English

WRITTEN IN A MOUNTAINOUS COUNTRY .

The poet, is like one by fancy led,
Whose footsteps in the lonely morning press
Some stubborn hill of difficult access,
Which seems to lengthen on above his head,
As though it sported with his weariness.
His path is steeped in vapour dark as death,
And flooded with chill mist — whilst to and fro
Thousands, along the dusty road beneath,
Securely in bright sunshine come and go:
But ever, and anon, in that steep way
The sudden mountain gales, with joyous breath,

Poet, you that build the rhyme
Dear to the Muse, the lovable maiden,
Breathe again the beauty-laden
Breath of wisdom's earlier time!

Now the people fancy more
Popular art, sensational poses,
Not the rarer-chosen roses,
Not the laurel Tennyson wore;

But to you my wreaths belong,
Wrought of Apollo's hyacinth-treasure,
You that tread to every measure
Dainty steps of delicate song.

Who is this, of all our Voices hushed beyond the singing shore,
Where the foamless roll of silence cradles peace forevermore,
Who is this, that still returning, mourns his eerie dream of Aden,
And his mystic, bloodless music chants the spell of lost Lenore?

Was thy singing ever mortal, warmed by human fierce desires,
Ere the living passion flickered into pale sepulchral fires?
Or was life to thee but shadow, — song to thee but friendless yearning,
Thy first home the spirit vision whither still thy heart aspires?

WRITTEN IN THE FIRST PAGE OF WORDSWORTH'S POEMS .

In this high poet's song, you will not find
Fierce passion painted with a demon's force,
Vice, by wild incongruities refined,
And every virtue poisoned at its source.
Nor yet, marked by strange hatred of mankind,
The drunken anguish of a false remorse:
His soul is calm and lofty as a star,
Nor does he sing to give his spirit rest,
And charm to peace the hell within his breast.
But as a quiet lake reflects from far,
The forests, and the mountains, and the sky;

You spake of reason, of reality,
As if high monuments of mental power
Were nought but dreams, to be thrown idly by,
And then forgotten in the self-same hour.
A hollow creed, and false philosophy,
Unworthy of the gentle and the good.
Framed by dull-hearted men, who strive in vain,
To think those flimsy cheats, gold — sleep — and food,
The aims and objects of our earthly life.
Oh live not thus with thine own heart at strife,
To build up that in beauty, without stain,
Is the true end of being — and God has given,

Last night, in the garden—no stir of leaves—
A firefly, twinkling from spray to spray,
Flew to my lips, and I brushed it by.
Now at dawn the voice of my love grieves;
“Last night, dreaming I was a firefly,
I flew to your lips, and you brushed me away.”

FROM SIMONIDES .

This turf lies on a woman's breast,
Shrouded in deep and peaceful rest;
The scion of a royal tree,
Mother, and wife of kings, was she;
Yet, though to these high names allied,
Her gentle spirit knew not pride.

SONNET .

Her father was a man of violent mood,
Hated — and hating many. — Restless fear
Alternately, and burning anger glowed
Beneath his heart — and death seemed ever near,
Such multitudes were thirsting for his blood.

As vonce I valked by a dismal svamp,
There sot an Old Cove in the dark and damp,
And at everybody as passed that road
A stick or a stone this Old Cove throwed.
And venever he flung his stick or his stone,
He'd set up a song of " Let me alone. "

" Let me alone, for I loves to shy
These bits of things at the passers by —
Let me alone, for I've got your tin
And lots of other traps snugly in —
Let me alone, I'm riggin' a boat
To grab votever you've got afloat —
In a veek or so I expects to come

Mother, with your fond heart southward turning,
And your face so full of anxious yearning, —
By the sorrow in your deep eyes growing,
Well I know where all your thoughts are going.

To the brave, bright boy, all danger scorning,
Gone to battle in his youth's fresh morning, —
For his country's bitter need, defying
Pain and hardship, and the dread of dying.

Fair young girl, whose startled heart beats faster
At the news of triumph or disaster, —
Ah! the word you whisper softly over,

My birthday! I must keep it, as of old,
And wear some token of a holiday;
For see the woods are gay with red and gold,
And Autumn sings her merriest roundelay.

I have no heart for dainty robes to-day,
And flowers do not suit me any more;
So, from the darkness where it hides away,
I take this relic of the days of yore, —

Only an antique amber rosary,
Whose beads still hold the mellow light of Rome,
Clasped by a cross of blackest ebony,
Fashioned by loving fingers here at home.