HERE, where precipitate Spring with one light bound Into hot Summer's lusty arms expires;
And where go forth at morn, at eve, at night, Soft airs, that want the lute to play with them, And softer sighs, that know not what they want: Under a wall, beneath an orange-tree
Whose tallest flowers could tell the lowlier ones Of sights in Fiesole right up above, While I was gazing a few paces off
At what they seemed to show me with their nods, Their frequent whispers and their pointing shoots, A gentle maid came down the garden steps, And gathered the pure treasure in her lap. I heard the branches rustle, and stept forth To drive the ox away, or mule, or goat, (Such I believed it must be); for sweet scents Are the swift vehicles of still sweeter thoughts, And nurse and pillow the dull memory That would let drop without them her best stores. They bring me tales of youth and tones of love, And 'tis and ever was my wish and way To let all flowers live freely, and all die, Whene'er their genius bids their souls depart, Among their kindred in their native place. I never pluck the rose; the violet's head Hath shaken with my breath upon its bank And not reproacht me; the ever sacred cup Of the pure lily hath between my hands Felt safe, unsoil'd, nor lost one grain of gold. I saw the light that made the glossy leaves More glossy; the fair arm, the fairer cheek
Warmed by the eye intent on its pursuit ; I saw the foot, that, although half erect From its gray slipper, could not lift her up To what she wanted: I held down a branch And gather'd her some blossoms, since their hour Was come, and bees had wounded them, and flies Of harder wing were working their way through And scattering them in fragments under foot. So crisp were some, they rattled unevolved, Others, ere broken off, fell into shells, For such appear the petals when detach'd, Unbending, brittle, lucid, white like snow, And like snow not seen through, by eye or sun: Yet every one her gown received from me Was fairer than the first-I thought not so, But so she praised them to reward my care. I said: "You find the largest."
Cried she," is large and sweet.”
Whether for me to look at or to take
She knew not, nor did I; but taking it
Would best have solved (and this she felt) her doubts.
I dared not touch it; for it seemed a part
Of her own self; fresh, full, the most mature
Of blossoms, yet a blossom; with a touch
To fall, and yet unfallen.
The boon she tendered, and then, finding not
The riband at her waist to fix it in,
Dropt it, as loth to drop it, on the rest.
I LOVED him not; and yet, now he is gone, I feel I am alone.
I check'd him while he spoke; yet, could he speak, Alas! I would not check.
For reasons not to love him once I sought, And wearied all my thought
To vex myself and him: I now would give My love could he but live
Who lately lived for me, and, when he found "Twas vain, in holy ground
He hid his face amid the shades of death! I waste for him my breath
Who wasted his for me! but mine returns, And this lorn bosom burns
With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep, And waking me to weep
Tears that had melted his soft heart: for years Wept he as bitter tears!
"Merciful God!" such was his latest prayer, "These may she never share!"
Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold Than daisies in the mould,
Where children spell, athwart the churchyard gate, His name and life's brief date.
Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er you be, And, oh! pray, too, for me!
QUEEN of the double sea, beloved of him
Who shakes the world's foundations, thou hast seen Glory in all her beauty, all her forms;
Seen her walk back with Theseus when he left The bones of Sciron bleaching to the wind, Above the ocean's roar and cormorant's flight, So high that vastest billows from above Show but like herbage waving in the mead; Seen generations throng thy Isthmian games, And pass away-the beautiful, the brave, And them who sang
Audible still, and far beyond thy cliffs,
As when they first were uttered, are those words Divine which praised the valiant and the just; And tears have often stopt, upon that ridge So perilous, him who brought before his eye The Colchian babes.
"Stay! spare him! save the last!
Medea!—is that blood? again! it drops From my imploring hand upon my feet;—
I will invoke the Eumenides no more. I will forgive thee-bless thee-bend to thee In all thy wishes-do but thou, Medea,
"And shall I too deceive?"
Cries from the fiery car an angry voice;
And swifter than two falling stars descend
Two breathless bodies-warm, soft, motionless, As flowers in stillest noon before the sun, They lie three paces from him-such they lie As when he left them sleeping side by side, A mother's arm round each, a mother's cheeks Between them, flushed with happiness and love. He was more changed than they were-doomed to show Thee and the stranger, how defaced and scarred Grief hunts us down the precipice of years, And whom the faithless prey upon the last.
To give the inertest masses of our earth Her loveliest forms was thine, to fix the gods Within thy walls, and hang their tripods round With fruits and foliage knowing not decay. A nobler work remains: thy citadel Invites all Greece; o'er lands and floods remote Many are the hearts that still beat high for thee: Confide then in thy strength, and unappalled Look down upon the plain, while yokemate kings Run bellowing, where their herdsmen goad them on ; Instinct is sharp in them, and terror trueThey smell the floor whereon their necks must lie.
My briar that smelledst sweet, When gentle spring's first heat
Ran through thy quiet veins; Thou that couldst injure none, But wouldst be left alone,
Alone thou leavest me, and nought of thine remains.
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