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But when the full-faced sunset yellowly | And your words are seeming-hitter,
Stays on the flowering arch of the bough, Sharp and few, but seeming-bitter
The luscious fruitage clustereth mellowly, From excess of swift delight.
Golden-kernelled, golden-cored,
Sunset-ripened above on the tree.

The world is wasted with fire and sword, Come down, come home, my Rosalind,
But the apple of gold hangs over the sea. My gay young hawk, my Rosalind :
Five links, a golden chain are we, Too long you keep the upper skies ;
Hesper, the dragon, and sisters three, Too long you roam and wheel at will ;
Daughters three,

But we must hood your random eyes, Bound about

That care not whom they kill, The guarléd bole of the charmed tree. And your cheek, whose brilliant hue The golden apple, the golden apple, the Is so sparkling-fresh to view, hallowed fruit,

Some red heath-flower in the dew, Guard it well, guard it warily,

Touched with sunrise. We must bind Watch it warily,

And keep you fast, my Rosalind, Singing airily,

Fast, fast, my wild-eyed Rosalind, Standing about the charmed root. And clip your wings, and make you love:

When we have lured you from above,

And that delight of frolic flight, by day

or night,
From north to south;
Will bind you fast in silken cords,

And kiss away the bitter words
My Rosalind, my Rosalind,

From off your rosy mouth. *
My frolic falcon, with bright eyes,
Whose free delight, from any height of
rapid flight,

Stoops at all game that wing the skies,
My Rosalind, my Rosalind,

Who can say
My bright-eyed, wild-eyed falcon, whith-

Why To-day er, Careless both of wind and weather,

To-morrow will be yesterday !

Who can tell
Whither fly ye, what game spy ye,
Up or down the streaming wind ?

• AUTHOR'S NOTE. - Perhaps the following lines may be allowed to stand as a separate poem, originally

they made part of the text, where they were manifestly II.


MY Rosalind, my Rosalind, The quick lark's closest-carolled strains,

Bold, subtle, careless Rosalind,

Is one of those who know no strife The shadow rushing up the sea,

Of inward woe or outward fear : The lightning flash atween the rains,

To whom the slope and stream of Life.

The life before, the life behind, The sunlight driving down the lea,

In the ear, from far and near,

Chimeth musically clear. The leaping stream, the very wind,

My falcon-hearted Rosalind. That will not stay, upon his way,

Full-sailed before a vigorous wind,

Is one of those who cannot weep To stoop the cowslip to the plains,

For others' woes, but overleap Is not so clear and bold and free

All the petty shocks and fears

That trouble life in early years, As you, my falcon Rosalind.

With a flash of frolic scorn

And keen delight, that never falls You care not for another's pains,

Away from freshness, sell-up borne Because you are the soul of joy,

With such gladness as, whenever

The fresh-Hushing springtiine calls Bright metal all without alloy.

To the flooding waters cool, Life shoots and glances thro' your veins,

Young fishes, on an April morn,

Up and down a rapid river, And flashes off a thousand ways

Leap the little waterfalls Through lips and eyes in subtle rays.

That sing into the pebbled pool,

My happy falcon, Rosalind, Your hawkeyes are keen and bright,

Hath daring fancies of her own,

Fresh as the dawn before the day. Keen with triumph, watching still

Fresh as the early sea-smell blown To pierce me through with pointed light;

Through vineyards from an inland bax

My Rosalind, iny Rosalind, But oftentimes they flash and glitter

Because no shadow on you falls,
Like sunshine on a dancing rill,

Think you hearts are tennisballs
To play with, wanton Rosaliad ?


Why to smell

| Grew to his strength among his deserts The violet recalls the dewy prime

cold; Of youth and buried time?

When even to Moscow's cupolas were The cause is nowhere found in rhyme.

| The growing murmurs of the Polish war!

Now must your noble anger blaze out KATE.


Than when from Sobieski, clan by clan, I KNOW her by her angry air,

The Moslem myriads fell, and fled beforeHer bright black eyes, her bright black Than when Zamoysky smote the Tartar hair,

Khan ; Her rapid laughters wild and shrill, Than earlier, when on the Baltic shore As laughters of the woodpecker

Boleslas drove the Pomeranian. From the bosom of a hill.

'Tis Kate — she sayeth what she will : For Kate hath an unbridled tongue,

SONNET Clear as the twanging of a harp.

Her heart is like a throbbing star. ON THE RESULT OF THE LATE RUSSIAN Kate hath a spirit ever strung

Like a new bow, and bright and sharp,
As edges of the scymitar.

How long, () God, shall men be ridden Whence shall she take a fitting mate? down,

For Kate no common love will feel; And trampled under by the last and least My woman-soldier, gallant Kate, Of men ? 'The heart of Poland hath not As pure and true as blades of steel.


To quiver, though her sacred blood doth Kate saith “ the world is void of might."

drown Kate saith “the men are gilded fies." The fields; and out of every mouldering

Kate snaps her fingers at my vows; town Kate will not hear of lovers' sighs. Cries to Thee, lest brute Power be inI would I were an armed knight,

creased, Far famed for well-won enterprise, Till that o'ergrown Barbarian in the East

And wearing on my swarthy brows Transgress his ample bound to some The garland of new-wreathed emprise : new crown :

For in a moment I would pierce Cries to Thee, “ Lord, how long shall The blackest files of clanging fight, I these things be? And strongly strike to left and right, How long shallthe icy-hearted Muscovite In dreaming of my lady's eyes. Oppress the region ? " Us, 0 Just and Oh ! Kate loves well the bold and Good, fierce;

Forgive, who smiled when she was torn But none are bold enough for Kate,

in three; She cannot find a fitting mate. Us, who stand now, when we should aid

the right-

A matter to be wept with tears of blood ! SONNET



| As when with downcast eyes we muse and

brood, Blow ye the trumpet, gather from afar And ebb into a former life, or seem The hosts to battle : be not bought and To lapse far back in a confused dream sold.

To states of mystical similitude ; Arise, brave Poles, the boldest of the bold; If one but speaks or hems or stirs his Break through your iron shackles — fling chair, them far.

Ever the wonder waxeth more and more, O for those days of Piast, ere the Czar So that we say, “ All this hath been before,

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A garland for Lenora.

With a silken cord I bound it.
O sad No More! O sweet No Lenora, laughing clearly

A light and thrilling laughter,
O strange No More !

About her forehead wound it,
By a mossed brook bank on a stone And loved me ever after.
I smelt a wildweed flower alone ;
There was a ringing in my ears,
And both my eyes gushed out with

A FRAGMENT.* tears. Surely all pleasant things had gone before, WHERE is the Giant of the Sun, which Low-buried fathom deep beneath with stood thee, No MORE!

In the midnoon the glory of old Rhodes,
A perfect Idol with profulgent brows

Far-sheening down the purple seas to


Who sailed from Mizraim underneath With roses musky-breathed,

the star And drooping daffodilly,

Named of the Dragon -- and between And silver-leaved lily,

whose limbs And ivy darkly-wreathed,

Of brassy vastness broad-blown Argosies I wove a crown before her,

Drave into haven? Yet endure unscathed For her I love so dearly,

Of changeful cycles the great Pyramids * From the Gem, a literary annual, for 1831.

• From the Gem, a literary annual, for $864.

Broad-based amid the fleeting sands, and I am so dark, alas ! and thou so bright, sloped

When we two meet there's never perfect Into the slumberous summer noon; but light.

where, Mysterious Egypt, are thine obelisks Graven with gorgeous emblems undis.

SONNET. * cerned ? Thy placid Sphinxes brooding o'er the Check every outflash, every ruder sally Nile ?

Of thought and speech ; speak low Thy shadowing Idols in the solitudes,

and give up wholly Awful Memnonian countenances calm Thy spirit to mild-minded melancholy ; Looking athwart the burning flats, far off This is the place. Through yonder popSeen by the high-necked camel on the verge lar valley Journeying southward ? Where are thy Below the blue-green river windeth monuments

slowly; Piled by the strong and sunborn Anakim But in the middle of the sombre valley Over their crowned brethren On and OPH? | The crispéd waters whisper musically, Thy Memnon when his peaceful lips are And all the haunted place is dark and kist

holy. With earliest rays, that from his mother's The nightingale, with long and low preeyes

amble, Flow over the Arabian bay, no more Warbled from yonder knoll of solemn Breathes low into the charmed ears of larches, morn

And in and out the woodbine's flowery Clear melody flattering the crisped Nile arches By columned Thebes. Old Memphis hath | The summer midges wove their wanton gone down :

gainbol, The Pharaohs are no more : somewhere And all the white-stemmed pinewood in death

slept above -They sleep with staring eyes and gilded! When in this valley first I told my love.

· lips, Wrapped round with spiced cerements in old grots

THE SKIPPING-ROPE.+ Rock-hewn and sealed for ever.

SURE never yet was Antelope

Could skip so lightly by.

Stand off, or else my skipping-rope

Will hit you in the eye.

How lightly whirls the skipping-rope ! Me my own fate to lasting sorrow How fairy-like you fly! doometh:

Go, get you gone, you muse and mope Thy woes are birds of passage, transi I hate that silly sigh.

Nay, dearest, teach me how to hope, Thy spirit, circled with a living glory, | Or tell me how to die. In summer still a summer joy resumeth. There, take it, take my skipping-rope, Alone my hopeless melancholy gloometh,

And hang yourself thereby. Like a lone cypress, through the twi

light hoary, From an old garden where no flower THE NEW TIMON AND THE bloometh,

POETS. I One cypress on an island promontory. But yet my lonely spirit follows thine, We know him, out of Shakespeare's art, As round the rolling earth night follows And those fine curses which he spoke ; day:

i The old Timon, with his noble heart, But yet thy lights on my horizon shine

That, strongly loathing, greatly broke. Into my night, when thou art far away.

• Friendship's Offering, 1833.

Omitted from the edition of 1842. • Friendship's Offering, 1833

Published in Punch, Feb. 1846, signed “Alcibiades,"

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So died the Old : here comes the New. As towards the gracious light I bow'd,

Regard him : a familiar face : They seem'd high palaces and proud, I thought we knew him : What, it 's you, Hid now and then with sliding cloud. The padded man – that wears the stays

He said, “The labor is not small;

Yet winds the pathway free to all :Who killed the girls and thrilled the boys | Take care thou dost not fear to fall !"

With dandy pathos when you wrote !
A Lion, you, that made a noise,
And shook a mane en papillotes.

And once you tried the Muses too ; I TO WILLIAM CHARLES MACREADY.*

You failed, Sir: therefore now you turn, To fall on those who are to you

FAREWELL, Macready, since to-night wo As Captain is to Subaltern.


Full-handed thunders often have conBut men of long-enduring hopes,

And careless what this hour may bring, Thy power, well-used to move the pubCan pardon little would-be POPES

lic breast. And BRUMMELS, when they try to sting. We thank thee with one voice, and from

the heart. An Artist, Sir, should rest in Art, Farewell, Macready ; since this night And waive a little of his claim ;

we part. To have the deep Poetic heart

Go, take thine honors home : rank Is more than all poetic fame.

with the best,

Garrick, and statelier Kemble, and the But you, Sir, you are hard to please ;

rest You never look but half content ; Who made a nation purer thro' their art. Nor like a gentleman at ease,

Thine is it, that our Drama did not die, With moral breadth of teinperament. | Nor flicker down to brainless panto

mime, And what with spites and what with fears, And those gilt gauds men-children You cannot let a boly be :

swarm to see. It 's always ringing in your ears, Farewell, Macready; moral, grave, sub"They call this man as good as me."


Our Shakespeare's bland and universaleye What profits now to understand

Dwells pleased, thro' twice a hundred The merits of a spotless shirt

years, on thee. A dapper boot - a little handIf half the little soul is dirt ?

BRITONS, GUARD YOUR OWN.+ You talk of tinsel ! why, we see

Theold mark of rouge upon yourcheeks. RISE, Britons, rise, if manhood be not You prate of Nature ! you are he

dead; That spilt his life about the cliques. The world's last tempest darkens over

head; A Timon you ! Nay, nay, for shame :

The Pope has bless'd him; It looks too arrogant a jest

The Church caress'd him ; The fierce old man -- to take his name, He triumphs; maybe we shall stand alone. You bandbox. Off, and let him rest.

Britons, guard your own.


His ruthless host is bought with plunder'd

gold, By lying priests the peasants' votes con


What time I wasted youthful hours,
One of the shining wingéd powers,
Show'd me vast cliffs with crown of towers.

• The Keepsake. 1851.

Read by Mr. John Forster at a dinner given to Mr. Macready, March 1, 1851, on his retirement from the stage.

The Examiner, 1852.

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