TAMAR RELATES TO GEBIR HIS FIRST ENCOUNTER WITH THE NYMPH.

"'Twas evening, tho' not sunset, and spring tide, Level with these green meadows, seem'd still higher. 'Twas pleasant; and I loosen'd from my neck The pipe you gave me, and began to play. Oh that I ne'er had learnt the tuneful art! It always brings us enemies or love! Well, I was playing, when above the waves Some swimmer's head methought I saw ascend; I, sitting still, survey'd it, with my pipe Awkwardly held before my lips half-closed. Gebir! it was a nymph! a nymph divine! I cannot wait describing how she came, How I was sitting, how she first assumed The sailor; of what happened there remains Enough to say, and too much to forget. The sweet deceiver stept upon this bank Before I was aware; for with surprise Moments fly rapid as with love itself. Stooping to tune afresh the hoarsen'd reed, I heard a rustling, and where that arose My glance first lighted on her nimble feet. Her feet resembled those long shells explored By him who to befriend his steed's dim sight Would blow the pungent powder in the eye. Her eyes too! O immortal gods! her eyes Resembled what could they resemble? what Ever resemble those! E'en her attire Was not of wonted woof nor vulgar art: Her mantle show'd the yellow samphire-pod, Her girdle, the dove-coloured wave serene.

Shepherd,' said she, and will you wrestle now, And with the sailor's hardier race engage?' I was rejoiced to hear it, and contrived How to keep up contention; could I fail By pressing not too strongly, yet to press ? Whether a shepherd, as indeed you seem, Or whether of the hardier race you boast, I am not daunted; no, I will engage. But first,' said she, what wager will you lay?' A sheep,' I answered; add whate'er you will.' I cannot,' she replied, make that return: Our hided vessels in their pitchy round Seldom, unless from rapine, hold a sheep. But I have sinuous shells of pearly hue Within, and they that lustre have imbibed In the sun's palace porch, where, when unyoked, His chariot-wheel stands midway in the wave: Shake one, and it awakens; then apply Its polish'd lips to your attentive ear, And it remembers its august abodes, And murmurs as the ocean murmurs there. And I have others given me by the nymphs, Of sweeter sound than any pipe you have. But we, by Neptune, for no pipe contend. This time a sheep I win, a pipe the next.' Now came she forward, eager to engage, But first her dress, her bosom then survey'd, And heaved it, doubting if she could deceive. Her bosom seem'd, enclosed in haze like heaven, To baffle touch, and rose forth undefined: Above her knees she drew the robe succinct,

Above her breast, and just below her arms. This will preserve my breath when tightly bound, If struggle and equal strength should so constrain.' Thus, pulling hard to fasten it, she spake, And, rushing at me, closed: I thrill'd throughout, And seem'd to lessen and shrink up with cold, Again with violent impulse gush'd my blood, And hearing naught external, thus absorb'd, I heard it, rushing through each turbid vein, Shake my unsteady swimming sight in air. Yet with unyielding though uncertain arms I clung around her neck; the vest beneath Rustled against our slippery limbs entwined: Often mine springing with eluded force Started aside, and trembled till replaced: And when I most succeeded, as I thought, My bosom and my throat felt so comprest, That life was almost quivering on my lips, Yet nothing was there painful! There are signs Of secret arts and not of human mightWhat arts I cannot tell. I only know My eyes grew dizzy, and my strength decay’d. I was indeed o'ercome! with what regret, And more, with what confusion, when I reached The fold, and yielding up the sheep, she cried: This pays a shepherd to a conquering maid.' She smiled, and more of pleasure than disdain Was in her dimpled chin and liberal lip, And eyes that languish'd lengthening, just like love. She went away; I on the wicker gate Leant, and could follow with my eyes alone. The sheep she carried easy as a cloak; But when I heard its bleating, as I did, And saw, she hastening on, its hinder feet Struggle, and from her snowy shoulder slipOne shoulder its poor efforts had unveil'd— Then all my passions mingling fell in tears; Restless then ran I to the highest ground To watch her--she was gone-gone down the tideAnd the long moonbeam on the hard wet sand Lay like a jasper column half-uprear'd."

PASSAGE FROM COUNT JULIAN.

Julian. O cruelty-to them indeed the least! My children, ye are happy-ye have lived Of heart unconquered, honour unimpaired, And died, true Spaniards, loyal to the last. Muza. Away with him.

Julian. Slaves! not before I lift

My voice to heaven and man: though enemies
Surround me, and none else, yet other men
And other times shall hear: the agony
Of an opprest and of a bursting heart
No violence can silence; at its voice
The trumpet is o'erpower'd, and glory mute,
And peace and war hide all their charms alike.
Surely the guests and ministers of heaven
Scatter it forth thro' all the elements;
So suddenly, so widely, it extends,
So fearfully men breathe it, shuddering
To ask or fancy how it first arose.

FESULAN IDYL.

HERE, where precipitate Spring with one light bound
Into hot Summer's lusty arms expires;
And where go forth at morn, at eve, at night,
Soft airs, that want the lute to play with them,
And softer sighs, that know not what they want:
Under a wall, beneath an orange-tree,
Whose tallest flowers could tell the lowlier ones
Of sights in Fiesole right up above,
While I was gazing a few paces off

At what they seemed to show me with their nods,
Their frequent whispers and their pointing shoots,
A gentle maid came down the garden steps,
And gathered the pure treasure in her lap.
I heard the branches rustle, and stept forth
To drive the ox away, or mule, or goat,
(Such I believed it must be;) for sweet scents
Are the swift vehicles of still sweeter thoughts,
And nurse and pillow the dull memory
That would let drop without them her best stores.
They bring me tales of youth and tones of love,
And 'tis and ever was my wish and way
To let all flowers live freely, and all die,
Whene'er their genius bid their souls depart,
Among their kindred in their native place.
I never pluck the rose; the violet's head
Hath shaken with my breath upon its bank
And not reproach'd me; the ever sacred cup
Of the pure lily hath between my hands
Felt safe, unsoil'd, nor lost one grain of gold.
I saw the light that made the glossy leaves
More glossy; the fair arm, the fairer cheek
Warmed by the eye intent on its pursuit;
I saw the foot, that, although half-erect
From its gray slipper, could not lift her up
To what she wanted: I held down a branch
And gather'd her some blossoms, since their hour
Was come, and bees had wounded them, and flies
Of harder wing were working their way through
And scattering them in fragments under foot.
So crisp were some, they rattled unevolved,
Others, ere broken off, fell into shells,
For such appear the petals when detach'd,
Unbending, brittle, lucid, white like snow,
And like snow not seen through, by eye or sun:
Yet every one her gown received from me
Was fairer than the first-I thought not so,
But so she praised them to reward my care.
I said: "You find the largest."

TO IANTHE.

WHILE the winds whistle round my cheerless room,
And the pale morning droops with winter's gloom;
While indistinct lie rude and cultured lands,
The ripening harvest and the hoary sands:
Alone, and destitute of every page

That fires the poet, or informs the sage,
Where shall my wishes, where my fancy rove,
Rest upon past or cherish promised love?
Alas! the past I never can regain,

Wishes may rise, and tears may flow in vain.
Fancy, that shows her in her early bloom,
Throws barren sunshine o'er the unyielding tomb.
What then would passion, what would reason do?
Sure, to retrace is worse than to pursue.
Here will I sit, 'till heaven shall cease to lour,
And happier Hesper bring the appointed hour;
Gaze on the mingled waste of sky and sea,
Think of my love, and bid her think of me.

TO CORINTH.

QUEEN of the double sea, beloved of him
Who shakes the world's foundations, thou hast seen
Glory in all her beauty, all her forms;
Seen her walk back with Theseus when he left
The bones of Sciron bleaching to the wind,
Above the ocean's roar and cormorant's flight,
So high that vastest billows from above
Show but like herbage waving in the mead;
Seen generations throng thy Isthmian games,
And pass away-the beautiful, the brave,
And them who sang their praises.

But. O queen,
Audible still, and far beyond thy cliffs,
As when they first were uttered, are those words
Divine which praised the valiant and the just;
And tears have often stopt, upon that ridge
So perilous, him who brought before his eye
The Colchian babes,

"Stay! spare him! save the last!
Medea is that blood? again! it drops
From my imploring hand upon my feet!—
I will invoke the Eumenides no more.

I will forgive thee-bless thee-bend to thee
In all thy wishes-do but thou, Medea,
Tell me, one lives."

"And shall I too deceive?"
Cries from the fiery car an angry voice;
And swifter than two falling stars descend
Two breathless bodies-warm, soft, motionless,
As flowers in stillest noon before the sun,
They lie three paces from him-such they lie
As when he left them sleeping side by side,
A mother's arm round each, a mother's cheeks
Between them, flushed with happiness and love.
He was more changed than they were-doomed to
show

Thee and the stranger, how defaced and scarred
Grief hunts us down the precipice of years,
And whom the faithless prey upon the last.

To give the inertest masses of our earth Her loveliest forms was thine, to fix the gods Within thy walls, and hang their tripods round With fruits and foliage knowing not decay. A nobler work remains: thy citadel Invites all Greece; o'er lands and floods remote Many are the hearts that still beat high for thee: Confide then in thy strength, and unappalled Look down upon the plain, while yokemate kings Run bellowing, where their herdsmen goad them on; Instinct is sharp in them, and terror trueThey smell the floor whereon their necks must lie.

STANZAS.

SAY ye, that years roll on and ne'er return? Say ye, the sun who leaves them all behind, Their great creator, cannot bring one back With all his force, though he draw worlds around? Witness me, little streams! that meet before My happy dwelling; witness, Africo And Mensola! that ye have seen at once Twenty roll back, twenty as swift and bright As are your swiftest and your brightest waves, When the tall cypress o'er the Doccia Hurls from his inmost boughs the latent snow. Go, and go happy, pride of my past days And solace of my present, thou whom fate Alone hath sever'd from me! One step higher Must yet be mounted, high as was the last : Friendship, with faltering accent, says depart! And take the highest seat below the crown'd.

WORSHIP GOD ONLY.

Ines. Revere our holy church; though some within

Have erred, and some are slow to lead us right, Stopping to pry when staff and lamp should be In hand, and the way whiten underneath.

Pedro. Ines, the church is now a charnel-house, Where all that is not rottenness is drowth. Thou hast but seen its gate hung round with flowers, And heard the music whose serenest waves Cover its gulfs and dally with its shoals, And hold the myriad insects in light play Above it, loth to leave its sunny sides. Look at this central edifice! come close! Men's bones and marrow its materials are, Men's groans inaugurated it, men's tears Sprinkle its floor, fires lighted up with men Are censers for it; agony and anger Surround it night and day with sleepless eyes; Dissimulation, terror, treachery, Denunciations of the child, the parent, The sister, brother, lover, (mark me, Ines!) Are the peace-offerings God receives from it.

Ines. I tremble-but betrayers tremble more. Now cease, cease, Pedro! cling I must to somewhat: Leave me one guide, one rest! Let me love God! Alone-if it must be so!

Pedro. Him alone

Mind; in him only place thy trust henceforth.

THE TAMED DORMOUSE.

THERE is a creature, dear to Heaven,
Tiny and weak, to whom is given
To enjoy the world while suns are bright,
And shut grim winter from its sight-
Tamest of hearts that beat on wilds,
Tamer and tenderer than a child's-
The Dormouse-this he loved and taught
(Docile it is the day it's caught,
And fond of music, voice or string)
To stand before and hear her sing,
Or lie within her palm half-closed,
Until another's interposed,

And claim'd the alcove wherein it lay,
Or held it with divided sway.

TO A DEAD CHILD.

CHILD of a day, thou knowest not

The tears that overflow thy urn, The gushing eyes that read thy lot,

Nor, if thou knewest, couldst return! And why the wish? the pure and blest Watch like thy mother o'er thy sleep; O peaceful night! O envied rest! Thou wilt not ever see her weep.

ON THE DEATH OF SOUTHEY.

Nor the last struggle of the sun,
Precipitated from his golden throne,
Hold darkling mortals in sublime suspense,
But the calm exod of a man

Nearer, though high above, who ran
The race we run, when Heaven recalls him hence.

Thus, O thou pure of earthly taint! Thus, O my SOUTHEY! poet, sage, and saint, Thou, after saddest silence, art removed.

What voice in anguish can we raise? Thee would we, need we, dare we praise? God now does that-the God thy whole heart loved.

SIXTEEN.

IN Clementina's artless mien Lucilla asks me what I see, And are the roses of sixteen

Enough for me?

Lucilla asks, if that be all;
Have I not cull'd as sweet before-
Ah, yes, Lucilla! and their fall
I still deplore.

I now behold another scene,
Where pleasure beams with heaven's own light,
More pure, more constant, more serene,
And not less bright.

Faith, on whose breast the loves repose,
Whose chain of flowers no force can sever;
And modesty, who, when she goes,
Is gone for ever.

REPENTANCE OF KING RODERIGO.

THERE is, I hear, a poor half-ruined cell
In Xeres, whither few indeed resort;
Green are the walls within, green is the floor
And slippery from disuse; for Christian feet
Avoid it, as half-holy, half-accurst.
Still in its dark recess fanatic sin
Abases to the ground his tangled hair,
And servile scourges and reluctant groans
Roll o'er the vault uninterruptedly,
Till, such the natural stillness of the place,
The very tear upon the damps below
Drops audible, and the heart's throb replies.
There is the idol maid of Christian creed,
And taller images, whose history

I know not, nor inquired-a scene of blood,
Of resignation amid mortal pangs,
And other things, exceeding all belief.
Hither the aged Opas of Seville

Walked slowly, and behind him was a man
Barefooted, bruised, dejected, comfortless,
In sackcloth; the white ashes on his head
Dropt as he smote his breast; he gathered up,
Replaced them all, groan'd deeply, looked to heaven,
And held them, like a treasure, with claspt hands.

And just removed you from the court awhile,
You called me tyrant.

Ferrante. Called thee tyrant? I?

By heaven! in tyrant there is something great That never was in thee. I would be killed Rather by any monster of the wild

Than choked by weeds and quicksands rather crush'd

By maddest rage than clay-cold apathy.
Those who act well the tyrant, neither seek
Nor shun the name: and yet I wonder not
That thou repeatest it, and wishest me;
It sounds like power, like policy, like courage.
And none that calls thee tyrant can despise thee.
Go, issue orders for imprisonment,
Warrants for death: the gibbet and the wheel,
Lo! the grand boundaries of thy dominion!
Oh what a mighty office for a minister!
(And such Alfonso's brother calls himself),
To be the scribe of hawkers! Man of genius!
The lanes and allies echo with thy works.

MORNING.

Now to Aurora borne by dappled steeds, The sacred gate of orient pearl and gold, Smitten with Lucifer's light silver wand, Expanded slow to strains of harmony; The waves beneath in purpling rows, like doves Glancing with wanton coyness tow'rd their queen, Heaved softly; thus the damsel's bosom heaves When from her sleeping lover's downy cheek, To which so warily her own she brings Each moment nearer, she perceives the warmth Of coming kisses fann'd by playful dreams. Ocean and earth and heaven was jubilee. For 'twas the morning pointed out by fate When an immortal maid and mortal man Should share each other's nature knit in bliss.

CLIFTON.

CLIFTON, in vain thy varied scenes invite-
The mossy bank, dim glade, and dizzy height;
The sheep, that, starting from the tufted thyme,
Untune the distant churches' mellow chime;
As o'er each limb a gentle horror creeps,
And shake above our heads the craggy steeps.
Pleasant I've thought it to pursue the rower
While light and darkness seize the changeful oar;
The frolic Naiads drawing from below

A net of silver round the black canoe.
Now the last lonely solace must it be
To watch pale evening brood o'er land and sea.
Then join my friends, and let those friends believe
My cheeks are moistened by the dews of eve.

A CATHEDRAL SCENE.

Now all the people follow the procession: Here may I walk alone, and let my spirits Enjoy the coolness of these quiet ailes. Surely no air is stirring; every step Tires me; the columns shake, the ceiling fleets, The floor beneath me slopes, the altar rises. Stay!-here she stept-what grace! what harmony! It seemed that every accent, every note, Of all the choral music, breathed from her: From her celestial airiness of form

:

I could have fancied purer light descended.
Between the pillars, close and wearying,
I watcht her as she went: I had rusht on-
It was too late; yet, when I stopt, I thought
I stopt full soon I cried, Is she not there?
She had been: I had seen her shadow burst
The sunbeam as she parted: a strange sound,
A sound that stupefied and not aroused me,
Filled all my senses; such was never felt
Save when the sword-girt angel struck the gate,
And Paradise wail'd loud, and closed for ever.

EPITAPH ON A POET IN A WELSH CHURCHYARD.

KIND Souls! who strive what pious hand shall bring
The first-found crocus from reluctant spring,
Or blow your wintry fingers while they strew
This sunless turf with rosemary and rue,
Bend o'er your lovers first, but mind to save
One sprig of each to trim a poet's grave.