Once more, my friend, I touch the trembling lyre,
And in my bosom feel poetic fire,
For thee I quit the Laws more rugged ways,
To pay my humble tribute to thy lays.
What, though I daily turn each learned sage,
And labour through the unenlighten'd page:
Wak'd by thy lines, the borrow'd flames I feel,
As flints give fire when aided by the steel.
Though in sulphureous clouds of smoke confin'd,
Thy rural scenes spring fresh into my mind:
Thy genius in such colours paints the chase,
The real to fictitious joys give place.

Boot , boot into the stirrup, lads,
And hand once more on rein;
Up, up into the saddle, lads,
A-field we ride again:
One cheer, one cheer for dame or dear,
No leisure now to sigh,
God bless them all—we have their prayers,
And they our hearts—“Good-bye!”
Off, off we ride, in reckless pride,
As gallant troopers may,
Who have old scores to settle, and
Long slashing swords to pay.

The trumpet calls—“trot out, trot out,”—
We cheer the stirring sound;
Swords forth, my lads—through smoke and dust
We thunder o'er the ground.

Still creeping, still degenerous soul,
On earth so wallowing still in mire?
Still to the centre dost thou roll,
When up to heaven thou should'st aspire?
Did not thy jailer flesh deny
The freedom for to feed thine own insatiate eye:
How might thou let it surfeit here
On choicest glories! How it might
Thick flowing globes of splendour bear,
And triumph in its native light!
How't would hereafter sleep disdain!
The glorious sun of righteousness uprise again;
O, who so stupid that would not
Resolve to atoms, for to play

“I have no master,” said the Blind Boy,
“My mother, ‘Dame Venus’ they do call;
Cowled in this hood she sent me begging
For whate'er in pity may befall.

“Hard was her visage, me adjuring,—
‘Have no fond mercy on the kind!
Here be sharp arrows, bunched in quiver,
Draw close ere striking—thou art blind.’

“So stand I here, my woes entreating,
In this dark alley, lest the Moon
Point with her sparkling my barbed armoury,
Shine on my silver-lacèd shoon.

“Oh, sir, unkind this Dame to me-ward;
Of the salt billow was her birth. . . .

My faint spirit was sitting in the light
Of thy looks, my love;
It panted for thee like the hind at noon
For the brooks, my love.
Thy barb, whose hoofs outspeed the tempest's flight,
Bore thee far from me;
My heart, for my weak feet were weary soon,
Did companion thee.

Ah! fleeter far than fleetest storm or steed,
Or the death they bear,
The heart which tender thought clothes like a dove
With the wings of care;
In the battle, in the darkness, in the need,
Shall mine cling to thee,
Nor claim one smile for all the comfort, love,

Here I wander about, and here I mournfully ponder:
Weary to me is the sun, weary the coming of night:
Here is captivity still, there would be captivity yonder:
Like to myself are the rest, smitten is all with a blight.

Much I complain of my state to my own heart heavily beating:
Much to the stars I complain: much to the universe cold;
The stars that of old were fixed, in spheres their courses repeating;
Solidly once were they fixed, and with them their spheres were rolled.

Then through the space of the spheres to the steadfast empyrean

The wind that brings us from the springtide south
Strange music as from love's or life's own mouth
Blew hither, when the blast of battle ceased
That swept back southward Spanish prince and priest,
A sound more sweet than April's flower-sweet rain,
And bade bright England smile on pardoned Spain
The land that cast out Philip and his God
Grew gladly subject where Cervantes trod.
Even he whose name above all names on earth
Crowns England queen by grace of Shakespeare's birth
Might scarce have scorned to smile in God's wise down

Then spoke the Spirit of the Earth,
—Her gentle voice like a soft water's song;—
None from my loins have ever birth,
—But what to joy and love belong;
I faithful am, and give to thee
Blessings great, and give them free.
—I have woven shrouds of air
In a loom of hurrying light,
—For the trees which blossoms bear,
And gilded them with sheets of bright;
—I fall upon the grass like love's first kiss,
—I make the golden flies and their fine bliss.
I paint the hedge-rows in the lane,
—And clover white and red the pathways bear,

Then spoke the Spirit of the Earth,
Her gentle voice like a soft water's song;—
None from my loins have ever birth,
But what to joy and love belong;
I faithful am, and give to thee
Blessings great, and give them free.
I have woven shrouds of air
In a loom of hurrying light,
For the trees which blossoms bear,
And gilded them with sheets of bright;
I fall upon the grass like love's first kiss,
I make the golden flies and their fine bliss.
I paint the hedge-rows in the lane,
And clover white and red the pathways bear,

The robin is the one
That interrupts the morn
With hurried, few, express reports
When March is scarcely on.

The robin is the one
That overflows the noon
With her cherubic quantity,
An April but begun.

The robin is the one
That speechless from her nest
Submits that home and certainty
And sanctity are best.