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Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes y weep, but never see, ght of memories and of sighs onsecrate to thee. 1


[the rills

REGENERATION 2 are what suns and winds and waters

make us ; mountains are our sponsors, and ion and win their nursling with

their smiles. where the land is dim from tyranny, re tiny pleasures occupy the place lories and of duties; as the feet abled fairies when the sun goes down i o'er the grass where wrestlers strove by day.

[above, n Justice, call'd the Eternal One lore inconstant than the buoyant form t burst into existence from the froth ver-varying ocean: what is best n becomes worst ; what loveliest,

most deformed. heart is hardest in the softest climes, passions flourish, the affections die. jou vast tablet of these awful truths, t fillest all the space between the seas, eading from Venice's deserted courts he Tarentine and Hydruntine mole, at lifts thee up? what shakes thee? 'tis the breath

[life! God. Awake, ye nations ! spring to the last work of his right hand appear sh with his image, Man. Thou

recreant slave It sittest afar off and helpest not, hou degenerate Albion ! 8 with what

shame Rose Aylmer, the daughter of Henry, fourth OD Aylmer, was Landor's companion in his ks about Swansea ("Abertawy" ) in Wales. went to India, and died there in 1800. Lan. speaks of her again in two poems written

in life: The Three Roses, 1858, (see page and Abertawy, 1859, the concluding lines of ch almost equal in beauty this early Jyric, ally considered the most beautiful of his

Where is she now! Call'd far away,
By one she dared not disobey,
To those proud halls, for youth unfit,
Where princes stand and judges sit.
Where Ganges rolls his widest wave
She dropped her blossom in the grave;
Her noble name she never changed,

Nor was her nobler heart estranged. Inspired by the struggle of the Greek people independence. * What those amongst us who are affected by ense of national honor most lament, is, that gland, whose generositý wo cost her noth

Do I survey thee, pushing forth the

sponge At thy spear's length, in mockery at the

thirst Of holy Freedom in his agony. And prompt and keen to pierce the

wounded side! Must Italy then wholly rot away Amid her slime, before she germinate Into fresh vigor, into form again? What thunder bursts upon mine ear !

some isle Hath surely risen from the gulfs pro

found, Eager to suck the sunshine from the

breast Of beauteous Nature, and to catch the

gale From golden Hermus and Melena's brow. A greater thing than isle, than continent, Than earth itself, than ocean circling

earth, Hath risen there ; regenerate Man hatlı

risen. Generous old bard of Chios! not that Jove Deprived thee in thy latter days of sight Would I complain, but that no higher

theme Than a disdainful youth, a lawless king, A pestilence, a pyre, a woke thy song, When on the Chian coast, one javelin's

throw From where thy tombstone, where thy

cradle, stood, Twice twenty self-devoted Greeks as

sail'd The naval host of Asia, at one blow 1 Scattered it into air ... and Greece

was free .. And ere these glories beam'd, thy day

had closed. Let all that Elis ever saw, give way, All that Olympian Jove e'er smiled

upon : The Marathonian columns never told A tale more glorious, never Salamis, Nor, faithful in the centre of the false, Platea, nor Anthela, from whose mount Benignant Ceres wards the blessed Laws, And sees the Amphictyon dip his weary

foot In the warm streamlet of the strait be.

low. Goddess ! altho’thy brow was never rear'd

[sailid Among the powers that guarded or as

and whose courage would be unexposed to ality, stands aloof." (Landor, in the Dedicaof Imaginary Conversations, 1829.)

1 Alluding to the victory of Canaris over the Turkish fleet. Compare the poem of Victor Hugo on the same battle, in Les Orientales.


Perfidious Ilion, parricidal Thebes,
Or other walls whose war-belt e'er in-

closed Man's congregated crimes and vengeful

pain, Yet hast thou touched the extremes of

grief and joy Grief upon Enna's mead and Hell's as

cent, A solitary mother ; joy beyond, Far beyond, that thy woe, in this thy

fane : The tears were human, but the bliss

divine. I, in the land of strangers, and depressed With sad and certain presage for my

own, Exult at hope's fresh dayspring, tho'

afar, There where my youth was not unexer

cised By chiefs in willing war and faithful

song : Shades as they were, they were not

empty shades, Whose bodies haunt our world and blear

our sun, Obstruction worse than swamp and

shapeless sands. Peace, praise, eternal gladness, to the

souls That, rising from the seas into the

heavens, Have ransom'd first their country with

their blood ! 0 thou immortal Spartan ! at whose

For Tyranny to tread the more secure? From gold alone is drawn the guilty wire

(tone That Adulation trills : she mocks the Of Duty, Courage, Virtue, Piety, And under her sits Hope. O how unlike That graceful form in azure vest array'd, With brow serene, and eyes on heaven

alone In patience fixed, in fondness unob

scured ! What monsters coil beneath the spread

ing tree Of Despotism ! what wastes extend

around ! What poison floats upon the distant

breeze! But who are those that cull and deal its

fruit? Creatures that shun the light and fear

the shade, Bloated and fierce, Sleep's mien and

Famine's cry. Rise up again, rise in thy dignity, Dejected Man! and scare this brood away.




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 blessed

Watch like thy mother o'er tiny sleep. O peaceful night! O envied rest! Thou wilt not ever see her weep.




The marble table sounds beneath my

palms, Leonidas ! even thou wilt not disdain To mingle names august as these with

thine ; Nor thou, twin-star of glory, thou whose

rays Stream'd over Corinth on the double

sea, Achaian and Saronic; whom the sons Of Syracuse, when Death removed thy

light, Wept more than slavery ever made them

weep, But shed (if gratitude is sweet) sweet

tears. The hand that then pour'd ashes o'er

their heads Was loosen'd from its desperate chain

by thee. What now can press mankind into one


AWAY my verse; and never fear,

As men before such beauty do ; On you she will not look severe,

She will not turn her eyes from yoni. Some happier graces could I lend

That in her memory you should live, Some little blemishes might blend,

For it would please her to forgive.

When Helen first saw wrinkles in her

face ('Twas when some fifty long had settled

there And intermarried and branched off


She threw herself upon her couch and

wept : On this side hung her head, and over

that Listlessly she let fall the faithless brass That made the men as faithless.

But when you Found them, or fancied them, and would

not hear That they were only vestiges of smiles, Or the impression of some amorous hair Astray from cloistered curls and roseate band,

(perhaps Which had been lying there all night Upon a skin so soft, “ No, no," you said, Sure, they are coming, yes, are come,

are here: Well, and what matters it, while thou

art too !”

Pleasure! why thus desert the heart

In its spring-tide? I could have seen her, I could part,

And but have sigh'd ! O'er every youthful charm to stray,

To gaze, to touch Pleasure! why take so much away,

Or give so much !

Mild is the parting year, and sweet

The odor of the falling spray ; Life passes on more rudely fleet,

And balmless is its closing day. I wait its close, I court its gloom,

But mourn that never must there fall. Or on my breast or on my tomb

The tear that would have sooth'd it all,

Past ruin'd Ilion Helen lives,

Alcestis rises from the shades; Verse calls them forth; 'tis verse that,

gives Immortal youth to mortal maids.

lanthe! you are call’d to cross the sea !

A path forbidden me! Remember, while the Sun his blessing


Upon the mountain-heads, How often we have watched him laying


His brow, and dropped our own Against each other's, and how faint and


And sliding the support ! What will succeed it now? Mine is


lanthe! nor will rest But on the very thought that swells with


o bid me hope again ! O give me back what Earth, what (with

out you)

Not Heaven itself can do, One of the golden days that we have

past ;

And let it be my last ! Or else the gift would be, however sweet,

Fragile and incomplete.

Soon shall Oblivion's deepening veil

Hide all the peopled hills you see, The gay, the proud, while lovers hail These many summers you and me.

1831. FIESOLAN IDYL HERE, where precipitate Spring, with

one light bound Into hot Summer's lusty arms, expires, And where go forth at morn, at eve, at

night, Soft airs that want the lute to play with

'em, And softer sighs that know not what

they want, Aside a wall, beneath an orange-tree, Whose tallest flowers could tell the low

lier ones Of sights in Fiesolé right up above, While I was gazing a few paces off At what they seem'd to show me with

their nods, Their frequent whispers and their point

ing shoots, A gentle maid came down the gardensteps

[lap. And gathered the pure treasure in her

I held her hand, the pledge of bliss,
Her hand that trembled and with-

She bent her head before my kiss . .

My heart was sure that hers was true.

Now I have told her I must part,

She shakes my hand, she bids adieu, Nor shuns the kiss. Alas, my heart !

Hers never was the heart for you.

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I said, “You find the largest."

** This indeed," Cried she, is large and sweet.” She

held one forth, Whether for me to look at or to take She knew not, nor did I ; but taking it Would best have solved (and this she

felt) her doubt. I dared not touch it ; for it seemed a

part Of her own self ; fresh, full, the most

mature Of blossoms, yet a blossom ; with a touch To fall, and yet unfallen. She drew back The boon she tender'd, and then, finding

not The ribbon at her waist to fix it in, Dropped it, as loth to dropit, on the rest.


I heard the branches rustle, and stepped

To drive the ox away, or mule or goat,
Such I believed it must be. How could I
Let beast o'erpower them? When hath

wind or rain
Borne hard upon weak plant that wanted
And I (however they might bluster

round) Walked off? Twere most ungrateful :

for sweet scents Are the swift vehicles of still sweeter

thoughts, And nurse and pillow the dull memory That would let drop without them her

best stores. They bring me tales of youth and tones

of love. And 'tis and ever was my wish and way To let all flowers live freely, and all die (Whene'er their Genius bids their souls

depart) Among their kindred in their native

place. I never pluck the rose ; the violet's head Hath shaken with my breath upon its

bank And not reproached me : the ever-sacred

cup Of the pure lily hath between my hands Felt safe, unsoil'd, nor lost one grain of

gold. I saw the light that made the glossy

More glossy; the fair arm, the fairer

Warmed by the eye intent on its pursuit;
I saw the foot that, altho' half-erect
From its gray slipper, could not lift her

To what she wanted : I held down a

branch And gather'd her some blossoms; since

their hour Was come, and bees had wounded them,

and flies Of harder wing were working their way

thro And scattering them in fragments under

foot. So crisp were some, they rattled un

evolved, Others, ere broken off, fell into shells, For such appear the petals when de

tached Unbending, brittle, lucid, white like snow,

[su : And like snow not seen thro', by eye or

FOR AN EPITAPH AT FIESOLE Lo! where the four mimosas blend their

shade In calm repose at last is Landor laid, For ere he slept he saw them planted

here By her his soul had ever held most dear, And he had lived enough when he had dried her tear.



My briar that smelledst sweet
When gentle spring's first heat

Ran through thy quiet veins,-
Thou that wouldst injure none,

But wouldst be left alone,
Alone thou leavest me, and nought of

thine remains.

What! hath no poet's lyre
O'er thee, sweet-breathing briar,

Hung fondly, ill or well ?
And yet methinks with thee

A poet's sympathy,
Whether in weal or woe, in life or death,

might dwell,
Hard usage both must bear,
Few hands your youth will rear,

Few bosoms cherish you;
Your tender prime must bleed

Ere you are sweet, but freed From life, you then are prized ; thus

prized are poets too.

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

be, And oh ! pray too for me.




And art thou yet alive?
And shall the happy hive

Send out her youth to cull
Thy sweets of leaf and flower,

And spend the sunny hour
With thee, and thy faint heart with

murmuring music lull ?
Tell me what tender care,
Tell me what pious prayer,

Bade thee arise and live.
The fondest-favored bee

Shall whisper nought to thee Move loving than the song my grateful muse shall give.


THE MAID'S LAMENT I LOVED him not ; and yet now he is gone

I feel I am alone. Icheck'd 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 be 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 re

turns, 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 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, This and the following poem are from the Citation of William Shakespeare.

Iphigeneia. Father! I now may lean

upon your breast, And you with unreverted eyes will grasp Iphigeneia's hand.

We are not shades Surely! for yours throb yet.

And did my blood Win Troy for Greece ?

Ah! 'twas ill done, to shrink; But the sword gleam'd so sharp; and the

good priest Trembled, and Pallas frown'd above,

severe. Agamemnon. Daughter ! Iphigeneia. Beloved father! is the

blade Again to pierce my bosom ? 'tis unfit For sacrifice ; no blood is in its veins, No God requires it here: here are no

wrongs To vindicate, no realms to overthrow, You standing as at Aulis in the fane, With face arerted, holding (as before) My hand ; but yours burns not, as then

it burn'd. This alone shows me we are with the

Blessed, Nor subject to the sufferings we have

borne. I will win back past kindness.

Tell me then, Tell how my mother fares who loved me

SO, And griev‘d, as 'twere for you, to see me

part. Frown not, but pardon me for tarrying Amid too idle words, nor asking how She prais'd us both (which most?) for

what we did. Agamemnon. Ye Gods who govern

here! do human pangs Reach the pure soul thus far below ? do

tears Spring in these meadows?

1 "I imagine Agamemnon to descend from his horrible death, and to meet instantly his daughter. By the nature of things, by the suddenness

the event. Iphigeneia can ha ard nothing of her mother's double crime, adultery and murder." Aspasia to Cleone, introducing the poem as first given in Pericles and Aspasia, 1836.


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