Her mantle show'd the yellow samphirepod,

Her girdle the dove-color'd wave serene. 'Shepherd,' said she, 'and will you wrestle

now

And with the sailor's hardier race engage?'
I was rejoiced to hear it, and contriv'd
How to keep up contention: could I fail
By pressing not too strongly, yet to press ?
Whether a shepherd, as indeed you seem,
Or whether of the hardier race you boast,
I am not daunted; no; I will engage.'
'But first,' said she, 'what wager will you
lay?"

'A sheep,' I answered: 'add whate'er you will.'

'I cannot,' she replied, 'make that return : Our hided vessels in their pitchy round Seldom, unless from rapine, hold a sheep. But I have sinuous shells of pearly hue Within, and they that lustre have imbib'd In the sun's palace-porch, where when unyok'd

His chariot-wheel stands midway in the

wave:

Shake one and it awakens, then apply
Its polish'd lips to your attentive ear,
And it remembers its august abodes,

And murmurs as the ocean murmurs there.
And I have others given me by the nymphs,
Of sweeter sound than any pipe you have :
But we, by Neptune! for no pipe contend;
This time a sheep I win, a pipe the next.'
Now came she forward eager to engage,
But first her dress, her bosom then survey'd
And heav'd it, doubting if she could deceive.
Her bosom seem'd, inclos'd in haze like
heaven,

To baffle touch, and rose forth undefin'd; Above her knee she drew the robe succinct, Above her breast, and just below her arms. 'This will preserve my breath when tightly bound,

If struggle and equal strength should so constrain.'

Thus, pulling hard to fasten it, she spake, And, rushing at me, clos'd: I thrill'd throughout

And seem'd to lessen and shrink up with

cold.

Again with violent impulse gush'd my blood, And hearing nought external, thus absorb'd, I heard it, rushing through each turbid vein, Shake my unsteady swimming sight in air. Yet with unyielding though uncertain arms

I clung around her neck; the vest beneath
Rustled against our slippery limbs entwin'd:
Often mine springing with eluded force
Started aside and trembled till replaced:
And when I most succeeded, as I thought,
My bosom and my throat felt so compress'd
That life was almost quivering on my lips.
Yet nothing was there painful: these are
signs

Of secret arts and not of human might;
What arts I cannot tell; I only know
My eyes grew dizzy and my strength
decay'd;

I was indeed o'ercome with what regret,
And more, with what confusion, when I

She smil'd, and more of pleasure than disdain

Was in her dimpled chin and liberal lip, And eyes that languish'd, lengthening, just like love.

She went away; I on the wicker gate Leant, and could follow with my eyes alone

The sheep she carried easy as a cloak;
But when I heard its bleating, as I did,
And saw, she hastening on, its hinder feet
Struggle, and from her snowy shoulder slip,
One shoulder its poor efforts had unveil'd,
Then all my passions mingling fell in tears;
Restless then ran I to the highest ground
To watch her; she was gone; gone down
the tide ;

And the long moonbeam on the hard wet sand

Lay like a jasper column half uprear'd."

TO YOUTH

WHERE art thou gone, light-ankled Youth?
With wing at either shoulder,

And smile that never left thy mouth
Until the Hours grew colder:

Then somewhat seem'd to whisper near
That thou and I must part;
I doubted it; I felt no fear,
No weight upon the heart.

If aught befell it, Love was by
And roll'd it off again;
So, if there ever was a sigh,
"T was not a sigh of pain.

I may not call thee back; but thou Returnest when the hand

Of gentle Sleep waves o'er my brow His poppy-crested wand;

Then smiling eyes bend over mine, Then lips once press'd invite; But sleep hath given a silent sign, And both, alas! take flight.

TO AGE

WELCOME, old friend! These many years
Have we liv'd door by door:

The Fates have laid aside their shears
Perhaps for some few more.

I was indocile at an age

When better boys were taught,

But thou at length hast made me sage, If I am sage in aught.

Little I know from other men,

Too little they from me, But thou hast pointed well the pen That writes these lines to thee.

Thanks for expelling Fear and Hope,
One vile, the other vain ;
One's scourge, the other's telescope,
I shall not see again :

Rather what lies before my feet
My notice shall engage.

He who hath brav'd Youth's dizzy heat
Dreads not the frost of Age.

ROSE AYLMER

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.

Of sights in Fiesole 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 pointing shoots,

A gentle maid came down the garden-steps
And gather'd the pure treasure in her lap.
I heard the branches rustle, and stepp'd
forth

To drive the ox away, or mule, or goat,
Such I believ'd it must be. How could I
Let beast o'erpower them? when hath wind
or rain

Borne hard upon weak plant that wanted

Walk'd off? 'T were 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 reproach'd 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 leaves
More glossy; the fair arm, the fairer cheek
Warm'd by the eye intent on its pursuit ;
I saw the foot that, although half-erect
From its gray slipper, could not lift her up
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 through

And scattering them in fragments under foot.

So crisp were some, they rattled unevolv'd, Others, ere broken off, fell into shells, Unbending, brittle, lucid, white like snow, And like snow not seen through, by eye or

sun:

Yet every one her gown receiv'd from me Was fairer than the first. I thought not so, But so she prais'd them to reward my care. 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 solv'd (and this she felt)
her doubt.

I dar'd not touch it; for it seem'd 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, Dropp'd it, as loth to drop it, on the rest.

FAREWELL TO ITALY

I LEAVE thee, beauteous Italy! no more
From the high terraces, at even-tide,
To look supine into thy depths of sky,
Thy golden moon between the cliff and me,
Or thy dark spires of fretted cypresses
Bordering the channel of the milky way.
Fiesole and Valdarno must be dreams
Hereafter, and my own lost Affrico
Murmur to me but in the poet's song.
I did believe (what have I not believ'd?),
Weary with age, but unoppress'd by pain,
To close in thy soft clime my quiet day
And rest my bones in the mimosa's shade.
Hope! Hope! few ever cherish'd thee so
little;

Few are the heads thou hast so rarely rais'd; But thou didst promise this, and all was well.

For we are fond of thinking where to lie When every pulse hath ceas'd, when the

lone heart

Can lift no aspiration - reasoning
As if the sight were unimpair'd by death,
Were unobstructed by the coffin-lid,
And the sun cheer'd corruption! Over all
The smiles of Nature shed a potent charm,
And light us to our chamber at the grave.

THE MAID'S LAMENT

ELIZABETHAN

I LOV'D him not; and yet now he is gone I feel I am alone.

I check'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 he but live
Who lately liv'd for me, and when he found
"T was 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 lone 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!

THE dreamy rhymer's measur'd snore
Falls heavy on our ears no more;
And by long strides are left behind
The dear delights of woman-kind,
Who win their battles like their loves,
In satin waistcoats and kid gloves,
And have achiev'd the crowning work
When they have truss'd and skewer'd a
Turk.

Another comes with stouter tread,
And stalks among the statelier dead.
He rushes on, and hails by turns
High-crested Scott, broad-breasted Burns,
And shows the British youth, who ne'er
Will lag behind, what Romans were,
When all the Tuscans and their Lars
Shouted, and shook the towers of Mars.

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 prais'd far off him, far above.
Shakspeare is not our poet, but the world's,
Therefore on him no speech! and brief for
thee,

Browning! Since Chaucer was alive and bale,

No man hath walk'd 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.

ON THE DEATH OF M. D'OSSOLI AND HIS WIFE MARGARET FULLER

OVER his millions Death has lawful power,
But over thee, brave D'Ossoli ! none, none.
After a longer struggle, in a fight
Worthy of Italy, to youth restor'd,

Thou, far from home, art sunk beneath the

surge

Of the Atlantic; on its shore; in reach Of help; in trust of refuge; sunk with all

Precious on earth to thee . . . a child, a wife!

Proud as thou wert of her, America

Is prouder, showing to her sons how high Swells woman's courage in a virtuous breast.

She would not leave behind her those she lov'd:

Such solitary safety might become
Others; not her; not her who stood beside
The pallet of the wounded, when the worst
Of France and Perfidy assail'd the walls
Of unsuspicious Rome. Rest, glorious soul,
Renown'd for strength of genius, Margaret!
Rest with the twain too dear! My words
are few,

And shortly none will hear my failing voice,