Where Thebes' great towers did threat the sky,
And overlook'd the fertile Pharian land,
There Memnon's statue all of stone did stand,
And challeng'd wonder from each gazing eye;
For of itself no sense in it was found,
No breath, no motion, nor no life at all;
But when Apollo's beams on it did fall,
Then it sent out a vital vocal sound.
I am that statue, great and mighty king;
Thou art that Phœbus, who with rays of love
Did make me both to breathe, to live and move.
When of myself I was a senseless thing.

E NGLAND ! thy strifes are written on thy fields
In grim old characters, which studious time
Wears down to beauty, while green nature yields
Soft ivy-veils to clothe gray holds of crime,
And hides war's prints with spring-flowers that might wave
Their pale sweet selves upon a martyr's grave.
Here hath the ploughshare of the Conquest worn
The furrowed moat around a cruel tower;
There York's white roses fringe in blameless scorn
The ledge of some Lancastrian lady's bower.
Least, for my country's sake, may I regret

I.

While, with well-acted anger, you complain ,
Still you attempt your charming task again;
And still, with lovely petulance , complain,
That still you strike the trembling strings , in vain.
Still you complain! and still my wond'ring soul
Is wildly beckon'd, by the wanton sound:
Thro' my rais'd fancy circling phantoms roll,
My thoughts , in fairy mazes, dance around!
Still you complain, how ill your work is done,

When snow lies deep on vale and plain,
And tempests sweep the shore and main,
How vain and empty seems the knowledge
That summer-time will come again!

The waiting wood stands gray and dim,
A waste of rigid trunk and limb,
With yet no hint of coming foliage,
Of springing flower, or warbler's hymn.

The shrouded garden gives no sign;
Faintly the pallid sunbeams shine, —
Chill smiles which have no vital meaning,
On barren shrub and leafless vine.

Not yet, along the last year's bed,

Religious relics of that ruinous place,
Which some time gloried in the glore of saints,
Now hath no glore but one, whereof it vaunts,
That one saint's beauty makes it heav'n of grace —
In balmy fields, which fards her flow'ry face
With sweet perfumes of corns, of trees, of plants,
While Neptune swells with pride, when there he haunts,
And laughs for joy such beauty to embrace;
Bear me record, that while I passed by,
I did my duteous homage to your dame;
How thrice I sigh'd, thrice on her name did cry,

What is immortal? Dreamers speak of love
Outliving mortal breath,
And conquering fate and circumstance and death;
And wise men preach, and poets sing in rhyme
Of faith and fame which years cannot disprove,
And hope which laughs at time.
And yet the veriest trifles oft outlast
All these, and leave them in the misty past,
Proving how empty is their boast above
A silken shred, a flower, or faded glove.

He took a piece of potter's earth one day, —
My friend, remembered still, —
And, with an artist's ready craft and skill,

Wherefore this bitter aching of the heart
When our beloved depart,
To whom our souls have grown through years and years
Of toil and tears?

Why weep for those who happily forget
Life's tedious wear and fret,
Who lay aside, with joy, the loads of ill
Which cramp us still?

Wash not, O tears, these white and quiet feet
Which, clean from dust and heart,
Shall climb, through all the round of coming days,
No more rough ways.

Lave not, O tears, these calmly folded hands
Slipped from their fettering bands,

False hopes are bankrupts both of time and youth —
The shadows which king Cepheus sons did chase —
The pools which fled from Tantalus' thirsty mouth, —
Go hence from me, and take your dwelling place
With such cameleons as can live on air —
With such as bow unto their own disgrace.
Thurinus sought for good and solid ware,
For me, I'd rather cherish true despair,
Than entertain such hopes as do betray me;
Yea, I would rather stoop to such a care
As cuts me short, than such as do waylay me.
A hopeless life is arm'd against all pain;

The mighty Mavors, zealous to behold
A Mars more mighty than himself below,
Did once resolve his rival to o'erthrow
By Assassins, whom open force made bold;
But finding then that open force did fold
Under the princely valour of his foe,
He then determin'd to assail him so
As no defence should his offence withhold.
Then came he down to Pluto's dire abode,
And there for fire and brimstone straight did call—
Wherewith he thought to play the thund'ring god,
And make the world admire his rival's fall;

WATERPARK, CONISTON .

Why comest thou to me, young questioner,
Why comest thou with sorrow-stricken look?
Of what dread omen in old nature's book
Enquirest thou the meaning from the seer?
From out yon sapless tree thy mother earth
Speaks to thee, Child, and with no voice of mirth.
Life grows around thee and upon thee, deep
And broad and mighty; and the time hath come
When childhood pure can be no more a home,
A covert where the soul may hide and sleep.
Yet still — now dry thy tears — this comfort take: