The fathers water'd with their tears
This sea of time whereon we sail,
Their voices were in all men's ears

Who passed within their puissant hail.
Still the same ocean round us raves,
But we stand mute, and watch the waves.

For what avail'd it all the noise,

And outcry of the former men ?—
Say, have their sons achieved more joys,
Say, is life lighter now than then?
The sufferers died, they left their pain-
The pangs which tortured them remain.

What helps it now that Byron bore,

With haughty scorn which mock'd the smart, Through Europe to the Ætolian shore,

The pageant of his bleeding heart? That thousands counted every groan, And Europe made his woe her own?

What boots it, Shelley! that the breeze
Carried thy lovely wail away,

Musical through Italian trees

Which fringe thy soft blue Spezzian bay?

Inheritors of thy distress

Have restless hearts one throb the less?

Or are we easier to have read,

O Obermann! the sad stern page, Which tells us how thou hidd'st thy head

From the fierce tempest of thine age In the lone brakes of Fontainebleau, Or châlets near the Alpine snow?

Ye slumber in your silent grave!—
The world, which for an idle day
Grace to your mood of sadness gave,
Long since hath flung her weeds away.
The eternal trifler breaks your spell;
But we we learnt your lore too well!

Years hence, perhaps, may dawn an age
More fortunate, alas! than we,
Which without hardness will be sage,
And gay without frivolity.

Sons of the world, oh, speed those years;
But, while we wait, allow our tears!

Allow them! We admire with awe
The exulting thunder of your race;
You give the universe your law,

You triumph over time and space!
Your pride of life, your tireless powers,
We laud them, but they are not ours.

We are like children rear'd in shade
Beneath some old-world abbey wall,
Forgotten in a forest glade,

And secret from the eyes of all.

Deep, deep the greenwood round them waves, Their abbey, and its close of graves!

But, where the road runs near the stream,
Oft through the trees they catch a glance
Of passing troops in the sun's beam-

Pennon and plume, and flashing lance!
Forth to the world those soldiers fare,
To life, to cities, and to war!

T

And through the wood, another way,

Faint bugle-notes from far are borne, Where hunters gather, staghounds bay, Round some fair forest-lodge at morn. Gay dames are there, in sylvan green; Laughter and cries—those notes between!

The banners flashing through the trees

Make their blood dance and chain their eyes; That bugle-music on the breeze

Arrests them with a charm'd surprise.

Banner by turns and bugle woo:

Ye shy recluses, follow too!

O children what do ye reply!—

"Action and pleasure, will ye roam Through these secluded dells to cry And call us?-but too late ye come! Too late for us your call ye blow, Whose bent was taken long ago.

"Long since we pace this shadow'd nave We watch those yellow tapers shine, Emblems of hope over the grave,

In the high altar's depth divine:

The organ carries to our ear

Its accents of another sphere.

"Fenced early in this cloistral round
Of reverie, of shade, of prayer,
How should we grow in other ground?
How can we flower in foreign air?
-Pass, banners, pass, and bugles, cease,
And leave our desert to its peace!"

TRISTRAM AND ISEULT

I

TRISTRAM.

Is she not come? The messenger was sure.
Prop me upon the pillows once again-

Raise me, my page! this cannot long endure.
-Christ, what a night! how the sleet whips the pane!
What lights will those out to the northward be?

THE PAGE.

The lanterns of the fishing-boats at sea.

TRISTRAM.

Soft-who is that stands by the dying fire?

THE PAGE.

Iseult.

TRISTRAM

Ah! not the Iseult I desire.

What knight is this so weak and pale,

Though the locks are yet brown on his noble head.

Propt on pillows in his bed,

Gazing seaward for the light

Of some ship that fights the gale

On this wild December night?
Over the sick man's feet is spread
A dark green forest-dress;
A gold harp leans against the bed,
Ruddy in the fire's light.

I know him by his harp of gold,
Famous in Arthur's court of old.
I know him by his forest-dress-
The peerless hunter, harper, knight-
Tristram of Lyoness.

What Lady is this, whose silk attire
Gleams so rich in the light of the fire?
The ringlets on her shoulders lying
In their flitting lustre vying

With the clasp of burnish'd gold,
Which her heavy robe doth hold.

Her looks are sweet, her fingers slight,
As the driven snow are white;

But her cheeks are sunk and pale.
Is it that the bleak sea-gale

Beating from the Atlantic sea
On this coast of Brittany,

Nips too keenly the sweet flower?
Is it that a deep fatigue

Hath come on her, a chilly fear
Passing all her youthful hour
Spinning with her maidens here,
Listlessly through the window bars
Gazing seawards many a league
From her lonely shore-built tower,
While the knights are at the wars?
Or, perhaps, has her young heart
Felt already some deeper smart

Of those that in secret the heart-strings rive,
Leaving her sunk and pale, though fair?
Who is this snowdrop by the sea?—
I know her by her mildness rare,
Her snow-white hands, her golden hair;