Walter Savage Landor
¶[7775-/%]
547 Rose Aylmer
¶A H , 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 eyesMay weep, but never see,A night of memories and sighsI consecrate to thee.
Twenty Years Hence
¶TWENTY years hence my eyes may grow,If not quite dim, yet rather so;Yet yours from others they shall know,Twenty years hence.[899]Twenty years hence, though it may hapThat I be call'd to take a napIn a cool cell where thunder-clapWas never heard,
¶There breathe but o'er my arch of grassA not too sadly sigh'd 'Alas!'And I shall catch, ere you can pass,That winged word.
Proud Word You Never Spoke
¶PROUD word you never spoke, but you will speakFour not exempt from pride some future day.Resting on one white hand a warm wet cheek,Over my open volume you will say,'This man loved me'—then rise and trip away.
Absence
¶HERE , ever since you went abroad,If there be change, no change I see:I only walk our wonted road,The road is only walk'd by me.
¶Yes; I forgot; a change there is—Was it of that you bade me tell?I catch at times, at times I missThe sight, the tone, I know so well.
Dirce
¶STAND close around, ye Stygian set,With Dirce in one boat convey'dlOr Charon, seeing, may forgetThat he is old and she a shade.
Corinna to Tanagra, from Athens
¶TANAGRA ! think not I forget
¶Thy beautifully storied streets;Be sure my memory bathes yetIn clear Thermodon, and yet greets[900]The blithe and liberal shepherd-boy,Whose sunny bosom swells with joyWhen we accept his matted rushesUpheav'd with sylvan fruit; away he bounds, andblushes.
¶A gift I promise: one I seeWhich thou with transport wilt receive,The only proper gift for thee,Of which no mortal shall bereaveIn later times thy mouldering walls,Until the last old turret falls;A crown, a crown from Athens won,A crown no God can wear, beside Latona's son.
¶There may be cities who refuseTo their own child the honours due,And look ungently on the Muse;But ever shall those cities rueThe dry, unyielding, niggard breast,Offering no nourishment, no rest,To that young head which soon shall riseDisdainfully, in might and glory, to the skies.
¶Sweetly where cavern'd Dirce flowsDo white-arm'd maidens chant my lay,Flapping the while with laurel-roseThe honey-gathering tribes away;And sweetly, sweetly Attic tonguesLisp your Corinna's early songs;To her with feet more graceful comeThe verses that have dwelt in kindred breasts at home.
¶O let thy children lean aslantAgainst the tender mother's knee,And gaze into her face, and wantTo know what magic there can beIn words that urge some eyes to dance,While others as in holy tranceLook up to heaven: be such my praise!Why linger? I must haste, or lose the Delphic bays.
Mother, I Cannot Mind My Wheel
¶MOTHER , I cannot mind my wheel;
¶My fingers ache, my lips are dry:Oh! if you felt the pain I feel!But oh, who ever felt as I?No longer could I doubt him true—All other men may use deceit;He always said my eyes were blue,And often swore my lips were sweet.
Well I Remember
¶WELL I remember how you smiledTo see me write your name uponThe soft sea-sand—'01 what a child!You think you're writing upon stone!'
¶I have since written what no tideShall ever wash away, what menUnborn shall read o'er ocean wideAnd find Ianthe's name again.
No, MY OWN LOVE
¶No , my own love of other years!No, it must never be.Much rests with you that yet endears,Alas! but what with me?
¶Could those bright years o'er me revolveSo gay, o'er you so fair,The pearl of life we would dissolve,And each the cup might share.
¶You show that truth can ne'er decay,Whatever fate befalls;I, that the myrtle and the bayShoot fresh on ruined walls.
Robert Browning
¶THERE is delight in singing, though none hearBeside the singer; and there is delightIn praising, though the praiser sit aloneAnd see the praised far off him, far above.Shakespeare 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 walked along our roads with stepSo active, so inquiring eye, or tongueSo varied in discourse. But warmer climesGive brighter plumage, stronger wing: the breezeOf Alpine heights thou playest with, borne onBeyond Sorrento and Amalfi, whereThe Siren waits thee, singing song for song.
The Death of Artemidora
¶' ARTEMIDORA ! Gods invisible,
¶While thou art lying faint along the couch,Have tied the sandal to thy veined feetAnd stand beside thee, ready to conveyThy weary steps where other rivers flow.Refreshing shades will waft thy wearinessAway, and voices like thine own come nighAnd nearer, and solicit an embrace.'Artemidora sigh'd, and would have pressedThe hand now pressing hers, but was too weak.Iris stood over her dark hair unseenWhile thus Elpenor spake. He looked intoEyes that had given light and life erewhileTo those above them, but now dim with tearsAnd wakefulness. Again he spake of joyEternal. At that word, that sad word, joy,Faithful and fond her bosom heav'd once more:Her head fell back; and now a loud deep sobSwell'd thro' the darken'd chamber; 'twas not hers.
Iphigeneia
¶I PHI CENE I A , when she heard her doom
¶At Aulis, and when all beside the kingHad gone away, took his right hand, and said,"O father, I am young and very happy.I do not think the pious Calchas heardDistinctly what the Goddess spake. Old-ageObscures the senses. If my nurse, who knewMy voice so well, sometimes misunderstoodWhile I was resting on her knee both armsAnd hitting it to make her mind my words,And looking in her face, and she in mine,Might he not also hear one word amiss,Spoken from so far off, even from Olympus?"The father placed his cheek upon her head,And tears dropped down it, but the king of menReplied not. Then the maiden spake once more."O father! sayst thou nothing? Hear'st thou notMe whom thou ever hast, until this hour,Listened to fondly, and awakened meTo hear my voice among the voice of birds,When it was inarticulate as theirs,And the down deadened it within the nest?"He moved her gently from him, silent still,And this, and this alone, brought tears from her,Although she saw fate nearer: then with sighs,"I thought to have laid down my hair beforeBenignant Artemis, and not have dimmedHer polished altar with my virgin blood;I thought to have selected the white flowersTo please the nymphs, and to have asked of eachBy name, and with no sorrowful regret,Whether, since both my parents willed the change,I might at Hymen's feet bend my dipt brow;And (after those who mind us girls the most)Adore our own Athena, that she wouldRegard me mildly with her azure eyes.But, father! to see you no more, and seeYour love, O father! go ere I am gone"—[904]Gently he moved her off, and drew her back,Bending his lofty head far over hers,And the dark depths of nature heaved and burst.He turned away; not far, but silent still.She now first shuddered; for in him so nigh,So long a silence seemed the approach of death,And like it. Once again she raised her voice."O father! if the ships are now detained,And all your vows move not the Gods above,When the knife strikes me there will be one prayerThe less to them: and purer can there beAny, or more fervent than the daughter's prayerFor her dear father's safety and success?"A groan that shook him shook not his resolve.An aged man now entered, and withoutOne word, stept slowly on, and took the wristOf the pale maiden. She looked up, and sawThe fillet of the priest and calm cold eyes.Then turned she where her parent stood, and cried"O father! grieve no more: the ships can sail."
' Do You REMEMBER ME? '
¶'Do you remember me? or are you proud?'Lightly advancing thro' her star-trimm'd crowd,Ianthe said, and looked into my eyes.'A yes, a yes, to both: for MemoryWhere you but once have been must ever be,And at your voice Pride from his throne must rise.'
For an Epitaph at Fiesole
¶Lo! where the four mimosas blend their shadeIn calm repose at last is Landor laid,For ere he slept he saw them planted hereBy her his soul had ever held most dear,And he had lived enough when he had dried her tear.
On Lucretia B or Gia's Hair
¶BORGIA , thou once wert almost too augustAnd high for adoration; now thou'rt dust;All that remains of thee these plaits unfold,Calm hair, meandering in pellucid gold.
On His Seventy - Fifth Birthday
¶I STROVE with none; for none was worth my strife,Nature I loved, and next to Nature, Art;I warmed both hands before the fire of life,It sinks, and I am ready to depart.
To MY NINTH DECADE
¶To my ninth decade I have totter'd on,And no soft arm bends now my steps to steady;She, who once led me where she would, is gone,So when he calls me, Death shall find me ready.
Death Stands Above Me
¶DEATH stands above me, whispering lowI know not what into my ear;Of his strange language all I knowIs, there is not a word of fear.
ON LIVING Too LONG
¶Is it not better at an early hourIn its calm cell to rest the weary head,While birds are singing and while blooms the bower,Than sit the fire out and go starv'd to bed?