Venus, ruler of the waves,
Who the storm-tossed seaman saves,
As a helper by me stand,
For I shipwreck make on land.

I hate Dan Cupid; he is cruel found
And ever aims his shafts my heart to wound.
'Twere better for him raging beasts to fight —
Why should a god set mortal hearts alight?
What glory will he win by slaying me?
My life, methinks, a paltry prize will be.

He is fallen, the poet, from his high estate.
How he hath fallen, God knows, and only God.
The high ethereal stairs he would have trod
Have vanished from beneath his feet of late,
And he is vanquished by uneasy fate,
And sinks upon a damp inferior sod,
And, mournful, breaks his sweet divining rod,
And sighs a broken-hearted sad " Too late! "

Ah, God, make poets not, or make them wise,
Girded with power to accomplish their high ends.
Thou givest them that fire within their eyes
That flush of songfulness, — and why should one

Fear not, my poet brothers, — Beauty guards
With shield of sunset and with waving wings
The self-forgetful soul of him that sings,
And draws a charmed circle round her bards.
Tradition your development retards:
Burst bands of custom, wander forth alone,
Subdue the nations, make the earth a throne,
Shake falsehood as one shakes a house of cards.

Some higher work the world's a right to ask
Than floods of flowery diction, rivers of rhyme:
Expression, after all, is but a mask
Concealing some reality sublime;

Not Florence, nor the Baian bay, I sing,
Nor sunny vine-clad slopes of southern France
Nor gardens where the Spanish maidens dance
With laughter in a white-armed starry ring,
Not unto Palestine, nor Greece, I cling,
As many with a longing backward glance, —
Through London's flowerless gloom my steps advance,
The crownless city seeks a crownless king.

Mine are the suns of morning, looming red
Through misery and smoke, till gleams of blue,
Occasional at midday, glisten through,
Across our patient care-worn foreheads shed:

The kindled sparkes of fyre, that Fancies motions moue,
Do force me feele, though I ne see, nor know not what is loue.
Desyre on ruth doth runne, imbracing griefe for game,
Whose ioye is like the Flies delight, that fries amid the flame.
It yeelds and mercy craues, yet wots not who makes warres,
The only thing it sees or knowes, is one that loue preferres.

I.

Praise Beauty! So say I — although the seas
Of loss of being choke the effort down,
And universes armed against me frown,
I stand upright and speak the thing I please,
Not bending feeble supplication knees
To any petty bully of the town,
Be he philosopher or sage or clown,
Whether his glances petrify or freeze.

Praise Beauty! and if Beauty loves me not,
And never on my brow may cool be laid
Aught sweeter than the sorry cypress shade,
Nor pointed tips of bay-leaves touch the spot

My spirit bows before thee, gentle Bust!
In thee I trace the features of a Bard,
Once full of fire and feeling — now all dust —
Who suffered deeply, but whose high reward
Shall be to have his young unsullied name
Engraven on the deathless page of fame.

I gaze upon thy lineaments, and seek
Therein the rich expression of a mind,
By force of its own feeling rendered weak —
By view of its own loveliness made blind;
Whose wild effusions charm us, and entrance —
The creatures and creators of Romance.

Of the many that gave me the cordial hand,
While they uttered affection's warm vow;
And swore to be mine, should I falter or stand,
I have found none so constant as THOU !
In the day of proud hope — in the hour of despair —
In the dark time of sorrow and shame;
Whether buoyed up by pleasure, or clouded by care,
To me thou wert ever the same.

When envy belied me, and slander assailed,

Three times she swore that she would come,
And called the lamp to hear her oath;
Now with another doth she roam
Inconstant to us both.

Bring to my aid thy power divine,
And when she greets her friend to-night
And fain before his eyes would shine
Put out, dear Lamp, thy light.