Child of a day, thou knowest not,
The tears that overflow thy urn,
The gushing eyes that read thy lot,
Nor, if thou knowest, couldst return!
And why the wish? the pure and blest
Watch like thy mother o'er thy sleep;
O peaceful night! O envied rest!
Thou wilt not ever see her weep.
ON A POET IN A WELSH CHURCHYARD.
Kind souls! who strive what pious hand shall bring
The first-found crocus from reluctant Spring,
Or blow your wintry fingers while they strew
This sunless turf with rosemary and rue,
Bend o'er your lovers first, but mind to save
One sprig of each to trim a poet's grave.
FROM INES DE CASTRO AT CINTRA.
Revere our holy Church; though some within Have erred, and some are slow to lead us right, Stopping to pry when staff and lamp should be In hand, and the way whiten underneath.
Ines, the Church is now a charnel-house, Where all that is not rottenness is drowth. Thou hast but seen its gate hung round with flowers, And heard the music whose serenest waves Cover its gulfs and dally with its shoals, And hold the myriad insects in light play Above it, loth to leave its sunny sides. Look at this central edifice! come close! Men's bones and marrow its materials are,
Men's groans inaugurated it, men's tears
Sprinkle its floor, fires lighted up with men
Are censers for it; Agony and Anger
Surround it night and day with sleepless eyes;
Dissimulation, Terror, Treachery,
Denunciations of the child, the parent,
The sister, brother, lover (mark me, Ines!)
Are the peace-offerings God receives from it.
I tremble-but betrayers tremble more.
Now cease, cease, Pedro! Cling I must to somewhatLeave me one guide, one rest! Let me love God! Alone—if it must be so!
Mind; in him only place thy trust henceforth.
But I have sinuous shells of pearly hue
Within, and they that lustre have imbibed
In the sun's palace-porch, where when unyoked
His chariot-wheel stands midway in the wave:
Shake one and it awakens, then apply
Its polisht lips to your attentive ear,
And it remembers its august abodes,
And murmurs as the ocean murmurs there.
O cruelty-to them indeed the least!
My children, ye are happy-ye have lived
Of heart unconquered, honour unimpaired,
And died, true Spaniards, loyal to the last.
Slaves! not before I lift
My voice to heaven and man: though enemies
Surround me, and none else, yet other men
And other times shall hear: the agony
Of an opprest and of a bursting heart
No violence can silence; at its voice
The trumpet is o'erpowered, and glory mute,
And peace and war hide all their charms alike.
Surely the guests and ministers of heaven
Scatter it forth thro' all the elements;
So suddenly, so widely, it extends,
So fearfully men breathe it, shuddering
To ask or fancy how it first arose.
REPENTANCE OF KING RODERIGO.
There is, I hear, a poor half-ruined cell
In Xeres, whither few indeed resort;
Green are the walls within, green is the floor
And slippery from disuse; for Christian feet
Avoid it, as half-holy, half-accurst.
Still in its dark recess fanatic sin
Abases to the ground his tangled hair,
And servile scourges and reluctant groans
Roll o'er the vault uninterruptedly,
Till, such the natural stilness of the place,
The very tear upon the damps below
Drops audible, and the heart's throb replies.
There is the idol maid of Christian creed,
And taller images, whose history
I know not, nor inquired-a scene of blood,
Of resignation amid mortal pangs,
And other things, exceeding all belief.
Hither the aged Opas of Seville
Walked slowly, and behind him was a man
Barefooted, bruised, dejected, comfortless,
In sackcloth; the white ashes on his head
Dropt as he smote his breast; he gathered up,
Replaced them all, groan'd deeply, looked to heaven.
And held them, like a treasure, with claspt hands.
Now to Aurora borne by dappled steeds, The sacred gate of orient pearl and gold, Smitten with Lucifer's light silver wand, Expanded slow to strains of harmony; The waves beneath in purpling rows, like doves Glancing with wanton coyness tow'rd their queen, Heaved softly; thus the damsel's bosom heaves When from her sleeping lover's downy cheek, To which so warily her own she brings Each moment nearer, she perceives the warmth Of coming kisses fann'd by playful dreams. Ocean and earth and heaven was jubilee. For 'twas the morning pointed out by Fate When an immortal maid and mortal man Should share each other's nature knit in bliss.
Bends down their heads, or gold shines in their way.
Although I would have helpt you in distress,
And just removed you from the court awhile,
You called me tyrant.
By heaven! in tyrant there is something great
That never was in thee. I would be killed
Rather by any monster of the wild
Than choaked by weeds and quicksands, rather crusht
By maddest rage than clay-cold apathy.
Those who act well the tyrant, neither seek
Nor shun the name: and yet I wonder not
That thou repeatest it, and wishest me;
It sounds like power, like policy, like courage,
And none that calls thee tyrant can despise thee.
Go, issue orders for imprisonment,
Warrants for death: the gibbet and the wheel,
Lo! the grand boundaries of thy dominion!
O what a mighty office for a minister!
(And such Alfonso's brother calls himself),
To be the scribe of hawkers! Man of genius!
The lanes and allies echo with thy works.
FROM IPPOLITO DI ESTE.
Now all the people follow the procession:
Here may I walk alone, and let my spirits
Enjoy the coolness of these quiet ailes.
Surely no air is stirring; every step
Tires me; the columns shake, the cieling fleets,
The floor beneath me slopes, the altar rises.
Stay!-here she stept-what grace! what harmony!
It seemed that every accent, every note,
Of all the choral music, breathed from her:
From her celestial airiness of form
I could have fancied purer light descended.
Between the pillars, close and wearying,
I watcht her as she went: I had rusht on-
It was too late; yet, when I stopt, I thought
I stopt full soon: I cried, Is she not there?
She had been: I had seen her shadow burst
The sunbeam as she parted: a strange sound,
A sound that stupefied and not aroused me,
Filled all my senses; such was never felt
Save when the sword-girt angel struck the gate,
And Paradise wail'd loud, and closed for ever.
In Clementina's artless mien
Lucilla asks me what I see,
And are the roses of sixteen
Enough for me?
Lucilla asks, If that be all,
Have I not cull'd as sweet before
yes, Lucilla! and their fall
I still deplore.
I now behold another scene,
Where Pleasure beams with heaven's own light, More pure, more constant, more serene,
And not less bright
Faith, on whose breast the Loves repose,
Whose chain of flowers no force can sever,
And Modesty who, when she goes,
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