As o'er the sea's deep world-sustaining breast,
Climbing the steep horizon, onward bear
The thought-winged ships, and each his track more fair
Believes, for 't is his own, than all the rest;
Which not the less doth fade, as 't is imprest;
And the great waters, and cloud-traversed air,
With their enduring might, are only there,
And space of days unmeasured, east and west:
Dread realms of Art, illimitable as ocean,
So fares man's spirit o'er your region waves,
Proudly and lonely, with a choral motion;
Sunshine he courts, but tempests too he braves;
Seeking the port, where, for their heart's devotion,
Fame lights her star over such seamen's graves.
WHEN I remember how, nor separate chance,
Nor restless traffic, peopling many a shore,
Nor old tradition with innumerous lore,
But poets wrought our best inheritance,
Sweet words and noble, in their gay science
That England heard, and then forevermore
Loved as her own, and did with deeds adore ;
I bless thee with a kindred heart, Provence :
For to thy tales, like waves that come and go,
Sat Chaucer listening with exulting ear,
And casting his own phrase in giant mould,
That still had charms for sorrow's gentlest tear
Telling the story of Griselda's woe,
"Under the roots of Vesulus the cold."
NAKED wast thou, at thy birth-time, utterly,
Merchant whose sails are furled; and now the birds
Build under thy broad cornices, and the herds
Sleep in the shadow of thy planted tree;
The waves have borne thee onward; thou mayst see
The stars in new perspective; the full thirds
Of thy great wealth no more are inky words,
Paper and trust, but woods and swelling lea.
Then wilt thou keep the balance in thine house,
Emblem of just seigniory, and the cause?
Or with those harlequin heralds poorly feign?
Keep it; for noble citizenship thus,
And truth, the fountain that doth never pause,
Free from the weeds of folly thou wilt maintain.
RISE, said the Master, come unto the feast :
She heard the call, and rose with willing feet;
But thinking it not otherwise than meet
For such a bidding to put on her best,
She is gone from us for a few short hours
Into her bridal closet, there to wait
For the unfolding of the palace gate
That gives her entrance to the blissful bowers.
We have not seen her yet, though we have been
Full often to her chamber door, and oft
Have listened underneath the postern green,
And laid fresh flowers, and whispered short and soft: But she hath made no answer; and the day
From the clear west is fading fast away.
IF from the chaos of my youthful fate
Have been shaped out some elements of rest;
If, beyond hope, the madness of my breast
Hath felt at least its paroxysms abate,
Leaving my heart next wholly desolate ;
If, in my brain, where, like a spirit unblest,
Thought long was racked, now peace can claim a nest,
In halcyon hours, to musing consecrate ;
Throned on composure, if the soul thus reigns,
Suffering no hopes to allure, no dreams to abuse,
But, o'er the wreck of perished joys and pains,
Calmly contemplative its course pursues,
Strong, self-possessed, 't is not from what it gains, But what it can resign, such power accrues.
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