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Starr'd from Jehovah's gorgeous armories,
Tower, as the deep-domed empyrëan

Rings to the roar of an angel onset -
Me rather all that bowery loneliness,
The brooks of Eden mazily murmuring,

And bloom profuse and cedar arches

Charm, as a wanderer out in ocean,
Where some refulgent sunset of India
Streams o'er a rich ambrosial ocean isle,

And crimson-hued the stately palmwoods
Whisper in odorous heights of even.


O YOU chorus of indolent reviewers,
Irresponsible, indolent reviewers,
Look, I come to the test, a tiny poem
All composed in a metre of Catullus,
All in quantity, careful of my motion,
Like the skater on ice that hardly bears him,
Lest I fall unawares before the people,
Waking laughter in indolent reviewers.
Should I flounder awhile without a tumble
Thro' this metrification of Catullus,

They should speak to me not without a welcome,
All that chorus of indolent reviewers.

Hard, hard, hard is it, only not to tumble,

So fantastical is the dainty metre.

Wherefore slight me not wholly, nor believe me
Too presumptuous, indolent reviewers.

O blatant Magazines, regard me rather
Since I blush to belaud myself a moment-
As some rare little rose, a piece of inmost
Horticultural art, or half coquette-like
Maiden, not to be greeted unbenignly.


So Hector said, and sea-like roar'd his host;
Then loosed their sweating horses from the yoke,
And each beside his chariot bound his own;

And oxen from the city, and goodly sheep
In haste they drove, and honey-hearted wine
And bread from out the houses brought, and heap'd
Their firewood, and the winds from off the plain
Roll'd the rich vapor far into the heaven.
And these all night upon the bridge * of war
Sat glorying; many a fire before them blazed:
As when in heaven the stars about the moon
Look beautiful, when all the winds are laid,
And every height comes out, and jutting peak
And valley, and the immeasurable heavens
Break open to their highest, and all the stars
Shine, and the Shepherd gladdens in his heart:
So many a fire between the ships and stream
Of Xanthus blazed before the towers of Troy,
A thousand on the plain; and close by each
Sat fifty in the blaze of burning fire;
And champing golden grain, the horses stood
Hard by their chariots, waiting for the dawn.†

Iliad 8. 542-561.



He that only rules by terror
Doeth grievous wrong.
Deep as Hell I count his error.

Let him hear my song.

Brave the Captain was: the seamen

Made a gallant crew,

Gallant sons of English freemen,
Sailors bold and true.

But they hated his oppression,
Stern he was and rash;

So for every light transgression
Doom'd them to the lash.
Day by day more harsh and cruel
Seem'd the Captain's mood.

Or, ridge.

† Or more literally

And eating hoary grain and pulse the steeds
Stood by their cars, waiting the throned morn.

Secret wrath like smother'd fuel
Burnt in each man's blood.
Yet he hoped to purchase glory,
Hoped to make the name
Of his vessel great in story,
Wheresoe'er he came.

So they passed by capes and islands,
Many a harbor-mouth,

Sailing under palmy highlands
Far within the South.

On a day when they were going
O'er the lone expanse,

In the north. her canvas flowing,
Rose a ship of France.

Then the Captain's color heighten'd,
Joyful came his speech:

But a cloudy gladness lighten'd

In the eyes of each.

"Chase," he said: the ship flew forward,
And the wind did blow;

Stately, lightly, went she Norward,
Till she near'd the foe.

Then they look'd at him they hated,
Had what they desired:

Mute with folded arms they waited

Not a gun was fired.

But they heard the foeman's thunder

Roaring out their doom;

All the air was torn in sunder,


Crashing went the boom,

Spars were splinter'd, decks were shatter❜d, Bullets fell like rain;

Over mast and deck were scatter'd

Blood and brains of men.

Spars were splinter'd; decks were broken:
Every mother's son
Down they dropt no word was spoken —


Each beside his gun.

On the decks as they were lying,
Were their faces grim.

In their blood, as they lay dying,

Did they smile on him.
Those, in whom he had reliance
For his noble name,

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With one smile of still defiance
Sold him unto shame.

Shame and wrath his heart confounded,
Pale he turn'd and red,

Till himself was deadly wounded,

Falling on the dead.
Dismal error! fearful slaughter!
Years have wander❜d by,
Side by side beneath the water
Crew and Captain lie;
There the sunlit ocean tosses
O'er them mouldering,
And the lonely seabird crosses
With one waft of the wing.

COME not, when I am dead,

To drop thy foolish tears upon my grave, To trample round my fallen head,

And vex the unhappy dust thou wouldst not save. There let the wind sweep and the plover cry; But thou, go by.

Child, if it were thine error or thy crime
I care no longer, being all unblest:

Wed whom thou wilt, but I am sick of Time,
And I desire to rest.

Pass on, weak heart, and leave me where I lie:
Go by, go by.

My life is full of weary days,

But good things have not kept aloof, Nor wandered into other


I have not lack'd thy mild reproof, Nor golden largess of thy praise.

And now shake hands across the brink

Of that deep grave to which I go: Shake hands once more: I cannot sink So far far down, but I shall know Thy voice, and answer from below.


CARESS'D or chidden by the dainty hand,
And singing airy trifles this or that,

Light Hope at Beauty's call would perch and stand,
And run thro' every change of sharp and flat;
And Fancy came and at her pillow sat,
When sleep had bound her in his rosy band,

And chased away the still-recurring gnat,
And woke her with a lay from fairy land.
But now they live with Beauty less and less,
For Hope is other Hope and wanders far,

Nor cares to lisp in love's delicious creeds; And Fancy watches in the wilderness,

Poor Fancy sadder than a single star,

That sets at twilight in a land of reeds.


The form, the form alone is eloquent!
A nobler yearning never broke her rest
Than but to dance and sing, be gayly drest,
And win all eyes with all accomplishment:
Yet in the waltzing-circle as we went,

My fancy made me for a moment blest

To find my heart so near the beauteous breast
That once had power to rob it of content.
A moment came the tenderness of tears,

The phantom of a wish that once could move, A ghost of passion that no smiles restore For ah! the slight coquette, she cannot love, And if you kiss'd her feet a thousand years,

She still would take the praise, and care no more.

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Wan Sculptor, weepest thou to take the cast

Of those dead lineaments that near thee lie? O sorrowest thou, pale Painter, for the past,


In painting some dead friend from memory Weep on beyond his object Love can last:

His object lives: more cause to weep have I: My tears, no tears of love, are flowing fast,

No tears of love, but tears that Love can die.

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