Sweet hours and the fleetest of time. ENVOY BALLADE OF DEAD CITIES. TO E. W. GOSSE. He dust of Carthage and the dust Of Babel on the desert wold, The loves of Corinth, and the lust, Orchomenos increased with gold; The town of Jason, over-bold, And Cherson, smitten in her prime— What are they but a dream half-told? Where are the cities of old time? In towns that were a kingdom's trust, In dim Atlantic forests' fold, The marble wasteth to a crust, The granite crumbles into mould; O'er these—left nameless from of old— As over Shinar's brick and slime, One vast forgetfulness is roll'd— Where are the cities of old time? The lapse of ages, and the rust, The fire, the frost, the waters cold, Efface the evil and the just; From Thebes, that Eriphyle sold, To drown'd Caer-Is, whose sweet bells toll'd Beneath the wave a dreamy chime That echo'd from the mountain-hold,— "Where are the cities of old time?" ENVOY. Prince, all thy towns and cities must Decay as these, till all their crime, And mirth, and wealth, and toil are thrus' Where are the cities of old time. TO E. W. GOSSE. ENVOY BALLADE OF THE VOYAGE TO CYTHERA. AFTER THÉODORE DE BANVILLE. I know Cythera long is desolate; I know the winds have stripp'd the gardens green. Alas, my friends! beneath the fierce sun's weight A barren reef lies where Love's flowers have been, Nor ever lover on that coast is seen! So be it, but we seek a fabled shore, To lull our vague desires with mystic lore, To wander where Love's labyrinths beguile; There let us land, there dream for evermore: "It may be we shall touch the happy isle." The sea may be our sepulchre. If Fate, If tempests wreak their wrath on us, serene We watch the bolt of heaven, and scorn the hate Of angry gods that smite us in their spleen, Perchance the jealous mists are but the screen That veils the fairy coast we would explore. Come, though the sea be vex'd, and breakers roar, Come, for the air of this old world is vile, Haste we, and toil, and faint not at the oar; "It may be we shall touch the happy isle." Grey serpents trail in temples desecrate Where Cypris smiled, the golden maid, the queen, And ruined is the palace of our state; But happy Loves flit round the mast, and keen The shrill wind sings the silken cords between. Heroes are we, with wearied hearts and sore, Whose flower is faded and whose locks are hoar, Yet haste, light skiffs, where myrtle thickets smile Love's panthers sleep 'mid roses, as of yore: "It may be we shall touch the happy isle!" ENVOY. Sad eyes! the blue sea laughs, as
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