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Shell more expansive ; tenderly a third
With cowering lip hung o'er the flute, and stopt
At will its dulcet sob, or waked to joy ;
A fourth took up the lyre and pincht the strings,
Invisible by trembling: many rais'd
Clear voices. Thus they spent their happy hours.
I know them all; but all with eyes downcast,
Conscious of loving, have entreated me
I would not utter now their names above.
Behold, among these natives of the sea
There stands but one young man: how fair! how fond !
Ah! were he fond to them! It may not be !
Yet did they tend him morn and eve; by night
They also watcht his slumbers: then they heard
His sighs, nor his alone; for there were two
To whom the watch was hateful. In despair
Upward he rais'd his arms, and thus he prayed.
"O Phæbus ! on the higher world alone
Showerest thou all thy blessings ? Great indeed
Hath been thy favour to me, great to her ;
But she pines inly, and calls beautiful
More than herself the Nymphs she sees around,
And asks me, ‘Are they not more beautiful ?'
Be all more beautiful, be all more blest,
But not with me! Release her from the sight ;
Restore her to a happier home, and dry
With thy pure beams, above, her bitter tears ! ”

She saw him in the action of his prayer,
Troubled, and ran to soothe him. From the ground
Ere she had claspt his neck, her feet were borne.
He caught her robe; and its white radiance rose
Rapidly, all day long, through the green sea.
Enallos loost not from that robe his grasp.

But spann'd one ankle too. The swift ascent
Had stunn'd them into slumber, sweet, serene,
Invigorating her, nor letting loose
The lover's arm below; albeit at last
It closed those eyes intensely fixt thereon,
And still as fixt in dreaming. Both were cast
Upon an island tilld by peaceful men
And few (no port nor road accessible)
Fruitful and green as the abode they left,
And warm with summer, warm with love and song.

'Tis said that some whom most Apollo loves
Have seen that island guided by his light;
And others have gone near it, but a fog
Rose up between them and the lofty rocks;
Yet they relate they saw it quite as well,
And shepherd-boys and pious hinds believe.

Collected 1846.


Not the last struggles of the Sun,

Precipitated from his golden throne,
Hold darkling mortals in sublime suspense;

But the calm exod of a man

Nearer, tho' far above, who ran The race we run, when Heaven recalls him hence.

Thus, O thou pure of earthly taint ! Thus, O my Southey! poet, sage, and saint ! Thou, after saddest silence, art removed.

What voice in anguish can we raise,

Or would we ? Need we, dare we, praise ? God now does that, the God thy whole heart loved.


2. To ROBERT BROWNING. THERE is delight in singing, tho' none hear Beside the singer; and there is delight In praising, though the praiser sit alone And see the prais'd far off him, far above. Shakspeare is not our poet, but the world's, Therefore on him no speech ! and brief for thee, Browning! Since Chaucer was alive and hale, No man hath walkt along our roads with step So active, so inquiring eye, or tongue So varied in discourse. But warmer climes Give brighter plumage, stronger wing : the breeze Of Alpine heights thou playest with, borne on Beyond Sorrento and Amalfi, where The Siren waits thee, singing song for song,




DARLING Shell, where hast thou been, West or East? or heard or seen ? From what pastimes art thou come ? Can we make amends at home ?

Whether thou hast tuned the dance

To the maids of ocean Know I not; but Ignorance

Never hurts Devotion.

This I know, Ianthe's shell,
I must ever love thee well,
Tho' too little to resound
While the Nereids dance around;

For, of all the shells that are,

Thou art sure the brightest; Thou, Ianthe's infant care,

Most these eyes delightest.

To thy early aid she owes
Teeth like budding snow-drop rows:
And what other shell can say
On her bosom once it lay?

That which into Cyprus bore

Venus from her native sea, (Pride of Shells !) was never more

Dear to her than thou to me.

(1x.) Away my verse; and never fear,

As men before such beauty do; On you she will not look severe,

She will not turn her eyes from you. Some happier graces could I lend

That in her memory you should live, Some little blemishes might blend,

For it would please her to forgive.

(x). Pleasure! why thus desert the heart

In its spring-tide ?
I could have seen her, I could part,

And but have sigh'd !

O'er every youthful charm to stray,

To gaze, to touch-
Pleasure! why take so much away,

Or give so much!

(xii). Lie, my fond heart, at rest,

She never can be ours. Why strike upon my breast

The slowly passing hours ? Ah! breathe not out the name !

That fatal folly stay! Conceal the eternal flame,

And tortured ne'er betray.

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