In the dull catalogue of common things. Philosophy will clip an Angel's wings, Conquer all mysteries by rule and line, Empty the haunted air, and gnomed mineUnweave a rainbow, as it erewhile made The tender-person'd Lamia melt into a shade.

By her glad Lycius sitting, in chief place, Scarce saw in all the room another face, 240 Till, checking his love trance, a cup he took

Full brimm'd, and opposite sent forth a look

'Cross the broad table, to beseech a glance From his old teacher's wrinkled countenance,

And pledge him. The bald-head philosopher

Had fix'd his eye, without a twinkle or stir,

Full on the alarmed beauty of the bride, Brow-beating her fair form, and troubling her sweet pride.

Lycius then press'd her hand, with devout touch,

As pale it lay upon the rosy couch:

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"T was icy, and the cold ran through his

veins;

Then sudden it grew hot, and all the pains Of an unnatural heat shot to his heart. 'Lamia, what means this? Wherefore dost thou start?

Know'st thou that man?' Poor Lania answer'd not.

He gazed into her eyes, and not a jot Own'd they the lovelorn piteous appeal: More, more he gazed: his human senses reel:

Some hungry spell that loveliness absorbs: There was no recognition in those orbs. 260 'Lamia!' he cried and no soft-toned reply.

The many heard, and the loud revelry Grew hush the stately music no more

Unlawful magic, and enticing lies. Corinthians! look upon that gray-beard wretch!

Mark how, possess'd, his lashless eyelids stretch

Around his demon eyes! Corinthians, see! My sweet bride withers at their potency.' 290 Fool!' said the sophist, in an under-tone Gruff with contempt; which a death-nighing moan

From Lycius answer'd, as heart-struck and lost,

He sank supine beside the aching ghost. 'Fool! Fool!' repeated he, while his eyes still

Relented not, nor moved; 'from every ill

Of life have I preserved thee to this day, And shall I see thee made a serpent's prey?'

Then Lamia breathed death breath; the

Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;

Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook

Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:

And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep

Steady thy laden head across a brook; 20 Or by a cider-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

RESIGNATION

TO FAUSTA

[Publ. 1849]

To die be given us, or attained! Fierce work it were, to do again.

ΤΟ

Whom labors, self-ordained, inthrall;
Because they to themselves propose
On this side the all-common close
A goal which, gained, may give repose.
So pray they; and to stand again

Where they stood once, to them were pain;
Pain to thread back and to renew

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Past straits, and currents long steered

through.

But milder natures, and more free,
Whom an unblamed serenity
Hath freed from passions, and the state
Of struggle these necessitate;
Whom schooling of the stubborn mind
Hath made, or birth hath found, resigned, –
These mourn not, that their goings pay
Obedience to the passing day.
These claim not every laughing hour
For handmaid to their striding power;
Each in her turn, with torch upreared,
To await their march; and when appeared,
Through the cold gloom, with measured

race,

To usher for a destined space

(Her own sweet errands all foregone)
The too imperious traveller on.
These, Fausta, ask not this; nor thou,
Time's chafing prisoner, ask it now!

We left just ten years since, you say,
That wayside inn we left to-day.
Our jovial host, as forth we fare,
Shouts greeting from his easy-chair.
High on a bank our leader stands,
Reviews and ranks his motley bands,
Makes clear our goal to every eye,
The valley's western boundary.
A gate swings to! our tide hath flowed
Already from the silent road.
The valley-pastures, one by one,
Are threaded, quiet in the sun;
And now, beyond the rude stone bridge,
Slopes gracious up the western ridge.
Its woody border, and the last
Of its dark upland farms, is past;
Cool farms, with open-lying stores,

30

40

50

Some two hours' march, with serious air,
Through the deep noontide heats we fare;
The red-grouse, springing at our sound, 70
Skims, now and then, the shining ground;
No life, save his and ours, intrudes
Upon these breathless solitudes.
Oh, joy! again the farms appear.
Cool shade is there, and rustic cheer;
There springs the brook will guide us down,
Bright comrade, to the noisy town.
Lingering, we follow down; we gain
The town, the highway, and the plain.
And many a mile of dusty way,
Parched and road-worn, we made that day;
But, Fausta, I remember well,
That as the balmy darkness fell,

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We bathed our hands with speechless glee, That night, in the wide-glimmering sea.

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Once more we tread this self-same road,
Fausta, which ten years since we trod;
Alone we tread it, you and I,
Ghosts of that boisterous company.
Here, where the brook shines, near its head,
In its clear, shallow, turf-fringed bed;
Here, whence the eye first sees, far down,
Capped with faint smoke, the noisy town,-
Here sit we, and again unroll,
Though slowly, the familiar whole.
The solemn wastes of heathy hill
Sleep in the July sunshine still;
The self-same shadows now, as then;
Play through this glassy upland glen;
The loose dark stones on the green way 100
Lie strewn, it seems, where then they lay;
On this mild bank above the stream,
(You crush them!) the blue gentians gleam.
Still this wild brook, the rushes cool,
The sailing foam, the shining pool!
These are not changed; and we, you say,
Are scarce more changed, in truth, than they.

The gypsies, whom we met below, They too have long roamed to and fro;

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They ramble, leaving, where they pass,
Their fragments on the cumbered grass.
And often to some kindly place
Chance guides the migratory race,
Where, though long wanderings intervene,
They recognize a former scene.

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The dingy tents are pitched; the fires
Give to the wind their wavering spires;
In dark knots crouch round the wild flame
Their children, as when first they came;
They see their shackled beasts again
Move, browsing, up the gray-walled lane.
Signs are not wanting, which might raise
The ghost in them of former days,
Signs are not wanting, if they would;
Suggestions to disquietude.

For them, for all, time's busy touch,
While it mends little, troubles much.
Their joints grow stiffer- but the year
Runs his old round of dubious cheer;
Chilly they grow-yet winds in March, 130
Still, sharp as ever, freeze and parch;
They must live still- and yet, God knows,
Crowded and keen the country grows;
It seems as if, in their decay,
The law grew stronger every day.
So might they reason, so compare,
Fausta, times past with times that are;
But no! they rubbed through yesterday
In their hereditary way,

And they will rub through, if they can, 140
To-morrow on the self-same plan,
Till death arrive to supersede,
For them, vicissitude and need.

The poet, to whose mighty heart
Heaven doth a quicker pulse impart,
Subdues that energy to scan

Not his own course, but that of man.
Though he move mountains, though his day
Be passed on the proud heights of sway,
Though he hath loosed a thousand chains,
Though he hath borne immortal pains, 151
Action and suffering though he know, -
He hath not lived, if he lives so.
He sees, in some great-historied land,
A ruler of the people stand,
Sees his strong thought in fiery flood
Roll through the heaving multitude,
Exults yet for no moment's space
Envies the all-regarded place.
Beautiful eyes meet his, and he
Bears to admire uncravingly;
They pass: he, mingled with the crowd,
Is in their far-off triumphs proud.

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