96

97

98

THE POET'S OBSEQUIES

ALL it not vain:-they do not err,

CALL

who say, that, when the poet dies,
mute Nature mourns her worshipper,
and celebrates his obsequies;
who say, tall cliff and cavern lone
for the departed bard make moan;
that mountains weep in crystal rill;
that flowers in tears of balm distil;
through his loved groves that breezes sigh,
and oaks in deeper groan reply;
and rivers teach their rushing wave
to murmur dirges round his grave.

SONG

H, how hard it is to find

the one just suited to our mind;
and if that one should be
false, unkind, or found too late,
what can we do but sigh at fate,
and sing 'Woe's me-Woe's me!'
Love's a boundless burning waste,
where Bliss's stream we seldom taste,
and still more seldom flee

SIR W. SCOTT

Suspense's thorns, Suspicion's stings;
yet somehow Love a something brings
that's sweet—ev'n when we sigh 'Woe's me!'

T. CAMPBELL

PROSPERITY

HEN mirth is full and free,

Wine sudden gloom shall be;

when haughty power mounts high,
the watcher's axe is nigh;

all growth has bound: when greatest found,

it hastes to die.

When the rich town, that long

has lain its huts among,

builds court and palace vast

and vaunts, it shall not last!

Bright tints that shine are but a sign
of summer past.

And when thine eye surveys,

with fond adoring gaze,

and yearning heart, thy friend,—
Love to its grave doth tend.

All gifts below, save Truth, but grow

towards an end.

LYRA APOSTOLICA

99

THE LOTOS-EATERS

HOW sweet it were, hearing the downward stream,

with half-shut eyes ever to seem

falling asleep in a half-dream!

to dream and dream, like yonder amber light, which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height; to hear each other's whispered speech;

eating the Lotos day by day,

to watch the crisping ripples on the beach,
and tender curving lines of creamy spray;

to lend our hearts and spirits wholly

to the influence of mild-minded melancholy:
to muse and brood and live again in memory,
with the old faces of our infancy

heaped over with a mound of grass,

two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass

is each boasted favourite of Fame,

WHERE
whose wide expanded name

fill'd the loud echoes of the world around,

while shore to shore returned the lengthened sound?

The warriors where, who, in triumphal pride,

with weeping Freedom to the chariot tied,

to glory's Capitolian temple rode?

In undistinguished dust together trod,

victors and vanquished mingle in the grave;

worms prey upon the mouldering god,

nor know a Cæsar from his slave;

in empty air their mighty deeds exhale,
a school-boy's wonder, or an evening tale.

101 In vain with various arts they strive

102

to keep their little names alive:

bid to the skies th' ambitious tower ascend;
the cirque its vast majestic length extend;
bid arcs of triumph swell their graceful round;
or mausoleums load th' encumbered ground;
or sculpture speak in animated stone

of vanquish'd monarchs tumbled from the throne;
the rolling tide of years,

rushing with strong and steady current, bears
the pompous piles with all their fame away
to black Oblivion's sea;

deep in whose dread abyss the glory lies
of empires, ages, never more to rise!

WHERE'S now imperial Rome,

who erst to subject-kings denounced their doom and shook the sceptre o'er a trembling world? from her proud height by force barbarian hurl'd! Now, on some broken capital reclined,

the sage of classic mind

her awful relics views with pitying eye,

and o'er departed grandeur heaves a sigh;

or fancies, wandering in his moonlight walk,

the prostrate fanes and mouldering domes among,
he sees the mighty ghosts of heroes stalk
in melancholy majesty along;

or pensive hover o'er the ruins round,
their pallid brows with faded laurel bound;
while Cato's shade seems scornful to survey
a race of slaves, and sternly strides away.

103 Where old Euphrates winds his storied flood, the curious traveller explores in vain

the barren shores and solitary plain

where erst majestic Babel's turret stood!
all vanish'd from the view her proud abodes,
her walls and brazen gates and palaces of gods!
a shapeless heap o'erspreads the dreary space,
of mingled piles an undistinguish'd mass:

there the wild tenants of the desert dwell:
the serpent's hiss is heard, the dragon's yell!
and doleful howlings o'er the waste affright,
and drive afar the wanderers of the night.

104

ST JOHN THE EVANGELIST

BELOVED of God, to thee was given

unscathed to see

the blaze of present Deity;

to see the veil in sunder riven,

and search the inmost court of Heaven.

Borne as on eagle-wings away

through ether far,

thy soul outstrips the utmost star,
nor Heaven's own lightning's fiery ray
thy spirit from its God can stay.

'Tis thine Heaven's deepest notes to tell
to seers divining;

thou op'st the light in darkness shining:
thou searchest life's o'er-flowing well,
and heaven-born light's primæval cell.

105

WITH

SONNET TO THE MOON

ITH how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the
skies,

how silently, and with how wan a face!
what! may it be, and even in heavenly place,
that busy Archer his sharp arrows tries?
Sure, if that long with love acquainted eyes
can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case;
I read it in thy looks, thy languish'd grace
to me that feel the like thy state descries.
Then even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me,
is constant love deem'd there but want of wit?
are beauties there as proud as here they be?
do they above love to be lov'd, and yet

those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess?
do they call virtue there ungratefulness?

SIR P. SIDNEY

106

107

TRUE BEAUTY

for that your selfe ye daily such doe see:
but the trew fayre, that is the gentle wit

and virtuous mind, is much more praysd of me:
for all the rest, how ever fayre it be,

shall turne to nought and loose that glorious hew;
but onely that is permanent, and free

from frayle corruption that doth flesh ensew.
That is true beautie: that doth argue you

to be divine, and borne of heavenly seed;

derived from that fayre Spirit, from whom al true
and perfect beauty did at first proceed:

He onely fayre, and what he fayre hath made,
all other fayre, lyke flowers, untymely fade.

E. SPENSER

SONNET

108

YKE as the culver on the bared bough

mate,

and in her songs sends many a wishfull vow
for his return that seemes to linger late:

so I alone, now left disconsolate,

mourn to myselfe the absence of my love;

and, wandering here and there all desolate,

seek with my plaints to match that mournful dove:
ne joy of ought that under heaven doth hove
can comfort me, but her owne joyous sight:
whose sweet aspect both God and man can move,
in her unspotted pleasauns to delight.

Dark is my day whyles her fayre light I mis,
And dead my life that wants such lively blis.

SWEE

SONNET

E. SPENSER

WEET warriour! when shall I have peace with you?

High time it is this warre now ended were,

which I no lenger can endure to sue,

nor your incessant battry more to beare: