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
Steady thy laden head across a brook; 20 Or by a cider-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.
STREW on her roses, roses, And never a spray of yew: In quiet she reposes;
Ah! would that I did too!
Her mirth the world required; She bathed it in smiles of glee. But her heart was tired, tired, And now they let her be.
Her life was turning, turning, In mazes of heat and sound; But for peace her soul was yearning, And now peace laps her round.
Her cabined, ample spirit,
It fluttered and failed for breath; To-night it doth inherit
The vasty hall of death.
To die be given us, or attained! Fierce work it were, to do again.
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,
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,
We bathed our hands with speechless glee, That night, in the wide-glimmering sea.
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;
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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