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At evening close from killing the tall The world is full of Woodmen who expel treen, Love's gentle Dryads from the haunts of life,
The soul of whom by nature's gentle law Was each a wood-nymph, and kept ever green
And vex the nightingales in every dell.
The pavement and the roof of the wild copse,
Chequering the sunlight of the blue
Make a green space among the silent bowers,
With jagged leaves, and from the forest tops
Singing the winds to sleep-or weeping Or barter wrong for wrong, until the
Fast showers of aërial water drops
Into their mother's bosom, sweet and
Visit the tower of Vado, and unlearn Nature's pure tears which have no bitter- Such bitter faith beside Marenghi's urn.
ness;Around the cradles of the birds aloft They spread themselves into the loveli
Of fan-like leaves, and over pallid flowers
Hang like moist clouds :-or, where high branches kiss,
Like a vast fane in a metropolis,
In which there is religion-and the mute
Of the blind pilot-spirit of the blast
One accent never to return again.
LET those who pine in pride or in
Or think that ill for ill should be
Ruins the merchants of such thriftless trade,
A massy tower yet overhangs the town,
Another scene ere wise Etruria knew
Its second ruin through internal strife, And tyrants through the breach of dis
The chain which binds and kills. As death to life,
As winter to fair flowers (though some be poison)
Monarchy succeeds to Freedom's foison.
By loftiest meditations; marble knew The sculptor's fearless soul-and as he
The grace of his own power and freedom grew.
Inhabits its wrecked palaces ;-in thine A beast of subtler venom now doth make
Its lair, and sits amid their glories overthrown,
And thus thy victim's fate is as thine
The sweetest flowers are ever frail and rare,
And love and freedom blossom but to wither;
And good and ill like vines entangled
So that their grapes may oft be plucked together ;
Divide the vintage ere thou drink, then make
Thy heart rejoice for dead Marenghi's sake.
No record of his crime remains in story, But if the morning bright as evening shone,
It was some high and holy deed, by glory
Pursued into forgetfulness, which won From the blind crowd he made secure and free
The patriot's meed, toil, death, and infamy.
And thou in painting didst transcribe For when by sound of trumpet was all taught
A price upon his life, and there was
A penalty of blood on all who shared
And more than all, heroic, just, sublime, His lips, which speech divided not-he Thou wert among the false-was this thy crime?
Alone, as you may guess, to banishment.
Yes; and on Pisa's marble walls the Amid the mountains, like a hunted twine
Of direst weeds hangs garlanded-the
beast, He hid himself, and hunger, toil, and cold,
He mocked the stars by grouping on And each weed
SO were kindled powers and thoughts which made
The summer dewdrops in the golden
And, ere the hoar-frost vanished, he (For years gone by leave each a deepencould read
Its pictured footprints, as on spots of lawn
His spirit basked in its internal flame,-
Its delicate brief touch in silence weaves As, when the black storm hurries round The likeness of the wood's remembered leaves.
The fisher basks beside his red firelight.
His solitude less dark.
Yet human hopes and cares and faiths
Like billows unawakened by the wind,
Slept in Marenghi still; but that all
terrors, Weakness, and doubt, had withered in his mind.
And, when he saw beneath the sunset's planet
A black ship walk over the crimson ocean,
Its pennons streaming on the blasts that fan it,
Its sails and ropes all tense and without motion,
Like the dark ghost of the unburied even Striding across the orange-coloured heaven,
The thought of his own kind who made the soul
Which sped that winged shape through night and day,— The thought of his own country.
LIFT not the painted veil which those who live
Call Life: though unreal shapes be pictured there,
And it but mimic all we would believe With colours idly spread,-behind, lurk Fear
And Hope, twin destinies; who ever
Their shadows, o'er the chasm, sightless and drear.
I knew one who had lifted it—he sought, For his lost heart was tender, things to love,
But found them not, alas! nor was there aught The world contains, the which he could
Through the unheeding many he did
For truth, and like the Preacher found it not.
FRAGMENT: TO BYRON
O MIGHTY mind, in whose deep stream this age Shakes like a reed in the unheeding storm,
Why dost thou curb not thine own sacred rage?
FRAGMENT: APPEAL TO
To track along the lapses of the air This wandering melody until it rests Among lone mountains in some . . .
SILENCE! O well are Death and Sleep and Thou Three brethren named, the guardians gloomy-winged
Of one abyss, where life, and truth, and joy Are swallowed up—yet spare me, Spirit, pity me,
Until the sounds I hear become my soul, And it has left these faint and weary limbs,
FRAGMENT: THE STREAM'S MARGIN
Toseek, or haply, if I sought, to find ;
A splendour among shadows, a bright blot
THE fierce beasts of the woods and wildernesses
Track not the steps of him who drinks of it;
For the light breezes, which for ever fleet Around its margin, heap the sand there
FRAGMENT: A LOST LEADER
My head is wild with weeping for a grief Which is the shadow of a gentle mind. I walk into the air (but no relief
Among men's spirits should be cold and blind.