Far in the Southland warm and blest
Dwells the Queen whom we love the best.
There, by a wealth of luxurious gold
Swathed and sheltered from harm and cold,
In a budding beauty that never dies,
Slumber a thousand blooms divine;
And some are ruddy as evening skies,
And some in a flaming crimson shine.
Through the gladsome round of the circling hours
The goddess walks in her gay parterre,
And they grow more lovely, the lovely flowers,
At the very thought of her presence there.
Crocus and hyacinth, lily and rose,

My temperate style at first
With comic groans did greet,
And tho' the entry seemed sour,
The latest act was sweet.
Now tragic trumpets blow,
And sorrowing sounds unsought;
Unto my Muse's mourning mouth,
A wail again is wrought.

Before — alternate joys
Did promise some relief,
Now — care and love conspir'd in one
Have swol'n my endless grief.
So that I see no sole
Companion of my pains,
Unless it be those wretched ones
Which Pluto's reign retains.

And yet they must confess
My grief their grief exceeds;

Young monster! born with teeth, that thus canst bite
So deep, canst wound all sorts at ten and eight;
Fierce Scythian brat! young Tamerlane! the Gods'
Great scourge! that kickst all men like skulls and clods;
Rough creature! born for terror; whose stern look,
Few strings and muscles mov'd, is a whole book
Of biting satires; who did thee beget?
Or with what pictures was the curtains set?
John of the Wilderness? the hairy child?
The hispid Thisbite? or what Satyr wild,
That thou thus satirisest? Storm of wit,

(Earlier Version)

Like lights that pass, each motion of the mind
Flies through the world, seeking its fellow thought;
And if but in the twinkling of his days
A man shall chance to meet the kindred one —
Then happiness! No more he needs to burn
Beside the fire of dearth that pipe, whose smoke
Prays to the heedless stars of lonely men.

Then in a rare and wonderful abode
Where wit comes not, and thinking has no part,
A tender comedy is played and played,
That holds the magic meaning of the spheres,

Friend, whose smile has come to be
Very precious unto me,
Though I know I drank not first
Of your love's bright fountain-burst,
Yet I grieve not for the past,
So you only love me last!

Other souls may find their joy
In the blind love of a boy:
Give me that which years have tried,
Disciplined and purified, —
Such as, braving sun and blast,
You will bring to me at last!

There are brows more fair than mine,
Eyes of more bewitching shine,
Other hearts more fit, in truth,
For the passion of your youth;

I.

Alex. There sighs not on the Plain
So lost a Swain as I;
Scorcht't up with Love, frozen with Disdain.
Of killing Sweetness I complain.
Streph. If 'tis Corinna , die.

II.

Since first my dazled Eyes were thrown
On that bewitching Face,
Like ruin'd Birds, rob'd of their Young,
Lamenting, frighted, and alone,
I fly from place to place.

III.

Fram'd by some Cruel Powers above,

Now,
Like the pines intoning
Though some solitary gloom,
My errant thoughts go pattering
About love's ancient tomb,
And though no breath of incense rare
Lies round the shattered cup,
A banquet weird, the fragments
Where the ghost of love

When love is dead, draw thou the lattice close,
Shut out the world with all its blare and din;
Rain down the petals of the faded rose,
Lest pity enter in.

When love is dead, weave thou a checkered pall
Of broken promises and faith unkept,
And in the twilight when the soft dews fall,
Thy heart shall know Love wept.

The bee shall drown his homely, humming note
Upon thine ear, until thy day shall pass;
The woodbird shall reproach thee from the moat,
And things that throng the grass.

A little child shall look with wondering eye

A LOVE POEM .

The scorn of the nations is bitter,
But the touch of a hand is warm.

Is it not pleasant to wander
In town on Saturday night,
While people go hither and thither,
And shops shed cheerful light?
And, arm in arm, while our shadows
Chase us along the panes,
Are we not quite as cozy
As down among country lanes?

Nobody knows us, heeds us,
Nobody hears or sees,
And the shop-lights gleam more gladly
Than the moon on hedges and trees;
And people coming and going,
All upon ends of their own,

This is the place, as husht and dead
As when I saw it long ago;
Down the dark walk with shadows spread
I wander slow.

The tangled sunlight, cold and clear,
Steals frost-white through the boughs around.
There is no warmth of summer here,
No summer sound.
Darnet and nettle, as I pass,
Choke the dim ways, and in the bowers
Gather the weeds and the wild grass
Instead of flowers.

O life! O time! O days that die!
O days that live within the mind!
Here did we wander, she and I,
Together twined.

We passed out of the great broad walk,