Titanic forces taking birth

In divers seasons, divers climes? For we are Ancients of the earth, And in the morning of the times.

II

So sleeping, so aroused from sleep

Thro' sunny decads new and strange, Or gay quinquenniads, would we reap The flower and quintessence of change.

III

Ah, yet would I - and would I might!
So much your eyes my fancy take-
Be still the first to leap to light
That I might kiss those eyes awake!
For, am I right, or am I wrong,

To choose your own you did not care; You'd have my moral from the song, And I will take my pleasure there; And, am I right or am I wrong,

My fancy, ranging thro' and thro',
To search a meaning for the song,
Perforce will still revert to you,
Nor finds a closer truth than this
All-graceful head, so richly curl'd,
And evermore a costly kiss

The prelude to some brighter world.

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eyes, like thine, have waken'd hopes, What lips, like thine, so sweetly join'd? Where on the double rosebud droops The fulness of the pensive mind; Which, all too dearly self-involved, Yet sleeps a dreamless sleep to me, A sleep by kisses undissolved,

That lets thee neither hear nor see: But break it. In the name of wife, And in the rights that name may give, Are clasp'd the moral of thy life, And that for which I care to live.

EPILOGUE

So, Lady Flora, take my lay,

And if you find a meaning there,

O, whisper to your glass, and say, 'What wonder if he thinks me fair?'

What wonder I was all unwise,

To shape the song for your delight

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"T is vain! in such a brassy age
I could not move a thistle;
The very sparrows in the hedge
Scarce answer to my whistle;
Or at the most, when three-parts-sick
With strumming and with scraping,
A jackass heehaws from the rick,
The passive oxen gaping.

But what is that I hear? a sound

Like sleepy counsel pleading;

O Lord!t is in my neighbor's ground, The modern Muses reading.

They read Botanic Treatises,

And Works on Gardening thro' there, And Methods of Transplanting Trees To look as if they grew there.

The wither'd Misses! how they prose
O'er books of travell'd seamen,
And show you slips of all that grows
From England to Van Diemen.
They read in arbors clipt and cut,
Aad alleys, faded places,

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First printed in 1842. In line 15' till' was originally 'to.'

My good blade carves the casques of men,
My tough lance thrusteth sure,
My strength is as the strength of ten,
Because my heart is pure.

The shattering trumpet shrilleth high,
The hard brands shiver on the steel,
The splinter'd spear-shafts crack and fly,
The horse and rider reel;
They reel, they roll in clanging lists,

And when the tide of combat stands,
Perfume and flowers fall in showers,
That lightly rain from ladies' hands.

How sweet are looks that ladies bend
Ou whom their favors fall!
For them I battle till the end,

To save from shame and thrall;
But all my heart is drawn above,

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My knees are bow'd in crypt and shrine; I never felt the kiss of love,

Nor maiden's hand in mine. More bounteous aspects on me beam, Me mightier transports move and thrill; So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer A virgin heart in work and will.

When down the stormy crescent goes,
A light before me swims,
Between dark stems the forest glows,
I hear a noise of hymns.
Then by some secret shrine I ride;

I hear a voice, but none are there;
The stalls are void, the doors are wide,
The tapers burning fair.
Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth,

The silver vessels sparkle clean, The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, And solemn chaunts resound between.

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When on my goodly charger borne
Thro' dreaming towns I
go,
The cock crows ere the Christmas morn,
The streets are dumb with snow.
The tempest crackles on the leads,
And, ringing, springs from brand and
mail;

But o'er the dark a glory spreads,
And gilds the driving hail.

I leave the plain, I climb the height;
No branchy thicket shelter yields;
But blessed forms in whistling storms
Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields.

A maiden knight— to me is given
Such hope, I know not fear;
yearn to breathe the airs of heaven
That often meet me here.

I

I muse on joy that will not cease,
Pure spaces clothed in living beams,
Pure lilies of eternal peace,

Whose odors haunt my dreams;
And, stricken by an angel's hand,
This mortal armor that I wear,
This weight and size, this heart and eyes,
Are touch'd, are turn'd to finest air.

The clouds are broken in the sky,
And thro' the mountain-walls
A rolling organ-harmony

Swells up and shakes and falls.
Then move the trees, the copses nod,
Wings flutter, voices hover clear:
"O just and faithful knight of God!
Ride on the prize is near.'
So pass I hostel, hall, and grange;
By bridge and ford, by park and pale,
All-arm'd I ride, whate'er betide,
Until I find the Holy Grail.

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WILL WATERPROOF'S LYRICAL MONOLOGUE

MADE AT THE COCK

First printed in 1842, and slightly altered since. See Notes.

O PLUMP head-waiter at The Cock,
To which I most resort,

How goes the time? 'Tis five o'clock.
Go fetch a pint of port;

But let it not be such as that

You set before chance-comers, But such whose father-grape grew fat On Lusitanian summers.

No vain libation to the Muse,
But may she still be kind,
And whisper lovely words, and use
Her influence on the mind,

To make me write my random rhymes,
Ere they be half-forgotten;

Nor add and alter, many times,

Till all be ripe and rotten.

I pledge her, and she comes and dips
Her laurel in the wine,
And lays it thrice upon my lips,
These favor'd lips of mine;
Until the charm have power to make
New life-blood warm the bosom,
And barren commonplaces break

In full and kindly blossom.

I pledge her silent at the board;
Her gradual fingers steal
And touch upon the master-chord
Of all I felt and feel.

Old wishes, ghosts of broken plans,

And phantom hopes assemble;
And that child's heart within the man's
Begins to move and tremble.

Thro' many an hour of summer suns,
By many pleasant ways,
Against its fountain upward runs
The current of my days.
I kiss the lips I once have kiss'd;
The gaslight wavers dimmer;
And softly, thro' a vinous mist,
My college friendships glimmer.

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