give her heart its rights; Some one whom I could court With no great change of manner, Still holding reason's fort, Though waving fancy's banner; A lady, not so queenly As to disdain my hand, Yet born to smile serenely Like those that rule the land; Noble, but not too proud; With soft hair simply folded, And bright face crescent-browed, And throat by Muses moulded; And eyelids lightly falling On little glistening seas, Deep-calm, when gales are brawling, Though stirred by every breeze:       Swift voice, like flight of dove Through minster arches floating, With sudden turns, when love Gets overnear to doting; Keen lips, that shape soft sayings Like crystals of the snow, With pretty half-betrayings Of things one may not know; Fair hand, whose touches thrill, Like golden rod of wonder, Which Hermes wields at will Spirit and flesh to sunder; Light foot, to press the stirrup In fearlessness and glee, Or dance, till finches chirrup, And stars sink to the sea. Forth, Love, and find this maid, Wherever she be hidden:      Speak, Love, be not afraid, But plead as thou art bidden; And say, that he who taught thee His yearning want and pain, Too dearly, dearly bought thee To part with thee in vain. 

  

       MORTEM, QUAE VIOLAT SUAVI A PELLIT AMOR     

      The plunging rocks, whose ravenous throats The sea in wrath and mockery fills, The smoke, that up the valley floats, The girlhood of the growing hills; The thunderings from the miners' ledge, The wild assaults on nature's hoard, The peak, that stormward bares an edge Ground sharp in days when Titans warred; Grim heights, by wandering clouds embraced Where lightning's ministers conspire, Grey glens, with tarn and streamlet laced,      Stark forgeries of primeval fire; These scenes may gladden many a mind Awhile from homelier thoughts released, And here my fellow-men may find A Sabbath and a vision-feast. I bless them in the good they feel; And yet I bless them with a sigh:      On me this grandeur stamps the seal Of tyrannous mortality. The pitiless mountain stands so sure, The human breast so weakly heaves; That brains decay, while rocks endure, At this the insatiate spirit grieves. But hither, oh ideal bride! For whom this heart in silence aches, Love is unwearied as the tide, Love is perennial as the lakes; Come thou. The spiky 

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