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The daisy, lovely on both sides, in short,

All the sweet cups to which the bees resort,
With plots of grass, and perfumed walks between
Of citron, honeysuckle, and jessamine,
With orange, whose warm leaves so finely suit,
And look as if they shade a golden fruit:
And midst the flowers, turf'd round beneath a shade
Of circling pines, a babbling fountain play'd,
And 'twixt their shafts you saw the water bright,
Which through the darksome tops glimmer'd with
show’ ring light.
So now you walk'd beside an odorous bed
Of gorgeous hues, white, azure, golden, red;
And now turn'd off into a leafy walk,
Close and continuous, fit for lovers' talk;
And now pursued the stream, and as you trod
Onward and onward o'er the velvet sod,
Felt on your face an air, watery and sweet,
And a new sense in your soft-lighting feet;
And then perhaps you enter'd upon shades,
Pillow’d with dells and uplands 'twixt the glades,
Through which the distant palace, now and then,

Look'd lordly forth with many-window'd ken; A land of trees, which reaching round about,

In shady blessing stretch'd their old arms out,
With spots of sunny opening, and with nooks,
To lie and read in, sloping into brooks,
Where at her drink you started the slim deer,
Retreating lightly with a lovely fear.
And all about, the birds kept leafy house,
And sung and sparkled in and out the boughs;
And all about, a lovely sky of blue
Clearly was felt, or down the leaves laugh'd through;
And here and there, in every part, were seats,
Some in the open walks, some in retreats;
With bowering leaves o'erhead, to which the eye
Look’d up half-sweetly and half-awfully,–
Places of nestling green, for poets made,
Where, when the sunshine struck a yellow shade,
The rugged trunks, to inward peeping sight,
Throng'd in dark pillars up the gold green light.
But 'twixt the wood and flowery walks, halfway,
And form'd of both, the loveliest portion lay,
A spot, that struck you like enchanted ground:—
It was a shallow dell, set in a mound
Of sloping shrubs, that mounted by degrees,
The birch and poplar mix’d with heavier trees;
From under which, sent through a marble spout,
Betwixt the dark wet green, a rill gush'd out,
Whose low, sweet talking seem'd as if it said
Something eternal to that happy shade.
The ground within was lawn, with plots of flowers
Heap'd towards the centre, and with citron bowers;
And in the midst of all, cluster'd with bay
And myrtle, and just gleaming to the day,
Lurk'd a pavilion.—a delicious sight-
Small, marble, well-proportion'd, mellowy white,
With yellow vine-leaves sprinkled,—but no more,

And a young orange either side the door.

The door was to the wood, forward, and square,
The rest was domed at top, and circular;
And through the dome the only light came in,
Tinged, as it enter'd, with the vine-leaves thin.
It was a beauteous piece of ancient skill,
Spared from the rage of war, and perfect still ;

By some supposed the work of fairy hands,
Famed for luxurious taste, and choice of lands,-
Alcina, or Morgana, who from fights
And errant fame enveigled amorous knights,
And lived with them in a long round of blisses,
Feasts, concerts, baths, and bower-enshaded kisses.
But 't was a temple, as its sculpture told,
Built to the nymphs that haunted there of old;
For o'er the door was carved a sacrifice
By girls and shepherds brought, with reverend eyes,
Of sylvan drinks and food, simple and sweet,
And goats with struggling horns and planted feet:
And round about, ran on a line with this
In like relief, a world of Pagan bliss,
That show'd, in various scenes, the nymphs them-
Some by the water-side on bowery shelves
Leaning at will,—some in the water sporting
With sides half swelling forth, and looks of courting,
Some in a flowery dell, hearing a swain
Play on his pipe, till the hills ring again,_
Some tying up their long moist hair, some sleeping
Under the trees, with fauns and satyrs peeping,
Or sidelong-eyed, pretending not to see
The latter in the brakes come creepingly,
While from their careless urns, lying aside
In the long grass, the straggling waters slide.
Never, be sure, before or since was seen
A summer-house so fine in such a nest of green.
All the green garden, flower-bed, shade, and plot,
Francesca loved, but most of all this spot.
Whenever she walk'd forth, wherever went,
About the grounds, to this at last she bent:
Here she had brought a lute and a few books;
Here would she lie for hours, with grateful looks
Thanking at Heart the sunshine and the leaves,
The vernal rain-drops counting from the eaves,
And all that promising, calm smile we see
In nature's face, when we look patiently..
Then would she think of heaven; and you might
Sometimes when everything was hush'd and clear,
Her gentle voice from out those shades emerging,
Singing the evening anthem to the virgin.
The gardeners and the rest, who served the place,
And blest whenever they beheld her face,
Knelt when they heard it, bowing and uncover'd,
And felt as if in air some sainted beauty hover'd.
One day,+'t was on a summer afternoon,
When airs and gurgling brooks are best in tune,
And grasshoppers are loud, and day-work done,
And shades have heavy outlines in the sun,
The princess came to her accustom'd bower
To get her, if she could, a soothing hour,
Trying, as she was used, to leave her cares
Without, and slumberously enjoy the airs,
And the low-talking leaves, and that cool light
The vines let in, and all that hushing sight
Of closing wood seen through the opening door,
And distant plash of waters tumbling o'er,
And smell of citron blooms, and fifty luxuries more.
She tried, as usual, for the trial's sake,
For even that diminish'd her heart-ache ;
And never yet, how ill soe'er at ease,
Came she for nothing midst the flowers and trees.
Yet how it was she knew not, but that day,
She seem'd to feel too lightly borne away,+
Too much relieved,—too much inclined to draw
A careless joy from every thing she saw,
And looking round her with a new-born eye,
As if some tree of knowledge had been nigh,
To taste of nature, primitive and free,
And bask at ease in her heart's liberty.
Painfully clear those rising thoughts appear'd,
With something dark at bottom that she fear'd ;
And turning from the fields her thoughtful look,
She reach'd o'er head, and took her down a book,
And fell to reading with as fix’d an air,
As though she had been wrapt since morning there.
'Twas Launcelot of the Lake, a bright romance,
That, like a trumpet, made young pulses dance,
Yet had a softer note that shook still more;—
She had begun it but the day before,
And read with a full heart, half-sweet, half-sad,
How old King Ban was spoil'd of all he had
But one fair castle: how one summer's day
With his fair queen and child he went away
To ask the great King Arthur for assistance;
How reaching by himself a hill at distance,
He turn'd to give his castle a last look,
And saw its far white face : and how a smoke,
As he was looking, burst in volumes forth,
And good King Ban saw all that he was worth,
And his fair castle, burning to the ground,
So that his wearied pulse felt over-wound,
And he lay down, and said a prayer apart
For those he loved, and broke his poor old heart.
Then read she of the queen with her young child,
How she came up, and nearly had gone wild,
And how in journeying on in her despair,
She reach'd a lake and met a lady there,
Who pitied her, and took the baby sweet
Into her arms, when lo, with closing feet
She sprang up all at once, like bird from brake,
And vanish'd with him underneath the lake.
The mother's feelings we as well may pass :—
The fairy of the place that lady was,
And Launcelot (so the boy was call'd) became
Her inmate, till in search of knightly fame
He went to Arthur's court, and play’d his part
So rarely, and display’d so frank a heart,
That what with all his charms of look and limb,
The Queen Geneura fell in love with him :
And here, with growing interest in her reading,
The princess, doubly fix’d was now proceeding.
Ready she sat with one hand to turn o'er
The leaf, to which her thoughts ran on before,
The other propping her white brow, and throwing
Its ringlets out, under the skylight glowing.
So sat she fix'd : and so observed was she
Of one, who at the door stood tenderly,–
Paulo, -who from a window seeing her
Go straight across the lawn, and guessing where
Had thought she was in tears, and found, that day,
His usual efforts vain to keep away.
“May I come in " said he 3–it made her start-
That smiling voice;—she colour'd, press'd her
A moment, as for breath, and then with free
And usual tone said, “O yes, certainly.”

There's wont to be, at conscious times like these,
An affectation of a bright-eyed ease,
An air of something quite serene and sure,
As if to seem so, were to be secure :
With this the lovers met, with this they spoke,
With this they sat down to the self-same book,
And Paulo, by degrees, gently embraced
With one permitted arm her lovely waist;
And both their cheeks, like peaches on a tree,
Lean'd with a touch together, thrillingly ;
And o'er the book they hung, and nothing said,
And every lingering page grew longer as they read.
As thus they sat, and felt with leaps of heart
Their colour change, they came upon the part
Where fond Geneura, with her flame long nurst,
Smiled upon Launcelot when he kiss'd her first:
That touch, at last, through every fibre slid;
And Paulo turn'd, scarce knowing what he did,
Only he felt he could no more dissemble,
And kiss'd her, mouth to mouth, all in a tremble.
Sad were those hearts, and sweet was that long kiss:
Sacred be love from sight, whate'er it is.
The world was all forgot, the struggle o'er,
Desperate the joy, That day they read no more.


'T is like thy patient valour thus to keep,
Great Kosciusko, to the rural shade,
While freedom's ill-found amulet still is made
Pretence for old aggression, and a heap
Of selfish mockeries. There, as in the sweep
Of stormier fields, thou earnest with thy blade,
Transform'd, not inly alter'd, to the spade,
Thy never-yielding right to a calm sleep. [wit
Nature, ’t would seem, would leave to man's worse
The small and noisier parts of this world's frame,
And keep the calm green amplitudes of it
Sacred from fopperies and inconstant blame.
Cities may change, and sovereigns; but 'tis fit,
Thou, and the country old, be still the same.


The moist and quiet morn was scarcely breaking,
When Ariadne in her bower was waking;
Her eyelids still were closing, and she heard
But indistinctly yet a little bird,
That in the leaves o'erhead, waiting the sun,
Seem'd answering another distant one.
She waked, but stirr'd not, only just to please
Her pillow-nestling cheek ; while the full seas,
The birds, the leaves, the lulling love o'ernight,
The happy thought of the returning light,
The sweet, self-will'd content, conspired to keep
Her senses lingering in the field of sleep;
And with a little smile she seem'd to say,
“I know my love is near me, and 'tis day.”


MAHMOUD. There came a man, making his hasty moan Before the Sultan Mahmoud on his throne, And crying out—“My sorrow is my right, And I will see the Sultan, and to-night.” “Sorrow,” said Mahmoud, “is a reverend thing: I recognise its right, as king with king; Speak on.” “A fiend has got into my house,” Exclaim'd the staring man, “and tortures us: One of thine officers;–he comes, the abhorr'd, And takes possession of my house, my board, My bed: I have two daughters and a wife, [life.” And the wild villain comes, and makes me mad with “Is he there now !” said Mahmoud. “No; he left The house when I did, of my wits bereft; And laugh'd me down the street, because I vow’d I'd bring the prince himself to lay him in his shroud. I'mmad with want—I'm mad with misery, [thee!” And 0 thou Sultan Mahmoud, God cries out for The Sultan comforted the man, and said, “Go home, and I will send thee wine and bread,” (For he was poor,) “and other comforts. Go; And, should the wretch return, let Sultan Mahmoud know.” In three days' time, with haggard eyes and beard, And shaken voice, the suitor re-appeard, [word, And said, “He’s come.”—Mahmoud said not a But rose and took four slaves, each with a sword, And went with the vex'd man. They reach the place, And hear a voice, and see a woman's face, That to the window flutter'd in affright: “Go in,” said Mahmoud, “and put out the light; But tell the females first to leave the room; And when the drunkard follows them, we come.” The man went in. There was a cry, and hark 1 A table falls, the window is struck dark: Forth rush the breathless women ; and behind With curses comes the fiend in desperate mind. In vain: the sabres soon cut short the strife, [life. And chop the shrieking wretch, and drink his bloody “Now light the light,” the Sultan cried aloud. "Twas done; he took it in his hand, and bow’d Over the corpse, and look'd upon the face; Then turn'd, and knelt, and to the throne of grace Put up a prayer, and from his lips there crept Some gentle words of pleasure, and he wept. In reverent silence the beholders wait, Then bring him at his call both wine and meat; And when he had refresh'd his noble heart, He bade his host be blest, and rose up to depart. The man amazed, all mildness now, and tears, Fell at the Sultan's feet with many prayers, And begg'd him to vouchsafe to tell his slave The reason first of that command he gave About the light; then, when he saw the face, Why he knelt down; and, lastly, how it was That fare so poor as his detain'd him in the place. The Sultan said, with a benignant eye, “Since first I saw thee come, and heard thy cry, I could not rid me of a dread, that one By whom such daring villanies were done Must be some lord of mine, ay, e'en perhaps a son. Whoe'er he was, I knew my task, but fear'd A father's heart, in case the worst appear'd :

For this I had the light put out; but when
I saw the face, and found a stranger slain,
I knelt and thank'd the sovereign Arbiter,
Whose work I had perform'd through pain and fear;
And then I rose and was refresh'd with food,
The first time since thy voice had marr'd my soli-




I’ve thought, at gentle and ungentle hour, Of many an act and giant shape of power; Of the old kings with high exacting looks, Sceptred and globed; of eagles on their rocks, With straining feet, and that fierce mouth and drear, Answering the strain with downward drag austere; Of the rich-headed lion, whose huge frown All his great nature, gathering, seems to crown; Of towers on hills, with foreheads out of sight In clouds, or shown us by the thunder's light, Or ghastly prison, that eternally Holds its blind visage out to the lone sea; And of all sunless, subterranean deeps The creature makes, who listens while he sleeps, Avarice; and then of those old earthly cones, That stride, they say, over heroic bones; And those stone heaps Egyptian, whose small doors Look like low dens under precipitous shores; And him, great Memnon, that long sitting by In seeming idleness, with stony eye, Sang at the morning's touch, like poetry; And then of all the fierce and bitter fruit Of the proud planting of a tyrannous foot, Of bruised rights, and flourishing bad men, And virtue wasting heavenwards from a den; Brute force, and fury; and the devilish drouth Of the fool cannon's ever-gaping mouth; And the bride-widowing sword; and the harsh bray The sneering trumpet sends across the fray; And all which lights the people-thinning star That selfishness invokes, the horsed war, Panting along with many a bloody mane.

I've thought of all this pride, and all this pain, And all the insolent plenitudes of power, And I declare, by this most quiet hour, Which holds in different tasks by the fire-light Me and my friends here, this delightful night, That power itself has not one half the might Of gentleness. "Tis want to all true wealth ; The uneasy madman's force, to the wise health; Blind downward beating, to the eyes that see; Noise to persuasion, doubt to certainty; The consciousness of strength in enemies, Who must be strain'd upon, or else they rise; The battle to the moon, who all the while, High out of hearing, passes with her smile; The tempest, trampling in his scanty run, To the whole globe, that basks about the sun : Or as all shrieks and clangs, with which a sphere, Undone and fired, could rake the midnight ear, Compared with that vast dumbness nature keeps

Throughout her starry deeps, Most old, and mild, and awful, and unbroken, Which tells a tale of peace beyond whate'er was spoken.


KING FRANcis was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport, And one day, as his lions fought, sat looking on the court; The nobles fill'd the benches, and the ladies in their pride, And 'mongst them sat the Count de Lorge, with one for whom he sigh'd : And truly ’twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show, Valour and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below. [jaws; Ramp'd and roar'd the lions, with horrid laughing They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their paws; With wallowing might and stifled roar they roll'd on one another, Till all the pit with sand and mane was in a thunderous smother ; The bloody foam above the bars came whisking through the air; Said Francis then, “Faith, gentlemen, we're better here than there.” De Lorge's love o'erheard the king, a beauteous lively dame With smiling lips and sharp bright eyes, which alway seem'd the same; She thought, the count my lover is brave as brave can be ; He surely would do wondrous things to show his love of me; King, ladies, lovers, all look on ; the occasion is divine; I'll drop my glove to prove his love; great glory shall be mine. She dropp'd her glove to prove his love, then look’d at him and smiled; [wild : He bow'd, and in a moment leap'd among the lions The leap was quick, return was quick, he has regain'd the place, Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face. “By God!” said Francis, “rightly done!” and he rose from where he sat; “No love,” quoth he, “but vanity, sets love a task like that.” —e


How sweet it were, if without feeble fright, Or dying of the dreadful beauteous sight, An angel came to us, and we could bear To see him issue from the silent air At evening in our room, and bend on ours His divine eyes, and bring us from his bowers News of dear friends, and children who have never Been dead indeed,—as we shall know for ever. Alas! we think not what we daily see About our hearths, angels, that are to be, Or may be if they will, and we prepare Their souls and ours to meet in happy airA child, a friend, a wife whose soft heart sings In unison with ours, breeding its future wings.


For there are two heavens, sweet, Both made of love, one, inconceivable Even by the other, so divine it is; The other, far on this side of the stars, By men call'd home, when some blest pair are met As we are now ; sometimes in happy talk, Sometimes in silence, each at gentle task Of book, or household need, or meditation, By summer-moon, or curtain'd fire in frost; And by degrees there come, not always come, Yet mostly,–other, smaller inmates there, Cherubic-faced, yet growing like those two, Their pride and playmates, not without meek fear, Since God sometimes to his own cherubim Takes those sweet cheeks of earth. And so twixtjoy, And love, and tears, and whatsoever pain Man fitly shares with man, these two grow old; And if indeed blest thoroughly, they die In the same spot, and nigh the same good hour, And setting suns look heavenly on their grave.


A heavy spot the forest looks at first, To one grim shade condemn'd, and sandy thirst, Chequer'd with thorns, and thistles run to seed, Or plashy pools half-cover'd with green weed, About whose sides the swarming insects fry In the hot sun, a noisome company ; But, entering more and more, they quit the sand At once, and strike upon a grassy land, From which the trees as from a carpet rise In knolls and clumps, in rich varieties. The knights are for a moment forced to rein Their horses in, which, feeling turf again, Thrill, and curvet, and long to be at large To scour the space, and give the winds a charge, Or pulling tight the bridles as they pass, Dip their warm mouths into the freshening grass: But soon in easy rank, from glade to glade, Proceed they, coasting underneath the shade; Some bearing to the cool their placid brows, Some looking upward through the glimmering Or peering into spots that inwardly [boughs, Open green glooms, and half-prepared to see The lady cross it, that, as stories tell, Ran loud and torn before a knight of hell. Various the trees and passing foliage here, Wild pear, and oak, and dusky juniper, With briony between in trails of white, And ivy, and the suckle's streaky light, And moss, warm gleaming with a sudden mark, Like growths of sunshine left upon the bark; And still the pine, flat-topp'd, and dark, and tall, In lordly right predominant o'er all. Anon the sweet birds, like a sudden throng Of happy children, ring their tangled song From out the greener trees; and then a cloud Of cawing rooks breaks o'er them, gathering loud Like savages at ships; and then again Nothing is heard but their own stately train, Or ring-dove that repeats his pensive plea, Or startled gull up-screaming toward the sea.

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