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to its forest-nest the evening dove.

       O poet’s city! one who scarce has seen

       Some twenty summers cast their doublets green

       For Autumn’s livery, would seek in vain

       To wake his lyre to sing a louder strain,

       Or tell thy days of glory;—poor indeed

       Is the low murmur of the shepherd’s reed,

       Where the loud clarion’s blast should shake the sky,

       And flame across the heavens! and to try

       Such lofty themes were folly: yet I know

       That never felt my heart a nobler glow

       Than when I woke the silence of thy street

       With clamorous trampling of my horse’s feet,

       And saw the city which now I try to sing,

       After long days of weary travelling.

      VII.

      Adieu, Ravenna! but a year ago,

       I stood and watched the crimson sunset glow

       From the lone chapel on thy marshy plain:

       The sky was as a shield that caught the stain

       Of blood and battle from the dying sun,

       And in the west the circling clouds had spun

       A royal robe, which some great God might wear,

       While into ocean-seas of purple air

       Sank the gold galley of the Lord of Light.

       Yet here the gentle stillness of the night

       Brings back the swelling tide of memory,

       And wakes again my passionate love for thee:

       Now is the Spring of Love, yet soon will come

       On meadow and tree the Summer’s lordly bloom;

       And soon the grass with brighter flowers will blow,

       And send up lilies for some boy to mow.

       Then before long the Summer’s conqueror,

       Rich Autumn-time, the season’s usurer,

       Will lend his hoarded gold to all the trees,

       And see it scattered by the spendthrift breeze;

       And after that the Winter cold and drear.

       So runs the perfect cycle of the year.

       And so from youth to manhood do we go,

       And fall to weary days and locks of snow.

       Love only knows no winter; never dies:

       Nor cares for frowning storms or leaden skies

       And mine for thee shall never pass away,

       Though my weak lips may falter in my lay.

       Adieu! Adieu! yon silent evening star,

       The night’s ambassador, doth gleam afar,

       And bid the shepherd bring his flocks to fold.

       Perchance before our inland seas of gold

       Are garnered by the reapers into sheaves,

       Perchance before I see the Autumn leaves,

       I may behold thy city; and lay down

       Low at thy feet the poet’s laurel crown.

       Adieu! Adieu! yon silver lamp, the moon,

       Which turns our midnight into perfect noon,

       Doth surely light thy towers, guarding well

       Where Dante sleeps, where Byron loved to dwell.

      The True Knowledge

       Table of Contents

      Thou knowest all — I seek in vain

       What lands to till or sow with seed —

       The land is black with briar and weed,

       Nor cares for falling tears or rain.

       Thou knowest all — I sit and wait

       With blinded eyes and hands that fail,

       Till the last lifting of the veil,

       And the first opening of the gate.

       Thou knowest all — I cannot see.

       I trust I shall not live in vain,

       I know that we shall meet again,

       In some divine eternity.

      A Lament

       Table of Contents

      O well for him who lives at ease

       With garnered gold in wide domain,

       Nor heeds the splashing of the rain,

       The crashing down of forest trees.

       O well for him who ne’er hath known

       The travail of the hungry years,

       A father grey with grief and tears,

       A mother weeping all alone.

       But well for him whose feet hath trod

       The weary road of toil and strife,

       Yet from the sorrows of his life

       Builds ladders to be nearer God.

      Wasted Days

       Table of Contents

      A fair slim boy not made for this world’s pain.

       With hair of gold thick clustering round his ears,

       And longing eyes half veiled by foolish tears

       Like bluest water seen through mists of rain:

       Pale cheeks whereon no kiss hath left its stain,

       Red under lip drawn for fear of Love,

       And white throat whiter than the breast of dove.

       Alas! alas! if all should be in vain.

       Behind, wide fields, and reapers all a-row

       In heat and labour toiling wearily,

       To no sweet sound of laughter or of lute.

       The sun is shooting wide its crimson glow,

       Still the boy dreams: nor knows that night is nigh,

       And in the night-time no man gathers fruit.

      Désespoir

       Table of Contents

      The seasons send their ruin as they go,

       For in the spring the narciss shows its head

       Nor withers till the rose has flamed to red,

       And in the autumn purple violets blow,

       And the slim crocus stirs the winter snow;

       Wherefore yon leafless trees will bloom again

       And this grey land grow green with summer rain

       And send up cowslips for some boy to mow.

       But what of life whose bitter hungry sea

      

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