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 hale,

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

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,

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 cloister'd curls and roseate
band,

Which had been lying there all night perhaps

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!"

ADVICE

To write as your sweet mother does
Is all you wish to do.

Play, sing, and smile for others, Rose !
Let others write for you.

Or mount again your Dartmoor grey,
And I will walk beside,
Until we reach that quiet bay
Which only hears the tide.

Then wave at me your pencil, then
At distance bid me stand,
Before the cavern'd cliff, again

The creature of your hand.

And bid me then go past the nook
To sketch me less in size;
There are but few content to look
So little in your eyes.

Delight us with the gifts you have,
And wish for none beyond:
To some be gay, to some be grave,
To one (blest youth !) be fond.

Pleasures there are how close to Pain,
And better unpossest!

Let poetry's too throbbing vein
Lie quiet in your breast.

HOW TO READ ME

To turn my volumes o'er nor find (Sweet unsuspicious friend !) Some vestige of an erring mind To chide or discommend,