561. HESTER

WHEN maidens such as Hester die,
Their place ye may not well supply,
Though ye among a thousand try,
With vain endeavour.

A month or more hath she been dead,
Yet cannot I by force be led
To think upon the wormy bed,
And her together.

A springy motion in her gait,
A rising step, did indicate

Of pride and joy no common rate,
That flushed her spirit.

I know not by what name beside
I shall it call:-if 'twas not pride,
It was a joy to that allied,

She did inherit.

Her parents held the Quaker rule,
Which doth the human feeling cool,
But she was trained in Nature's school,

Nature had blest her.

A waking eye, a prying mind,
A heart that stirs, is hard to bind,
A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind,
Ye could not Hester.

My sprightly neighbour, gone before
To that unknown and silent shore,
Shall we not meet, as heretofore,
Some summer morning,

When from thy cheerful eyes a ray
Hath struck a bliss upon the day,
A bliss that would not go away,
A sweet forewarning ?

C. LAMB.

562. AH, WHAT AVAILS THE SCEPTRED RACE

AH, what avails the sceptred race,
Ah, what the form divine !
What every virtue, every grace!

Rose Aylmer, all were thine.

Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes

May weep, but never see,

A night of memories and of sighs

I consecrate to thee.

W. S. LANDOR. 563.

AROUND THE CHILD

AROUND the child bend all the three
Sweet Graces-Faith, Hope, Charity.
Around the man bend other faces-
Pride, Envy, Malice, are his Graces.

W. S. LANDOR.

564. CHILD OF A DAY
CHILD of a day, thou knowest not
The tears that overflow thine urn,
The gushing eyes that read thy lot,
Nor, if thou knewest, 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.

W. S. LANDOR.

565. HOW MANY VOICES GAILY SING

How many voices gaily sing,

'O happy morn, O happy spring
Of life! Meanwhile there comes o'er me
A softer voice from Memory,
And says, 'If loves and hopes have flown
With years, think too what griefs are gone!'

566. THE MAID'S LAMENT

W. S. LANDOR.

I LOVED him not; and yet now he is gone

I feel I am alone.

I checked him while he spoke; yet, could he speak,

Alas! I would not check.

For reasons not to love him once I sought,
And wearied all my thought
To vex myself and him; I now would give
My love, could he but live
Who lately lived for me, and when he found
'Twas vain, in holy ground
He hid his face amid the shades of death.
I waste for him my breath
Who wasted his for me; but mine returns,
And this lorn bosom burns
With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep,

And waking me to weep

Tears that had melted his soft heart: for years

Wept he as bitter tears.

'Merciful God!' such was his latest prayer, 'These may she never share!' Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold Than daisies in the mould,

Where children spell, athwart the churchyard gate,

His name and life's brief date. Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er you be,

And, oh, pray too for me!

567. I STROVE WITH NONE

W. S. LANDOR.

I STROVE with none; for none was worth my strife.
Nature I loved and, next to Nature, Art;
I warmed both hands before the fire of life;

It sinks, and I am ready to depart.

W. S. LANDOR,

568. IN CLEMENTINA'S ARTLESS MIEN

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 culled as sweet before:

Ah 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,

Is gone for ever.

W. S. LANDOR.

569. IRELAND NEVER WAS CONTENTED

IRELAND never was contented.
Say you so? You are demented.
Ireland was contented when
All could use the sword and pen,
And when Tara rose so high
That her turrets split the sky,
And about her courts were seen
Liveried angels robed in green,
Wearing, by St. Patrick's bounty,
Emeralds big as half the county.

W. S. LANDOR. 570. MY SERIOUS SON

My serious son! I see thee look
First on the picture, then the book.
I catch the wish that thou couldst paint
The yearnings of the ecstatic saint.
Give it not up, my serious son!
Wish it again, and it is done.
Seldom will any fail who tries
With patient hand and steadfast eyes,

And wooes the true with such pure sighs.

W. S. LANDOR.

571. NO DOUBT THY LITTLE BOSOM BEATS

No doubt thy little bosom beats
When sounds a wedding bell,
No doubt it pants to taste the sweets

That songs and stories tell.

Awhile in shade content to lie,
Prolong life's morning dream,
While others rise at the first fly
That glitters on the stream.

W. S. LANDOR.

572. NO, MY OWN LOVE OF OTHER YEARS

No, my own love of other years!
No, it must never be.

Much rests with you that yet endears,
Alas! but what with me?

Could those bright years o'er me revolve
So gay, o'er you so fair,

The pearl of life we would dissolve,
And each the cup might share.

You show that truth can ne'er decay,

Whatever fate befalls;

I, that the myrtle and the bay
Shoot fresh on ruined walls.

573.

W. S. LANDOR.

PROUD WORD YOU NEVER SPOKE

PROUD word you never spoke, but you will speak
Four not exempt from pride some future day.
Resting on one white hand a warm wet cheek,
Over my open volume you will say,

'This man loved me!' then rise and trip away.

W. S. LANDOR. 574. THE MAID I LOVE NE'ER THOUGHT OF ME

THE maid I love ne'er thought of me

Amid the scenes of gaiety;

But when her heart or mine sank low,
Ah, then it was no longer so.

From the slant palm she raised her head,
And kissed the cheek whence youth had fled.

Angels! some future day for this,

Give her as sweet and pure a kiss.

W. S. LANDOR.

575. ROBERT BROWNING

THERE is delight in singing, though none hear
Beside the singer; and there is delight
In praising, though the praiser sit alone
And see the praised far off him, far above.
Shakespeare is not our poet, but the world's,
Therefore on him no speech ! and brief for thee,
Browning! Since Chaucer was alive and hale,
No man hath walked along our roads with step
So active, so inquiring eye, or tongue
So varied in discourse. But warmer climes
Give brighter plumage, stronger wing: the breeze
Of Alpine heights thou playest with, borne on
Beyond Sorrento and Amalfi, where

The Siren waits thee, singing song for song.

W. S. LANDOR.

576. TWENTY YEARS HENCE

TWENTY years hence my eyes may grow
If not quite dim, yet rather so,
Still yours from others they shall know
Twenty years hence.

Twenty years hence though it may hap
That I be called to take a nap
In a cool cell where thunder-clap
Was never heard,

There breathe but o'er my arch of grass
A not too sadly sighed Alas,

And I shall catch, ere you can pass,

That wingèd word.

W. S. LANDOR.