My dear! When I leave you
I always drop a bit of me —
A holy glove or sainted shoe —
Your wistful corse I leave it to,
For all your soul has followed me —
How could I have the stony heart
So to abandon you!

My dear! When you leave me
You drop no glove, no sainted shoe;
And yet you know what humans be —
Mere blocks of dull monstrosity!
My spirit cannot follow you
When you're away, with all its heart
As yours can follow me.

My dear! Since we must leave
(One sorry day) I you, you me;

Tempt me no more; — thy tones are sweet and deep,
Yet they fall vainly on my weary cars:
Pass on, and leave me here to dream and weep,
Counting the footfalls of the lonesome years; —
Tempt me no more!

My wreath of life holds no fresh bloom for thee, —
Its flowers are strewn on unforgotten graves, —
Only its withered leaves remain to me,
And they drift darkly toward death's wintry waves: —
Tempt me no more.

Gather not rose-leaves trampled in the dust:
No kindness can their wasted bloom renew.

When I do note the beauty of thine eyes,
And think that they have long been sightless dust;
When I observe the warrior's envied prize —
Helmet and corselet — thick with yellow rust;
When scutcheoned doors lie prone in castle halls,
And turrets totter, razed by ruthless Time;
When panelled brass from stately column falls,
Well-graved with praises writ in lofty rhyme —
Then I perceive how all things here decay;
That this wide world is but a shifting stage,
Where faith and love, fierce pride and passion, play,

Sir, much good do't ye; were your table but
Pie-crust or cheese, you might your stomach shut
After your slice of beef; what, dare you try
Your force on an ell square of pudding pie?
Perhaps 't may be a taste; three such as you
Unbreakfasted might starve Seraglio.
When Hannibal scal'd th' Alps, hadst thou been there,
Thy beef had drunk up all his vinegar.
Well might'st thou be of guard to Henry th' eight,
Since thou canst, like a pigeon, eat thy weight.
Full wise was nature, that would not bestow
These tusks of thine into a double row.

WITH JOHN MASEFIELD

O friendly hat—hat of my friend!
And must I pack thee up and end
That brief encircling halo torn
From noble Masefield's peg, and worn
In ecstasy one hour! Dear hat!
So much more beautiful than that
I left behind—from me depart!
Be crushed once more against his heart!

How shall we think of thee to-day—
(For still our thoughts to thee must roam)—
Oh, ship! that on the distant sea,
Somewhere, art bringing Charley home?

In airs of balm, 'mid tropic isles,
Borne slowly on, with sleepy sail—
Or madly plunging, double-reefed,
Against this wild northwestern gale?

This blast that, hurrying o'er the flood,
In turbid waves the causey whelms—
Flings white-caps o'er the shattered pier—
And howls amid these wintry elms.

While he, this very hour perchance,
Slow rocking in his eyrie high,

I.

Come let us gather here upon the hill
 The noble hearts that yet beat pure and high,
And, while the lake beneath our feet is still,
 Sweetly our speech may run on chivalry,
And feats of arms, and old crusading days,
And tourneys bright, and minstrel's generous praise.

II.

For we have mourned o'er many a lonely place
 And moorland village with a knightly name,
And we have loved with wise regrets to trace
 The still unfaded relics of their fame.
Yon sun that sinks o'er Solway's distant bay
Sets not more proud and glorious than they.

Once more upon the Frith of Clyde,
 Once more upon the dancing sea;
From out the land-locked harbor wide
 Our Anglia sails right merrily.
Old Arran rises on our right,
Her mountains bathed in sunset light;
While toward the coast the vision turns,
And rests upon the Land of Burns.

The western sky is all aglow;
 The headlands bold are touched with light;
Reflected beauty sleeps below,
 Upon the waters pure and bright.
It seems indeed a fitting eve
Of Scotia dear to take our leave,
And in a sunset hour so fair

FROM A WEARY WAYFARER

Lord! I plump for Princeton —
Peaceful there I be!
Peace and plump and Princeton
All begin with P!

The outlaw's cavern was a lonely place
And wild, deep set within the mountain side;
Whose rocks, clean-swept by summer torrents, hung,
Toppling, about its mouth, and strewed the vale,
Through which a river glided lazily,
Gleaming through openings in its verdurous bounds.

Upon the sward that sloped below the cave.
Where Syrian date-trees dropped their isles of shade,
Were grouped the habitants of this rude realm:
A hardy, reckless race, of motley garb
And varied arms, and visages that told
Of fiery, vengeful natures, now relaxed