

I would not cross my scorning kind,

And leave what I love best

Freedom and tranquillity,

Sun and moon of Italy,

Eyes which live and love for me,
One pure and faithful breast.

I am the Future's patient heir;

My boy who climbs his father's chair
May see my dawning fame;

I can but spend my days as one

Who works, and, when his work is done,

Sets it on the waves to float,

And of its course takes little note,

But knows that, being singly plann'd

By faith and love and knowledge mann'd, "Twill prosper all the same.

So for my poem, if I wrote
For that which is to-day,

I well might muffle every note
And fling my pen away ;—
Fling my pen into the sea

Ere this good world paid heed to me!

Prejudice hath stuff'd its ears;

Perchance away in far off years,

When one with one and two with two,

Tender hearts and spirits true,

Are met together, they my verse

Shall in underbreath rehearse.