Shell more expansive ; tenderly a third She saw him in the action of his prayer, But spann'd one ankle too. The swift ascent 'Tis said that some whom most Apollo loves WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. I. (cxi.) Precipitated from his golden throne, 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. (cccxi.) 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, II. LYRICS AND EPIGRAMS. (VII.) 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, 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 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 ? And but have sigh'd ! O'er every youthful charm to stray, To gaze, to touch- 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. |