embrace. Oh bather, may those Western gems Remind you of my lilied Thames. I too have seen the castled West, Her Cornish creeks, her Breton ports, Her caves by knees of hermits pressed, Her fairy islets bright with quartz:      And dearer now each well-known scene, For what shall be than what hath been. Obeisance of kind strangers' eyes, Triumphant cannons' measured roar, Doffed plumes, and martial courtesies, Shall greet you on the Norman shore. Oh, that I were a stranger too, To win that first sweet glance from you. I was a stranger once: and soon Beyond desire, above belief, Thy soul was as a crescent moon,      A bud expanding leaf by leaf. I'd pray thee now to close, to wane, So that 'twere all to do again. 

  

       A SEPARATION     

      I may not touch the hand I saw So nimbly weave the violet chain; I may not see my artist draw That southward-sloping lawn again. But joy brimmed over when we met, Nor can I mourn our parting yet. Though he lies sick and far away, I play with those that still are here, Not honouring him the less, for they To me by loving him are dear:      They share, they soothe my fond regret, Since neither they nor I forget. His sweet strong heart so nobly beat With scorn and pity, mirth and zeal, That vibrant hearts of ours repeat What they with him were wont to feel; Still quiring in that higher key, Till he take up the melody. If there be any music here, I trust it will not fail, like notes Of May-birds, when the warning year Abates their summer-wearied throats. Shame on us, if we drudge once more As dull and tuneless as before. Without him I was weak and coarse, My soul went droning through the hours, His goodness stirred a latent force That drew from others kindred powers. Nor they nor I could think me base, When with their prince I had found grace. His influence crowns me, like a cloud Steeped in the light of a lost sun:      I reign, for willing knees are bowed And light behests are gladly done:      So Rome obeyed the lover-king, Who drank at pure Egeria's spring. Such honour doth my mind perplex:      For, who is this, I ask, that dares With manhood's wounds, and virtue's wrecks, And tangled creeds, and subtle cares, Affront the look, or speak the name Of one who from Elysium came. And yet, though withered and forlorn, I had renounced what man desires, I'd thought some poet 

 Prev. P 37/68 next