Or, in loved Florence, to repose beside
Our trinity of singers! Fame enough
To neighbor lordly Landor, noble Clough,
And her, our later sibyl, sorrow-eyed.
Oh, tell me — not their arts,
But their Italian hearts
Won for their dust that narrow oval, than the world more wide!

Fount of Romance whereat our Shakspere drank!
Through him the loves of all are linked to thee
By Romeo's ardor, Juliet's constancy.
He sets the peasant in the royal rank;
Shows under mask and paint
Kinship of knave and saint,
And plays on stolid man with Prospero's wand and Ariel's prank.

Cupid abroad was lated in the night,
His wings were wet with ranging in the rain;
Harbor he sought, to me he took his flight
To dry his plumes. I heard the boy complain;
I op'd the door and granted his desire,
I rose myself, and made the wag a fire.

Looking more narrow by the fire's flame,
I spied his quiver hanging by his back
Doubting the boy might my misfortune frame.
I would have gone for fear of further wrack;
But what I drad, did me, poor wretch, betide.
For forth he drew an arrow from his side.

LI.

No Noise o'ercomes the Silence of the Shades,
Save short-breath'd Vows, the dear Excess of Joy;
Or harmless Giggle of the Youths and Maids,
Who yield Obeysance to the Cyprian Boy:
Or Lute, soft-sighing in the passing Gale;
Or Fountain, gurgling down the sacred Vale,
Or Hymn to Beauty's Queen, or Lover's tender Tale.

LII.

Here Venus revels, here maintains her Court
In light Festivity and gladsome Game:
The Young and Gay, in frolick Troops resort,
Withouten Censure and withouten Blame.

Love is a lock that linketh noble minds,
Faith is the key that shuts the spring of love,
Lightness a wrest that wringeth all awry,
Lightness a plague that fancy cannot brook;
Lightness in love so bad and base a thing,
As foul disgrace to greatest states doth bring.

The bird of Juno glories in his plumes;
Pride makes the fowl to prune his feathers so.
His spotted train, fetch'd from old Argus' head,
With golden rays like to the brightest sun,
Insetteth self-love in a silly bird,
Till, midst his feet, and then lets fall his plumes.
Beauty breeds pride, pride hatcheth forth disdain,
Disdain gets hate, and hate calls for revenge,
Revenge with bitter prayers urgeth still;
Thus self-love nursing up the pomp of pride
Makes beauty wrack against an ebbing tide.

[To Anne de Vignelles, her attendant and confidant.]

Marie . Hast thou ne'er in dreams
Seen fairer sights than ever day revealed?
Anne . Even so.
Marie . And when the sun's rekindled beams
Awoke thee from that blissful trance of night,
Seemed not his glorious face a very cloud,
Contrasted with the splendours of thy sleep?
Anne . Why ask?
Marie . To show thee we may sometimes see
More things, and lovelier too, than our eyes rest on.
Anne . And have you seen such?
Marie . Aye; so deeply, too,

Was there love once? I have forgotten her.
Was there grief once? grief yet is mine.
Other loves I have, men rough, but men who stir
More grief, more joy, than love of thee and thine.

Faces cheerful, full of whimsical mirth,
Lined by the wind, burned by the sun;
Bodies enraptured by the abounding earth,
As whose children we are brethren: one.

And any moment may descend hot death
To shatter limbs! pulp, tear, blast
Beloved soldiers who love rough life and breath
Not less for dying faithful to the last.

Come now, O Death,
While I am proud,
While joy and awe are breath,
And heart beats loud!

While all around me stand
Men that I love,
The wind blares aloud, the grand
Sun wheels above.

Naked I stand to-day
Before my doom,
Welcome what comes my way,
Whatever come.

What is there more to ask
Than that I have? —
Companions, love, a task,
And a deep grave!

Come then, Eternity,
If thou my lot;
Having been thus, I cannot be
As if I had not.

Naked I wait my doom!
Earth enough shroud!

At the cross-roads I halt
And stand stock-still. . . .
The linked and flickering constellations climb
Slowly the spread black heaven's immensity.

The wind wanders like a thought at fault.

Within the close-shuttered cottage nigh
I hear — while its fearful, ag'd master sleeps like the dead —
A slow clock chime
With solemn thrill
The most sombre hour of time,
And see stand in the cottage's garden chill
The two white crosses, one at each grave's head. . . .

O France, France, France! I loved you, love you still;