Far off in the dim and desolate Past,—
That shoreless and sorrowful sea
Where wrecks are driven by wave and blast,
Shattered, sunken, and lost, at last,
Lies the heart that was broken for me,—
Poor heart!
Long ago broken for me!

My loves were Glory and Pride and Art,—
Ah, dangerous rivals three!
Sweet lips might quiver and warm tears start:
Should an artist pause for a woman's heart,—
Even that which was broken for me?
Poor heart!
Too rare to be broken for me!

O, she was more mild than the summer wind,

Against the baffling winds, with slow advance,
One drear December day,
Up the vexed Channel, toward the coast of France,
Our vessel urged her way.

Around the dim horizon's misty slopes
The storm its banners hung;
And, pulling bravely at the heavy ropes,
The dripping sailors sung.

A little land-bird, from its home-nest warm,
Bewildered, driven, and lost,
With wearied wings, came drifting on the storm,
From the far English coast.

Blown blindly onward, with a headlong speed
It could not guide or check,

So Hector fell, and Troy without defence
Looked for Achilles knocking at the gate:
There was no other heart to brave him thence,
The stubborn walls at last must let in fate.

But he, delaying, held away their doom,
For on a bleak hill far across the plain,
Beside his lost friend in the new-built tomb,
Whom Hector slew and for that death was slain,

He grieved, and clasped his knees, and bowed his head,
To hear no sound though night and day went by,
Mourning the friendship and the glory sped,
And after Hector, his own turn to die;

There on the shore his lonely roof was set
Bordering the dunes, storm-beaten, and below,
The never-tiring breaker crashed and roared.
The sloping sands, wave-wrinkled and untrod,
Now kissed the feet of Theano, when she first
Gladdened the house, under the bridal stars,
And the warm hearth blazed welcome through the door.
He would not mourn the summer, nor regret
The failing year, for Theano in his heart
Brought greenness on the barren sands, and kindling
A warmer glory in the Thracian dawns,
Drew purple o'er the wave, grey with the winter.

O baby, with your marvellous eyes,
Clear as the yet unfallen dew,
Methinks you are the only wise, —
No change can touch you with surprise, —
Nothing is strange or new to you.

You did not weep, when faint and weak
Grew Love's dear hand within your hold,
And, when I pressed your living cheek
Close down to lips which could not speak,
You did not start to find them cold.

You think it morning when you wake,
That night comes when your eyelids fall,
That the winds blow, and blossoms shake,

1.

An Age in her Embraces past,
Would seem a Winters day;
Where Life and Light, with envious hast,
Are torn and snatch'd away.

2.

But, oh how slowly Minutes rowl,
When absent from her Eyes
That feed my Love, which is my Soul,
It languishes and dyes.

3.

For then no more a Soul but shade,
It mournfully does move;
And haunts my Breast, by absence made

Nymph.

Injurious Charmer of my vanquisht Heart,
Canst thou feel Love, and yet no pity know?
Since of my self from thee I cannot part,
Invent some gentle Way to let me go.
For what with Joy thou didst obtain,
And I with more did give;
In time will make thee false and vain,
And me unfit to live.

Shepherd.

Frail Angel, that wou'dst leave a Heart forlorn,
With vain pretence falshood therein might lye;

The burning sunbeams on the pavement beat,
There is no pity in the brazen skies;
The air along the street quivers with scorching heat,
And its hot dazzle blinds the aching eyes.

In these long days, with dust and turmoil rife,
The sultry distance of the Avenue
Seems like some dreary life, full of unrest and strife,
Where there comes never either bloom or dew.

She sits there in the sunshine all the day,
Almost beneath the passers' hurrying feet, —
A woman, old and gray, beside the crowded way,

T'was a dispute 'twixt heav'n and Earth
Which had produc't the Nobler birth:
For Heav'n, Appear'd Cynthya with all her Trayne
Till you came forth
More glorious and more Worth,
Than shee with all those trembling imps of Light
With which This Envious Queene of night
Had Proudly deck't her Conquer'd selfe in Vaine.

I must have perrish't in that first surprize
Had I beheld your Eyes;
Love Like Appollo when he would inspire
Some holy brest, laide all his gloryes by.
Els The God cloath'd in his heavnly fire

Three children (their names were so fearful
You'll excuse me for leaving them out)
Sat silent, with faces all tearful —
What was it about?

They were sewing, but needles are prickly,
And fingers were cold as could be —
So they didn't get on very quickly,
And they wept, silly Three!

" O Mother! " said they, " Guildford's not a
Nice place for the winter, that's flat.
If you know any country that's hotter,
Please take us to that! "

" Cease crying, " said she, " little daughter!