How often, hither wandering down, My Arthur found your shadows fair, He brought an eye for all he saw; He mixed in all our simple sports; They pleased him, fresh from brawling courts And dusky purlieus of the law. O joy to him, in this retreat, To drink the cooler air, and mark O sound to rout the brood of cares, The sweep of scythe in morning dew, The gust that round the garden flew, And tumbled half the mellowing pears ! O bliss, when all in circle drawn About him, heart and ear were fed, To hear him, as he lay and read The Tuscan poets on the lawn; Or in the all-golden afternoon A guest, or happy sister, sung, Or here she brought the harp, and flung A ballad to the brightening moon! Nor less it pleased, in livelier moods, Beyond the bounding hill to stray, And break the livelong summer day With banquet in the distant woods; Whereat we glanced from theme to theme, Discussed the books to love or hate Or touched the changes of the state, Or threaded some Socratic dream. But if I praised the busy town, He loved to rail against it still, For, "ground in yonder social mill, "And merge," he said, "in form and gloss Or cooled within the glooming wave; And brushing ankle-deep in flowers, We heard behind the woodbine veil The milk that bubbled in the pail, And buzzings of the honeyed hours. THY Converse drew us with delight, The men of rathe and riper years; The feeble soul, a haunt of fears, Forgot his weakness in thy sight. On thee the loyal-hearted hung, The proud was half disarmed of pride; To flicker with his treble tongue. The stern were mild when thou wert by; And heard thee; and the brazen fool While I, thy dearest, sat apart, And felt thy triumph was as mine; And loved them more, that they were thine, The graceful tact, the Christian art; Not mine the sweetness or the skill, But mine the love that will not tire, And, born of love, the vague desire That spurs an imitative will. DEAR friend, far off, my lost desire, Known and unknown, human, divine! Strange friend, past, present, and to be, THY Voice is on the rolling air; I hear thee where the waters run; Thou standest in the rising sun, And in the setting thou art fair. * What art thou, then? I cannot guess; My love involves the love before; My love is vaster passion now; Though mixed with God and Nature thou. I seem to love thee more and more. Far off thou art, but ever nigh; THE BUGLE SONG. 'HE splendour falls on castle walls THE And snowy summits old in story; And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow! set the wild echoes flying: O hark, O hear! how thin and clear, The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! Blow! let us hear the purple glens replying: Blow, bugle; answer, echoes-dying, dying, dying! O love, they die in yon rich sky; They faint on hill or field or river: And grow forever and forever. Blow, bugle, blow! set the wild echoes flying, COME INTO THE GARDEN, MAUD. I. OME into the garden, Maud COME For the black bat, night, has flown! Come into the garden, Maud, I am here at the gate alone; And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, And the musk of the roses blown. II. For a breeze of morning moves, And the planet of Love is on high, To faint in the light of the sun she loves, III. All night have the roses heard The flute, violin, bassoon; All night has the casement jessamine stirred And a hush with the setting moon. |